#threads;; serra

[fcrox]

There was joy within her features, a smile lighting up her eyes when she spotted the other witch. Oh, their shared history had turned into a rather wonderful little thing. The last she’d seen the other the blonde had made sure to confirm said internship. And what a joy it had been. “You’re back in London. Look at that.” Leta pointed toward the back of the shop as she motioned for the shop clerk to tend to the rest of the show room.

“Come on, tell me about that dress of yours. And about Paris. And everything else one needs to know. I’ll make sure to fit it in somehow, even if it may take a moment.” Leta Rosier felt no hostility toward the other witch. In fact, whatever games had been played by others were entirely up to them. They had walked separate paths and eventually they had become on; and the seamstress was more than happy with it. - @serraborgin

status: for @fcrox (Leta) location: Madame Malkins

When she left London she'd been bored, a tad embarrassed but mostly bored. Things with Antonin ended amicably, with neither of their reputations catching strays. She felt lucky that this wasn't like the last time her relationship imploded. Definitely less humiliating. As the season was changing she wanted to commission a new dress at Madame Malkins, plus she wanted to go and see Leta as the other woman had played a role in the internship Serra had. While working at a shop didn't seem appealing to her, designing dresses and coming up with concepts was fun and she had enjoyed it more than she thought she would've. "Leta. I wanted to inquire about your workload in the coming weeks. Is there any way you could make the dress I am working on?"

[leon-on-the-froggy-chair]

Remembering that one time i got cancelled in a tiktok comment section for implying Luis isn't white

[serraic]

Wait Omigosh I’m Like Your BIGGEST Fan 😳 (AKA Bishop Mastery Drabble)

The air of the infirmary room is humid, thick with the scent of a summer breeze wafting in through an open window. Even though she knew better than to shirk off the thin blanket she’d been given, Serra’d long kicked it into a ball at the end of the bed, back when she’d had energy to do so. Now, however, the young girl lays curled on her side. She’s too sick even for a flush to appear on her neck or cheeks. Instead, her pallor matches the papery color of her sweat-soaked pillows, sickly and nauseating to even behold.

The vibrant, excitable girl that once stood in her place is but a memory, and the clerics that tend to her would not even believe you if you told them of her tenacity. For them, Serra has been nothing but quiet, demure, and polite. It’s because Serra feels truly terrible — she has nothing left to give her mask, no energy with which to grandstand. In this rare instance, beneath the care of these strangers, she’s just a girl like any other: groaning in her sleep, turning fitfully, and dying under the fires of a smoldering fever.

She wakes, opens one eye, and sees the world through a blurred haze.

Oh... Why did these sort of things always have to happen to her...?

She was enjoying her life at the Academy so much. She was learning so many things there. And now... now she’d been sent off to quarantine somewhere, further afield in Fódlan. How she even got so sick, she has no idea. She can’t remember anyone else coming in with similar symptoms, and it seems like only she was affected. Did she do something wrong for all of this to happen? Why... why does this sort of stuff always happen to her...?

Even now, despite how much she’d said and done, and the sorts of friends she’d tried to make, nobody is at her side. Nobody’s visited her once, actually, even. It leaves a sort of small feeling in her chest. It makes her eyes water, which makes her head hurt more.

Water... I should get some water.

The water glass is on a table right next to her. But the room is spinning so badly, even though she’s already collapsed on her bed, and her arm is too weak to move.

Am I... dying? Is that what this is? Her eyes burn fiercer. Is this how it’s supposed to go? All alone, just like this? Then... what was any of this for?

She breathes in through her nose. The air is inhaled in a sniffle. Her eyes squeeze shut. Saint Elimine... can you hear me?

... ... ... ... ...

“Yes.”

In what feels like hours after the question was asked and also, just a moment after, an answer is given. Light washes over her — warm, but dry. She bathes in it.

Two hands come and wipe tears from the corner of her eyes. The voice comes again. “Yes. Daughter, I hear you.”

Tears cleared, she can see. A golden hair like rays of sunlight, caught and given form — a deep purple cowl weaved from the finest threads in all of Elibe — a face, well-used to smiling, and green eyes that hold the expanse of Etruria, sparkling.

She’s never seen this exact face before, but she recognizes her all the same. “Saint Elimine!”

“Serra.” She says the name like she’s greeting an old friend — with warmth, relief, and joy. Serra didn’t know her name could sound so beautiful. “Don’t be afraid. It isn’t your time yet.”

“It’s not?”

“We will be together when the time is right. But it’s not that time yet. You still have much to achieve.”

“I do!” Serra agrees, excitedly.

And just like that, she’s wide awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding, breathless. The dark seems so alive, suddenly, with the memory of the most beautiful face she’s ever seen, still superimposed inside of her head.

With all of her energy, Serra jumps to her feet atop of her bed, and declares to the mostly-empty room, “I’m— going to— get better!” The on-duty cleric clambers over and just barely catches Serra as her dizziness throws her off the mattress. Serra can hardly hear the woman’s protestations as she’s laid back down. She’s replaying Saint Elimine’s words in her head, over and over, with a smile bright enough to warm the world.

And she does get better, indeed. The clerics that had once thought her polite and kind are soon quickly writing letters to the monastery asking if they’d like their patient back. And the Serra that couldn’t lift a hand for a glass is now sitting up, bright-eyed, and telling everyone that will listen — and those that won’t, honestly, truthfully — the story of her dream. Most think of it just as the imagination of a dreaming mind, but Serra knows in her heart the truth. Saint Elimine really spoke to her that night. Who else could explain her miraculous recovery? What else could? So far from Elibe... so far from everyone and everything... Saint Elimine never gave up on her. And she, too, had never stopped praying.

She was so foolish... all her life she’d wanted to be loved so desperately, so badly... only to find out she was! She’d been loved and known all along. Was there ever such a thing as a stronger bond, than the one that Saint Elimine and Serra had?

It’s only weeks later that Serra is walking, head held high, into the monastery on her own two feet. A new life, a new energy, a new excitement. She’s back. All thanks to Saint Elimine.

Thank you, Saint Elimine, she prays, for probably the thousandth time today, before she crosses the threshold into the monastery courtyard.

And she swears, in her heart, she can feel Saint Elimine say back, You’re welcome, Daughter.

[bloodlaurel-a]

@stellstells liked for a starter with Serra Cousland.

If Serra had ever been in doubt of the fact, a Blight was fucking miserable.

Of course, everyone but Grey Wardens ran away from darkspawn instead of at them. They didn't willingly enter the Deep Roads or wander into tainted land. Perhaps they were the smart ones for that. Maker knew that if Duncan hadn't saved her by conscripting her, Serra would probably be trying to put as much distance between the people of Highever and the encroaching Blight as she could.

But she wasn't.

Serra didn't know what possessed her to head back towards Ostagar. The place was likely the epicentre of the darkspawn hoard ever since the disastrous battle. Still, there was the rumour of secret correspondence from King Cailan still hidden there. Maybe it would be the key to unseating Loghain. At least, that's what Serra tried to convince herself.

Sitting around the campfire, all Serra could remember was the horror that had been the Tower of Ishal. The battlefield must have been even worse. She was supposed to be on watch for the night whilst Alistair and Wynne slept but her mind was instead filled with memories.

[brotherhoodwarlord]

Just tell Inara she looks pretty. Mal walked up to Inara and said, " Whore." Idiot.

[bloodlaurel]

Starter for @wardensmight

Her grief seemed vaster than the Waking Sea but she couldn't stop to grieve. Allies she could trust were suddenly a precious resource. Who even could she trust when a man she had viewed as akin to an uncle had been the one to stab them all in the back? Then Loghain had ceased control of the country and suddenly she was presented with a potential option. In a tavern she heard the gossip that of all the nobles in the land, only Teagan Guerrin had the balls to stand up. Her mind was quickly made up. Teagan was close with his brother, Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, so she'd go there and surely he'd turn up eventually.

By the time she sighted the windmill and the distant battlements of the Redcliffe Castle, dusk had long since faded to an orange bar on the horizon. Serra dropped her pack and leaned against the bark of a nearby tree. She wanted to wait and watch before she revealed there was at least one Cousland still left. She would be a valuable prize to anyone wanting favour with Howe and Loghain.

But there was something not right, Serra could feel it in the air. She caught the scent of decay on the wind. Beric too was uneasy, the great hound sniffing the air and growling. If he was sensing it too then she wasn't insane. Perhaps it merited a closer look. Hood pulled low to cover as much of her face as possible, she slid from shadow to shadow until she had made her way down the cliffs. Between the houses she glimpsed a makeshit barricade and people fighting but only when she had gotten to the lowest level of the village was she able to see the truth.

Corpses. Actual moving, shambling, corpses. Even worse was what she saw at the barricade between the hoard of corpses. A flash of silver and blue and Serra's heart skipped a beat.

Leo.

No more thinking, only action. She knelt, nocked an arrow, and aimed. The best marksman in Highever, that had always been her boast, time to prove it. On her exhale her arrow flew, taking out a shambling corpse just to her brother's left as it raised its weapon to land a blow. Only when she saw it fall back did she stand tall again, ripping her hood back so her brother could see her.

[antiibow]

𝙿.𝚂 ➤ @red9...𝚂𝙰𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶

❁ ❜ . * ❝ I DON'T THINK I'M GETTING THIS. ❞

when the sheepish admission left dr. serra's mouth, sheva's eyes flicked over him before she moved passed her student on the mat to retrieve two bottles of chilled water. the outsides were covered in condensation; a thick, cold bead of liquid ran down to her wrist and ended at an elbow, gooseflesh followed in its wake.

❝ we don't have a lot of time, luis.❞ she cautioned softly as she offered him one of the two plastic bottles, then, went to unscrew the cap on her own. ❝ the BSAA wants you out on the field as soon as possible.❞ and she wouldn't put it past them to rush it either. they'd jumped at the opportunity--faster than she'd have thought--like rabid dogs to have an individual carrying the sort of knowledge her companion did. there was some sort of sport to it, she supposed, with the way her director had responded when she posed the idea:

Suck on that, DSO.

not the most professional of statements, she mused as she took a sip. but it was better to be eager than filled with scrutiny -- at the time. the urgency and damn near rush for field work was a bad sign. expendability, she'd come to notice during her stint in KIJUJU was an embarrassingly popular concept. her lips away from the bottle, sheva set free a quiet ah of relief as she felt her insides begin to cool.

❝ i'll explain again. you're going to meet a lot of people bigger than you-that can be intimidating. they'll have longer arms, heavier strikes -- your job is to not get hit. you have to be quick, play defense, and wait for an opening. timing is everything.❞ finished nursing her drink, its left to the wayside, tucked away gets her duffle alongside the training room's bench. ❝ i know you have a soft spot for chivalry, but there isn't any room to hold back. your enemies won't always be just BIOWEAPONS. ❞

[bloodlaurel]

Duncan's sharp words were enough to still Serra's struggling. She went limp in his arms until she was dropped like a sack of potatoes on the muddy ground. Her body felt bruised and her face stung, she wiped a hand across her mouth and it came back bloody, the cut in her lip had reopened during their scuffle, she supposed.

