#tried to emulate bloody hand that gripped on her right arm there

[gomzdrawfr]

one KIA

[vizhi0nw]

Ghost

Pairing: Kenny Ackerman/OC

Warnings: Violence, Language. NSFW.

Words:  7k

Summary: Kenny Ackerman had never met someone with a reputation just as bad as his own.

AO3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Part 4 of 4

Home

Snatching up one of Byren’s men was Kenny’s idea, and it was an idea Kenny executed with such proficiency and tact that it had Leyla shocked, disturbed, and a bit envious.

If she was a phantom, then Kenny was, for all intents and purposes, a predator.

Kenny had instructed Leyla to wait at her shop before he’d dragged the man in, beaten and bloodied to a near pulp, by the scruff of his neck. Leyla had hastily shut the blinds and arranged a chair for Kenny to sit the man in, before tying the man’s hands behind him with some spare rope. He’d fallen silent, by this point, opting to just glare at Kenny, teeth bared. Blood caked his face and the front of his shirt, dried and crusty and flaking away. One eye was swollen, and his lip was busted - the wound was fresh and still leaking. When he spoke, flecks of crimson flew.

“You have some fucking nerve, Kenny.”

Leyla recognized him, suddenly. It was the same guard Kenny had spoken to when he’d helped sneak Leyla inside the Byren estate. His eyes went from Kenny, to Leyla.

“Whore,” he spat. Kenny’s backhand was immediate - the man’s head snapped to the side and he spit out a flesh mouthful of blood, red saliva hanging in strings from his lips.

“You’d do best to speak to her respectfully. Ya’ know what I can do, and I know you’re scared shitless,” Kenny unsheathed his knife. He went to stand in front of the man, waving the knife like a kid waving a lollipop. “You’re gonna’ get real intimate with this if you don’t answer our questions.”

“I’m assuming you want to know about Vibro?”

“This little lady has a bone to pick with him,” Kenny jerked his knife in Leyla’s direction. “She’ll be asking the questions. I’m just here as...encouragement.”

Kenny’s lips curled back over his teeth when he spoke the last word, mouth shifting upwards into a grotesque smile. There was an audible shuffling of feet as the man tried to push himself away, but he couldn’t. He was trapped.

“O-okay.”

“Good,” Leyla said gruffly. She steeled herself for whatever resistance she knew she might face - she was intimidating, she knew, but Kenny was on another level that she’d never comprehend or be able to emulate. “The first thing I need - did Byren snatch a group of girls from the Underground’s orphanage? Five of them? Around twelve to sixteen years old?”

No response. Leyla could tell that he was pondering over how to give his answer, but Kenny grew impatience and promptly slapped him across the face once more.

“Answer her.”

“Yes! Yes. I..we..me and another were told to track them through the market...Byren has had an eye on the orphanage for a while. Getting willing sluts above ground is harder than just taking them from down here.”

Leyla’s stomach lurched. She and Kenny exchanged glances, before Leyla reached over and dragged a chair across the floor, letting it rest in front of the man and straddling it. She stared at him with hooded eyes, lips pulled into a taut line.

“Are they at the estate, still?”

“They’re alive, if that’s what you mean. They’re with the others,” the man gave a ragged cough, spitting out more blood. After he’d cleared his throat, he looked up at Leyla. “That’s all I can tell you. My job was just to grab them.”

The chair creaked as Leyla put more of her weight on its back. The man wasn’t pleading verbally, but she could see in his eyes the fact that internally, he was begging, screaming, for Leyla to show him mercy.

Leyla felt nothing but disdain for him. She also knew that it was pointless - Kenny wouldn’t let him walk out alive, even if Leyla tried to convince him to.

“Those girls are either going to be sold and trafficked, or die when Byren is finished with them,” Leyla snarled. “They’re children.”

“I told you, I just did my job,” the man replied. “You think I don’t know that they’re kids? You think I would ever fuck one of them? No. What Vibro does...is what Vibro does. There’s no stopping him. People who speak out don’t last long.”

Leyla tensed.

She’d been seven years old when her parents had been killed. She remembered their faces, remembered her mothers soft voice and her fathers comforting touch. But, each year, her memories of them were beginning to fade as time went on and on and on. It was a constant battle, trying not to forget. Trying to remember.

“You’re a coward,” Leyla breathed.

“I’d rather be a coward than be dead.”

Leyla closed her eyes. She let out a sigh, hearing Kenny snort beside her.

“How pathetic,” Kenny said softly. With shocking speed, he slammed the knife into the man’s shoulder, burying it to the hilt. The man let out a blood curdling scream, and Leyla’s eyes snapped open. Kenny continued, “There’s nothing I hate more than a fucking coward.”

“I’ll answer whatever questions you have,” the man sobbed. “Please. Please.”

Kenny flicked the knife with his pointer finger, easing back and letting it stay embedded in the man’s flesh.

With Kenny watching closely in the background, Leyla proceeded to drag as much information from her captee as she could. Locations, names, stockpile information - Byren had several caches of supplies around Mitras, and owned several storehouses out in other districts. She managed to get a rather simplistic, but helpful, layout of Byren’s estate as well. It was enough information to make her feel confident that she and Kenny could take on Byren as a duo, without possible help from a woman Kenny had mentioned was named Traute.

The man was sporting another swollen eyes by the end of it. One to match the other.

“That’s all I know,” he moaned.

“I believe you,” Leyla whispered. “Kenny…”

“No, please n-”

Blood and brains splattered against the back of his chair and across Leyla’s floor. The gunshot was loud, like a crack of thunder. Leyla had become so used to the sound that she barely flinched, watching the man’s body slump forward.

“I thought you’d never fucking ask. Asshole was gettin’ on my nerves,” Kenny let out a groan and rolled his eyes. He glanced at the carnage - bits of bone, hair, and bodily matter clung to the hardwood. “Shit. Sorry for the mess…”

“It’s fine,” Leyla said hallowly. “I’ll clean it.”

“Meet you at home?”

Home. Leyla looked around the shop - the wine bottles were gathering dust and some of the chairs had cobwebs criss-crossing from one leg to the next. It smelled stale.

This was no longer her home, she realized. The blood and brains were just an unfortunate decoration, at this point. Kenny’s apartment had been her place of residence for several months, and it already felt more congenial than the shop ever had. While she’d always love the place, it had been her grandfather’s legacy, not Leyla’s.

While she’d never have a true home with Kenny, she could pretend for now.

“Yeah,” Leyla said, her voice sounding a little less hollow and a little more hopeful. “I’ll meet you at home.”

                                              ______________

Leyla usually woke first, something Kenny was eternally grateful for. It gave him one of the most stunning views he’d ever have the pleasure of seeing - Leyla, clad in one of his button-up, white shirts and only one of said white shirts, walking around the apartment. He could see her from his room, reaching up to the top shelf of the cabinet to grab something, the shirt riding up past her thighs and giving him the shortest glimpse of panties and the curve of her supple ass. He’d be staring, and when Leyla caught him, she’d simply smile and slip out of his sight.

Fuck.

Kenny rolled over onto his back, bare chest rising and falling as he let out a long breath. There was an indent next to him where Leyla had been sleeping, and the area was still warm - she hadn’t been up very long. He heard shuffling in the kitchen, and footsteps. A moment later, Leyla entered the room with her arms crossed over her chest.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

Kenny raised an eyebrow. His eyes followed Leyla as she waltzed over to the bed, swinging her legs on either side of Kenny’s waist. She straddled him, leaning down to rest her head against his chest. Kenny basked in her closeness, groaning as his cock twitched beneath his thin sleep pants.

“Don’t care,” Kenny murmured. “Just want you right now.”

Leyla gave a rumbling chuckle. She pressed a kiss against Kenny’s chest, making her way up to his shoulder, neck, and then mouth. He buried a hand in her thick curls, hips bucking when her soft hands slid beneath his pants to grip the base of his dick. She jerked a few times before working on wriggling his sleep pants down past his hips, before doing the same to her panties. He could feel her slick against his thigh and he relished in her soft groans as she curled over him, deftly sliding the head of his cock past her soft walls.

“Sweetheart,” Kenny groaned. “So good...”

Leyla’s whimpers were consumed by Kenny’s questing mouth. He thrust upward, wanting nothing more than to tear as many sounds as he could from her throat. His hands gripped her hips, bouncing her on his dick with furious abandon until he felt his balls tighten and his stomach clench and he was shooting ropes of his cum deep inside of her.

“Kenny,” Leyla sighed, the prime indicator that her own orgasm was approaching - Kenny fucked up into her a few more, final times, before she was clenching around him and riding out her own release. She placed a damp kiss against Kenny’s shoulder, one hand lazily tugging at the grey-laced strands of hair on his head.

They lay together for a few moments, before Leyla rested her palms against Kenny’s chest and pushed herself up a bit. She stared down at him, full lips stretching into a smile.

“We need to eat. Have you decided what you want?”

“I was supposed to decide?” Kenny gave a breathy chuckle. “Show me what we have and I’ll make up my mind.”

Leyla rolled off Kenny, pulling her panties back in place. She yelped when Kenny placed a playful slap against her ass, bouncing away on the balls of her feet and disappearing back into the kitchen.

He did everything he could to remember this moment. Remember how it felt to hold her close and murmur sweet nothings into her ear - the previous night, he’d done his best to sear her touch into the very fabric of his mind. He’d taken his time with her, unwrapping her like a sweet, sweet gift and savoring each little sound he drew from her. It was addicting, but it was an addiction Kenny knew would never last a lifetime, no matter how much he wanted it to.

Kenny rolled out of bed, opting not to don his shirt for the time being. When he padded into the kitchen, Leyla was preparing fruit and slices of ham. She had her back turned and seemed to be caught looking out the window before her at the vast expanse of Mitras as she worked to cut up apples.

Was he making the right choice?

Kenny was beginning to doubt himself, doubt his decisions. It was the first time in a while he felt nervous - not for the blood and carnage he knew would ensue in a few days, but because he was genuinely wondering if the divine beings above, if they even existed, were sending him a sign. Leyla was here, in all her beauty, strength, and wit. Willing to settle with him once the deed of killing Byren was done.

He was going to choose a life of servitude to the King and to the MP’s over her.

There was a house out near Shiganshina for them, waiting.

“You’re staring again, Kenny,” Leyla said softly. Kenny shook his head, snapping out of his trance. He shoved the thought as far into the back of his mind as he could push it, walking over to settle at the table while Leyla brought over two plates arranged with berries, apples, and ham.

“I was just caught up in my own thoughts. Ya’ know how it gets,'' Kenny toyed with an apple slice. “I’m going to run recon on the estate later this evenin’.”

“Thank you,” Leyla said through a mouthful of food. She swallowed, plucking a berry from where it lay and analyzing it. “I want to get this over with. Make it smooth and clean...get those girls out of there.”

“This is a rescue mission now, huh.”

“Something like that,” Leyla murmured. She popped the berry into her mouth, chewing very slowly as she thought for a moment. When she swallowed, she took a second before speaking in a low voice. “I remember what it was like, crawling around the brothel, having to deal with clients...I did it on my own accord and still got treated like shit. I can’t imagine...what Byren is doing to those girls.”

“My sister was like you,” Kenny said tightly. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Same profession. I’m glad you got out.”

“What was your sister’s name?”

“You wouldn’t have known her,” Kenny replied. After a pause, he said, “Her name was Kuchel. I’d visit her sometimes, and I’d come in and see her bruised and battered because she’d refused to fulfill the fantasy of some sick deadbeat.”

“I hope she hit back,” Leyla said.

“Oh, I’m sure she did,” Kenny chuckled. He could tell that Leyla wanted to know more from the way she leaned in, head tilted to the side a bit. It was the first time, he realized, that he’d spoken about Kuchel out loud to anyone. There was a weird weight floating off his chest, and he found himself wanting to speak, wanting to talk more about her. It was weird, it was foreign, but Kenny had never shied away from something new, so he embraced the feeling. “Her kid though...her kid was - is - a damn spitfire. Craziest damn brat I’ve ever known - he hits hard.”

“You have a nephew?”

“Levi,” Kenny chuckled. “You and him would get along.”

“Hm,” Leyla hummed. “Tell me more.”

Kenny did.

The weight was gone by the time he’d finished. He felt free - as free as he felt when he was flying high over Mitras with his gear, soaring above the little ants below, able to go wherever he wanted, however he wanted. He spoke to Leyla of his grandfather, of Traute and the MP’s - of Uri, and the Reiss family. He took it slowly, revealing information bit by bit until he was confident that Leyla understood.

“It’s amazing,” Leyla breathed, when he was finished. “There’s a whole world outside of the Underground that I would have never known, had I not met you.”

“Big picture, sweetheart,” Kenny ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right. The world is much too big, and you’re much too good for it.”

“Kenny…”

“When this is all over, I’m packin’ up my shit with the MP’s and we’re going to find a house near Shiganshina,” Kenny said, chest clenching when Leyla reared back, startled. “Just you and me. We’ll buy some chickens or goats or some shit…”

Leyla covered her mouth as she laughed. She reached out and clasped Kenny’s hand, suddenly. “We said we’d talk about it after, Kenny. You have your dreams as well.”

He had dreams, but he hadn’t disclosed the specifics of them to Leyla during his explanation of Uri’s abilities. She���d taken it rather well, only inquiring once or twice about the nature of the Titan powers. Kenny had told her as much as he could, and he wondered if her apathy towards the situation was due to the fact that, for all intents and purposes, Titans were something Leyla had never had to deal with. If there was one positive thing about living in the Underground beneath the Mitras, it was that death via Titan was last on the list of ways to go.

