Not white like paint-white, or even fresh canvas white. White like pure water, snapped frozen. Like the pure chemical compound of emptiness made to cover every surface. The chair, the cushions, the rug, the soft padded floor, the bare cement walls, the netting around the bed with laced sheets and crocheted pillows.
The kind of white that made light look grey, and the girl's hair that was spread out over those pillows, pitch-dark. Black like void-space. Like emptiness that full-brightness. Dressed in the same coloured material, she was not the occupant of it, but merely a feature. Sprawled out over the sheets and fast asleep. Of course she is, she has always slept soundly when dreams don't happen. Her dreams aren't white, they're purple soaked. But it was only weariness of within, and not without. So, of course, she does not rise to the sound of unclean footsteps in her chambers.
For the war in the streets below her high, high tower, do not touch her. Oh, she knows of them, she sees them, when she is coaxed by her father to do so. Through her, he sees all, knows all, and all might be punished by her sight. She knows that it makes her a target for how powerful that makes him. But she has never been touched by those who she only deems as - below. Physically, mentally, away from her.
For Princesses were not to be touched, and an oracle of a daughter, could not be allowed to have her vision corrupted. That is what she had been told by her father, the Emperor, when he first began to keep her. Accepting of it, too young to know better, then, and not quite so understanding of anything else even with everything she saw. Because what she saw she could not imagine being part of to want to know otherwise. She did not exist among, and Jack was always quick to foster that feeling.
So he puts her far away, he puts her high and never tells her of particular dangers. Only of the vast great one that no one would need her like he needed her, that no one would know what she needed like he did. He gave her this vast emptiness and he called it her happiness.
Thus, she stayed, unknowing to any other plans to say different, and when someone comes into her rooms - she sleeps soundly, untroubled, deeply set in her dreams. Comfortably asleep, in a luxury that could be shared with the masses below, Jack insisted, if they would just stop fighting him and accept what they were bringing. He only had everyone's best interest at heart, after all. ]
[ Legends are only stories told by weak men, and weak men will always make up stories of great feats about themselves. Of slaying dragons, of conquering nations, of overthrowing powers beyond comprehension. Of painting the world with the blood of enemies and of extinguishing fear itself from their own hearts. Legends are born of a need to make oneself greater, they are a shield against future enemies. Strike wary and make others think twice and again before taking down a legend. The mind is stronger. Cleverness has the tendency to overcome ruthlessness. But both combined are dangerous. The thing is, Parker never believed in legends. She did believe in the cruelty of Man. She had seen it, over and over, long before the invading alliance came crashing through Earth. The thing is, cruelty from Jack is a higher plane that not many are able to achieve it. The atrocious actions lashed out on any opposing force quickly made rebellions thin out and submit. Quicker where the rich and powerful to strike deals and become right hands to him. Many wish they could be surprised, but most were not. The weakened rebellions struggled to push back, but giving up was never an option. Freedom or death for many of them. Some play a game longer than others - but it has just barely begun.
The outside is not as loud as you would have guessed. War is an odd thing. War is never-ending, but it sleeps on odd occasions. The last onslaught on the riots of the streets by Hyperion, the allied forces of Earth and Jack, has made it quieter in recent nights. But silence can be under the loudness of protesters. While activists push through the safe zones, holding their signs and screaming their throats raw, on the other side stand the handful of instigators. They carry the voices into action in silence.
Reading between the lines, it did not take long to see through Jack. A boastful creature, displaying his achievements like prizes, there is one thing he seems particularly careful in hiding. Whatever there is on the towering building in the heart of the city, he keeps it hidden. And Parker has to believe whatever it is, it's something precious.
The distractions begin early in the morning. The riots push too close to the city centre and it draws out more security. The clash of voices and strength is always distinct. The vibrations of opposition, the loudness of injustice. It rattles through the streets, their footsteps and instigated cries for freedom. They are more important than many give them credit, these people of many different background - the students, the fathers, the mothers, the young, the old. They shout for what they believe. And as they do and draw out the violence of Hyperion, a handful of rioters infiltrate the tower. It is not easy to do so, but with patience and careful planning, they slowly make their way, floor after floor. Climbing up the tower, it takes a lot longer than you would think. Finding the entrance to that room is even harder.