It took a moment for the senior Warden's words to fully register in Serra's mind. When they did, she stared up at him, her eyes wild but hopeful. .

Duncan however, seemed to be focused on the elf. His gaze was steely. She shuddered despite it not being directed at her. It reminded her of the times when her father had been genuinely angry at her and what burned more wasn't the anger but the guilt. She had started it and yet he was coming down harder on the elf than he was on her.

If it was pity, she didn't want it. What she really wanted she could never have again.

Finally Duncan's gaze swung back to her and she felt herself wilt now under his gaze. She expected a similar reprimand but instead all the man said was

"You both should get some rest whilst you can. Tomorrow you will be heading out with the other recruits here to the Kocari Wilds."

And with that, he turned on his heel and was gone as soon as he had arrived. Serra watched him go somewhere between bewildered and shamed. Her gaze then shifted to Beric, who seemed to also realise the situation had resolved and eagerly trotted back to her side.

"Tout." She accused and recieved only a bark in return. To her, it sounded smug.

A sudden rush of air hit Tura's lungs as the human was lifted off of her. She scrambled back to her feet, putting a healthy distance between them. The dog was staring her down now, coiled like a spring. Tura held her hands out in front of her, palms open and placating. Duncan, just beyond, had his arms locked around the other human and an expression like thunder.

"That's enough." His voice came down hard like a hammerhead. Even as he dropped the struggling woman, it was like an iron clasp had clamped down on the entire situation. Everything went still as stone. "I don't care who started it or why. I will not have brawling in my camp."

"Your brother is alive and well. His troops arrived a day before we did and are encamped north of here." Duncan told the human. "But your concern for your brother, while understandable, doesn't excuse picking fights with your fellow recruits." Duncan turned and pinned Tura with a look that made her spine chill and her cheeks heat. "You have little ground to stand on as it is, Recruit Tabris. The expectation of good behavior goes double for you."

Of course it did. Why wouldn't it? But Tura didn't have the wherewithal to get angry about how unfair that was. Her ears were still ringing with the understanding that she'd been wrong. This woman had nothing to do with Vaughan whatsoever. In fact, she'd likely come to Duncan carrying the same kind of damage that Tura did.

Didn't make her like the bitch, of course.

"Won't happen again," she said, jaw so tight it hurt. There were going to be bruises on her arms and cheek. She could already feel them wicking. Her hand was going to need medical attention, too, if she wanted to avoid infection.

[thefvrious]

@waywordhearts wanted rocco

Rocco's life was in shambles; at least his personal life. His relationship with his wife was coming fully to a head. Even though, for many years, they had operated just fine with their fairly open-relationship. Mel was deciding now was the time to kick up a fuss. It didn't help that his daughter was in on it, egging on her mother as if to ruin Rocco's reputation while keeping Mel's pristine.

In lieu of delving into a downward spiral, Rocco chose to take on more work. He took movie role after movie role with little reprieve between. Working on his fourth in a row, he had started to open up a little with one of his co-stars. Playing his romantic partner, Serra was sweet and just the sort of distraction Rocco needed. He needed a friendly face, someone who didn't seem to be feeding into what the rags were saying about him.

Settling in on the yacht they were filming, Rocco took advantage of the little time they had between scenes, sliding her a cool drink with a warm smile, eyes hidden behind Ray Bans. "You look like you got your head in the clouds." He said, following her gaze up to the sky. "Wanna talk about what's on your mind?"

[bloodlaurel]

Tag drop!

[platinumshawnn]

Bound by Fire and Blood | Benjicot Blackwood — pt v

Synopsis: The Brackens retaliate and send their own men to the frontline and into Blackwood territory four days to the wedding, causing some concerns amongst the members of the Blackwood house. 

Kermit is summoned into the rooms of Blackwood's councilman as Samwell and Benjicot as they ready their men for the frontlines for another bloody feud. Benjicot impulsively takes things into his own hands and mistakenly escalates things.

masterlist | playlist | backwards | forward

A/N: I wrote a majority of this on my phone at a festival while i was drunk, i am going to be one hundred percent honest, so idk how it turned out and i am sorry but anyways! we are just about half-way! I tried to connect this sort of to the universe of “to strangers” but there is a small mistake in how Rodrik is related to Aeron that I have since fixed

Content Warning(s): MDNI — 18+, adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexually suggestive content, mild depictions of family based violence, implied suicide ideation.

Word count: 7.1k

Fingers grazed up the spine of the dress — snug around her hips and lower than she was used to as they worked, ensuring the laces were tight enough that the dress’ bodice clung to her body in a way that was flattering enough to accentuate her womanly curves. The white fabric reached the ends of her toes as she stood above them on a pedestal, swallowing her while her hands remained at her waist, too scared to move in fear of tumbling over and crashing into the floor beneath her as the handmaidens tirelessly worked at her feet to pin the fabric and fix the hem — meanwhile, an additional pair of hands were at her shoulders and adjusting the cape of deep red and blue, embellished with gold thread, fixing it over her shoulders. 

Serra had never been fond of dress fittings, as it was an experience she found discomforting and overwhelming — with all the hands on her, the whispers as the women poked and prodded at her. Being placed up on a pedestal, put on display, and being made a spectacle of, did not help the matters. It was painfully awkward having so many eyes on her, critiquing how the dresses fit her, and the closer she had come to being of age to marry, she found they worsened — less bearable as the emphasis at one point or another was placed on her bust, mutters about whether the dress was flattering enough. With age, there was more focus on ensuring she appeared more mature than she felt; wifely and alluring enough for a man’s gaze, and unlike most women of her age who had their mother by their side to talk them through the transition from young, girly dresses to womanly dresses that dipped lower, fit tighter, Serra was not fortunate enough to dawn that privilege. 

When she first reached ten-and-six, Kermit, who had then been only a year older than her at ten-and-seven, had tried to sit in on the sessions and talk to her to distract her from the process itself at first. He tried to provide her with conversation and company, as it could become long and drawn out, however it only lasted for a short while before she sensed his discomfort — soon enough, he had begun politely excusing himself with some grumble about not wanting to ‘intrude’ and explaining that he did not feel it proper of him as a man to get in the way of a woman’s business — instead, he had his tasks as a man of the house to tend to but promising that he would check in soon. Though, he hardly did. 

This particular session was gruelling, though. She felt as though she had been there all day and worried it would never end; drained and ready to retreat to her room for the next two days as her head was nudged forward by gentle fingers that adjusted the neckline there. Her hair was guided over her left shoulder and neatly splayed down her back, her gaze fixed out the window that overlooked the yards as she listened to the distant sounds of Raventree. She could make out the sound of men arriving at the gate, returning with supplies ahead of the wedding, the gates a never-ending revolving door of men coming and going these days; the fingers on her left hand absentmindedly reaching to twist a finger on her right, “You may step down now.” The elderly woman to her right instructed, reaching out a hand to offer to help her in stepping down. 

She turned her head, turning her eyes to her hand as she accepted it, and slowly stepped off the stool, her left hand lifting her skirts out of her way. Her steps were slow and tentative, cautious as to not fall face first as she clenched her jaw with anxiety, only relaxing once both feet were steady on the floor, “Your father has requested the neckline not be brought any lower, we have fixed it to be as low as he has approved.” Orpheus, the elderly septa, explained. 

She wordlessly listened to her as she adjusted the skirt around her legs, removing a pin that had been forgotten and circling her, “Your father has suggested you wear a piece from your mother’s jewellery for the wedding.” She said from behind her. “He has provided us with two necklaces he would like you to consider—”

“My Lord.” 

The words were sudden and sharp in the soft atmosphere, Grace’s voice high-pitched and bordering shrill as she curtsied from her spot near the wall, the fabric in her arms clutched to her chest, her gaze pinned to the floor. The previous hum of mutters ceased, the room falling silent as the other women followed suit in curtsying in the direction of the doorway behind her. She turned, looking over her shoulder first before she turned, the door now open for the young man who stood there; green eyes watching her with a blank expression as if he was trying to figure out a reaction, “Lord Blackwood.” She announced, his eyes shooting to her face at the words. Serra moved to face him, curtsying to him with a flushed appearance. 

His head nodded to her, the women in the room remaining silent. Serra watched as his gaze scanned over her dress, skimming her head to toe and taking in her appearance, and suddenly she felt foolish; face hot and embarrassed as she nervously adjusted her skirt with her hands; his gaze lingering at her hips and chest, taking in the very little skin that was exposed, “You look…” he began to say, voice quiet and pausing, searching for the word, “it suits you.” 

Her expression appeared perplexed as her head tilted, mouth opening with a question as she caught the small smile on Grace’s face at the interaction when her head turned to look at her briefly, “I mean to say you look nice.” Benjicot quickly added, explaining himself and stepping forward into the room, though he stopped and remained stuck at the edge of the room, his embarrassment clear on his face as his eyebrows furrowed with a worried frown and reddening. 

Serra found herself reminded of his youthfulness, boyish as he glanced towards where Alistair found respite in the corner of the room and cleared his throat, the guard looking at him from the corner of his eye. She was again reminded that despite the tough exterior and his imposing presence, he was still a boy in some ways. She smiled, soft and shy, while smoothing her hands over her bodice, “Thank you, Benjicot.” She sweetly said. 

His head nodded again, again allowing a silence to fall over the room before he once again spoke, “I do not mean to intrude…” he said, barely in the room as he took two more steps forward and stopped, “I’m just on the way to meet with your father. I just figured I would stop by.” Benjicot explained, his hands clasping around the hilt of his sword, his fingers drumming absentmindedly. 

Serra’s shoulders relaxed with a deep exhale, the first time all morning as her hands brushed down the sides of her skirt, “That’s kind of you.” 

He released a hum in response, his eyes shifting from her face as though he was avoiding her gaze — and though the dreary weather outside, with its clouds, didn’t do her sight justice, she could make out the flush of colour that reddened his cheeks whilst his mouth pressed in a tight line.

“We were just about to pick out some jewellery— some necklaces my father picked from my late mother’s collection.” She suddenly announced, breaking the silence. “Would you like to help me choose?” 

His eyebrows shot up, his gaze coming back up to her face, mouth opening in protest, “Oh, I’m not a man with a taste for such things, I don’t think I would be of any help.” He replied. 

“Nonsense. Just pick whichever you think is prettiest,” she insisted, gesturing him to come forward as she turned then to look to Orpheus who stood nearby, “Show Lord Benjicot and I what father has chosen.” 