“I just...fuck, I love you,” Kenny let out a breathy chuckle. He felt Leyla squeeze his hand, and his heart did somersaults in his chest. “If only we had more time…”

“We will have time, Kenny. I promise,” Leyla said sincerely. “We’ll try. I swear, we’ll try. But right now I’m...I’m not ready. I have to do this.”

Kenny said nothing. He’d heard it before - the excuse.

This time, however, it was different.

“I’m scared of being truly alone. That’s why. I stay in the Underground...I push myself to do things like this because even though I’ve always been a loner, I’ve always had the people down there...watching me, giving me a reason to keep going. I’m scared that if I leave, I won’t have that anymore.”

“You’ll have me.”

“I know. That’s why part of me thinks I might be ready, after this.”

Leyla leaned forward and pressed her lips against Kenny’s. He returned the kiss, savoring it - in the back of his mind he found himself beginning to think of where exactly in the city of Mitras he’d find a ring.

                                                   _____________

“Make sure your gear is secure,” Kenny tugged on the straps looped around Leyla’s arms and chest. “Wouldn’t want ya’ takin’ a tumble, now would we?”

“No. It would be embarrassing, and I know you’d get yourself shot laughing at me,” Leyla huffed. She grazed her fingers across her chestplate, glancing up at Kenny as he bared his teeth in a smile. “Oh, stop it.”

“Can’t help it. Ya’ make me laugh.”

“Your cruelty knows no bounds, Kenny Ackerman.”

A thumb tilted Leyla’s chin upward. Kenny’s mouth met hers, and she immediately melted into his arms. He nipped at her lower lip when he pulled away, his breath hot against her cheek.

“Ya’ love me anyway.”

“Always.”

The sun had dipped below the walls long ago, and Mitras was now a sprawling city alight with lanterns. The Byren estate was just a pump of air away, and Leyla could see the top of the house from the roof she and Kenny were currently crouched upon. It seemed so close, yet so far at the same time.

The plan was rather simplistic in nature, but one slip up could bring the entire operation crumbling to the ground. It was Kenny’s task to take out any watchguards stationed around the estate while Leyla would soar over and squeeze through to Byren’s room on the top level. Any shootout that ensued after wouldn’t serve to alert any outdoor guards, who, from what their captee had told them, were instructed to signal for backup using flares. They’d come from all over Mitras along with the MP’s, something they - especially Kenny - couldn’t risk.

Byren was still in the dark about Kenny. Their captee had also informed them that, while Byren had his suspicions, he hadn’t seen nor heard Kenny during the initial attack.

Bold. That was the only word for the plan.

“See ya’ on the other side,” Kenny said playfully. He shot his hooks into the adjacent building, gas projecting him forward and out of sight, leaving Leyla utterly alone with only the cool night air to soothe her.

“Showtime,” she murmured. Mimicking Kenny’s actions from earlier, she shot a projectile into the building opposite of her, letting the gas launch her into the sky. Her mind was hyper focused on remembering her training - how to duck, move her body so the gas sent her careening one way, and then the other, then the other...Leyla had the rhythm down. She approached the Byren estate with careful ease, pulling herself onto the rooftop, right where she and Kenny had planned.

The area was dead silent. The lanterns were lit, but then was an eerie stillness to the mansion that sent chills down Leyla’s spine. She peered over the edge of the roof, locating the window where she knew, beyond, Byren resided. She prepared herself, making sure her guns were loaded, before swinging down from above and bursting through the glass. The entire thing was messy, loud, and sudden - if Kenny had finished with his task, there would be no guards alerted.

Byren was right where Leyla had anticipated he’d be, curled up in bed with some woman Leyla didn’t recognize. At the sound of breaking glass, he rolled from bed - Leyla could see him begin to fumble for something in the drawer of his bedside table, and as quickly as she could, she aimed a shot directly above the headboard. The resounding crack, and the impact, caused Byren to pause the search for his weapon and for the woman in his bed to scream and cover her ears.

Byren sunk to his knees at the foot of his bed. He looked up at Leyla, expression blank.

“I knew you were more than just a whore. Look at you - so brave-”

“Don’t fucking move,” Leyla hissed. She pointed the gun directly at Byren, waiting - as if on cue, Kenny burst through the bedroom door. He was panting, breastplate speckled with blood.

“Hope I didn’t miss anything,” he tipped his hat in Byren’s direction. “Bedroom is secure?”

“As secure as it can be,” Leyla replied. She looked Byren up and down - she could see that his right hand was wrapped in tight gauze, his fingers having been reduced down to nubs from where Kenny had all but vaporized the limb. His face was pallid, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. There was still that crazed look Leyla had seen when he’d killed Marissa. It hadn’t been stomped out.

Leyla wondered what look he’d given her parents when he’d had them killed.

“I should have known,” Byren gave a breathless, struggling laugh. “You and I never saw eye to eye, Kenny. A shame it had to come to this.”

“This little lady here was far kinder to me than you ever were. Her cause was far more noble than anything you ever employed me for,” Kenny waved his gun dismissively. “It’s a damn shame, but as we all know, this world is cruel. Damn cruel.”

“You could have been anything, Kenny. I always admired you,” Byren bared his teeth. “Your unforgiving ferocity. You could have been like me - we were built for this, Kenny. Inside these walls, where there’s no Titans - people like us are the inheritors of everything.”

“I have my own damn dreams, and they certainly don’t involve whatever fucked up operation you’ve got goin’ on here,” Kenny growled. “Leyla?”

Rolling her shoulders, Leyla’s first matter of business was getting rid of the cowering, shivering prostitute in Byren’s bed. The woman had uncovered her ears and had been listening to their discussion with interest, finally having realized that they weren’t here for her. Her eyes fell across Leyla, and she seemed as if she desperately wanted to speak, but fear was choking her into silence.

So, Leyla spoke to her directly, making sure to soften her tone. “There are more girls here. Where are they?”

“Don’t-” Byren began, but Kenny had his gun aimed before he could make a move towards the woman.

“Downstairs, in the main room.”

“Thank you. Get out of here - take what you need on the way out.”

The woman nodded. She pulled a coat on over her flimsy nightdress, donned a pair of slippers, and ran out the door. There was a moment of silence before Leyla decided to speak again, but her words were interrupted by the sound of hooves against cobblestone, rough voices, and shadows passing through the door and across the wall from outside.

Kenny’s eyes snapped to the source of the sound, and Byren began laughing.

“You’re both idiots. You, especially,” Vibro Byren sent Leyla a death-glare. “Trying to take me on because you're bitter that I blew your parent’s brains out.”

Several things happened at one time. The door to the bedroom burst open, and Byren made a break for it. Leyla fired off a shot that missed and tore through the goose father pillows on his bed, sending tendrils of white flying. Kenny popped off a series of double-shots that embedded themselves in the two guards who were just raising their guns to fire -

As they fell, Byren barrelled past them and disappeared down the hallway.

“Ah, SHIT,” Kenny’s curse was booming. He looked at Leyla for direction, gesturing wildly. “New plan?”

“Go after Byren. Kill him,” Leyla began backtracking towards the busted window. “I’m hitting the lower level and grabbing the girls. We’ll regroup in the courtyard.”

Kenny nodded. He took off after Byren, and Leyla catapulted herself from the window. As she fell, wind tearing at her hair, she shot a hook into the ledge and used her gas to allow herself to float smoothly down to the first floor. The front doors to the estate were abandoned, and two corpses littered the stone stairs. Leyla stepped past them, pushing her way into the building. The great room was just ahead, and she could hear voices - she pressed herself against the wall, peering around the corner.

Leyla recognized Presley immediately. The older teenager had always greeted Leyla with a hug when she’d come to the orphanage - she had a fiery personality and had, on more than one occasion, begged for Leyla to take her on raids.

She was here, now, clad in flimsy lingerie and arguing furiously with one of the guards. Her face was red and Leyla could see a bruise on the side of her face - behind her, four other, younger girls were huddled.

“Sit the fuck down! Byren should be down here in a minute,” one of the men brandished his handgun threateningly. “Don’t make me hit you again!”

Presley reared back and spat a globule of saliva onto the man’s face. His response was immediate, and he swung his gun like a club, catching Presley in the cheek and knocking her flat on the floor.

Leyla broke from cover. She counted three other guards meandering around the room - two by the kitchen, one by the fireplace, and the other, standing over a downed Presley with a sneer on his face. Killing the single guard by Presley was easy, and as her shot hit home, she sent one hook into the throat of the guard closest to the kitchen, using her gas to launch her forward and towards his companion.

Blood gushed onto the hardwood as the hook tore past flesh and cartilage. The man gave a wet, gurgling cry and toppled, accidentally discharging his gun and shattering the lights of the chandelier above. Another buckshot whizzed past Leyla’s face, but her focus was on man still standing and fumbling with his weapon. A single shot was all it took to kill him.

“LEYLA!” Presley’s shriek was urgent, guttural - it screamed danger.

Leyla turned. The remaining guard, the one by the fireplace, had his gun raised towards the girls. A switch went off inside Leyla, and Kenny’s training hit her like a wave - push, click, reload. Kenny would have been proud of her speed, she mused, letting the steaming barrel of her gun hit the floor, the remaining piece slipping into a new barrel with rhythmic precision. She moved before she fired, tossing herself with the aid of the gas in between the guard and the huddled, terrified girls. She wasn’t sure who fired their gun first, her, or the guard, but Leyla’s shot hit home.

As did his.

As the guards head erupted in a spray of crimson, Leyla felt the projectile tear through her. Instead of landing on her feet, like she’d intended, she fell on her side and slid a few yards before coming to a stop against the side of the couch. The impact jostled her, and she felt blood begin to pour from her mouth and nose. She could barely breathe. It felt as if a heavy hand were pressing against her lungs from the inside, twisting and squeezing.

“Fuck.”

                                                    ____________

Byren was fast, but Kenny was faster.

He’d opted to take a left instead of heading towards the lower floor, bounding down yet another long hallway where more of his men were waiting - the bloodbath had been glorious. The walls were painted with streaks of red, now, and Byren was struggling to stem the flow of blood from the bullet wound Kenny had blasted through his thigh.

Half a dozen corpses littered the floor. Kenny stepped over each, sighing deeply as Byren continued to try and crawl away.

“All your men are dead, Vibro, including the pathetic backup you brought. Give it up,” Kenny couldn’t hold the exasperation from his tone. Byren was all talk and no bite. He’d made one pathetic swipe at Kenny with a knife before a bullet had put him on the floor - utterly hopeless, propped up only by his sadistic demeanor towards those less fortunate. It was why he probably aimed for young prostitutes, Kenny mused.

“She must have gotten into your brain,” Byren threw back his head and laughed, tears brimming in the corner of his eyes from the pain of the hole in his leg. “Is she that good in bed, Kenny? I know she used to be a whore. I could tell the moment she shoved her tongue down my throat.”

Kenny felt something stir in his chest, and he rolled his eyes. He stomped forward and slammed his heel into Byren’s wounded leg, dragging a scream past the man’s lips. It was satisfying, and now, it was Kenny’s turn to laugh.

“You really are good for nothin’,” Kenny raised his gun. “She gave me permission to kill ya’. For her parents.”

“I hope all of this was worth it.”

“For her? Yeah,” Kenny let out a sigh. He locked eyes with Byren, not wanting to drag this out any further.

A single gunshot was all it took.

Byren lay dead with his men. Kenny surveyed the wrecked hallway, and the estate had finally fallen silent. Whatever backup Byren had managed to pull together had been nothing more than a few mooks. No MP’s, though Kenny was beginning to wonder if their absence had been deliberate, somehow. It was rare that they wouldn’t come to the aid of some sniveling noble, especially one as relevant as Byren.

Kenny went and picked his hat up from where it had fallen during the scuffle. Sheathing his guns, he made his way down the stairs and towards the great room.

“...lift her up. No, not like that - keep her head elevated so she can breathe…”

Kenny’s heart began to drop a million miles a second.

Five girls were huddled around Leyla’s motionless body. Their state of sparse dress barely phased Kenny. All he could focus on was Leyla, and how her body was so still, save for the occasional twitch of her fingers and her eyes, which were open and staring and locking onto his own as he sank to his knees next to her.

Her shirt was sticky with blood, so much of it that it caused the fabric to cling to her flesh. The girls had removed her breastplate, and one, the oldest looking of the group, was pressing what looked to be a hand towel against the wound.

Kenny had gauged many, many wounds in his life as a squad leader and serial killer. No amount of medical attention in the world could save her.

Hopeless.

“...Kenny?”

The girls stepped away as Kenny moved closer. They were silent, watching with their heads ducked as Kenny took Leyla’s trembling hand in his own. Glassy eyes searched his face.

“I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize. Ya’ don’t have to,” Kenny let out a ragged breath. He couldn’t cry in front of these girls. It was some code, some unbroken vow he’d made to himself. With a furious wave, he shooed the girls away - the oldest teenager seemed reluctant to go.

“Is...is she going to be okay?”

“No. You girls don’t need to be here to see the aftermath. Go home, back to the orphanage,” Kenny said briskly. When they didn’t move, he barked, “Go!”