Eventually, it is Parker who volunteers to take the risk to slip in the room. They have to go around again and finally, she manages to find the way inside through the window. Had to go around, too high up to be spotted by anyone, and who would think anyone insane enough to crawl along the slick, slippery surface of the tower? The rain that falls makes it harder to hold on to the building, but it does not stop her.
The room hurts her eyes, too pristine, too clinical. It makes her feel uncomfortable. She is a stain of dirt against the chemical white of it. Maybe it is the cleanness of it, maybe it is not. Wet fingertips let drops trickle down against the floor and where she stands is soon stained, impossible to hide her presence in her dark clothes. Down the helmet she uses, the water trickles down slowly and loudly in the artificial silence of the room.
Her feet move forward then and as she does, the evidence is left there - the blood trickling down from the wound on her leg, hard scarlet against too much white. Her footsteps are lighter than they look, barely no sound at all, silent save for the soft sound click of a gun as she reaches back into her holster and pulls it out as she walks to the bed where the secret lies.
The barrel of the gun is cold, metallic, dark. It is rough and worn out. There are a million scratches on it, of long use. It is not a gun that has been recently acquired - it is a gun that tells a past, a true story and not a legend. It settles slow and oddly gentle, a juxtaposition against the action, under the chin of the girl. A little tighter then, to bring her out of the slumber. From her hands, water still trickles, down the drenched dirty clothes against soft pale skin, staining it grey and red and black and all that is tainted, from the wounds in the palm of her hands inflicted during the climb of hard stone and glass. She does not speak, however, just waiting for her to wake. Parker does not have much time. But she is not afraid. ]
A steady rain, a drip, drip, drip, thud, drip. It only seems to grow louder, grow colder, she shivers where she feels the trickle of it cold and slick and wet down her chin and her nose wrinkles, trying to turn her head away from it, but it does not leave her and she shivers once more, trying to loosen herself away from it. Still, nothing.
When it does not part from her, it draws her up, awake, a slow blink of half haze. An extension into herself, that crossover point of unawareness to true consciousness is slow, ill-done, clutching at the blanket and sucking a deep breath like her skin was an unwelcome feeling, and in many ways it is. Looking for what - what that feeling could be. Her head lifting, and when she meets the barrel of a gun and eyes she has never seen before, she draws in a breath. Mouth parted and her blue, blue eyes light from underneath, deep down depths. Pale but coloured in soft tones against all that colour that makes her flushed in comparison.
She tries to work out if she should feel something when she meets the face of death. She realises, she still can't manage much of anything. ]
[ The subtlety of the message under her words is lost in Parker. For her, what she hears is a girl that does not know what is happening and she frowns instead - hidden under the black helmet which mirrors Angel's face back at her, distorted by the opaque visor and rain drops. There is no sympathy of her ignorance, but she does not judge either. Maybe before she would, be irritated with her lack of reality. Days past, there would be no hesitation to bear voice for her convictions. Now, after all the loss she has suffered and endured, Parker is more careful, but not kinder. Trying to uphold herself to a better standard has always been a struggle, to keep away from a less moral path to achieve, what she believes, a greater good. Doing the right thing does not offer an easy solution. There are no heroes in war. ]
No. [ The voice that comes from it is covered with static, a microphone of low quality but purposefully so. Older, shittier tech impossible to be tracked down or taped. ] Get up.
[ Her bruised, hurt hands are steady, as if unaffected by the pain. She moves carefully, dragging the gun from her chin to her neck, down to the chest. Letting it unspoken, the threat of the gun. Her free hand reaches down to Angel's arm. She is not rough but neither is she gentle as her cold fingers wrap around and under her arm, dragging her up to pull her out of the comfort of her bed. ]
[ In the hours after the rest of their cohort - outsiders, exotics, whatever they are called - have left, Lakshmi Bai drags herself back to camp with a stomach wound, another ten years taken out of her life it feels like and a home she does not want but apparently seems to find herself now part of.
Which she doesn't let it stop her - what was she going to do mope? Hardly fitting for a Queen, one with enemies no less, now that Piotr had made her an officer in his armies. Ranked to ability that was undeniable, or words to that effect - she stood to be counted when the war was done.