A look crossed Orpheus’ features, mouth pressed into a line and twitching for a moment as she glanced towards Benjicot, who reluctantly approached. He slowed as she turned to retrieve two cases from a girl behind her, sighing as she faced the couple and presented them to Serra, “Your mother’s wedding pendant— a homage to her natural born house, Mallister. Your father had it commissioned for her as a gift.” The septa explained, allowing Serra to reach out and brush her fingers over the silver eagle pendant with curious fingers. She carefully picked up the necklace, holding it between her fingers as Orpheus watched her, glancing once again at Benjicot.

She presented the second, its gold chain a striking contrast to the delicate ruby flowers that circled it and caught the light in the corner of her eye. She looked up and away from the silver pendant, perking up at the sight of it, “Oh! I haven’t seen this in years.” She exclaimed, her voice pitched and eager like an excited child as she quickly returned the silver pendant to Orpheus’ hands and took the gold chain from her. Beniicot, from her left, watched in silence, his expression still as he allowed her a moment to assess the piece with trembling fingers. His gaze briefly caught the elderly woman’s, drifting up to her and inhaling, met with a small flash of a smile that was polite. 

“This one.” 

Both Serra and her septa looked at him as he spoke, the younger woman looking at him with wide eyes, “It’s pretty.” He explained, referencing her earlier suggestion. His shoulders rolled, squaring as he stood upright. “You also look like you care for it.” 

It was a simple observation, but a meaningful gesture that brought a smile to her face nonetheless as she looked up at him. She turned and nodded to Orpheus, who withdrew with the cases, Serra keeping the necklace as she turned to him, “Could you?” She asked, holding the necklace towards him. 

He looked between her and the chain, visibly hesitating before he took it from her fingers with a gentle hand; a contrast to their rough, calloused state from years of training. Her back turned to him, moving her hair out of the way with her right hand to make the task easier — on cue, Benjicot stepped forward until he was close enough that she could feel his warmth radiating, hear the subtle swallow. He cleared his throat from behind her, his hands reaching over her shoulders and around to the base of her neck, letting the necklace rest there against her collarbones, his hands brushing her shoulders as they withdrew to her nape; her hand replacing his to hold the necklace. His fingers fumbled to do the clasp, brows furrowed in concentration and breath fanning across her neck, “There you go.” He said, his right hand briefly planting on her shoulder. 

She turned as his hand dropped back to his side, stepping back from her. Her hand reached up to the chain, one of the little flowers between her fingers as she looked down at it, a moment of silence falling over the room. 

“Your mother used to wear it all the time.” He stated, seemingly recalling the distant memory from her last visit there — Benjicot had to dig deep, pulling it deep from the catacombs of his mind, faded with time, but still lingering there all those years later. He could still vaguely remember the image of her, curtsying to him and his father, the light catching the rubies as the sun shone in through the windows of the hall, a young Serra at her side — he remembered the gentle nudge she gave her daughter as a reminder to follow her suit. His brows furrowed again at the memory. 

“You remember that?” She asked. 

He let out another hum, gaze still fixed on the chain as he nodded. Benjicot looked up to her eyes, the dimple in his cheek prominent as he chewed at the inside skin, “Yes.” 

He remembered her as kind and warm, a loving and doting mother and wife. He remembered her likeness to her daughter — he remembered rumours that his father had almost vied for her hand, though the venture was short-lived after hearing of her betrothal to Elmo. Sometimes, Benjicot wondered what would have happened if things had taken that path — how different things would have been. Would they still be in this position? Would Benjicot be any different? Would a mother’s kindness have changed the outcome? 

He was overcome by guilt at the thought. He remembered his mother as a kind woman with good humour from the memories he’d had of her from childhood, he had just never had the fortune of being able to have that same type of relationship with her that the Tully siblings had with their own. His mouth pursed, his hand absentmindedly wandering on its own to gently touch her cheek, Serra’s expression one of surprise and confusion as she froze. 

It suddenly dawned on him what he was doing, his hand quickly withdrawing and stepping back from her, “I’m sorry— I don’t know…” he stammered, his mouth snapping shut and blinking rapidly a couple of times. “I should be on my way, I shouldn’t keep the council waiting too long.” He muttered, his hand disappearing under his cloak and to his side as he spun on his heel to hurry out of the room. Her gaze watched him, still frozen in place and trying to process the sudden mood swing that made her head spin, her mouth opening.

“You mentioned he was an odd man,” Orpheus spoke from behind her. 

Serra glanced at her, taking a sharp inhale of air as she looked back toward the door, “Yes, odd.” She said, drawing out the word. The room remained silent for a moment, feeling Septa Orpheus’ eyes on her. 

“You forgot to mention how comely he was, however.” She said, her voice lilting a subtle and playful tone. 

Serra let out a soft laugh, embarrassed as she turned to find the septa at her side now, “Come, let us finish your fitting. I imagine you would like to get done with this.” Orpheus warmly said, guiding her back towards the stool. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Benjicot sat, nauseous and picking at the skin around his nails as the meeting drew on. He’d spent the past two hours in silence, hardly contributing to the conversation other than short hums or grunts whenever called upon, eyes only lifting for those brief moments. Otherwise, he wallowed in his horror and humiliation for his prior conversation with Serra and avoided any eye contact where he could. It had only dawned on him that afternoon how much of Serra he could see in Kermit’s face when he had arrived to find the eldest Tully, standing outside the doors and expectantly waiting for him. 

They hadn’t spoken in the days following their last conversation — the exchange relentlessly haunting Benjicot since, as he’d had nightmares about his mother, who at times blurred with images of her. Instead of his mother at the window’s ledge, he saw Serra, looking back at him. The first time it had happened, he had jumped awake with a gasp as he looked around his room; it had then taken him a while to fall back asleep, scared he would be forced to watch it all over again — watch as she slipped from the ledge with a terrified gasp. 

He was thankful that Kermit didn’t say anything when they met, Benjicot still out of it as he approached him. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact detail on him that resembled his sister — maybe it was a twitch in his face or a mannerism, but it was her. He cringed internally and walked in silence to their chairs, being greeted by Elmo. That daze had lasted all morning, only picking out little comments here and there from the conversation at the table, distracted by his own hands. His gaze briefly lifted as Samwell reached across the table from his seat at the head, gently swatting his hand with his own, sucking in a sharp, startled breath and looking up at his father, “You’re not present, Benjicot.” Samwell muttered, his gaze still down the table and not looking at him. 

“I am.” He softly sighed. 

“No,” Samwell sternly said, his eyes turning to him. “You’re not. I can tell. You’re not here right now.” 

It took everything in Benjicot not to snap back and argue, knowing it wasn’t worth it to start a fight over something so minuscule as the frustration crawled up his throat. His hands released one another and dropped onto the table with another sigh, “I’m just…thinking. I apologise.” He replied in a quiet voice. 

His father was silent for a moment as he stared at him, eyes briefly glancing towards where Elmo circled the chairs towards a conversation happening on the other side of the table, “Where are you?” He asked, looking back to his son. “Where is your mind?” 

He hesitated to reply, his gaze shifting as he tried to muster a reply that would suffice, “It’s nothing, this is more…” 

“It’s not nothing if it makes you unable to concentrate on the bigger issue.” He pressed, leaning forward in his seat, his gaze unwavering. “I ask as a father, Benjicot. Tell me.” 

The use of his name urged him to look up at his father, blinking a couple of times and opening his mouth, attempting to stammer out some reply — he wanted to tell someone, but Benjicot hardly understood it all himself. He’d yet to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. 

The doors slammed open suddenly which finally caught his attention, watching with tired eyes as the guard by the door was shouldered and jostled for a moment as the source of the commotion entered; a group of young men and cousins that Benjicot slowly picked out one by one — his gaze found Emrys strolling in behind the group, his face streaked with dirt and wiping at a bloodied nose as their eyes met. Benjicot watched as his shoulders rose and fell with a sigh, shaking his head at his older cousin and looking towards where the leader of the group rushed in, dagger in hand. 

Ser Eryn rushed forward from his corner place towards the young man who approached the table, eyes wild and snarling as the men who had gathered near the end of the table quickly dispersed in various directions to get out of his way; the guard drew his sword and extended a hand towards his arm, grabbing his elbow. 

“Get your bloody hands off of me.” The boy snapped, shoving Ser Eryn’s hand off him and stumbling a step. 

“Davos.” Samwell firmly said, standing up abruptly to address the boy who was visibly seething — Davos stopped at the end of the table, tossing the knife onto it, the weapon clattering. 

“Those Bracken cunts have breached our land.” He said through gritted teeth. 

The room fell silent, their attention collectively drawn towards the knife on the table embellished with the Bracken’s sigil. Benjicot leaned forward in its direction, “What do you mean?” Samwell asked. 

“They’re on our fucking land!” He snapped, shouting. His father shot his cousin a look, prompting him to clench his jaw, taking a breath to ground himself before speaking again, “We ran into them this morning when we went to survey the boundaries last night as you instructed. They have set camp on our land.” He explained. 

The senior councilman, a grizzled veteran Ser Myles Rivers, slammed his fist on the wooden table, his voice gruff and filled with frustration. "Damn it! What have you two done?" His sharp eyes darted between the young lord and his father, his face etched with lines of anger and worry.

"We warned you about pushing too far, about provoking them. And now look! The Brackens have taken it upon themselves to set up camp on our land, challenging our authority, and threatening our people. This is exactly what we feared, and you’ve given them the excuse they needed."

Ser Myles shook his head, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "This isn’t just a skirmish anymore; it’s a declaration of war. The Brackens want blood, and they won’t stop until they have it. We’re in a dangerous position, and all of Raventree is at risk."

Another council member, Maester Edric, interjected, his tone calmer but no less grave. "We must tread carefully now. Retaliating further could lead to full-scale conflict, something neither side can afford. We need to consider our options—diplomacy, subterfuge, anything to avoid plunging our houses into ruin."

Ser Myles cut in, his voice hardening. "But if we don’t act, we’ll appear weak. The Brackens will think they can encroach on our lands without consequence. We have to show them that Raventree won’t back down, even if it means bloodshed."

"Samwell," he said, his tone carrying the weight of years of service to the Blackwoods, "you’ve always been the voice of wisdom in this hall. We’re on the edge of something that could consume us all. The Brackens are daring us to strike back.” 

He paused, searching Samwell’s face for guidance. "What do we do? Do we meet their challenge head-on and risk plunging the Riverlands into chaos? Or is there another way—one that spares us from a conflict that could bleed us dry?"

The room fell silent, every eye on Samwell, waiting for the elder Blackwood to speak, knowing that his counsel could either steer them toward war or guide them toward a more measured path.

Samwell’s gaze settled on Ser Myles. "I understand your frustration, Ser Myles, and I share it. But if we retaliate now, we risk a full-scale war that will stretch our resources and endanger our people. We must show restraint, even if it means appearing weak for a time. We will not act in haste. Instead, we will plan and prepare, ensuring that when we do make a move, it will secure our position without dooming us to unnecessary conflict."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Benjicot adjusted his riding gloves as he and Emrys attempted to hurry down the halls before anyone could see them and question where they were going — he knew the minute he was found out, his father would be notified within minutes and know of his plans. With very little room for error, their pace was a brisk shuffle of feet as he clenched his fist, attempting to break in the leather gloves that felt snug around his knuckles, the halls barely lit by the few torches that remained in this part of the castle. 