They obeyed. When the sounds of their feet had finally faded away, Kenny broke - he leaned down to rest his forehead against Leyla’s, feeling her feebly lift another hand to rest against the side of his face. His tears were wet and hot and his cries were muffled. When he pulled away, there was a smile on her lips.

“This is bullshit,” Leyla gave a wet chuckle. “I wish...I wish we had more time, but I m-made my choice. I...”

“You didn’t waste your life,” Kenny said quickly. “You didn’t.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Kenny looked towards the staircase leading to the upper floor. “It’s done.”

Leyla gave a soft hum of contentment, and the noise damn near broke Kenny’s heart for good. It was the same hum she’d give in the morning, when she’d be trying to wrestle Kenny from bed. The fact that he’d never hear that noise again wasn’t something ready to accept.

She had to live. She couldn’t leave him. She couldn’t -

“Don’t sulk,” Leyla said. “Don’t you d-dare fucking sulk. You have...dreams to pursue, Kenny.”

“I understand,” Kenny raised the bloody hand in his palm and kissed it fervently. “Shit, I just…”

There’s so much I want to say to you.

“I know,” Leyla breathed.

                                                     ____________

He buried her in the cemetery next to her parents.

Kenny dug the hole himself. It took several hours, and by the end of it, he felt no different. He’d thought doing the act would bring him some closure, a feeling of relief.

Putting her in that hole only brought him more grief, though he’d done a good, good job of shutting it in a box and tossing away the key.

Having Leyla violently ripped away from him had only worked to make the self-hate he had for himself resurface tenfold. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling like shit, even though he knew he was shit - he’d always been shit. Kuchel had always been the good one, not him. He’d always believed that Kuchel should have been the one to survive, not him.

He’d walked away from Levi on his own accord. Uri had been taken due to circumstances out of his control. Leyla’s death had been on her own volition, she’d made it very clear that Kenny wasn’t to blame, but if only Kenny had been better. Stronger, smarter, faster.

He had to be better. He would be better in the future.

But now, right now, all he could think about was the fact that Leyla was a cold corpse wrapped in sheets and he was alone.

He slammed the shovel into the ground. The rectangle was big and deep enough, and for a moment, he could only stand awkwardly and shift back and forth on his feet. It was a funeral of one, he realized.

After a while, he placed Leyla in the dirt and began covering her. That task took half as long but was no more painful, no more agonizing. The tombstone he made was wooden, created using floorboards from the shop. He’d simply sketched her name - no birthdate, no last name. Leyla had never told him the first, and he wondered if she even had the latter.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Kenny turned. It was Mika - the older woman had a small bouquet of flowers in one hand. She was bundled up in a jacket, and despite the circumstance, she had a small smile on her face.

“Come to pay your respects?”

“I wasn’t sure who was going to bury her. News from the orphanage spreads fast,” Mika stepped forward, placing the flowers in front of Kenny’s pathetic little headstone. “She’d told me, many, many times, that this was how she’d die. I just...wasn’t exactly prepared for it to happen.”

“I tried to get her to stop. She wouldn’t. Stubborn bitch,” Kenny snorted. Mika just stared down at the grave, lips pressed into an unassuming line. “She would go on and on about how much this town meant to her. I never got it.”

“She saved so many of us. I wanted her to stop, too,” Mika said somberly. “Even though I don’t think a lot of us would have made it…”

“It’s shit, what they do to you down here.”

“Us,” Mika glanced up at him. “I know you lived down here. I’ve heard the stories - Leyla told me who you are.”

“I’m nobody.”

“Everyone is somebody,” Mika reached out and patted Kenny’s dirty arm. “If you ever need a place to stay, my home is open to you. It’s what she would have wanted.”

Mika turned and left. It was the last time Kenny would probably ever see her again.

He stood by Leyla’s grave for a while, before visiting the spot where Kuchel was buried for the first time in almost a decade. Her grave was just as pathetic as Leyla’s, though hers sported a much more impressive headstone.

When he resurfaced and found himself in Mitras. He threw himself into his squad work, ignoring soft inquiries from Traute. The heaviness in his heart did not dissipate, but he wouldn’t let it affect his work - he couldn’t. He had to honor Leyla’s instructions. Honor her by inching closer and closer to his goals.

Two months passed without incident. It was mid-spring when he was called in to speak with Laurens about a potential squad mission. The short, middle-aged man was utterly reprehensible to Kenny, but he was the buffer between the nobility and the interior MP’s - he held an enormous amount of power, but had always respected Kenny’s autonomy, most likely out of fear. Kenny did what he asked, but only when he wanted to.

“I’m very happy that you took care of Vibro,” Laurens snickered and lifted his whiskey to his lips. “I don’t care how you did it, I’m just glad you did something about that menace.”

“I felt like taking the initiative, considering how he’s been a thorn in your side,” Kenny lied. He kept his face neutral, but he’d realized that the absence of MP’s and Traute’s...insistence that she help had, most likely, all been organized. Byren had far less allies than he’d bragged about.

“His sadism was getting out of hand and making us look bad. What’s done is done. I have a new job for you,” Laurens emptied his glass and ran a hand through his thin, balding hair. “There’s been reports of more thieves - five of them, specifically. Doing the same thing as that man or woman from before.”

“Thieves?” Kenny’s eyebrows shifted ever so slightly.

“Dressed in all black, nabbing rations from the MP’s. Even stole a horse - probably sold it off in the market,” Laurens waved a hand. “I want your whole squad on it. Catch them and kill them-”

“No,” Kenny said.

“Pardon?”

“I haven’t heard any reports of thieves. Things go missing all the time - hell, half the time, it’s the damn MP’s themselves stealing or misplacing rations,” Kenny leaned forward, baring his teeth in a sickeningly sweet smile. Laurens response was just as he’d anticipated; a shuddering gulp, and a raising of both hands. “Come back to me with something less boring. You’re seeing ghosts, Laurens, and nothin’ more.”

“You never say no to a job, Kenny-”

“I’m saying no today,” Kenny slammed a wad of cash onto the table, excusing himself. He began to light a cigarette, letting it hang between his teeth as he spoke. “Drinks are on me. You’re welcome.”

He left Laurens, who remained sitting in disbelief, to go take a stroll through the streets of Mitras.

End

[yonaih]

en route I - [ doc x lion ]

posted on ao3 as aIIegro (capital i’s in username)

word count: ~2.7k

a/n: here we go! this is the fic from that teaser i posted a week (?) ago. i said i’d write a few chapters before posting but. i want. instant validation. 

Things between Gustave and Olivier had always been tense since Operation Chimera, to say the least. It infuriated Gustave to no end every time he thought about the other haughty, arrogant French operator. Sure, they got their work done once both could temporarily get over their unrepressed hostility towards each other (albeit grudgingly), but even the moments of mutual teamwork didn’t suture the festering sore spot between the medic and Lion. Even the most antisocial operators in Rainbow knew the aspects that the two hated about each other. In some ways, it was rather shocking. Olivier was already known to be stubborn and had a knack for annoying everyone in a room, but his ability to dig a strong, seemingly out of place reaction from Gustave was extraordinary. Doc, a man who basically had “putting up with others’ problems” in his job description, was thought to be universally calm and collected, but Lion’s presence was clearly an exception to that notion.

Twitch found herself almost caught in the crosshairs when she brought Olivier to the infirmary after a recruit training session got out of control and left him with a bloodied calf. The trek down the hall was gruelling. Helping support the larger man, Emmanuelle sighed a little as she fumbled with the door handle, trying to push it with her foot.

“If you couldn’t get the door, knocking is an option,” Gustave called, helping Twitch inside, blatantly ignoring Olivier’s groans of protest.

“My bad, Gus,” she quipped, dragging the bristling Lion towards a cot and haphazardly dumping him there. “Next time, I’ll get a nitro.”

“Very funny. Not a claymore?”

Twitch shook off her vest, tucked it into the crook of her arm, and gave the Frenchman a pointed glare, stuck out her tongue, and motioned to Lion. Suddenly stone cold, Gustave asked what had happened.

“Well you see, recruits got a hold of Shuhrat’s cluster charges and didn’t fully understand what they did. Need I say more, mon ami?”

“I suppose not, but what exactly happened to him?” Doc’s voice soured at the mention of Olivier, whose glare was shooting daggers in return. A moment of tense eye contact passed before Emmanuelle responded.

“No one else got hurt. Some property damage of course, but Olivier is the only one who got hit by anything. I think it’s just, er, stuff that flew into his leg? I am not sure.”

Silence.

“Thank you, Emmanuelle, you may go.”

“Wow, I’m Emmanuelle now, huh?” She playfully retorted before getting up to leave, shifting her vest in her arms. “What did I ever do to you?”

“Em…” Gustave warned as she left with her hands raised in surrender. Once again, there was a tense silence, the only noise coming from various machines scattered throughout the room.

“Are you going to help me or not, dipshit?” Lion snarled before twisting around to inspect his bloodied calf. Nursing his tender leg, blood dripping down his boots, Olivier sat in the most defensive way he could.

“Va te faire foutre,” Gustave spat, reaching for tools to remove the shrapnel in the other Frenchman’s leg and kept an iron grip on the tense limb. Wrenching it free from Olivier’s preening, the medic began to inspect it.

“Oh? Va mourir, Kateb,” was the response as Olivier grudgingly started to comply, refusing to wince when bits of drywall and shattered cement were pulled from his blood covered leg.

“I’d watch your mouth, Flament.” Even though his mood was definitely ruined by the sorry excuse for an operator, Gustave tried his best to disinfect the wound nicely and keep his stitches tidy. Surprisingly, Lion was quiet the entire time. The process took place in almost complete silence. Another few minutes of bandaging a little too tightly passed, then Doc let him go.

“I doubt you’re going to reclean and bandage your wound properly. Come back tomorrow afternoon,” he said gruffly, removing his bloodied gloves and threw them away, purposefully ignoring Lion’s gaze. After some inaudible mumbling from the taller, sandy haired man, the door slammed shut and Gustave finally turned around. Cursing the entire way, he stomped back to his desk and shuffled his mounds of paperwork, blood still boiling and teeth still clenched.

That was simply how it was between the two. Gilles, the poor man, couldn’t take a side. Twitch and Rook were wholly sick of the tension, but they had a much harder time trying to be more forgiving of Lion when he was the one who did anything that rubbed them the wrong way. Rook, as positive as he believed himself to be, couldn’t find common ground with the prickly fellow Frenchman. Of course, it was mostly due to his strong, unwavering loyalty for the medic he thought of as a brother. Julien admired Gustave greatly, considering how much time he spent working with him and how much good he had seen Doc do, whether he was on duty or not. Julien saw the way Gustave and Olivier fought, tooth and nail, and couldn’t help side with the person he thought of as selfless and compassionate. The GIGN’s beloved medic was a trustworthy member of Rainbow and a constant in the dangerous lives of everyone who worked with Six’s team. Overworked and always serving overtime, Gustave’s workaholic habits only added to Julien’s concerns but also made Doc an exemplary example of an operator to him. Julien couldn’t help but appreciate the humanitarian efforts of Gustave. The doctor was an idol of his, flaws and all. Lion? To Rook, he was something like a friend, but Olivier’s thorny exterior didn’t do much to help their limited friendship. He had to admit, though, that Olivier was quite a lot of fun to be around whenever a sparring session was needed. He was a worthy opponent and respectable fighter. His persistence and indefatigable nature was something Julien aspired to emulate. However, Lion was the kind of person he would go out and drink with every once in a while but never truly get to know. It was all very surface-level, Rook thought.

Twitch, no matter how much she enjoyed a good gossip, hated the arguments, if one could call Doc and Lion’s fights “arguments.” They were horrible, chock full of smothering insults and shouting laced with enmity and poison. They were bitter and they were hateful. They made her feel defensive and conflicted. Did she have to choose a side? She was incredibly loyal to Doc, considering their close friendship and the amount of times he came to the rescue for her and everyone else in the GIGN. He was a great secret keeper and amazing listener, even if he was only pretending to do so sometimes. Their trust in each other was mutual, and she liked Gustave’s logic-based, straightforward advice. Even though both respected each other immensely, she did have to hear snide comments about Olivier whenever he was brought up in conversation. Despite this, she couldn’t help but feel like Lion deserved a second chance. After all, who had spent the most time with her in the workshop by far, staying late to work with her on her drones? Who had been the quickest to volunteer to help her to the infirmary when she fell severely ill in the middle of a mission? Who gave her the expensive bottle of wine for her birthday when it was only the GIGN operators who bothered to remember? Olivier Flament. Despite her hope for a kinder Olivier and for peace between him and Gustave, he kept brushing her away and constantly took out his anger on her, even if it was really meant for Doc. It was hard to put up with. “Sorry,” she’d tell him wearily before leaving the room. “I don’t want to deal with this.”

For Rook, it really came down to a deep bias. For Twitch, it was her growing tired of Lion’s sour attitude. Simple.

It wasn’t quite like that for Gilles. Montagne found himself as the middleman of this inter-GIGN war. A unit he thought of as family. Even though he was close to both Gustave and Olivier, Gilles couldn’t figure out the root of their problem. As far as he remembered, the two were quite close before. What changed?

“Gus,” he called from the doorway after being brushed off by Lion, who he had caught stomping out of the medic’s office.

“Gilles,” Gustave responded coldly, still facing away from the door, tidying up his cabinet of supplies next to his desk, tossing away some empty boxes.

“What was Olivier doing here?”

“Injury.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay, mon ami?”