If they survived it that long - she knew she affronted too many of their customs. A widow perhaps, but still a woman unmarried. A woman who refused to lower her eyes to barely even their Emperor, let alone to half the men that supposed themselves their betters. She was loathe to it - to being expected to fall into place just like that but - it wasn't just for her, was it? Piotr had a place to consider, a wife who was a princess of the blood, to borrow the term, and a position to maintain with dignity.
She could at least try a little for his sake.
Besides, if they thought she was putting on the appearance of confirming, they wouldn't pay attention to what she might be doing otherwise. So sets out her pieces on the board, waiting, the black and white chessboard - do they know, it came from her home? Such a simple thing, just a simple game, still here, still beloved, at the other end of the galaxy apparently.
The pieces set out, she leans back into her chair and her bandaged side protests. A faint grimace as she settles, holding stiff and then relaxing into where it hurts slightly less. Holding there until she sees Byerly step in, and she expects him - clearly, the way she looks to him immediately. Beckoning him to her.
He was as stuck here now, as she was. ] Byerly, join me if you will.
[ He's tired. He aches all over. He wonders if he's done the right thing - because is this possibly the right thing? To stay here, in this era, in these circumstances, in this time of war, when he could have returned home? He finds his hands nearly tremble with his hunger for Vorbarr Sultana, for a glass of wine, for a night spent on a bed stuffed with synthetic goose feathers with sheets made of synthetic silk - for a trip off-world - for the certainty of his home. Now that there's no chance of return, he wants it more than he thought possible. ]
Dear Rani.
[ He bows to her, a lock of hair falling over his forehead as he straightens. He settles down across from her. His smile is not, perhaps, fully convincing. ]
[ She still favours her side, even after resting the wound as long as she could possibly stand being still. Leaning her weight heavily on way, letting her arm hook back over the chair languidly to support herself. A faked ease, but held at least. Not so much because she doesn't expect it to be seen through by him with his sharp eyes, but simply that she couldn't allow herself to ever be less.
Sure that she looked as hellish after this war's end as he did. That exhaustion which was so palatable thing - but this wasn't her home. She could scarce imagine what it was to look over all of this and know your home laid in the balance, some future that was beyond you now. ]
It is good to see you alive, still. I thought the celebrations might have done you under in drink.
[ His eyes sweep over her, taking her in. Good to see you alive. It's...shocking, in its way, that she made it through. But that's the way of it, isn't it? Life isn't cruel all the time. Just most of it. ]
It is how I aspire to go. [ A hand, pressed to his chest, and a mock-wistful sigh. ] I've been working at it for years...One of these days it'll take.
It had taken every bit of her far-reaching ability to get her letter to the infamous Jacob Frye with her father not being able to know about it. One that said only her name, the date, time of the Featherton Ball, and instructions to meet her in the depths of the gardens.
She didn't think the stone walls would be a problem for an assassin of his ability. So Jack had ever told her to terrify her childhood stories of just what they were fighting against. Hiding in the depths of the shrubs of Lord Featherton's latest English Landscape Garden, that hung heavy with willows, cluttered with bushes loosely taped to give many a guest privacy. It was marriage season, and many a girl was trotted out to her have hooves inspected and teeth checked for a buyer.
In contrast, none of that was on her mind, what was she now? Twice married to men that had no idea what they were getting into. That didn't even see their deaths coming and - Angel, now, dowager to a considerable amount of lands, titles, and a wretched reputation to go along with it... but not in England. So that was where they were, now. It took jumping through hoops and excuses about feeling unwell for Jack to let go of his prize horse in this race. At least she had one thing on her side, the absolute knowledge that Jack was not as clever as he thought he was. It was her that made him the powerful man he was. It was her that played the stocks, and it was her that knew how to watch, play her hands, and Jack took the benefit from it with a heavy amount of his own mercilessness to ever come out on top.