“Ser Eryn has readied the horses, they’re just waiting beyond the gates for us.” Emrys quietly explained, Benjicot’s eyes lifting to look over at his cousin, “Are you sure you want to do this? Do you think it will work?” Emrys asked, looking at him. 

“It will,” Benjicot replied. “What of Davos and his men?” 

“They have returned to the borders and will meet us there.” His cousin stated, the two men walking shoulder to shoulder as Benjicot vaguely made out the sound of a horse whinny from the gates — his head turned towards the windows of the hall that overlooked the yard. Through the limited light, he saw the gates open a crack — just enough that one of the guards standing post could speak to someone on the outside. 

“Your father is going to be furious, you know.” Emrys suddenly teased, a grin on his face. 

“He will come to understand.” He muttered, hands dropping to his sides, “He wanted me to take initiative and act as a lord for the people— if he will not act, I will.” He said, walking ahead a few paces as they reached the stairs, beginning to descend towards the doors as Emrys snorted. 

“Atta boy,” Emrys whispered, nudging his shoulder from behind and bringing a grin to Ben’s face finally, the buzz of excitement and anticipation coursing through him. “I can’t wait to wipe that smug fucking smile off of Aeron’s stupid little—” 

“Wait- sh, down!” Ben interrupted as a door creaked open behind them, dragging his cousin down a few steps by his elbow and urging him to kneel out of sight on the stairs; concealed and hidden. There was an awkward moment of clamouring and the rustle of their clothing as they ducked, waiting in silence as Emrys nearly tumbled down the stairs; only catching himself by grabbing the wall. 

The hallway fell into silence as the minutes passed, the two men completely still as they listened carefully, Ben’s gaze turned to look up towards the top of the stairs trying to peer through the dark to see who it was that had come out of their room at this hour. 

“We need to go, it’s probably nobody,” Emrys whispered after a minute. 

Benjicot hesitated, hushing him again and growing impatient the longer they were trapped there on the stairs, “Just…wait.” He quietly instructed, releasing his cousin’s arm. His movements were slow, attempting to avoid making too much noise as he stood from his knees and slowly lifted his head to look into the hallway, his eyes scanning. 

“Benjicot?” A voice whispered in the dark, his eyes darting up to find Serra standing a few feet away from him. Her head lowered, squinting to look at him and visibly still bleary as he assumed they had woken her, despite their best efforts to be as quiet as they could. And if they had woken her, he realised, there was no doubt they had probably woken others and had drawn too much attention to themselves; it was only a matter of time before they started to pour out into the hallway, alerting the guards and his father.

“Shh.” He quickly replied, standing upright and stumbling up the few stairs that separated them, his hand planting on the ground to push himself upright. He grabbed her arm, pulling her towards a nook in the wall, his eyes darting over her head and scanning their surroundings to check for anyone else in the hall. The torch above them provided enough light to see her face as he looked at her, her eyes wide and confused, “You shouldn’t be out here, what are you doing?”

“I…I was cold.” She quietly explained, “Alistair was supposed to get some more wood for the fire.” 

“How long ago did he leave?”

“What?” 

He gently shook her, “How long has it been since he went to fetch wood?” He asked, looking down at her. 

She winced, shrinking back against the wall, “I don’t know…a few minutes before I heard you. I thought- I thought you were him,” Serra explained, her hands crossing over her chest. “You’re hurting me, Ben, please.” She quietly pleaded. He watched her eyes dart behind him, his head turning to find Emrys slowly standing to watch, ready to lunge forward towards the pair with a look of confusion on his face as he saw Serra. 

Benjicot released her elbow suddenly, only then realising how tightly he was holding her and sucking in a deep breath. Serra cradled her arm towards her body, hand rubbing over where his had previously been moments prior and frowning with her mouth slightly ajar, “We don’t have long, Alistair is out.” Benjicot said, turning to look at Emrys. 

His attention turned back to Serra, taking in her appearance — her hair slightly ruffled with sleep and cheeks flushed, still visibly exhausted but much more alert now as she looked up at him. His gaze absentmindedly dropped further, becoming aware of what little she was wearing; the fancy gowns of her house colours long since retired for the night, and left stripped down to a thin, loose cream-coloured chemise for sleep; a scarf hung around her shoulders to provide some warmth amidst the cool night. His eyebrows furrowed, Serra shifting uncomfortably under his gaze — Ben took a step to the left, shielding her from Emrys’ gaze, which lingered from behind him. 

“Sorry, my lady, we did not mean to wake you.” Emrys politely said, her head popping up over Benjicot’s shoulder to make eye contact with the younger blonde boy who hovered near. 

“Where are you going?” She asked, settling back on her heels as she looked up at him. 

Benjicot sighed, “Nowhere. It’s time you go back to bed.” 

She grabbed his wrist, lifting it in front of them and eyeing the gloves he wore briefly. He yanked his hand free, “So do you frequently just skulk around in your riding gear?” She asked, her voice quiet. 

He frowned, head shaking, “No— and it does not concern you. Do not stick your nose where you have no business putting it.” 

“It does concern me,” She insisted. “It will concern me, Benjicot, when we are married. Where are you off to?” 

“For your good, Serra, please-” 

“You’re off to go fight with those Bracken boys, aren’t you?” Serra pointedly asked, her voice firmer than Benjicot had ever heard it before, her tone knowing. It startled him, hearing her so serious and clear; her eyebrows furrowed in a displeased frown. He let out a breath, shoulders slumping as he deflated, stepping back into the wall behind him. His eyes rolled, looking away from her. “I overheard Kermit earlier.” She stated, her voice softening.

“Do you often eavesdrop on the matters of men?” He asked, his voice barely above a mutter. 

She hesitated, “Only when it matters.” Serra paused, “Only when it affects me.” 

He chewed his bottom lip, that same annoyance and frustration that had lingered in the back of his head that day creeping back up as he huffed, “It is my duty to protect and fight for my house.” 

“Yes, it is,” She softly said. “But there are men for that.” 

“It is just as much my responsibility as it is theirs— I am equally as trained.” He bit back. 

“I know you are,” Serra said, voice smaller now. “But you are also the heir— what should happen if harm comes of you?” 

Benjicot’s jaw clenched, mouth snapping shut for the first time during their conversation as his gaze dropped. He was left unable to argue that she had a point, but he had grown restless just waiting for action to be taken, watching while other men fought in place of him. 

“It does us no good if you die so soon in this war.” 

“What makes you think I would die?” He asked, his gaze still down and muttering like a boy. 

“You are not invincible, Benjicot.” She sighed in reply. 

The two stood silently, several moments passing before Emrys spoke up again, “I do not mean to interrupt, but if we are going, we must go now. Alistair will surely be back any moment now.” He quietly said, earning a glance from his cousin who inhaled a deep breath, sighing. 

“I need to do this— it is what is best for all of us.” He stated, voice more confident and self-assured as he looked her in the eye again, “You do not have to believe me, but I ask that you let me do this and keep this to yourself…just long enough that we make it to the boundaries at least.” He pleaded, his voice low. 

Serra eyed him, visibly contemplating his words with a tilted head, sceptical in trusting him; shoulders rising and falling with a breath, as she clutched the fabric of the scarf around her shoulders. Her gaze briefly lowered to his chest, swallowing. He could now make out the sound of footsteps approaching from down the hall and coming around the corner, his eyes lifting from her face and attention turning towards the sound as his heart raced, growing increasingly anxious the longer she remained quiet; caught like a terrified deer in the woods, “Ben, we need to leave now!” Emrys harshly whispered. 

She sighed and released her hold on the scarf, sliding it from her shoulders, “I cannot change the mind of a man set in his stubborn ways.” She mumbled, grabbing his wrist to press the thin fabric into his palm. “Take this.” She quietly said. 

His eyes shifted to glance down at the balled-up scarf, soft and delicate against his hand as she released his wrist, her eyes on his face. Benjicot looked at her, blinking rapidly a couple of times. He could hear the shuffle of feet as Emrys hurried to ascend the stairs and come up behind him, grabbing his shoulder as the flicker of flames bounced off the walls, Alistair’s shadow visible now, “Benjicot, come on.” 

“For fuck sakes, just wait!” He snapped, his voice a whisper as he shook off his cousin. Benjicot moved to quickly tuck the scarf in his belt, securing it there snugly against his hip as his cousin huffed with a curse and hurried towards the stairs; leaving him behind to descend towards the front door. 

“Be safe, come back to us.” She instructed, beginning to slide out from the nook and back in the direction of her room, but stopped by his hand around her wrist that pulled her back.  His hand lifted to grasp her chin between his thumb and forefinger, his head ducking until his nose brushed hers — he paused, feeling her sharp inhale of breath, before pressing his mouth to hers in a sweet, gentle kiss; her lips soft on his. He felt a hand of hers reflexively come up to his chest, confused and exploratory as if she wasn’t sure what to do or how to respond to the brief kiss. He withdrew after a moment, eyes scanning her features and noting the deep crimson blush that spread up her neck and into her cheeks. 

“I promise to return.” He muttered, stepping back and hurrying down the stairs as Alistair rounded the corner; finding Emrys bouncing on his toes by the front door

He could hear as Alistair called out a confused, “My lady?”

The sound of muffled conversation was distant and too quiet for his ears as he approached his cousin, who eyed him suspiciously. He wordlessly brushed past him, slipping out the door that Emrys held open before he felt him on his heels with a shut of the door. The two men bolted across the yard, the rain pouring down on the house as they ran towards the gates -- Benjicot squinted through the rain as he yanked his hood up and over his head, struggling to make out the shape of Ser Eryn who waited for him from the doors; the sound of water splashing with each step the two young men took. 

“My lord.” Ser Eryn shouted over the rain, bowing his head to Benjicot as he neared, hand reaching out already towards the saddle of the horse the guard held in place by the reign. He quickly mounted the horse who stumbled around a couple of steps, adjusting comfortably on the saddle as he tugged on the reins to pull the horse back and steady it. He watched as Emrys hopped up and mirrored his actions, pulling himself up onto the other horse’s back, looking down at Ser Eryn, “Everything is ready for you. You should reach the rest of your men within the hour. The fields will be slippery, so be careful!” 

“Aye.” Benjicot nodded, swaying with the horse’s anxious movements. “You’re a good man, Ser Eryn.” He stated. The guard gave another bow, muttering a ‘thank you’ to the boy lord who stood in front of him. 

With a snap of his reins, the horse took off underneath Benjicot; Emrys in tow as the sound of hoofs pounded against the ground. 