“Yes.”

“So...no?”

“He’s just being himself and it...displeases me.”

“Understatement of the year,” Montangne mused, walking over and leaning on the counter, observing Doc. “You know he’s not that bad, right? You must’ve known, considering you’re familiar with him from some time before.”

“Merde, that was a misjudgement on my part. I don’t want anything to do with that prick.”

“You both work together frequently, and you make dinners in the GIGN dorm quite uncomfortable. Don’t you want to make amends and spare everyone else?”

“Gilles—“

“No, really.”

“Let it go.”

“Gustave,” he warned, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m being serious, this is an issue whether you know it or not. It can jeopardize future operations, it’s clear you can’t work together in training simulations—“

“Look,” Doc snarled, slamming a cabinet closed and whirling around to face Gilles. “I have my reasons. We worked together fine in New Mexico. I’m sick of being the one trying to repair whatever relationship we had. I tried, he didn’t reciprocate. I’m done.” Coldly, he brushed past the other man and went back to sifting through paperwork.

“Please. I understand, but there has to be something you both can do.” Gilles was practically begging him at this point, briskly striding towards Gustave’s desk and turning his chair to face him. “Anything. I’ll talk to him, you can figure it out from there.”

After a moment’s pause, Gustave threw down a folder and leaned back, groaning while straightening his crisp white coat. “Talk to him and I’ll try again.”

A pause.

“It means a lot, Gus.” Gilles patted his back and chatted a bit about his day before swiftly exiting, leaving Gustave to think briefly about Olivier before returning his focus to his work.

Unbeknownst to him, Olivier had a similar talk with Gilles. It began as hostile as Gilles’ conversation with Gustave had, but Olivier was the one to pour out the story. The Ebola crisis, the collateral damage, Doc’s vicious retaliation, their previous friendship, everything. All of this information came after a week and a half of partly pressure and partly gained trust. Olivier, while quick to retaliate, was slow to trust. His facade of permanent arrogance and pugnaciousness crumbled in the face of those he believed to have his best interest at heart. Gilles began to get why both were so upset with each other, and it fueled his drive to bring them back together. Satisfied with both men’s responses, Gilles talked to both again, saying that the other agreed to try to make it up to the other.

He thought it was a little selfish of him to try and intervene, but what else could be done? Both Olivier and Gustave were headstrong and opinionated. Eerily enough, Gilles thought they were similar in many ways. Perhaps it was this exact fact that Montagne wanted them to understand. Still, it seemed that their differences were not what drove them apart. Rather, their similarities stood out enough to clash, while unawareness raised a heightened sense of conflict and blinded both to the hypocrisy of their own ideals. Gilles couldn’t have his GIGN team torn apart by the past, no matter how bitter and bloody. He adamantly held blind faith in the power of unity within the group, and it was well known that nothing could stop him from enforcing that mindset. Miscommunication came between Doc and Lion, and Montagne hoped that meeting on neutral ground would catalyze the rebuilding of burned bridges.

Olivier had mixed opinions. On one hand, he didn’t want to let down his guard and risk his pride and beg for forgiveness. On the other, he realized that unless one of them left, there was no escape from working together. He took the issue to church, consulting his pastor and some monks in hope that they could come up with a solid solution to the dilemma that had lasted him a very long time. Returning from his Sunday mass with a strong sense of resolve, he settled on trying to be the bigger person with the advice of his friends at the church. While he did indeed find this difficult, he felt like the brothers of the church were right. No use fighting fire with fire; take the high ground. Cautiously, his battle to repair his bond with Gustave began. It was difficult to adequately explain, but Olivier felt the need to fix things. Something out there compelled him to do so. Whether it was God or an itch to clear a guilt-heavy conscience, that “something” stubbornly wrenched him from his haze of defensive anger towards Gustave and cleared his head for a brief moment, enough to definitively commit him to his revelation.

A week after their skirmish, Lion traversed the base in search of the coffee machine, hoping a peace offering of a fresh cup of espresso would test the waters. After asking a few of the SAS operators, only to be met with brusque answers, he turned to Emmanuel, who he had found lounging in the workshop, wearing a GIGN hoodie and lazily testing her drone. Thoroughly anxious, he felt like a fool for being nervous about anything relating to his quest to make amends with Doc.

“Em.” Rapping the wooden table to get her attention, he leaned against an empty chair next to Jäger, who was too busy to notice.

“Olivier,” she greeted, stretching. “Need something?”

“Er, oui,” he hesitated. “Where’s the coffee machine?”

She thought for a moment, brows wrinkled in concentration. “I know there’s one back at our dorms in the living room, but the one in the base is always moving around. Why? Don’t you drink coffee?”

“Merci. Just wondering. I don’t get coffee from the base.” He quickly exited, giving a curt nod in the direction of some recruits working in a corner who were staring. He continued his trek, finally satisfied when he found a quaint coffee maker in a secluded corner of the communal living and dining room. After a few unsuccessful tries to get it to work properly, he wondered if this was truly worth it.

“A fucking waste,” he grumbled after ten minutes of fumbling around the machine. The coffee looked acceptable, but Lion was beginning to remember the significance of his anger-filled falling out with Doc. Gustave didn’t fucking understand. I bet the bastard never understood death, the damned medic, Olivier thought, gripping the coffee cup tightly as he made his way to the infirmary, purposely walking slower than normal. All about saving lives and shit. The asshole loves preaching about human life but he doesn’t understand death like I do, because I...

No, that’s not right. Olivier felt deflated, the strange bout of petty angst abruptly leaving him.

Maybe neither of us understand what happened in Africa. Determined once more, Lion pressed on, desperate for at least some closure with the past and answers as to why the intertwined parts of him and Gustave were driven away in the midst of the collateral damage and conflict. A mix of almost instinctual anger and resentment fused with a repressed sense of fear became a strange conglomerate that merged with hesitation and dread, all of which came bubbling up as Olivier approached Gustave’s office door. With the inner turmoil of a prisoner on death row, he knocked three times.

“Come in,” Gustave’s professional voice came from inside. Seemingly in slow motion, Lion watched his hand reach for the handle.

This is it, Flament.

[iwhumpyou]

The Last Hero (Part 2)

Masterlist.  The Last Hero.

Part 1.

~#~

“Look at your hero, Central City!” he booms and Lucian allows himself a wince at the grandstanding. He never likes these displays. Too public, too unoriginal, too…obvious.  The only way to get what you want was to let no one know you took it in the first place. “Look at her!”  

With a flourish, he rips off her mask.  Lucian leans forward, despite himself.  That wasn’t what he saw coming.

It is a girl, held up by his claws around her neck.  Both her eyes are circled in purple and blue and black and blood is dribbling on her lips. One hand grips his claws while the other hangs limply by her side.  She’s blinking too often, her face slack, but it’s a face that freezes everyone.  

The girl is young. Young and presumably pretty, underneath the bruises and blood.  Young and pretty and broken and Lucian can’t help the smile.  Chimera has no idea what he’s unleashed.

He can use her as a face for the laws he plans to push to restrict superhero movements, especially after the merry band break the law to take down Chimera.

The man, stupid beyond all reason, points his freakish hand at the crowd, intending to shoot.  The camera is shaking and no one is speaking, even if they could be heard over the screams, but Lucian fancies he can see the light in the girl’s eyes right before she moves.  She kicks up with surprising force for someone emulating a broken doll, and it connects, sending the laser beam to impact the top floor of a nearby building.

He winces.  Property damage, again.  

He looks away, because he has better things to do than watch the villain-of-the-week and he doesn’t want to see the heroes show up in the nick of time, so he hears the words and not the punch.

“You dare!” Chimera screams and Lucian turns back to the TV.  Half of the girl’s face is red, now and Lucian watches with sinking dread as Chimera punches her again, full in the face with a gauntlet.  “You dare stand against me!  I’ll make an example of you, and no one else will ever dare to try and fight me!”  Another punch, and her hand has dropped from the claws as she hangs limply in his grasp.

“Sir?”  Lucian turns and realizes he’s standing.  He looks at his right hand.  

“Get ready.  We’re implementing Plan Alpha ahead of schedule,” he says, voice clipped.

It hadn’t been real before. It hadn’t been real until the hero that was fighting had a face, a face swollen and bruised and bleeding.  

Besides, the heroes aren’t coming.  He isn’t even sure if the girl is still alive.  The situation has all the makings of an opportunity.  And he intends to be the one that reaches out.

The drive is short, but feels too long.  When he gets there, he realizes they’re just in time.  The girl sprawls on the rubble, lying far too still, more blood than body. The people have stones in their hand and Chimera’s gauntlets are bright green.

He steps forward and takes control.  This time, he’s not in the shadows.  This time, they know.  This time, they’ll beg him to be in charge.

~#~

James doesn’t care about the news until Lyra lowers the volume.  He looks up in time to catch her looking away from him, wide-eyed.  “What happened?” he asked, and looks beyond her but the screen is on the other end of the room, and all he can see is some villain holding up what looks like one of those parkour girls.

Idiots, all of them. They deserve what they get, for interfering where they shouldn’t.

“Nothing,” she says and it’s too high-pitched, too fast, too frantic for him not to be concerned.  He scowls and walks to her – she tries to change the channel, but he grabs the remote.

“What’s wrong now?” he groans, because the camera is on some villain and he’s about to shoot into the crowd – he winces, because even four thousand miles away he still wants to help – but he’s stopped.  Parkour girl saves the day and –

And his mouth is dry, because he recognizes that face.  

“James, I’m sorry,” Lyra says, looking at him and he can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe because the villain refocuses his attention on Naya and starts punching her in the face. He doesn’t even realize the room is shifting under his feet until he’s kneeling on the ground, still staring at the TV.

That’s Naya who’s lying in the rubble.  That’s Naya with blood and bruises over every inch of her skin.  That’s Naya, crumpled and limp.  That’s Naya, reaching out and snagging the villain’s boot.

That’s Naya, mouth opened in a silent scream as he stomps on her body.  Her, limp as a rag doll as he kicks her to the other side of the mound. Her, nothing more than a punching bag as he vents out his frustration.  Her he’s holding up, claws gigantic against her fragile frame.

Her that lies, still, inert, crumpled and motionless.  

She doesn’t get back up. She doesn’t move.

James can’t even tell if she’s still breathing.

~#~

Amy can’t stop crying. She can’t hold back the sobs as she watches Lucian’s men pick up Naya.  Naya was talkative and smiling and sharp and a part of Amy viciously rejects that the body on the TV is her best friend.  

She still can’t stop the tears.  They started when he pulled the mask off – and they knew they were living on borrowed time, knew things were changing, but it wasn’t in Naya’s nature not to help, even if she was alone – and continued, spilling over her cheeks as he used her a punching bag.

And then Amy had a startling thought and scrambled for her phone and watched, sobs wrenching from her throat as the line rang and rang and Naya fell.  No one picked up and she tried again.  And again.  And again until Naya was a ruin on the ground and Amy couldn’t lie to herself.

So she stays, arms wrapped around her, and cries.

How much more can she lose?

~#~

He’s watching the television intently.  Idly, at first, because a villain smashing up part of Central City was hardly a novel event, but then more closely because he knows about the new restrictions, knows how politics shifted and swayed and even if personal sentiment gets in the way, he’s tracked the money.  They are all far away, too far to help.  Which was the point.

But the parkour hoods, the ones who were there first, who’d never truly left, they intervene.  Only one of them, and the villain outmatches them easily until he’s strangling them in his grasp.  This has the potential to be highly entertaining or informative and so he continues to watch.

And then the mask is ripped off and he’s staring into a face he recognizes and for a moment, it feels like there’s no oxygen in the room.

Only a moment, because Starc thinks fast and works even faster.  He has a team sent to the family home and another to the kid’s college and a pair of guards each for his sharp, charismatic auditor and his manager wife. He buries the emotions, the feelings – she knew who he was when she dismantled his operations and left him unarmed and tied up in an alley – because Naya’s face is on the television screen and every villain who’s ever attacked Central City has come to the same conclusion.

Not as fast as him, though, with his quick thinking and faster acting and his prior knowledge of her family.

He has them in a safe house before Lucien Medea makes his impassioned speech on justice and safety and the importance of fighting for your home.

He has them protected before he can release his personal feelings, a tangle he can’t begin to sift through, a snarl of rage and fear and betrayal and she was going to come work for him in the summer and she ruined him and she looked so still, so bloody and James is either going to murder Medea or himself, did she ever tell him?

Starc keeps the TV on and strangles a pen when Medea is named mayor.

~#~

Part 3.

[greetthedawn]

AN: After this week’s episode of Game of Thrones I just... had to write a thing. So I sat down and churned this out in about two hours at work. Might do more with it, might not...

Title is a nod to the song by Florence + the Machine!

Here, have a Read More break for your spoiler-free lives:

A firm weight struck Gendry in the calf. It loosened his grip on the fistful of arrows in his hand, and they clattered to the ground. The chiming of obsidian hitting stone rang out a deadly harmony with the pealing laughter of children.