She might have even been proud of how they worked together. Helping her father seemed like her whole world, once. When she didn't know what he was capable of. When there wasn't so much blood on both her hands. Now - now, she fiddles with the bow that Jack insisted on her pure white dress in silk and lace and made her feel like a cloud whispering over the ground, - she tosses her options like she played cards. That ... Jacob, he would listen. He would want to work with her.
Or that he would put those blades they all apparently carried, straight into her throat.
If there was ever proof of this feeling in her stomach, it was the realisation was that she knew it would be a mercy to her if he did.
But only time would tell, as she sunk back into the depths of greenery, half ghost-like and sickly for it. Waiting for which it would be with an eagerness she would never otherwise express. ]
[ As busy as they were trying to prise London free of the Templar's death grip, Jacob was not unaware of the wider events in the world. Correspondence between the Brotherhoods of various countries was not unknown, even if it was a stretch to call it regular. But he had heard about the various brutal murders that had happened elsewhere, attributed to an Angel. Jacob, as many of the other assassin's had, assumed the name was some vulgar reference to the Angel of Death. Very little was known of this so-called Angel, murders had occurred in various far-away places, but always those who had some financial or political clout. Clearly, the Angel was making room for someone to benefit, but the reports they received in London were disjointed, weeks out of date, and more often than not supposition rather than solid fact. There was no obvious evidence either way for who the Angel was, or who was their patron.
Even so, they had made what notes they could, Jacob had instructed the Rooks to listen out of further information on the Angel in the dank pubs and dens of London, and the message filtered out to their contacts at every port in the country. And then, one day, a whisper came back. The Angel was in England. And some days after that, the short note arrived for Jacob.
The Featherton Ball was an event that he was only vaguely aware of. He had as little to do with events of high society as possible, and the Featherton Ball was for the best in the land to bring their eligible sons and daughters together and treat them like livestock. It was one of the few things Jacob had to be thankful for: despite all of Ethan's faults, he had not attempted to marry either of his children off. Evie would never have submitted to it of course, but perhaps that was why he had not done it. Evie worshipped the ground he walked on, forcing her to marry would forever have turned her against him.
The invitation intrigued him. There was no explanation, no detail, only a name, a time, and a place. He did not connect the invitation to the notorious Angel of Death, if only because it seemed completely ridiculous that a woman of such status could have anything to do with a violent string of deaths. But he attended, if only to satisfy his curiosity.
The evening was dark enough, save the silvery light of the moon when it appeared from behind the light clouds. The garden, which was larger than most streets in Whitechapel, was planted densely enough for him to arrive sometime before the party began, and settle in to watch the carriages pull up on the drive. He could identify most of the guests but not all, and he certainly wasn't sure which of them was the young woman who had invited him here. But as the time for their meeting drew closer, and he made his way to the deepest part of the garden, perched up in a tree over the main path, he caught sight of a bright flash of white through the foliage. A dress, elegant in its design and almost certainly more expensive than most party frocks, and worn by a slight creature even smaller in stature than Evie.
He paused, remaining in the shadows a little longer to see if the young lady would be followed by a suitor or a chaperone, but it was clear after a minute that she was alone. Ah, this must be the girl. A moment passes in which he slips from his hiding place, and steps out from the undergrowth.]
I was expecting a garden party, not a Ball. But I suppose you haven't asked me here to dance.
[ Her skirts stay gathered up in one hand as she moved, unsure waiting. It's not that she is afraid of the meeting, she doesn't think, but that she is afraid of meeting. Being in close proximity to someone who she could not control, the way that her father exposed her and then cloistered her.
If he caught her alone outside so long, there will be one thing for her, she will be locked back in her chambers. She will stay there on meagre bread and water until she is reminded about everything she had to be thankful for. Did she know what he had come from, did she want to live like that?
The sound of his voice so suddenly in the dark makes her whirl, skittering on her heel like a startled deer. Her gloved hand reaching up to cover herself before she made a noise. Because for all her infamy, for her terrifying name to some, her eyes go wide, and she looks...
... Very much just like any young woman, barely grown, and terrified. But once she adjusts, her fingers slowly lower, curling in on her hand. ]
[ They say there's no rest for the wicked. And that's very much true, if Jacob Frye's schedule is anything to go by. Angel and her father are not the only Templar threat facing England, he still has everything in London to contend with. Besides, with Wilhelm dead, he has a little breathing space. No doubt Angel's father has a few things on his mind, and won't cause too much trouble in London yet. Or so he hopes.