The rain came down in relentless sheets, soaking the earth and turning the narrow forest paths into a treacherous mire. The moon, hidden behind thick clouds, offered little light, leaving the night to be illuminated only by the occasional flash of lightning. The world was dark, wet, and unforgiving—a fitting backdrop for the grim task ahead.

Benjicot rode at the front, his horse’s hooves squelching in the mud with every step. His cloak was soaked through, the heavy wool clinging to his shoulders, but he paid it no mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, on the border ahead, where Bracken men had been seen trespassing on Blackwood land. This wasn't the first time, but it would be the last if he had anything to say about it.

Beside him, his cousin Emrys rode with equal determination, his jaw set in a grim line, "Do you think they'll be there?" Emrys asked, his voice barely audible over the drumming rain.

"They'll be there," Benjicot replied, eyes fixed on the path ahead. 

Emrys nodded, gripping the reins tighter. The path began to slope downward, leading them toward the river that marked the boundary between Blackwood and Bracken lands. The river’s usual gentle flow had turned into a roaring torrent, swollen by the storm, the water crashing against the rocks with furious energy.

As they neared the border, Benjicot signalled for them to slow down. The faint glow of torches flickered through the trees ahead, confirming what they had suspected. Bracken men were indeed on Blackwood land, and they weren’t even trying to hide it, face-to-face with Davos and his men. 

"How many do you think?" Emrys asked, peering through the darkness.

"Enough," Benjicot said, his voice a mutter. 

He drew his sword, the steel gleaming briefly in the dim light. Emrys followed suit, the sound of metal slicing through the rain-soaked air.

They urged their horses forward, emerging from the cover of the trees into a clearing by the riverbank. There, illuminated by the torches, were half-dozen Bracken men, armed and armoured, standing defiantly on Blackwood soil.

One of them, a tall man with a grizzled beard, stepped forward; a familiar face that Benjicot recognized as an elder cousin to Aeron — a boy Benjicot had encountered several times before,  "What’s this? Blackwoods come to play in the rain?"

"You’re on our land," Benjicot said, his voice carrying authority despite his youth. "Leave now, or we’ll make you."

The Bracken men laughed, their leader taking a step closer. "And what will a boy like you do about it?"

Benjicot’s eyes narrowed. "You’re treading thin ice, Bracken. Turn back and leave now, and we might spare you and your men."

Rodrik, the leader of the men, barked a laugh, “Don’t be foolish. Surely, you don’t truly think you’re anything to be feared, Benjicot.” He spat, taking a few steps in his direction, “Or did you come to meet my dear sister?” He taunted, his tone mocking and spurring a blinding rage deep within Benjicot, the taste of bile potent on his tongue. 

“You’d be lucky if you see her face again anytime soon,” Rodrick continued. “Though I doubt that is of any concern to you…seeing that I hear you are to be married to that pretty little Tully girl, aye? What’s her name again?” 

Benjicot twitched, his mouth turned into a snarl as he readjusted his grip around the hilt of his sword, his gaze watching the Bracken man like a predator does their prey, “Serra?” He slowly said, the name drawn out and followed by a sickening laugh, “Lucky man, Blackwood. You know she was almost a Bracken -- her father offered her for Aeron first before you.” 

Rodrik slowly sauntered towards Benjicot’s horse, the men behind him tense as they watched in silence; Benjicot’s eyes briefly tearing away to glance towards the Blackwood men, Emrys stood beside them and waited for any signal to advance, his blade drawn and ready -- meanwhile, Rodrik stopped once he was within arms reach of his horse. 

"Tell me, Blackwood," Rodrik sneered, his eyes gleaming with malice, "how does it feel to have a Tully as a prize, yet know she'll never be yours in spirit? Serra may wear your colours one day, but she'll always think of the strength and power of Bracken men. You can dress her in Blackwood finery, but deep down, she'll remember the better match she could have had—someone worthy of her station."

He leaned in closer, his voice a low, taunting whisper. "Enjoy her cold embraces, Benjicot. But remember, when she looks at you, she’ll be seeing the man she could’ve had."

He finally snapped. 

With a sharp cry, he spurred his horse forward as Benjicot’s sword struck with precision, cutting through the defences of the Bracken man as his blade found its mark, cutting him down with a swift strike. There was a gasp as the remaining Bracken men, seeing their leader fall, began to retreat, stumbling over the muddy ground as they fled back across the river; Rodrik’s body slumped against the ground, with his face down in the mud with wide, lifeless eyes. Ben’s gaze remained pinned there upon his body as the men withdrew, unmoving. 

Benjicot didn’t pursue them. He reined in his horse, breathing heavily, wiping the blade clean of blood off on his pant leg as Emrys came to a stop beside him, his chest heaving with exertion.

"Ben, what have you done?" Emrys hissed, his voice barely audible over the storm. His eyes were wide, but there was no judgement in them—only concern. "We weren't supposed to be here, let alone... do this."

He glanced around nervously, expecting Bracken reinforcements to appear out of the shadows. "You've just killed Rodrik Bracken. The Brackens won't let this go. This will start a blood feud, one even the gods can't stop."

Benjicot looked at him, blinking rapidly as the realisation of what he had just done dawned on him; suddenly feeling sick as shaking hands sheathed his sword and gripped the reins.

Emrys stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We need to think quickly. We can’t let them know it was us, not now. We need to get back to Raventree, and we need to make sure no one can tie this to you, to us. We can’t let this spiral out of control. The whole Riverlands will burn if this gets out."

The young lord nodded a stiff movement that oozed uncertainty. 

He paused, searching Benjicot's face for a response. "You did what you had to, Ben, but now we must do what we must to protect our house."

TAGLIST: @username199945 @cxcilla @thethiccestdaddy @deltamoon666, @drwho-ess @callsigncrushx @clarityisnofun @jhepolie @juhdoche @majoso12 @roseheart5 @nixtape-foryou @poppyflower-22 @accidentpronedork @tannyfairy @maximizedrhythms @deadunicorn159 @xlittlefiend

[eggo-tistical]

THE FACT THAT I WAS ON THE CUSP OF WATCHING SALTBURN YESTERDAY THIS IS THE FINAL NAIL IN MY COFFIN THATS ALREADY BEING LOWERED INTO THE EARTH

me and @blveherb watched Saltburn

I will not elaborate further.

[tonks-ted]

Starter for: Alice Longbottom @alicealongbottom Where: inside Borgin & Burkes When: the night of Serra Borgin's birthday party Connected thread: Bellatrix & Emir's search for the magical crown

No doubt the Borgins and Burkes would be very pissed to learn that Aurors had entered the shop while no one was around - legally, of course. And absolutely, strategically, on this particular night when they'd all be getting drunk for their spoiled daughter. Currently, Ted and Alice were rifling around, searching for a crown with reportedly powerful properties, which was stolen from a Muggle museum. Someone had tipped them off, claiming it was hidden here. The Order had also alerted that You-Know-Who knew about the crown and would likely want it for himself.

So here they were, avoiding curses while examining the surroundings. Ted was on-edge. He loved Alice and trusted her abilities completely. But she was pregnant and gave him heart failure every time she reached for objects that could be dangerous. After the fifth scare, he breathed through his cheeks and turned to her exasperatedly.

"Alice, dear-" Pushing a creepy stuffed Erkling back into its spot on a shelf, he pleaded, "- could you stick to the less deadly objects? If you touch one more thing, I might end up hyperventilating in St Mungo's."

[donserra]

UMBRELLA EMPLOYEE RECORDS: L. NAVARRO.

LEGAL NAME: luis serra navarro NICKNAME(S): n/a. BIRTH DATE: april 22, 1976 (04/22/1976) AGE: forty-eight (48) GENDER/PRONOUNS: cis male (he/him) ORIENTATION: bisexual. ETHNICITY: spaniard. ZODIAC SIGN: taurus.

CURRENT RESIDENCE: mobile. formerly from valdelobos, spain. EDUCATION: degrees in biology, medical engineering and pharmaceutical engineering. OCCUPATION: r&d for umbrella pharmaceuticals, biologist & researcher for los illuminados (formerly), current informant for hire.

EYE COLOR: dark gray, almost black. HAIR COLOR: black threaded with grey. HEIGHT: 6'0". BUILD: athletically built, though has lost some strength from a number of years of recovery from spinal injury caused by krauser. he's quick on his feet, but not at peak physical strength. SKIN: often covered in sunspots or freckles from time spent outside, luis's skin is a medium-dark tone that often looks darker because of that time in the sun. SKIN MARKINGS: while luis bears some scarring on his arms and legs from the 2004 los illuminados incident, the most significant ones he bears are a scar in the middle of his chest from removing a plagas parasite he had been forcibly infected with, and a thin-but-raised scar on his back from krauser's knife being thrown into his back. ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: due to the aforementioned knife wound, luis spent a long stint of time recovering to be as mobile again as he is, but he sometimes suffers from weakness in his limbs or radiating spinal pain at and below the range of the wound, as the knife clipped his spinal cord and has caused damage on the nerves of his back and legs. to compensate for the weakness of his back and legs, he often wears braces on his lower back and legs.

BIOGRAPHY.

born in the remote area of valdelobos, spain, luis serra navarro was raised by his grandfather, a man full of stories of heroes and fairy tales that dazzled luis through his childhood. known as a man who hunted for a living, luis's grandfather returned home after being savaged by some kind of feral wolf, managing to return home despite his injuries but very quickly falling ill with an unknown disease. after rumors of his 'madness' spread to the village nearby, the cabin was set ablaze while luis was gone in order to contain the infection within.

according to witness reports, the young man watched the flames until they died to the barest ember without uttering a single word or moving until dawn broke overhead. only then did he leave valdelobos.

enrolling in public universities, he earned a reputation and degree as a prodigy biologist that eventually gained the attention of umbrella pharmaceuticals, where he worked on a number of over-the-counter medications and was eventually moved to work on the NE-α project, which was the precursor of the nemesis project. luis resigned soon after this, disillusioned by his work at the company.

after his resignation, he returned to valdelobos and was drawn into research for the los iluminados cult and their plagas project, where luis initially thought he was researching ways to weaken or remove the parasite, though his research was being used for strengthen the parasite even further. burdened by guilt, he contacted ada wong and her current employer for aid in return for his research and the amber source of the parasite.

thus began the 2004 los iluminados incident where luis met leon and worked alongside him - until he was attacked by krauser. presumed dead after the blow to his spine, he was extracted from the island due to ada wong's interception.

what followed was a length period of recovery and physical therapy to get back on his feet. now, he works alongside ada as her operator and ground control, though he has considered returning to the field alongside her now that his strength has returned to him.

[savage-rhi]

Duality

Chapter 11: The Falsehoods

Summary: Sawyer Kiddo has walked a razor's edge as a hacktivist for several years, driven by the loss of her family in the Raccoon City incident. Haunted by past choices and fueled with desire for vigilante justice, Sawyer's work takes an unexpected turn when she ventures to Spain and crosses paths with Luis Serra—a man with blood on his hands long thought to be dead. Together they unravel a web of corruption and face an impending bioterror threat, fighting not only monsters but also the darker elements of their humanity. As they delve deeper into each other's pasts and the conspiracy at large, Sawyer begins to sense something unsettling about Luis—something that might be even more dangerous than their mutual enemies.