"Bloody hell, Gretchyn," he shouted, wrenching the boisterous, giggling girl off his leg and into the air with one arm. She draped over his sturdy forearm like a sack of horse feed. All four of her tiny child's limbs dangled limply beneath her so they swung freely as he moved her to the door, loose as willow branches in the wind. He dropped her next to her brother, two years above her in age but just as small and half as confident. The boy stood just outside the door, peering into the workshop timidly and regarding the blacksmith with the wide-eyed reverence due a highborn lord. Gendry had always heard that his own lord father had been the very image of a king in his youth; tall and strong and proud. Of late, he had tried to emulate these attributes. He was built in the style of a Baratheon, and while the house of Storm's End had died out without a trueborn heir he meant to carry their honor forward on his two shoulders as the last of their living blood. Fortunately for his hide, the gold cloaks had never bothered to pay much mind to the baseborn, working folk as to notice the last crowned stag hiding beneath their boots, warhammer and all. Only orphaned urchins seemed to take note.

Kneeling to the level of the children, he tousled the boy's hair reassuringly but did his best to remain stern. "I told you two, the smithy is a dangerous place, and we have important work to do here. You can't come 'round while I have the fires lit or you won't even survive long enough for the wights to get you."

"But I'm not scared!" Gretchyn protested, her yellow curls bouncing as she shook her head with indignation. "I wanted to show Dalon that he can be not scared, too."

"I'm already not scared!" Dalon injected, though he continued to eye the furnaces with suspicion, like it was one of the queen's dragons disguised with the aim to lure him into its maw, and it might reveal itself at any moment. "I came for your stories, really. You have such good ones. I want to hear more about your days on the Kingsroad."

Gendry shook his head with a warm smile. "I already told you, the Kingsroad was too dangerous to stay on long. The smaller roads were much more interesting anyway." He relented and waved them into the warmth of his workshop. These two were refugees from a northern village by the sea and had tacked onto the royal caravan along with the rest of the country folk on their path inland. They'd quickly latched on to Gendry during the journey, possibly recognizing the orphan in him, too, and he'd taken a liking to them as well. Inside, he sat them well away from the flames and hammers and passed them each a crust of bread from his earlier untouched rations. "Now, which story did you come to hear?"

"I want to heard a new one!" Dalon asserted around a mouthful of rye. "Surely you haven't told them all yet."

"Make it a frightening one!" Gretchyn chimed in. "Tell us about the bloodiest battle you've been in. Or the deadliest man you ever met."

He did have a story to go along with her second request, though it was one he kept close to his heart. He thought Gretchyn in particular might enjoy it, however, so he inhaled deeply and conceded, seating himself on a bench across from them. Men continued to bustle around them, but he still hadn't touched his evening stew - now cold - so they could do without him for a bit. He picked up the bowl and started, "Aye, I've met some deadly men in my travels. I could tell you about them… but I could also tell you about the time I met Death herself." He raised his spoon to his lips and took a long, innocent sip.

The children's eyes grew wide. "Death is a her?" the girl blurted out. Her tone was mystified and gleeful.

"A she-wolf." Gendry corrected. "The Goddess of Death is a direwolf, just like the Stark sigil. She's a small one, to be sure, the smallest of her pack, but she's killed dozens more than the rest of them combined. Her jaws are inescapable and her teeth are all needles." He exaggerated his tone and motioned with his hands to give drama, but his words were all true in a sense. "She's as fast and nimble as a river. I've heard she can wear any face, but when I met her she was disguised as a young boy no older than you, Dalon. Only those she counts as friends know her true form… Her friends, and the wretches who anger her. Those poor sods know her face and name just in the final moments before she claims their souls… and their faces."

Gretchyn's eyes never left his lips, drinking in every word like it was part of a prayer she had to know for her own. Dalon had brought his knees up to his face and pretended to lean on them, though it was clear he was trying to hide himself, to become as small a target as possible.

Their reactions made Gendry smile just a bit. He'd heard many stories about the she-wolf in his days since arriving in Winterfell, but he hadn't been able to pick her out of the shadows yet. No matter, he had plenty of stories about her of his own. "At night, when I traveled with her, she would sing a song of death. It changed over time. The men she sang about would die and then she'd pick a new name to curse. I couldn't image what the song sounds like now, but you can bet your rations for a month that she still recites it to the moon every time it rises. No one is safe from the list if you dare cross her. It doesn't matter what gods you worship, the old or the new, at a tree or in a sept. Death transcends them all, and no faith or creed will save you from her wrath."

Dalon lifted his head and in a curious tone asked, "How did you survive her then?"

Genry laughed. "Don't get me wrong, I sure as shit angered her from time to time. But even she knows love, knows it well, and if you know love you can know forgiveness. I certainly needed forgiving once or twice, but so did she." He gave a deep sigh and cast a glance at the floor. A sadness and great longing welled within him. "Death was the closest thing I've known to family. Death… and a boy named Pie. A stupid name for a stupid boy." The children giggled wildly at this. "Oy, you shouldn't laugh. He could cook a squirrel fit for a king's banquet table."

"I want a Pie squirrel!" Dalon exclaimed.

"I would love a Pie squirrel!" Gretchyn one-upped her brother. "Especially if it's good enough for Death."

"Aye, it was good enough for us both. And if you survive the coming battle you can have one, yourself. Last I heard he was still at the inn where we left him, cooking for travelers and lifting their spirits."

The youngest gave a determined nod. "One day, when I'm a soldier, I'll go visit Pie."

"Girls can't be soldiers!" Dalon objected.

"If Death can be a girl then so can soldiers," Gretchyn fired back.

"But Father always said!"

"Your father was wrong," Gendry snorted. "Lady Brienne of Tarth is leading our left flank against the white walkers when they arrive. Our queen is riding into battle of the back of a dragon. If your sister is set on becoming a soldier then I'd dare you or anyone else to try and stop her once all this is over. The world is changing, and you wouldn't want to anger Death by clinging to such old ways of thinking."

Dalon's open mouth snapped shut. Turning to his sister, he squeaked out, "I'm ready to go to bed now."

Gretchyn began to protest, but the blacksmith shook his head. "Your brother is right. You've had your story and I have to get back to work. Go on now. You can come break your fast with me at first daylight."

The little girl ran up and gave him a quick hug before allowing her brother to drag her back to their quarters. Gendry quickly scarfed down the rest of his stew and got back to work. There was much to do, and they didn't yet have word on how far south the army of the dead had made it. They could besiege Winterfell in a week or a month, and each seemed just as likely as the other. Every arrow and sword he made meant one more soldier who could fell a white walker, one more soldier who had a shot at seeing summer. It had been a long journey to the seat of House Stark, longer than he or Arya had dared imagine for the sake of their hopeful spirits when they'd started their journey north all those years back. The circumstances weren't what he'd hoped for, but at least he knew he belonged there, that he had a purpose there beyond anything he'd known before. All those years hiding in Flea Bottom, he knew he was waiting for something that would give him meaning.

A part of him had always hoped that meaning would lead him back to Winterfell, ever since he'd been sold off to the Red Woman and taken away from Arya. All his life others had used him as a pawn in their games. It was his curse, he knew now, as a bastard of the highest seat in Westeros. Children of powerful houses were little more than pawns to their elders, as he had come to learn. Arya, however, had introduced him to a world where he might control his own fate. It was only when he was separated from her that he realized how much their trials and travels had changed him. Meeting her had given him a purpose all his own, and he would chase that feeling to the edge of the known world.

Arya. His thoughts circled her often but she had become such an elusive figure in his mind. It had been four or more years since he'd last seen her. She would be a woman grown by then, and a fearsome one at that if the stories held true. House Frey, the rat Littlefinger, it was said that she'd been their end. Her list must be getting very short, indeed. In a way, he was in awe of her reputation. She hadn't been much of a killer when he'd known her, just a young girl fleeing the War of the Five Kings, four of whom had wanted her dead. They had been thick as thieves during that time, though, and it didn't surprise him one bit what she'd become.

He knew her family better now than he'd likely know her, should their paths come to cross in the bustling stronghold of her ancestral home. Jon was everything she'd said he'd be, though Sansa was none of what he'd been told. He wondered if the discrepancy between the entitled dreamer of Arya's stories and the confident, cunning Lady of Winterfell was due to a childhood rivalry or half a lifetime of trauma. His knowledge of the Stark history and Arya herself told him it was some of both. He knew a bit about the character-building effects of trauma, himself. He had been 16 when he left for the Night's Watch, much like Jon had been, and all that had happened since had turned him nearly unrecognizable. He liked Jon. They were of an age and had some shared experiences, a bastard brotherhood in a way. He knew how Arya adored him, too, and had to wonder if some of those similarities had caused her to view him as in the light of an elder brother. His feelings for her had been ones of great protectiveness and affection, but he couldn't say he'd ever seen her as a little sister.

AN: Please let me know what you thought of this! I've never written for this fandom before!

[catrectorauthor]

This piece was written last year for a project run by @cirianne , encouraging writers to explore the backstories of their OC’s. This is probably one of the favourites, a little glimpse at young Loki and his mother. Anyhow, enjoy. 

“Loki, you have to stop squirming.”

“Mother,” he groaned, letting the word drag out. “Everyone else is playing outside. Why can’t I go with them?”

Loki was sitting on a fur rug, his legs crossed beneath him. His fiery hair was tied in a stumpy tail behind his head. His brown trousers and blue tunic bore the grass stains of childhood and the frayed ends of the brothers who had worn them before him.

Opposite him was Laufey. His mother had the same forest-fire hair, the same freshly fallen snow for skin. She sat tall, her wrists resting on her knees. Her brown eyes were calm, patient. She smiled at him. “Those boys will learn to do nothing but beat each other bloody. Don’t you want to know something more valuable than that? Don’t you want to learn to steal fire from the air, and soar across the realms like a hawk?”

Loki turned it over in his head, his eyes on the door. He did want those things, but he knew that the others were having fun right that second, and he was not. “I suppose… but none of the other boys know these things. Why are you teaching me a woman’s work?”

Laufey’s patient smile quickly faded. “Who told you that seidr is woman’s work?”

Loki’s shoulders curled forward as if he were trying to shrink into himself. He had heard his parents argue about such things before. He shouldn’t have said it. “From father.”

She let out a long breath. “Your father-“ she paused, choosing her words carefully. “Your father doesn’t know everything. You’re to listen to him, as your brothers do, but do not always take his words for truth.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Loki said, slumping forward, pressing his elbows into his legs. “How can I listen and not listen all at once?”

“If I told you to leap from the top of the highest mountain in Jotunheim, would you do it?”

He scoffed, his brow creasing. “No. I’m not a moron.”

Laufey leaned forward, ruffling his hair. “Exactly. Underneath all this fire is a mind. An intelligent person uses it to ask questions. You’re a smart boy, Loki. You’re not like your father or your brothers, who only see the realms in black and white. They don’t understand that there is nuance in everything. If you use your mind to search for the truth of things, and not just to accept the world as someone tells you it is, you could achieve a great many things. Now, sit up straight and try again.”

Loki did as he was told. He sat as straight as he could, his palms over the rounds of his knees. He took a deep breath, then another, in and out, slow and steady.

“Feel the air,” Laufey whispered. “Focus on it. Feel it on your skin. What does it feel like?”

“It doesn’t feel like anything,” he replied, tapping his fingers on his knees.

Laufey didn’t move a muscle. She watched him, speaking in a low, calming voice. “Try to imagine the way a breeze feels. Focus on that, even if it's only pretending. Ask the air to come to you.”

“Come to me?” His voice was full of doubt.

“No, in your mind. Not aloud,” she said. “Breathe deep and think of the air in your lungs. It’s already a part of you.”

Loki sat in silence, trying to feel the air in his lungs. It felt like breathing. The only time he’d ever felt his lungs was when he ran too fast or stayed under water too long. What did lungs feel like when they weren’t ready to burst?

He slapped his knees with his palms and moved to stand. “This is stupid.”

“Loki, sit down.” Laufey’s harsh tone was not one she used often, and the boy knew enough to plant his bottom back on the ground. “I understand your impatience. It’s a hard thing to learn, but that’s the price of such an immense gift. Take my hands.”

Loki scooted forward until he was close enough to lay his hands in hers.

She gave him an encouraging smile. “Let me show you what you’re buying with your efforts.”

She closed her eyes, her breathing settling into a steady rhythm. It was only a moment before the skin peeking out from her dress began to glow, ever so slightly. Loki had seen it happen before; she was gathering energy to make the seidr happen. After that, she could use her runes to heal the sick, or capture lightning in her hand. His mother could do almost anything.

The light in her chest moved down into her arms. As it drew closer to her hands, Loki tensed. He’d never felt the energy before. He didn’t know what seidr felt like under his skin. He was a boy. He was never supposed to know.

Loki’s palms began to tingle, the way one’s skin feels after it falls asleep. The light worked its way into his skin, and he felt the rush of it. Laufey’s grip tightened on his hands.

“Don’t pull away. It won’t hurt you. The air offers up its power for us to use. Embrace it.”

He tried to emulate the posture of his mother, sitting still, eyes closed. The longer she held his hands, the further the energy travelled up his arms. His skin starting to hum, warming from the inside. His chest was tight with excitement, his heart fluttering. He had lived seven whole years and nothing he had ever felt compared to that feeling.

Then the energy began to fade. It withdrew from his body, wilting away from his core, back down to his fingertips. He opened his eyes in time to see the glow fade from his mother’s skin. She was smiling as brightly as the morning sun.

She rubbed the backs of his hands with her thumbs. “Now you know how it feels to have power living in you. Keeping that power for your own will be hard work. Do you want it?”

Loki looked up at her. “Yes,” he said, the emerald of his eyes gleaming. “Teach me to be a völva.”

[volleybabe101]

The 68th Hunger Games - Chapter 3: Goodbyes

       The Peacekeepers pulled me and Wesley into our Justice Building. We went down a few halls together, then split at an intersection. The Peacekeeper with me brought me to a grimy, dust-coated room before exiting and shutting the door.

       I knew what would happen now. My parents would come in, then my siblings, and they would tell me to try to win, and that they loved me. But to win, I would have to kill someone, either directly or indirectly it didn't matter. Me winning would mean that the others would have to die somehow.

       My head spun. I sank down onto the floor, gripping my knees tightly. My breath came out in short bursts, small hiccups that only happened when I cried. And I was crying, I realized, feeling the tears trickle down my cheeks. I wanted to see my parents, wanted to hug them and tell them that I loved them, loved every single second I got to spend with them. I wanted to see Colton, my favorite partner-in-crime, and tell him that I wouldn't give up any of the times we goofed off in the fields, even though that may have been why we needed to get more tesserae. And Bailey and Reed, who let me tag along with them a few times when they first started apprenticing, who had good morals and charisma. Maisie, my role model, my friend, my sister, I wanted her to tell me that this was all just a dream. I wanted my parents to hold me and say that this wasn't actually happening, and I wanted to hold them back and say everything I was thinking.

       I wiped off my tears. The wood was rough beneath my hands as I pushed off of the floor and stood up. I used a cloth covering a chair to clean off the dust on my legs, and tried to pretend everything was okay.

       But when the door opened and my family came in, I didn't move. They were on me, hugging me and squeezing me, and I just couldn't hug back. My stiff arms wouldn't move.

       I love you! I wanted to say. I wanted to scream it at them.

       But I couldn't.

       Because when I eventually died in the Games, I didn't want them to have any guilt. I didn't want them to remember me sobbing out and crying that I loved them.

       So I let them encourage me. “You can win, you can, Jo!" "Listen to your mentor and you'll be okay." "Don’t give up." "Don’t lose hope.” "We'll see you again."

       Colton hugged me last. My baby brother. The brother who felt like what I imagined a twin would feel like, like my other half, the one I wouldn't want to live without. His mouth was right next to my ear when he whispered, "Do whatever you have to do. But please don't leave me. I can't do it without you, Jo."

       He almost broke me. I almost started to cry again.

       But I held the tears in, and I nodded along, and I gave everyone hugs as they walked out of the door when our visiting hour was over. I silently vowed to remember the way they smelled, the way their voices sounded, the way their skin felt on mine, because that would be the last time I ever got to see them.

       Colton smelled like spring, like wildflowers and hope for a good harvest and everything that made me think of home. Mom and Maisie had higher-pitched voices then Bailey, but only by a little, and Mom's voice was thick with tears. Dad's hands were calloused when he had gripped my shoulders and told me he loved me, and Reed had hands rough with hard work that rubbed my back when Bailey pulled me close.

       I didn't have time to think anymore after that. It seemed like only a second had passed between my family closing the door and a Peacekeeper shoving it open again. I walked out on my own. I was led through a maze of hallways, until we came to the front entrance.

       The boy, Wesley, was already there, flanked by Peacekeepers. He kept his eyes forward as we walked out.

       I tried to emulate him as we walked to the car. The cameras surrounding us strengthened my belief that I wanted to make sure my family saw me looking calm when they would be forced to watch this on television later. I couldn't match the hard, steely look in Wesley's eyes, but I didn't need to. I just needed to make sure the thoughts that were jumbled in my brain, depressing and confusing, didn't appear on my cheeks in the form of tears.

       Just a few feet away from the car. Only a couple more steps. Wesley was in. The cameras in my peripheral vision stayed there, and then I was inside too.

       I drew in a breath. I'd never been in a car before, but I'd seen them on television after every reaping. This would bring me to the train, which would bring me to the Capitol, where I would then be forced into an arena. I looked to my right, where Wesley sat on the other side of the backseat. Us. Both of us would have the same fate. Both of us would be in that arena.

       I turned to look out the window as the car started. My hands pressed against the leather of the seats, gripping it tightly with each roar of the engine. The fields and pastures and shacks were blurring together as the car picked up speed.

       My stomach was in my throat. My heart was pounding. How was it even possible to go this fast? How was it safe?

       A vision of the car crashing passed through my mind. The glossy black vehicle, crumpled and ruined, the Peacekeeper who was driving slumped over the wheel, the other halfway out of the broken windshield. Wesley and me in the back, bloody and dead.

       It was depressing how much I would've preferred that over going into an arena.

       No one talked. Not until we neared the train station and the Peacekeeper driving the car turned his head back just a little and said, "Good luck." His tone was flat, the corners of his lips turned down, like he’d grown accustomed to this but hadn’t yet learned to love it like his peers.

       At least 10 cameras were waiting for us outside. Two Peacekeepers, originally standing by the train, walked to the car and opened the back doors, motioning for Wesley and me to come out.

       I stepped out of the car feeling airy and dizzy. My stomach growled. The camera lights were bright, and although the only talking was murmurs between Peacekeepers or camera crews, my ears felt full with over-stimulation. I tried to keep my eyes straight. I took deep breaths. My parents would not see me upset. My sisters would not see me cry. My brother would not see me betray him.

       Wesley got on the train first, stumbling and leaning into the door frame. He looked behind him at a camera and scowled, before letting a Peacekeeper pull him farther into the train.

       My feet sank into the plush carpet on my first step. My pace slowed so much in awe that the Peacekeeper to my left nudged my arm with the butt of his gun. I walked a little faster, but I kept turning my head to take in as much as I could.

       The walls were decorated with paintings, paintings done in rich blues and purples, bright yellows and oranges, stark contrasts between midnight black and pure white. The drapes covering the windows were thick and, when I reached a hand out to touch them, were the softest things I had ever felt.

       Ahead of me Wesley, also eyeing the lavish decorations, was led through a door. I went through a moment after him, stepping into a dining room.

       The chairs and long table were made out of the same dark wood, and the floor was covered in a deep red carpet. The lights on the walls emitted soft glows, dark enough to feel comfortable, but light enough for me to see two women and a man sitting at the table.

       The Peacekeepers left the room.

       Tatiana, District 10's escort, stood up first, still wearing the same red lipstick from before. "We were just talking about you two." Now that she was off-camera, her voice was lower, calmer, less like someone playing a part. She motioned to the man and the woman, both standing now, and said, "These are your mentors. Dustin,"

       The man smiled shyly, showing a glimpse of straight white teeth. He ran a hand through his short brown hair as he muttered, "Everyone calls me Dusty."

       Tatiana motioned to the woman, "and Domitia."

       The man, really more of a boy, I remembered from only a few years ago. He won the 66th Hunger Games in an extremely unordinary victory. The arena had been all forest for miles, transitioning into shallow hills on the fringes, and he had hidden away in trees and caves for most of the time. He only came out to forage and, although he'd had the lean muscles of a decently-fed 16 year old before the Games (probably the son of Rancher, I couldn't help thinking), by the time he'd killed the only other survivor of a devastating earthquake and won, he'd been nearly all bone. Now, I could see he'd gained the muscle back, and then some. He towered over the girl.

       I gave them both a strained smile. Tatiana gestured to the seats. “Please,” she said. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

       The trio sat down in unison. I looked to Wesley, hoping to catch his eye and a share an uneasy grin that said, “I know our situation is messed up but thank you, thank you, thank you for saving my brother’s life,” but he was already sitting. I took the chair next to him, putting both of us tributes across from the victors and the escort, the Capitol-made.

       Domitia smiled. She had a striking profile when she turned to look at Dusty, communicating with him using her eyes. She used to be called Jolene, before she won her games. She changed her name after, and her hair, and her eye color. Red hair in place of straw-blonde, shockingly green eyes in place of brown. Capitol in place of District 10.

       "Today's been hard for both of you, I'm sure. Dusty and I will talk about your strategies later. Right now, we just ask you to eat and relax." Her words sounded both sincere and practiced at the same time. I looked in her eyes and saw the people she killed during the 60th Hunger Games. My stomach roiled.

       I tore my gaze away from her as three avoxes walked into the room, one after another. I sat silently, numbly, as they set silver plates on the table. Steaming steak sat on one plate, glazed in a dark brown sauce. Baked potatoes, loaded with butter and cheese and bacon, shared space with a colorful array of vegetables. Beside them, the food that I couldn't keep my eyes off of, was an entire roasted bird. My mouth watered. The avoxes poured everyone a bowl of thick white soup and then moved out of my vision.

       I wanted to look at them, to tell them that I was sorry for what the Capitol had done to them, but my stomach was growling. Wesley's was too, a low rumble that matched mine. The people on the other side of the table didn't seem surprised. Tatiana smiled, then dipped her spoon into her soup and took a dainty sip.

       I copied her. One spoonful turned into two, then five, then my bowl was empty and I was grabbing a bread roll from a tower on the edge of the table. The knife felt awkward in my hands as I buttered the roll. It was heavy, real silverware, something I'd never used before. I tore into the bread and had to stop myself from sighing in pleasure.

       "The swan is lovely today. Crispy skin," Domitia said, motioning to the bird. Her teeth were small, white, and perfectly straight.

       The only swan I'd ever seen had been a black and white photo of one in class a few years ago. It's image escaped me now. I knew it had white feathers and a long, elegant neck. I knew it was supposed to be beautiful. And I knew it was an example that anything could be killed for the Capitol's enjoyment.

         I set the roll down on my plate.

[daedriclorde]

A Thief in Wolf’s Clothing, Part III: Chapter 8, “Like Alduin”

Summary: To try to patch up their friendship, Kjolti and Farkas go hunting out on the plains. But things quickly turn for the worse out in the wilds.

Read it here on Ao3!

Chapter 8, “Like Alduin”

Farkas clawed at the cave bear before him. The bear snapped her massive jaws and growled fiercely in return. He detected motion to his left and bounded away before the second bear could swipe at him. Farkas used his momentum to charge at the first bear, digging viciously at her thick hide.

Somewhere behind him, Kjolti grappled with a third cave bear. In the heat of battle, her midnight fur was nearly indistinguishable from the trio of cave bears they had taken on. Farkas heard her snarl and jaw at her foe.

The first bear lunged and clamped her jaws on Farkas’s arm, but he easily knocked her aside with a powerful swipe. In the span of a breath the second bear was upon him again, rising up on thick hind legs. The two beasts stared each other in the eye, their raw aggression matched in the other’s gaze. 

With a crunch and a thud, Kjolti brought down the bear before her. In a single bound, she joined Farkas in his fray. Kjolti mauled the first bear, still lingering from Farkas’s blow, and ended her quickly. Then she spun to face the second bear with her Shield-Brother.

Farkas was impressed, and a little surprised. This was a different Kjolti than he was used to hunting with. He was well familiar with her tactics, and this hunt was different. She seemed more destructive, more cruel.

Now two against one, the cave bear fought with wild abandon. He stood tall on his hind legs once more, trying to intimidate his attackers. Farkas swiped at him but was met with a fearsome paw. Kjolti reached out with claws of her own and found the bear’s teeth snapping at her limb.   

Farkas and Kjolti locked eyes for a moment. 

He was frightened stiff.

Her eyes had changed.

Gone were the silver pools he had fallen in love with. Gone were the comforting eyes that dazzled with intelligence.

Instead, two pure red pupil-less eyes glowed against her midnight fur.

Divines… Farkas took a step back.

Kjolti was a vision of destruction and anguish. She wasn’t feral, that much he knew. Her scent hadn’t changed. There was an evilness to her eyes, Farkas could see it clearly now, but they maintained her intelligence. And that combination terrified him.

The changed Kjolti lashed out at the bear, blood and gore flinging from her claws and dripping from her jaws. She snarled savagely, and leapt forward to maul the bear.

The bear was overwhelmed. As fear locked its wild eyes, the cave bear desperately lunged for Kjolti’s arm.

The bear locked its muscled jaw onto Kjolti. The mauling had left it too weak, it had lost too much blood. Even as its life extinguished, the bear exhausted its final energies into death gripping its opponent’s arm. The bear stumbled back, dragging Kjolti with him.

But as the dying bear fell, it found no ground to support its weight. Its heavy paws found only crumbling rocks and empty air.

Both bear and werewolf fell over the edge of the cliff. Kjolti’s sinister red eyes widened in shock as she realized what was happening. Farkas lunged, but was helpless to stop his Shield-Sister from tumbling over the edge. 

It only took a second to feel the reverberating thud as bear and werewolf hit the ground below.

***

Farkas panted heavily as he shook the beast form from his consciousness. He look around wildly, trying to secure himself in his surroundings.

Kjolti! He slid to the edge of the cliff and looked over.

The massive bear they brought down lay sprawled in the dirt. Next to him lay Kjolti, now returned to her human form as well. Both were motionless. 

No, no, no. He nearly leapt over the cliff himself, but slowed his large frame down enough to find the strongest footholds and sturdiest boulders to support him while he slid down the rocky face. 

Clouds of dust puffed around his feet as he jumped the final length. Farkas ran the few paces over to where Kjolti lay. Nothing was visibly broken, but the arm the bear had latched onto was mangled and bloodied. She lay still, no trace of the evilness that had prevailed in her beast form remaining. Farkas’s heart pounded in his chest. 

Gingerly, Farkas placed two fingers on her neck. How does her skin always feel so soft? Farkas’s skin always felt dry and dirty. He held his breath, searching her neck for signs a life.