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The pale golden light of the morning sun gleamed off the wet pavement, remnants of last night's rain still clinging to the city streets. Two Legs' gaze drifted upwards, his eyes meeting the distant clocktower as the little hand settled on eight. He blinked, and the world around him seemed to stir—more humans began filling the streets' void, hurriedly trying to outrun what they called "rush hour," grabbing their morning sustenance before diving into the day.

Two Legs had observed human rituals before. He found their behavior fascinating - their unconscious synchronization, the way they moved as one without realizing it. In a group of around twenty people, Two Legs could always spot several who mirrored each other's actions almost perfectly. Whether it was the way they greeted someone, the nervous fidgeting of their fingers in their pockets as they waited for the bus or the subtle tilt of their heads in conversation, it was as if they were bound by an invisible thread, a hive mind that connected them all.

There was something that separated humans from the unity he had once known—the stubborn spark of individuality that made them puzzle pieces refusing to fit into a larger whole—puppets on a string without a master at the helm. And there he was, an organism shaped by his very nature to conform to a collective yet now standing apart, seeing the creatures before him as prey and predator, not knowing where he stood among the flock. 

Two Legs bit the inside of his lip, doubt grounding him in the moment. A frown etched into his face as he recognized yet another uncomfortable truth—one more thread that bound him to Luis. 

For all of Luis's charisma, a constant question had always been in his mind: "How do I play this?" Every action was calculated, and every word was measured. Luis continually assessed the room and the people around him, gauging how much to share, when to up the ante, and what topics were safe to broach. Perfection was his prison, forcing him to reread his email drafts a thousand times, always seeking the right "feel," molding himself to fit the expectations of others, contrary to the act he'd put on. 

That need to conform, to hide parts of himself, went back to the village, where, as a youth, Luis had felt the crushing importance of nonconformity. Even though he had broken the mold several times, there was always a price to be paid for standing out. Even a parasitic organism like Two Legs felt the burden of that weight in the present, standing among so many humans all at once.  

Speaking of being overwhelmed…

The scent of fresh coffee and food wafted from nearby establishments, mingling with the dampness of the rain and the musk of humans passing by. Two Legs felt a sensory overload in the making and paused to gather himself and focus. The sheer number of scents was inundating, making it nearly impossible to discern the one he sought—the other Plaga, hidden in the crowd. 

Two Legs started to reconsider the chase. Last night, the Plaga had seemed to be leading him on, toying with him almost like a cat luring a mouse. He also recalled Sawyer's warning—the way her voice had softened as she told him it might be a trap.

Was she really worried about me…? 

The thought sent a fuzzy warmth through him. His mind drifted back to their earlier conversation, replaying the way her eyes seemed miles away even when they were right there, looking at him. Those fleeting smiles she gave in response to his quips, the way she bantered with him—they shouldn't have mattered, but they lingered, stirring something within him that felt dangerous, fragile. 

His right palm pressed against his chest as if trying to contain whatever threatened to break free. But then he froze, a shiver running across his skin as he remembered with a start—she had almost killed him last night. Or at least, she could have. The growl that escaped his throat was a firm reminder of who he was, what he was, and that she was still a meal he had intended to devour before they reached the airport. That was his brilliant plan. 

Just as it had been the plan when they escaped together. 

Just as it had been the plan when he first encountered her. 

He knew somewhere deep down it wasn't going to happen anymore.

Two Legs sighed, chalking it up to getting "too involved," as humans would say when pushed into territory they had no intentions of stepping over. Then, a thought occurred to him about his present situation. Maybe it wasn't just his life he was risking by pursuing the other Plaga; perhaps he was risking something far more vital to him. He wasn't even sure he could name it. 

And then, as if someone had slapped him upside the head, every neuron in his body lit up. The earthy, decaying scent from last night hit his nose and tongue, and his eyes snapped up, following an invisible orange aura that seemed to weave through the crowd, leading him straight to the other parasite. He started running before realizing it, his instincts overriding everything else. Whatever this rival wanted from him, he wouldn't let them take it. 

The crowds were a blur of faceless bodies as Two Legs weaved through them. The narrow streets in Madrid twisted like a labyrinth. His movements were precise and desperate as he jogged through the sea of strangers, his focus deadlocked on the lingering stench of the Plaga, which seemed to be ten steps ahead of him no matter how quick his feet were. 

For what felt like ages, Two Legs finally skidded to a halt in a dim alley, the walls closing around him like the jaws of a beartrap. When he realized where he was, his heart began to race; each beat echoing the tension in the atmosphere. 

Shrouded in the shadows about twenty feet away stood the figure he had been chasing—a woman with dark skin and hair. Her body was adorned with a purple sundress, the edges kissed by the sun's rays, bleaching some of the dark hues from the fabric. He couldn't make out her features, her hair obscuring most of her face, but her presence wasn't something to ignore. 

As she turned to face him, her eyes met his—cold, emotionless, devoid of fear. She stared at Two Legs with a bird-like curiosity that made his confidence waver as the hairs on his neck stood. Something about this, Plaga made his gut twist with a deep unease. Then she moved—not toward him, but up, scaling the building's wall with a speed that left him breathless. Before he could react, she was gone, vanishing back into the city like a phantom. 

Two Legs breath hitched in his throat as he stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what he had just witnessed. He was fast, but she...she was something else entirely.

Fear gripped him, not the kind he was used to, but a more unsettled dread. The jury was still out regarding what she was. She didn't smell like his brethren in Valdelobos, but neither did she have a similar marker to him. 

Maybe the signal he'd felt at the hotel, this little chase, wasn't an invitation for the sake of playing or hunting but a warning: I've seen your face. Stay out of my territory, or face the consequences.

Two Legs nails dug into his palms as he fought the urge to continue the pursuit, but panic won out as an intrusive thought of Sawyer's body being ravaged popped into his mind. He pondered the what-ifs, wondering if this was a distraction, a ploy to keep away while another Plaga went after her. 

Goosebumps prickled his skin as Two Legs forced himself to retreat, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of movement. The UK was starting to sound like a promising escape, but he knew he couldn't leave Madrid—at least, not yet. Not until he was sure Sawyer was safe and on the plane to the States. 

As he made his way back, Two Legs had a sinking suspicion that this wouldn't be the last time he'd see his 'cousin' as long as he stayed in Madrid. And the next time, he might not be so lucky.

Sawyer counted down the seconds until the elevator finally dinged. The sound assured her she'd made it to the top floor. She pushed forward, going on autopilot as she headed left; the fire exit to the rooftop was her only focus. It wasn't long before she came upon a rickety door that creaked under her hand as she shoved it open, and a sharp gust of wind greeted her, almost knocking the breath from her lungs. Sawyer muttered a curse, grateful that her hair was too short to whip into her face, and blinked rapidly to clear the sudden dryness in her eyes. 

When her vision steadied, Sawyer scanned the rooftop until her gaze landed on a lone figure. Crouched by some bricks near the edge, Kari was staring down at the streets heading West, her silhouette frail against the sky around them. 

"You alive?" Sawyer's voice broke the silence as she hollered. 

Kari's head snapped toward her, and Sawyer's heart clenched at the sight of a familiar grin. 

"Mostly!" Kari called back with a huff, her voice rough but alive. "Please tell me you brought something to drink."

"Water work for you?"

"Better than nothing!"

Sawyer sprinted over, feeling relief flooding her body. She crouched in front of Kari, her hands shaking as she pulled her backpack off her shoulder and dug into it. She found a water bottle and handed it over, watching Kari uncap it with desperate hands, drinking as if she'd been wandering a desert with no end.

"Easy," Sawyer murmured. "Don't want you throwing up."

Kari slowed, lowering the bottle with a gasp, a weary smile playing on her lips before she wiped them. "I've done…plenty of that already at Soldado's."

The mention of Soldado made Sawyer glare briefly, but she forced herself to focus on the here and now. 

"Glad to see you made it," she said, her voice softer, as she scanned Kari for any signs of injury. "When did you get here?" 

"About a half hour ago," Kari replied, her breath still labored. She gently waved Sawyer away as if sensing her worry. "I'm not wounded, just a couple of scratches."

"Why didn't you come straight to the room?" Sawyer frowned, her relief tainted by confusion. "And what was up with the cryptic messages?"

"Had to make sure it was you and that you weren't followed," Kari explained, her tone laced with a hint of paranoia born from too many close calls. "I saw you earlier, peering through the window before I arrived here. After everything I've been through, you'd think I wouldn't be extra cautious?"

"Got me there," Sawyer admitted with a smirk, shaking her head in disbelief.  The tension in her chest loosened, and she marveled at Kari being alive in the flesh. "I thought you were chow for the mutts in Unit D." 

"I came close," Kari breathed, shuddering as if recalling a memory too close for comfort. "They had me cornered, but the bigger BOWs spooked them off. I took advantage of the distraction and found an escape through a sewer vent near the basement level."

The smell hit Sawyer then, the pungent scent permeating Kari's clothes and reminding her all too well of what happened yesterday. She bit back a grimace; the last thing she wanted to do was add insult to the injuries that were invisible but clearly there. 

"So, how did you make it out in the end?" 

Kari's voice cut Sawyer from her thoughts. She blinked, almost missing the question entirely. For all her rehearsing, Sawyer found herself at a loss. She didn't know where to begin but knew she couldn't mention Luis—not until she gauged Kari's reaction to everything else.  VITA might have lax policies, but bringing a stranger into a designated safe house was a violation. If Kari wasn't sympathetic to the situation, Sawyer knew she'd be in deep shit. And if Kari discovered that Luis had once been with Umbrella…

Her stomach tightened. She couldn't risk it. 

"The escape you mentioned on the top floor was compromised," Sawyer began. Her words already felt distant, borrowed from Luis's recounting like she was on autopilot. "The whole area was overrun with BOWs. I didn't go up—I could hear them. I got lost and found a lab with a waste hatch. I jumped in, and it dumped me near a river. After that, I headed through the woods until I found a town. Some folks took pity on me, and I hitched a ride to Toledo." 

Kari's tired eyes narrowed, her expression hardening before it softened into something sadder, something that made Sawyer's chest tighten.

"What about Atom and Spector?"

"Still no signs of Mobley. I don't think he made it out. And Sam—"

Sawyer's voice faltered, his name hanging heavy against her tongue.

"Onyx?"

The tears came before Sawyer could stop them, blurring her vision as she blinked rapidly, trying to keep control. She drew in a shaky breath, meeting Kari's gaze as she shook her head, the words sticking in her throat.

"Oh god," Kari's voice wavered, her mouth dropping into a pained frown. "Did he?"