A pulse. Farkas sighed with relief as he felt Kjolti’s pulse, still pushing her life’s blood through her veins. Ever so gently, Farkas slid his thick arms under Kjolti’s limp frame. Even in full armor, he was able to lift her effortlessly. 

With his Shield-Sister draped in his arms, Farkas carefully walked to the camp they had set when they were stalking the bears. Still holding Kjolti, he sat down with his back to the rocky cliff. It was a good, defensible position.

He cupped her head in his hand and felt the familiar warm, sticky feeling of blood. His heart began to pound again. Farkas tried not to tangle her shiny black hair with his fingers as he searched for the wound. 

Its not deep. He sighed once more. Farkas carefully reached for the water skin, moving slowly to not jostle Kjolti. He soaked a clean cloth in water. Farkas cradled Kjolti, trying his best to ignore the warm sensations in his chest as he held her close to him. She let out a soft sigh as he embraced her. Farkas felt his throat constrict and thought his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. 

Gently, he dabbed at the wound, wiping away the blood. Her black hair was tangled and sweaty, but Farkas found beauty in it just the same. 

Once he was confident he had cleaned the wound, Farkas held the cloth to her head to stem the bleeding. A shallow wound like that was not threatening, but Kjolti had not yet woken. He turned his attention next to her arm wound. Patiently, he cleaned it out as best he could. While it bleed intensely, it looked to him that most of the sinew was intact. She would be unable to wield her blade for a while, but he reckoned she would still be able to use her arm. Farkas took more of the cotton and wound it as tight as he dared around her arm.

Tenderly, Farkas pushed a stray strand of raven hair out of Kjolti’s face. He was perplexed. Here was the Kjolti he’d known for more than a year, the comforting presence he’d grown used to. But that darkness that he saw in her was etched in his memory.

And the image of her kissing Vilkas was etched there too. He couldn’t stop torturing himself, picturing the scenario in more and more passionate ways. Even though Kjolti had explained it to him, confirmed that it was Vilkas who had kissed her and she promptly punched him for it, Farkas’s imagination still toyed with the image. It still broke him.

Black with red eyes. Her altered beast form lingered in his mind. Just like Alduin. His heart sank. Farkas knew the legends, of course, he and Vilkas had been raised on them. And he’d listened intensely to Kjolti’s account of Helgen. She had detailed it for him on their journey here. He could practically visualize the great beast staring down as she’d described, with ebony scales and glowing blood red eyes.

And yet, here she was, seemingly untouched by the darkness. Farkas lovingly stroked her soaked hair. He was as enamored with her now as he was the first day he met her.

“Kjolti,” he whispered. “I’ve got you Kjolti, you’re safe. I’m protecting you.” He softly brushed the stubborn strand of hair away again. “I will always protect you.”

Pulling his heartstrings along with her, Kjolti stirred a little in his arms. Absently, she wrapped her arm through his as she nestled against his chest and curled up to him. But it was the next sound he heard that struck him the most.

“Farkas,” she mumbled. 

He sat there, eyes locked and mouth agape. Are you awake after all? Can you hear me? He was terrified at the idea.

Farkas looked down at Kjolti. Her face looked so peaceful, so calm. I will keep you safe. I will protect you. He felt his heart leap and pound at the thought of being her protector. I would follow you to the ends of the world. I would destroy the World-Eater for you.

He wasn’t sure how long they remained like that, with Kjolti nestled safely against him. But Farkas knew it was probably too long.

When Kjolti had suggested this hunt, a gesture to patch things up, Farkas had jumped at the opportunity to spend time with her. In all the scenarios he had pictured, none ended like this. And in none of them did Kjolti emulate the World-Eater.

No, this hunt did not go as planned. But he would throw all his daydreams away for a few more moments like this, just sitting and holding Kjolti.

She has to wake up. He knew that sleeping after a head wound like this was not good. Wake up, wake up, he silently pleaded. 

Farkas reached once again for the water skin. Bracing himself, he poured the cold water over Kjolti’s face.

It had the desired effect. Her brow furrowed and she blinked and sputtered. Slowly her eyes opened, revealing the enchanting silver irises Farkas was so taken by. He relaxed upon seeing the natural color of her eyes restored.

“Farkas?” Her eyes were glazed over and unfocused. It reminded him of when he had accidentally knocked her out during training. 

“I’m here,” He leaned over her. “You’re okay, Kjolti.”

Kjolti looked up at him with heavy eyes, still barely conscious. She blinked long and slow, making Farkas worry she would sleep again. But they opened once more, revealing the beautiful moons that were her eyes. 

“Kjolti, you have to stay awake,” Farkas pleaded. 

“But… I’m so tired,” she breathed.

“No, Kjolti. Stay with me.”

Kjolti smiled weakly. “You’ll stay with me?”

Farkas nodded. “I promise.” He could look at that smile forever.

***

It was nearly sundown when Kjolti was stable enough to journey back to Whiterun. They moved slowly, but Farkas didn’t mind. It was more time spent with her.

“Kjolti, how are you feeling?”

She looked at him quizzically. “What kind of question is that? I feel like shit,” she emphasized her wounded head and arm.

“No, I don’t mean physically.”

“How do you mean then?”

“I mean like…good and evil. I guess. I’m not sure what words I’m looking for.”

She stopped. “What is this about, Farkas?”

He hesitated. She wouldn’t like what he had to tell her. “Something…happened, Kjolti. When you transformed.”

She gave him a curious look. “What happened?”

“Well, you know, normally when we take our beast form, we still look kind of like ourselves. Hair color matches fur color, our eye color stays the same.”

She gave a half hearted grin. “What, am I going gray or something?”

“Your eyes were glowing red.”

The smile dropped in a heartbeat. “You mean like… they were bloodshot, like I haven’t slept.”

“No, I don’t. Your eyes were pure, blood red. And glowing. Without pupils.”

She said nothing.

“And you hunted differently too. You were far more…savage, than usual.”

Kjolti was quiet for a long time. She began to shuffle onward. “I see.”

“Kjolti, it was like…with your black fur, and your red eyes…it reminded me of  how you had described—“

“I know,” she cut him off sharply. There were tears pooling in her eyes, and her face was filled with fear.

“Hey, its going to be okay. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything,” Farkas reached out, hoping to comfort her.

“Oh you don’t? You don’t think that it means anything, that the fucking Dragonborn suddenly looks like fucking Alduin? The World Eater?? Don’t think that maybe its a bad sign?”

Farkas sighed. I’ve ruined it again. “It’s going to be okay, Kjolti.”

She sniffed and tried to steel her expression as they continued onward.

[singingwordwright]

Gorgeous cover art courtesy of @beyondthehunt Originally betaed by @roseglass with some final (eventual) copy-editing by @bonibaru

A Separate Peace (sequel to One Easy Answer) a Malec AU by @maleccrazedauthor

(Also on AO3)

Chapters: 15/28 Word Count: 104,900 Rating: Mature Premise: Arranged Marriage AU, Canon Divergent starting at Ep 1x12

(Please See Chapter List for Notes and Summary)

Izzy checked her phone for the third time since they’d left the Institute for the Chelsea piers. “Raphael says from the rooftops he can see four Circle members trailing us,” she reported in Clary’s voice. “Two a couple blocks behind us, a couple others the next block over.”

“That’s not enough,” Alec murmured back, making no effort to resist the urge to look around as though suspecting he might be followed. After all, disguised as Jace and on this particular mission, it would look suspicious not to exhibit a healthy amount of paranoia. “Think they got wind of the ruse?”

“It was always a possibility.” Izzy was walking a little closer to him that she normally would, trying to emulate what Valentine’s followers—probably unaware of the recent breakup—would expect to see from Clary and Jace in terms of body language. It was weird. He had absolutely no compunctions about walking arm-in-arm with Izzy or letting her casually hug him any time, but right now she looked like Clary. Alec had to fight the constant urge to put a bit more distance between them. “Raphael did say, though, that one pair swapped out for another a few blocks back. They could be trying to get ahead of us.”

“So maybe six.” Alec kept his voice pitched low in case any of their followers had a hearing rune activated. “I don’t know, Iz. If Valentine bought our decoys, I’d expect more people sent to take us out. If he didn’t buy it, I’d expect less.”

“They might think six-to-two are reasonable odds in their favor.”

“No way. Valentine knows Jace’s abilities better than that.”

“Well, regardless, we’ve got a chance to take out up to six Circle members. And we especially have a chance to help the vampires and werewolves get…if not a pound of flesh then maybe at least an ounce or two?”

“Yeah,” Alec muttered, the skin between his shoulder-blades still uncomfortably tight. He pulled out his phone and chose Luke’s contact. “Luke, something may not be right here. The number of Circle members trailing us isn’t what it should be. Tell your people and Raphael to be careful, and pull out if you get so much as a bad feeling about anything. I don’t want to lose even one more Downworlder to the Circle.”

When he hung up, Izzy was looking at him, a small smile curving “Clary’s” lips.

“What?” Alec asked, resisting the urge to squirm.

“I just…” She shook her head, sighing. “The Inquisitor’s insane if she doesn’t recognize how good a leader you are.”

Alec grimaced. “I should have held my temper when I confronted her about Camille.”

“You knew she was hiding something. And now you know what.” She drew a deep breath. “Are you going to tell Luke and Raphael?”

“I have to,” he said heavily. “I asked them to trust me, and I swore I wouldn’t let them down. I need to honor that. But out here in the field isn’t the place to have that particular conversation.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get this done,” Izzy said briskly, and quickened her pace.

It wasn’t hard to spot the team of Shadowhunters that had portaled ahead to secure the location near the Pier 54 archway. Two were masquerading as stumbling drunks who had wandered away from a party in the marina. A few more were disguised as indigent people picking through waste cans or huddled on benches. At this time of night, with so many of their slim number of Shadowhunters needed to patrol, it was impressive Lydia could muster up even this many—five in total—to serve as backup. He knew the bushes and shadows concealed wolves, and the vampires waited to sweep in from the rooftops.

Alec accompanied Izzy to the side of the archway and shielded her from sight as she pantomimed creating a rune that would enable “Clary” to break the spell phasing the non-existent mirror into another realm.

“I can’t get it to work,” she said loudly enough to be overheard, pretending to wield her stele more urgently.

“What, your runes decide to stop working now?” Alec demanded, with what felt like an appropriate amount of Jace’s snark into the delivery.

“You want to try to draw it?” Izzy shot back, moving her arm in sweeping strokes. “Got it!”

Izzy brandished a silvery makeup compact triumphantly, then tucked it into her pocket. “Let’s go.”

“We’ve got company.” Alec drew his seraph blade, holding it high and across his body in Jace’s preferred stance. It wasn’t a fighting style Alec cared for, but he couldn’t give away the deception just yet. Not when six of Valentine’s people were converging on them, blocking them off from retreat in every direction except down the pier and into the river.

Izzy drew her own blade, holding it in Clary’s inexpert grip, which was a hybrid of Jace’s style and…something else taught to her by Angel only knew who. If that was Clary’s starting stance, Alec was going to have to make sure the Institutes trainers were overseeing her technique better.

As the Circle members drew nearer, Alec and Izzy backed away, far enough down the pier to leave Valentine’s people only one route of escape, back the way they had come. He could see his Shadowhunters abandoning their disguises and approaching, cutting off that avenue, forming a barricade at the start of the pier.

Six on two wasn’t great odds, especially not with Izzy at less than a hundred percent, but it’d be better once the Shadowhunters from the Institute joined in the fight. While range was still on their side, Alec dropped his blade at his feet and let the glamour fall from his bow, no longer concerned with maintaining his masquerade. His first arrow took one of the Circle members out, and beside him, Izzy’s whip cracked. Another Circle member was yanked off her feet, electrum coils wrapping around her neck. With a jerk on the whip, Izzy flung her over the barricade at the edge and into the Hudson.

The remaining four Circle members charged, driving Alec and Izzy down the pier and closing the range to make the bow and whip useless. They scooped up their blades again. Alec was just about to yell the order for the Downworlders to join the attack when he noticed the smirk on one of the Circle members faces.

Where were his Shadowhunters?

Alec ventured the briefest of glances to realize his people had stopped there where the pier began, leaving Alec and Izzy to fight alone. All of them, except the four Alec and Izzy were engaging, turned to face the direction the vampires and werewolves would be attacking from.

Oh, hell.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he yelled, “Luke, Raphael, pull out! It’s a tr—”

He never managed to complete the warning. One of the Circle members slammed into him, knocking Alec off his feet. He got his blade up just in time to stop the downward thrust of an enemy blade and scissored his legs, catching the man’s ankles between them and rolling to jerk him off balance. Alec’s sword skewered him on the way down.

At the base of the pier, Alec heard a werewolf yelp in pain, and another one snarling viciously. Dammit, why weren’t the Downworlders breaking off?

The bladed tip of Izzy’s staff sliced across the throat of one of the three remaining Circle members she and Alec faced, and the man went down with a bloody gurgle. Alec could hear her labored breathing; could see the slight sway in her stance. But then one of the last two remaining Circle members was pressing him with an aggressive flurry of attacks that drove Alec to the very edge of the pier. He fell back against the K-rail, the water rushing by under his back. He heard Izzy cry out his name in alarm and got his sword between him and his attacker barely in time to block a blow that would have cleaved him in two.

Shouting with effort, Alec forced the man back enough to wedge a foot between them. He felt the concrete barrier behind him slip toward the edge, just a little, but it offered him the clearance he needed to use his leg to shove his opponent back. Izzy gave a pained yell and stumbled to her knees, but the Circle member Alec was fighting gave him no opportunity to check on her. Alec fought furiously to gain the upper hand to drive the man back and give himself more space to get between Izzy and her opponent, but whoever this guy was, he was clearly one of Valentine’s best-trained fighters. Even after a lifetime of sparring with Jace, Alec was evenly matched, or nearly so.

He saw a blur out of the corner of his eye and tried to shout a warning to Izzy, but in that instant, she found her opening and skewered the Circle member she had been fighting. As the man collapsed, behind him Raphael smirked and shrugged.

“Should have known you were holding your own, Isabelle,” he said, and casually reached over to snap the neck of Alec’s opponent.

“Thanks for checking,” Izzy said with a breathless chuckle, leaning on Alec as he turned to look her over. A gash ran down one of her biceps and he fumbled for the stele in his holster, putting his own body between her and Raphael.

Behind him, Raphael sighed. “You don’t need to worry about me attacking at the scent of her blood,” he said grimly. “I have myself under control.”

Alec glanced over his shoulder as he activated Izzy’s iratze rune. “Can you say the same for all your vampires?”

“They’ve had their fill of Shadowhunter blood for the night,” Raphael replied, looking back up the pier. That was when Alec realized the sounds of combat had stopped. “But there’s something you should see.”

Back up the pier, the mood among the werewolves and vampires was…not exactly one of camaraderie, but both factions were feeling ebullient enough in the aftermath of a well-fought victory that they at least weren’t snarling or hissing at each other. Several of each group appeared to have been wounded but were already healed or swiftly in the process of it, including Maia, who clutched a hand to her ribs as she pulled on a shirt. Drying blood dappled her skin, nearly black under the lights along the pier.

They werewolves appeared to be taking turns getting dressed after having their injuries checked, none of them self-conscious about their nudity. Those who weren’t getting checked over—dressed or undressed—were standing guard, forming one half of a circle around a wounded man lying on the ground. The vampires formed the other half.

Luke turned to face Alec as he arrived, giving him a reserved smile.

“Your people okay?” Alec asked, ignoring the groaning figure surrounded by Downworlders. He glanced over the other bodies lying on the ground, some of them with their throats torn out, some shredded by claws, some just ripped apart. All of them bore Circle runes. “I don’t recognize any of these people.”

Luke nodded. “I’m guessing the Shadowhunters who were actually supposed to be backing you up are floating down the Hudson now. Except for this one.” He gestured to the man his people were guarding. “I know I’ve seen him around the Institute. The Circle rune on his neck is brand new.”

The guards backed away, allowing Alec to approach. He muttered a curse. “Duncan.”

Alec couldn’t remember when Duncan had transferred in. Possibly around the time Lydia had taken over the Institute the first time, or shortly thereafter, when the Clave had been sending them reinforcements under the conviction that the Institute was at risk.

“Guess we should be grateful it’s not someone we’ve known our whole lives this time,” Izzy murmured sadly.

Duncan had deep claw gouges crossing his abdomen. Alec could see his viscera bulging through the shreds of his flesh.

Izzy squatted beside him. “Peritoneum is still intact.” She brandished her stele and drew it over Duncan’s iratze. “You’re lucky. Your organs haven’t fallen out and your angelic healing still works. At least until the next full moon.”

“No,” he groaned, his entire body shaking. In shock or revulsion, Alec couldn’t say. “Just kill me. I won’t be one of those animals.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Maia said, disgust dripping from every word. Behind her, several werewolves growled. “You think you’re badass enough to slaughter us, but you don’t have the balls to try to live as one of us?”

Luke crouched opposite Izzy. “Look, man, I get it. I was a Circle member before I got Turned. I know how hard it is to accept what you’re gonna become. It’ll get better. In time, you’ll realize Valentine’s people are wrong in everything they told you about us. We’re just people, trying to live our lives.”

Duncan glared at them and said nothing.

Alec sighed. “Duncan, you have a wife and a little brother working in the Institute. If I recall correctly, you’re raising your wife’s niece, too. You’ve got people who will miss you if you don’t come home.”

“I can’t go home like this! There is no home for me anymore,” he said, choking on a sob. “Just kill me already!”

“It’s not that easy. I need answers.” Alec touched Izzy’s shoulder and she rose, making room for him to kneel in her place. He slid his seraph blade slowly into its holster, watching Duncan’s eyes track the movement like that blade was his very salvation. “Izzy, call the Institute, tell them we need a prisoner escorted to the holding cells. He can wait for full moon in there.”

“No!” Duncan clutched at his arm. “No. Please. I’ll tell you everything I know. Just promise me you’ll slit my throat when I’m done.”

Alec met Luke’s eyes, and Luke shrugged. “I can’t make him want to live. And I doubt the pack’s gonna want him around. Do what you want with him.”

Alec grimaced. “Who recruited you?” he demanded, refusing to extend the promise Duncan sought.

“Aldertree.” Duncan’s answer came without hesitation. “He said he felt the same way I did about Downworlders, and he knew others who thought like that too.”

“What did he want from you?”

“He wanted me to try to spread anti-Downworld sentiment in the Institute. Said a war was coming, and our people would be safer if they weren’t conflicted about where their loyalties should lie.” He sneered at Alec. “He said I needed to remind them of their purpose. They were being misled by demon-loving traitors like you.”

Alec scoffed, but he refused to rise to the bait. “When did you know it was the Circle you were working for?”

“I didn’t. Not until tonight. But I wouldn’t have cared if I had known. The Circle wasn’t wrong! My parents were friends of the Whitelaws who ran the Institute before the uprising. One of my first memories is attending their Rite of Mourning with my mother in tears beside me. The Circle tried to protect them, while the Clave did nothing.”

“I was there that night,” Luke said. “I was still part of the Circle then. Those werewolves didn’t kill the Whitelaws, the Circle did. We did.”

Alec swallowed. “Including my parents?”

Luke nodded, meeting his eyes apologetically.

Alec closed his eyes for a moment, then forced his mind back to the matter at hand. “Why doesn’t anyone know about that?”

“The Circle lied to the Clave to cover it up and blamed the werewolves, and the Clave was happy to believe them.” Luke shook his head in disgust. “That’s when I understood what the Circle had become. Wasn’t long after that Valentine tried to feed me to the werewolves. Literally.”

Duncan looked from Luke to Alec. “You’re just going to let him lie about your family like this?”

Alec rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I don’t believe it’s a lie. If fact, I’m certain if I called my mother, she’d confirm every word of Luke’s story. My parents did terrible things with the Circle. But they were wrong, and they know it. They’re trying to be better people now.”

Alec didn’t like the twisted smile Duncan gave him. “You don’t know anything.”

“Enough of this.” Alec pushed himself up from the pavement, towering over Duncan. “How many Circle plants are there in the Institute?”

“As far as I know, I’m the only one. If there were others, Aldertree never told me.”

“And who is your contact in the Circle now?”

Duncan rocked his head back and forth with a sort of manic desperation. “I don’t know. No one contacted me again or asked anything else of me after Aldertree left. But when I was assigned to the mission tonight, I got a fire message warning me the Circle would attack any Shadowhunters who were dispatched with me, and that I’d better be on the right side when it happened. They gave me the Circle rune before you arrived, after the other Shadowhunters were dealt with. That’s all I know, I swear!”

Alec swiped a hand through his hair and stalked away. At his hip, his phone chimed with a text alert.

“You have to kill me!” Duncan called after him. “Please, I answered your questions!”

“Do it yourself,” Alec snapped over his shoulder. His phone chimed again. “Or contact your Circle comrades. I’m sure they’ll be glad to do it for you. Luke, Raphael, can I have a word with you, please?”

A third message came through as he stood off the the side, waiting for Luke and Raphael to speak with their people and join him. As they approached, he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, then pitched his voice low.

“Look, I received some intelligence from the Clave earlier that you should be aware of. Understand this is classified. I’m committing high treason by telling you, but—”

“Alec!” Izzy called urgently, running toward him, waving her phone. “You need to get back to the Institute, right now! Magnus was badly wounded out on the mission with Clary and Jace.”

“What?”

“Go, man,” Luke said, shoving Alec on the shoulder. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it later. We’ll make arrangements for an urgent summit meeting tomorrow and let you know when and where. Go be with your husband.”

Alec nodded, his throat tight. “Thank you,” he said wholeheartedly, and sprinted away with Izzy on his heels.

On to Chapter 16!

Please, if you’ve enjoyed this fanfic, consider buying some of my books, or buying me a cup of coffee!

[plot-twist42-blog]

On advice from a trusted source, I won’t be posting full stories here, just exerpts and filled prompts (and some other junk). Below is an exerpt from the short story that got me into Grad School!

Finally getting to see the space beyond her cell was not inspiring. Hailey was being kept in the last unit at the end of a lengthy hallway. Rust crept down the bars of each empty cell and the concrete floor was covered in dirt and garbage, crumpled up balls of paper dotting the cement like urban tumbleweed on pause. 

They placed a black sack over her head before leading her from the cellblock. Hailey fought back the panic she felt scrabbling at the back of her throat as the heavy canvas fell over her face, choosing instead to count each step they took towards their destination. They got to forty-six before they stopped. Hailey heard an ear-splitting creak as someone opened a door. The man gripping her right arm squeezed it tight as he pushed her forward. Someone drew the sack off her head.  

The room they had led her to was made of the same bare cement of her cell. It gave Hailey the impression of a disused factory. Gray was quickly becoming her least favorite color. There was a tall wooden chair in the very middle, fitted with steel restraints and stained dark in places. A long wooden counter with a sink against the back wall was covered with tools: knives and pliers and hammers, oh my. Hailey’s vision went sideways as her pulse jammed itself into her throat. The men pushed her forward and she stumbled, almost falling, but they caught her and dragged her to the chair. The restraints felt like bands of ice around her wrists, ankles, and neck.

The men left her alone. She tried to count the seconds but she was so exhausted she couldn’t focus. Behind her, the faucet on the sink was dripping. The slow, tinny noise somehow made the silence between drops even louder. Hailey began scratching tiny furrows into the soft wood of the chair arm with her fingernails until splinters embedded themselves in the pads of her fingers. The sharp sting of it kept her awake.

After what felt like an eternity, the door opened. A woman came into the room, the scarred man trailing after her, doing his best to emulate every bad bodyguard stereotype. She wasn’t dressed in bloody rags, like Hailey might have guessed, but as though she had come from a business meeting. Her pristine, pearl-colored blouse was tucked neatly into a charcoal pencil skirt. She wore a pair of sensible, close-toed high heels and her blonde hair was swept up into an elegant knot at the back of her head. There wasn’t a single hair out of place. Hailey got the impression that she had intimidated the strands into compliance. The scarred man held a charcoal suit jacket in one meaty hand. Thinking of him as a glorified coatrack made a wild burst of laughter bubble up her throat, but she bit it down. She could see his other hand, wrapped around the hilt of a very sharp knife. Antagonizing him would surely not end well. The woman stopped a few steps away from where Haile’s chair, watching her silently for a moment before speaking. The knife held at least eight-three percent of Hailey’s attention; the other seventeen percent caught on the woman’s words out of a deeply entrenched streak of self-preservation.

“Hello, Hailey.” Her voice was rougher than Hailey thought it would be; it reminded her of wood cracking in a fire, popping in unexpected placed. It grated down her spine with an unpleasant tickle. “My name is Morgan Murdock. I have a job for you.”

“I don’t work for you,” Hailey replied automatically, her exhausted brain working at double speed in an attempt to catch up. With considerable effort, she managed to tear her eyes away from the scarred man’s knife.

“You do now,” she stated in a matter-of-fact voice, hands on her thin hips. Her nails were painted deep mauve. “It’s very simple: do what I ask you to do, and we’ll take care of you. Disobey us, and you will be disciplined. We understand that you’ll need some time to acclimate to our way of doing things, but we’re sure that in time you will come to appreciate what the Family has to offer you.”

The Family. Hailey could practically hear the capital letters. Her heart skipped a beat. She had heard of them, a group of mercenaries and assassins famous for hunting down mages and demon hunters and … coercing them into working for them. Torture, murder, smuggling, theft, kidnapping, slave trade; it seemed there was nothing The Family wasn’t willing to do for the right price. They had no loyalty to anything except money. As far as Hailey knew, they had no magic themselves, choosing instead to put powerful people to work for them. She thought she knew why they wanted her. Hailey had trained as an Infiltrator for the Archmage. Her family’s bloodline was strong; the Novak’s were known for their immense power. She had started training at fourteen, two years younger than what was typical. Despite the fact that her magic was now gone forever, her specialized training with martial weapons, hand-to-hand combat, potion and poison crafting, information gathering, and retrieval still made her a huge prize for people like The Family.

Hailey worked to keep her face devoid of recognition. “The family?”

Morgan’s smile grew. “Your family, now.”

“I already have a family,” Hailey growled, unable to keep the rage from her voice as she struggled against her restraints. She knew what was coming, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. Home, mother, brother. “I don’t work for you.”

Morgan struck her backhanded across the face with enough force to split her lip.

“Disobedience leads to punishment. It is always easier to comply.” Turning her face slightly, she addressed the scarred man. “George, she doesn’t want to work for us. Change her mind.”

George grinned. The knife was every bit as sharp as it looked.