"Yeah," Sawyer managed, her throat tightening as she swallowed hard.

"How?"

"Infection...from a BOW. I didn't see it happen, but Sam told me he got hit with a stinger. When I found him in the lab, he turned before I made it through the hatch."

Kari shook her head, biting her lip as her eyes darted around, searching for something solid to hold onto in her grief. "Did you put him out of his misery?"

Sawyer's hands trembled, the memory of Samuel's final moments stabbing at her like a knife. She finally nodded, rubbing the back of her neck in a futile attempt to soothe the raw ache. 

"I didn't have a choice...I'm sorry, Kari. He talked about you a lot and said you were someone he admired. If I could have saved him—"

"Don't," Kari cut her off, her voice rough but not unkind. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as the news settled in her chest. "You did what needed to be done. If the shoe were on the other foot, you know he'd give you the same courtesy." 

A small, sad smile tugged at Kari's lips as her gaze dropped to the water bottle between them. 

"Sam...he cared about you, you know? Any chance he got, he'd brag about your skills and how you were a good friend. I know what you both went through with Raccoon City. Seeing him like that couldn't have been easy for you."

A few stray tears slipped down Sawyer's cheeks as she fought to remain composed. Kari's words offered a strange comfort, but there was a tension in her voice that Sawyer couldn't ignore. It gnawed at her, making her hesitant to speak, but curiosity and a need for closure pushed her forward.

"Did you and Sam have a relationship?" 

"What?" Kari raised her brows, caught off guard. "Why do you ask?"

"Before my assignment in Colorado," Sawyer began, her voice thick. "Sam mentioned he had been seeing someone in VITA. It was an on-and-off thing, but he was thinking of getting serious. I need to know if it was you."

Kari exhaled slowly. After a moment of contemplation, she nodded. "We visited the concept a few times, yes. Does that bother you?"

"No," Sawyer shook her head, but the gesture was more to convince herself. She rubbed her nose, a sniffle escaping as she tried to steady her breath. "I just…I needed to know for my sanity. To know if I needed to track down his girlfriend and give her the news. You saved me from both monsters and more heartache."

Kari offered a faint, bittersweet smile. She closed her eyes, releasing a breath she had held for what felt like ages. Her body quivered slightly as she spoke. "If I had known what activating the self-destruct sequence would cost, I—"

"What?" Sawyer's body stiffened, her eyes locking onto Kari's. The air between them grew thick with unspoken suspicion, and Sawyer's heart sank.

"You told me you were on the upper floor, being interrogated by Soldado's men."

"I misspoke—"

"Soldado was on the lower level. Someone killed him. I thought it was Mobley, but—" Sawyer's mind raced, recalling Luis's words when he found Soldado's body and the fragmented conversation between Thick Neck and Shorty before they died. There was someone else with Soldado; they had mentioned it in Spanish, Soldado y...she couldn't remember the name, but something started to click.

"You," Sawyer breathed, her voice quaking with the realization. "You weren't on the first floor. You were with him the whole time. You shot him."

Kari's expression hardened while she swallowed, her facade crumbling as she stared at Sawyer with an intensity that made her retreat away. 

"Why?" Sawyer's voice cracked in a whisper. "Why didn't you tell me you killed Soldado?"

"Soldado was going to assault me. He thought I was the ring leader and wanted to send a message," Kari's voice faltered, pressing herself to continue. "There was a fight. I...I shot him. He fell onto the control panel, and the BOWs were released. I could've stopped it, but all I wanted—God, all I wanted—was to get out of there. To find you, Sam, and Mobley, and leave. So I let it happen. I let the sequence run its course. I figured, let the monsters do the dirty work. Maybe it was cowardly, but there were so many of them. So many people...There's no way we would've all made it out, even if the BOWs stayed locked up." She bit her bottom lip while tears welled up in her eyes. "I didn't intend for any of this to happen, Sawyer, but it did."

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Sawyer asked, her voice bordering between resignation and anger. 

"Have you ever been sexually assaulted by a man, Kiddo?"

Sawyer hesitated, then quietly replied, "Fortunately, no."

"Then you have no right to judge me," Kari snapped, her tone rough with pain. "You don't know what it's like to be terrified like that, to have your basic instincts take over. I feel guilty enough as it is...I panicked."

Sawyer swallowed hard, feeling guilty and twisted inside. She knew Kari was right, but that didn't stop the bitterness from taking hold. She hated herself for feeling this way and for being unable to sympathize fully, despite what Kari had gone through, all because she was angry that Sam was gone because of her actions.

"And Mobley?" Sawyer asked, her voice softer now, tinged with resentment she couldn't hide. "You said you saw him."

"That part was the truth," Kari sighed. "He looked terrified, and I'm sure he intended to abandon us. I have no doubt he ran into the BOWs."

"God damn it," Sawyer whispered. Her voice broke as she stood up, needing to distance herself from the emotions crashing down on her. She rubbed the back of her neck, her head bowed as she tried to make sense of everything Kari had confessed, and gave a slight kick to the backpack nearby. She took several deep breaths, struggling to calm herself, imagining what it must've been like for Kari and trying to understand why she did what she did. The more Sawyer thought about it, the more she realized that maybe, in Kari's shoes, she would've done the same. Her pride would've made her reluctant to admit it, but deep down, she knew.

Sawyer didn't notice Kari stand as well until she felt a tentative hand on her shoulder. She flinched, gently shrugging it off.

"Please don't." 

"Sawyer," Kari pleaded. "I know a thousand apologies won't be enough, but…As a comrade and someone who loved Samuel, I'm asking you to please help me see this assignment through. Have you contacted Maestro?"

Sawyer winced. Some part of her wanted to yell and scream at Kari for having the audacity to make such a statement and then immediately return to the job. She reminded herself that trauma and grief were never the same for anyone and swallowed down her anger if only to honor Samuel's belief in her ability to show restraint.

"I did last night…at least, I thought I did." Her voice rocked as she shrugged, trying to maintain whatever bit of professionalism she had left. "He didn't answer this morning. I assumed he was busy, and I can't get into the VITA archives or the network. It's gone haywire or something."

Kari gave a scrutinizing stare. "Are you certain?" 

"Yeah." Sawyer nodded, crossing her arms defensively. "Has that ever happened to you before?"

"No, but—"

Their conversation was cut short as the door creaked open. Luis, breathless and flushed, burst onto the rooftop. A relieved smile touched his lips as he waved, jogging toward them. His eyes fixed on Sawyer. 

"For a minute, I thought you were gone—oh, shit!" Two Legs skidded to a halt, his eyes widening in shock as Kari whipped out a gun, aiming it directly at his chest. His hands flew up instinctively. "Whoa, whoa, hey!"

"Kari!?" Sawyer's voice snapped, stepping forward as her pulse raced. "What the hell are you doing?!" 

"Sawyer, who is this!?" Kari demanded. Her gaze darted between her and Luis, eyes narrowing with suspicion as the gun remained steady in her hands, every muscle in her shoulders taut as a drawn bowstring ready to fire. 

"This is Luis! He helped me escape!" Sawyer blurted out, the words tumbling as she tried to diffuse the situation. "I know I shouldn't have brought him here, but—"

"Do you have any idea who this man is?" Kari cut her off, her voice dripping with contempt as she kept the gun locked on him. "Who he used to work for?"

"I know he worked for Umbrella," Sawyer swallowed hard as the admission slipped, her mind screaming that she shouldn't have said it, but it was too late. "Kari, I wouldn't have brought him here if I thought he was a danger to us!"

"Dr. Luis Serra of Umbrella Team 6!" Kari spat the words like a curse, her fury palpable as she turned away from Sawyer and locked her eyes on Luis. "He's good at weaving stories! Don't tell me he has you fooled!"

"Kari put the gun down!" 

"He's dangerous! I've been tracking this son of a bitch for years!"

Sawyer's breath hitched as she caught the look in Kari's eyes—a cold, murderous rage that twisted her features into something almost unrecognizable. It was the same look Sawyer had seen once before, reflected at her in the shattered remains of a car windshield, bloodied and broken across pavement once upon a time. Her nerves fired as her eyes darted between Kari and Luis, a horrid dread creeping up her back, knowing that things could spiral out of control any second, and she didn't feel ready in the slightest. 

Two Legs felt a wave of nausea wash over him as memories surged like a tide, fragments of "the other place" crashing into his mind. The pieces of his dream from last night resurfaced, picking up where they left off in vivid detail. 

A hand gripped his waist, freezing him mid-step. Luis's brows furrowed as he turned to face an older woman whose expression was a storm of anger and urgency. 

"We need to talk."

"Can it wait until after my break, chief? I'm running on fumes and a hangover," Luis said, smirking. He tried to hold his ground as Dr. Alvarez stared him down, her gaze sharp like an angry hawk, poised to sink her nails into his skin. He knew better than to sass her, but exhaustion and his recent failure left him too drained to care about decorum.

"Your lack of rest isn't my problem, and neither are your choices in recreation."

Luis let out a hollow chuckle. "It might as well be if I end up sleeping at my desk because I wasn't allowed to recoup."

"Dr. Serra, I'm serious. Ten minutes is all I require, then you can fuck off elsewhere."

Luis's forced smile faded as he straightened up, biting down hard on the end of his cigarette. Alvarez was always stringent, always in control, and Luis knew from the start she never had a shred of affection for him, but she seldom cursed, even in anger. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to push himself to pay attention. With a resigned nod, he muttered, "Alright, alright," and gestured for her to lead the way. 

Luis's mind spun as they walked down the main corridor, passing several lab units. He heard plenty of rumors from his colleagues that Alvarez had been trying to get him fired for weeks. Maybe she finally found a way to do it, to rid herself of the thorn in her side. It would sting, but Luis made peace with that prospect long ago. There were other companies—hell, any of them would snatch him up in a heartbeat, but his parasitic research, the work he had invested his blood into, would be set back for years. Worse still, he wondered if this wasn't about dismissal and if Clouret and Smith were right that Alvarez was preparing to shove him headfirst into the abyss of T-virus research. 

Luis's thoughts drifted back to those early days of onboarding when he was a wide-eyed idealist, eager to impress and naive to the horrors he'd soon witness. The awe he felt at the microscopic marvel of the T-Virus quickly evolved into dread when he saw its power up close. The memory of John Doe #2310—desperate, sick, clinging to the hope of a cure for his cancer—still haunted him. Luis would never forget how the man's sanity fractured, how he transformed into a monster born from the very thing he had praised beforehand. 

Even now, Luis could see it sometimes when he closed his eyes: the image of the man's head slamming into the wall with a sickening thud, over and over, until his skull was a grotesque mess of blood and fluid. The grey film that clouded the older man's once-brown eyes, the blood-smeared glass he clawed at in a futile bid for freedom, the guttural snarls that reverberated in the lab, all of it seared into his brain. And his colleagues – how unaffected and indifferent they seemed to the situation as if it were just another Tuesday. Every fiber of Luis's being had screamed at him to gather his things and run that day, but he couldn't. Not when the bigger picture, the promise of something greater, held him captive. Right now, he needed Umbrella as much as they needed him, even if that meant turning a blind eye to evil, as long as his hands didn't pull the trigger, as long as he wasn't the one creating monsters.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Luis followed Alvarez into an empty office space. He flinched when she shoved a folder into his arms, her silence a far cry from the tense exchange moments ago. With a sinking feeling, he flipped through the pages, the words blurring together until one phrase stood out: 

"Moving forward, Dr. Serra's research into parasitic applications may benefit reviving Project Nemesis." Luis's pulse pounded in his ears as he looked up, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm being transferred to the military sector? What is this?"

"Consider it a promotion," Alvarez said cooly as if she hadn't just handed him a death sentence. She didn't give him time to process before adding, "At the end of this week, you'll cease your current work on Project Singularity and begin aiding in the revival of Project Nemesis. With your expertise in parasites, I have no doubt you'll succeed. You'll be paid double your rate, and more funds will be contributed to Project Singularity when you return to your normal duties."

"Chief—"

"Under the circumstances, you can call me Kari, and I would appreciate a thank you. I didn't have to vouch for you." 

Two Legs gasped, his eyes widening as he stared at Kari—Dr. Alvarez, the chief who had overseen every experiment, every nightmare. His blood ran cold as the memories washed over him, of Luis's fear, of the powerlessness that gripped him whenever he was near her. The plaga didn't know the whole story or the animosity between them, but he understood enough: he was in danger and had no idea how to escape this looming threat.

"No…" Two Legs whispered, shaking his head, a desperate plea in his eyes. "Kiddo, I don't know what she's talking about!" His gaze shot to Kari, wide and despairing. "Why the hell are you pointing that at me? I'm not your enemy!"

Kari's grip on the gun tightened until her knuckles blanched, every muscle coiled like a snake. The hatred in her eyes only grew as she spat. "You know what you've done! And now, you've dragged another innocent into your mess!" 

"That's not true!" His voice snapped.  

"Luis?" Sawyer furrowed her brows, doubt creeping in despite herself. 

"I swear I don't know what she's talking about!" His voice was frantic now, almost childlike in its helplessness. "Tell her to put the gun down, please!" 

Kari's eyes flicked to Sawyer, softening just a fraction. "You've been relying on the compassion of a treacherous man, Sawyer," she said, quieter now but no less cutting. "This man and Team 6 have a rap sheet that would put the very CEOs of Umbrella to shame! Soldado's dead, and Samuel's gone, but we can still bring this bastard to justice. Let's get something out of this nightmare."

Sawyer's heart pounded, her breath shallow as Kari's words sliced through her. She could feel their weight sinking in, feel the fragile trust she'd built with Luis cracking under the pressure as she glanced between them. She saw the desperation in his eyes—the vulnerability he tried to hide but couldn't anymore. He wasn't just afraid of Kari. He was scared of Sawyer herself, fearful of what she might believe.

"Maybe you're right," Sawyer said slowly, her voice eerily calm as she took a deliberate step toward Kari, her face a blank canvas. 

"No, no, no! Please!" Two Legs harshly whispered. He swallowed hard, feeling the instinct to mutate—to destroy—rising like a storm in his veins. If Sawyer turned against him now, there'd be no choice. He'd have to kill them both. He should've ended this the second he recognized Alvarez, but he'd held back all because of his quarry. This damn obsession was going to get him killed.  

"Maybe he is dangerous," Sawyer continued, her eyes never leaving Kari. "We could finish this for Samuel, right?"

Kari's stern gaze faltered, softening into something like trust. She was almost relieved. Almost.

And in that split second, Sawyer moved.

With a swift motion, Sawyer knocked the gun from Kari's hand. The sound of it skidding across the ground was drowned out by the sharp thud of Sawyer's fist driving into Kari's ribs. Kari stumbled back, gasping, clutching her side in pain. 

"Luis, go! Now!" Sawyer barked, her voice breaking through his haze of panic.

Two Legs blinked, then bolted for the door, his pulse rumbling in his ears. He could barely feel his feet under him as he sprinted, the need to escape surging in his blood. Behind him, Sawyer's footsteps echoed his own, her tone sharp and urgent, pushing him forward as he flew down the fire emergency stairs. 

"Don't stop! She's coming!"

The crack of gunfire shattered their rhythm. Bullets whizzed past, embedding into the walls with sharp, angry snaps.

"Mierda!" Two Legs hissed, ducking instinctively as he felt Sawyer's hand grip his arm, yanking him out of harm's way. He stumbled, gasping as another round tore through the air.

"This way!" Sawyer's voice was tight, pulling him toward the nearest exit. They burst through the door onto a deserted corridor. Their footsteps echoed off the walls as they ran side by side, heartbeats pounding in their throats. Ahead, another stairwell loomed, a temporary refuge as they descended several floors. 

Coming to the tenth floor, they both stopped for a second to catch their breath and gather their bearings until Kari's unyielding stomps could be heard from afar, along with the distant screams of patrons from the floors above, wondering what was happening outside their rooms.

Two Legs gasped. "How the hell did she catch up to us so fast-!?"

"You can ask her later! Go, go!"

They sprinted again as they tore down the hallway. Gunfire rang out, and before Sawyer could register the sound, a bullet ripped through her left shoulder, searing hot pain exploding outward. The impact knocked her off balance, vision blurring as a scream tore from her throat. Her right hand clutched at her shoulder, blood spilling thick and fast through her fingers as the world began to tip sideways—a dull numbness spreading through her arm like ice. 

Ahead of her, Two Legs froze the second her scream pierced the air. His head whipped around, and the sight of her blood glistening beneath the lights was like a punch to his senses. The scent—her scent—wrapped around him, pulling him deeper into its grip. He felt it curling in his chest, tightening his throat until every breath tasted of her, every inhale an invitation to give in, to eat. 

"Oh no…" The word slipped from him in a choked whisper, his hands trembling as he fought to keep control; all the while, his vision tunneled, narrowing in on the blood staining her clothes and fingers. 

"Go…" Sawyer's legs buckled, the pain stealing the strength from her limbs. It was like the ground beneath her had vanished. She couldn't think past the agony, couldn't focus on anything except the overwhelming fire in her blood. Each breath scraped through her lungs like charred ash, the edges of her eyes blurring, the world slipping away as she fell to the floor.

Two Legs was at her side in a heartbeat, panic crashing into him. His arms wrapped around her body, shaking while he scrambled to bundle her up to his chest. He felt Sawyer's head loll against him, letting out a choked sob when his fingers brushed the wound. 

"I'm sorry—god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—" Her blood was everywhere now, thick and warm against his skin, and the hunger—god, the hunger—was more than he could bear.

"Luis…" Sawyer's voice was barely there. Her gaze was unfocused and distant, but the pain was written across her face, carved into the lines of her brow and the tightness of her jaw. Her body sagged further into his arms, eyes fluttering as she fought to stay awake. 

"I've got you—just hold on. Stay with me. Stay with me!" Two Legs words came out distraught. His hands trembled, black veins pulsing beneath his skin as his body betrayed him, and every part of him screamed to feed. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard through his nose.

Not now, not now…!

The scent of her blood was everywhere now. In his lungs, in the air, even in his bones. The world was too bright, too loud, too unbearable. He growled low in his throat, pressing his forehead to hers in a last-ditch effort to ground himself, to focus on the fragile warmth of her body slipping through his fingers, cradling her closer. 

"I know it hurts, please…please hold onto me." His voice was a broken whisper now, fear threading through every word. Two Legs needed to move, needed to get her out—but all he could do was hold her tighter, praying he could keep himself at bay long enough to flee, but he wasn't sure he could stop himself. 

In his turmoil, Two Legs barely registered Kari's presence until her voice slashed through the stupor in his mind.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kari sneered, her eyes narrowing as they swept over the scene before her.

"She's… she's hurt," Two Legs stammered, almost pleading. "I need to help her. Please, let me help her."

Kari shook her head, her lip curling as she looked at Sawyer's limp body. For a brief second, something like pity flashed in her expression—gone as quickly as it appeared as she refocused on him. 

"It's too late for that." Her tone was cold and flat, like a tomb sealing shut. "Just like it's too late for you."

Something shattered inside Two Legs. His head snapped up almost inhumanly, his eyes wide and wild, blazing with a deep amber color that threatened to consume the blue of his irises. A growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through his bones like a feral beast on the brink of madness. His lips curling back into a snarl revealed unnervingly sharp teeth—sharper than they had any right to be.

Kari's confidence vanished, her face draining of color as her widened eyes betrayed every fear she had at that moment.

"Oh my—"

Before she could finish, the roar that tore from Two Legs rattled the walls around them, primal and savage.

Kari stumbled back, her breath hitching as her finger slipped on the trigger in a desperate panic. The gunshot splintered through the space but missed, ricocheting off the ceiling as she staggered backward, disbelief and terror warring on her face. 

Two Legs didn't wait. He surged to his feet, arms tightening around Sawyer's body as he held her close and bolted down the hall. Moving faster than any human should, torn between the urge to tear Kari apart and an even fiercer instinct that drowned out his hunger—the need to protect what was his.

Behind him, Kari fell to her knees, the gun slipping from her shaking fingers as she watched them vanish. Her breaths came out ragged, disbelief twisting into something darker. A soft, broken laugh—spilled from her lips, rising as she clutched at her chest.

"He did it," she muttered, eyes wide, glazed with madness. "He actually fucking did it! Singularity."

[introut]

from one thing to another, his attention jumps around all over the place. one second it's the camera, then it's serra, and next thing you know, he's crouched over whilst petting her dogs with equal amount of love.

at her smooth avoidance, he glances up at her, as if he was one of her puppies that'd been forgotten to be fed. "whaaaaaaaaaat? not fair, that's not how this works!" loren likes to think he's an open book -- ask and you shall receive -- until he's forced to acknowledge his mistakes.

"no one with a snake and a guinea pig in the same flat has a boring secret. c'mon, what's the fun in keeping things to yourself?" turning back to the dogs, he talks to them about whether or not they want their mummy to spill the beans. "see? they also want to know." then, he begins to chant, "tell us, tell us, tell us."

serra brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips as she glances back at him. it’s an odd moment for confessions, leash in hand and two dogs by her side, but she doesn’t immediately mind.

“my deepest, darkest secret?” she repeats with a wistful lilt, letting the words linger as she sifts through her catalog of secrets—little cursed treasures kept carefully buried away. “i’m afraid it would only disappoint,” she says with a laugh lighter than air, “secrets always sound better before they’re spoken.”

with a tiny flourish of her fingers, she looks at him, bright and curious. “but, puh-lease, don’t let that stop you from telling me yours.” she teases, her gaze drifting briefly to the camera, like a fleeting, unspoken dare.