He doesn't need more trouble right now. With Evie in India, Jacob has everything to deal with on his tod. He likes that. He can do things his way, he can focus on what he must do and not split his time between his priorities and Evie's little treasure hunts. He supposes that's unfair, really, but it is hard to come away from that thinking quickly. And he knows that Evie would never have looked into this.
Thankfully, Mrs Disraeli still has a soft spot for him, and when troubling matters pass through parliament, she more often than not will request he look into it. That is how he has come to hear of this new Automatic Gun. He's seen a Gatling Gun first hand, and hasn't much liked it. A weapon even more powerful than that, which does not require a man to crank and fire it, can never be allowed to fall into Templar hands. Unfortunately, the man who seems to be developing such a weapon is a known associate of some of the Templar Captains of Industry, and Jacob is willing to bet that if the man is not a Templar yet, he will be soon.
That is why he's sneaking into the man's home. There is a workshop in his estate, and Jacob plans to blow that to kingdom come as soon as the man himself is dealt with.
The man seems to be having supper with guests when Jacob slips through an upstairs window, glancing around the room and moving out into the corridor. There's a muffled noise of conversation and music from downstairs, and that's good, it means everyone is distracted by being social. Jacob can see if there's any plans hidden away in the man's private rooms and study, and then wait for him to come up to bed before getting rid of him.
It sounds like a fantastic plan. What could go wrong? ]
[ What could go wrong? It was hard to sneak away from the gathering when it came. After all, how Disraeli pawed at her, wanting her. His new little bauble. Praised her soft white skin. Her eyes, everything but that fact that she could beat him in a game of chess, checkers and cards.
Erg.
It was boring, having to praise him so insipidly. Heaping the words onto him. It was pathetically easy to lure him where she wanted him past a point. He was so sure he would have her this time, so sure that just as she thought she could get away ( excuses that she just wanted some quiet to go and be alone for a moment, with that weak little cough that was only half faked for the thick haze of cigars, no one thought much of it, she, after all, was so slight, so fragile ) to start digging through his room for the plans for his factories. Then, he had appeared after her.
Shit, is the first thought. Go away, is the second. But what comes out of her face is a smile, a little laugh unbeknownst to someone else be in the room but him and her. ]
You found me, at long last.
[ How sweet she sounds, how forlorn, a painters idea of a lover waiting on the desk as Disraeli moves in closer, too involved to think about the fact she was in his study for any other reason. She sags against the edge of the desk, her skirts blue this evening, flickered with gold thread, her hair piled up in braids on her head.
Waits for him to come close, how he boxes her in. Tilting her head back so he could kiss her - Good, concentrate on that you great dolt.
Just as he seems so sure of himself, smugly involved in kissing her, she jabs him in the neck. Not with her fist, God knew there was no strength in that, and not even harshly. But with the concealed needle hidden in her cuff of lacey sleeves. It takes a few seconds, enough time for him to roughly slide his hands everywhere.
Then all at once, he slides down onto the floor in a pile. Snoring loudly almost immediately. Angel's face scrunches up, wretched. ]
You dolt, why couldn't you stay downstairs like you were supposed to you? Now what am I going to do with you, you useless fucking -
[ There was always going to be a consequence to all this messing around. All this freedom. The months she has lived without apology to anyone and everyone whilst blending in as just the woman who lived in the first carriage of the Rooks train. The engagement she'd dodged just barely. The husband that she had avoided in doing so, the death that would follow. Did that prat even know that she had saved him by way of a selfish action taken in a split second? Probably not. They never did. The only thing they cared about was themselves, most of the time.
That's what used to make it so easy to do what Jack asked. Until it hadn't been enough anymore.
But Jacob had given her all the things Jack had said weren't true. He had shown her what friendship was, about having someone who would listen to her. Finding people who cared and were interested in more than just what she was useful for. How long she spent, if not throwing cards with the Rooks, sitting in Alec's laboratory, fingers working quickly to help him with fuses and on chalkboards, having her equations taken seriously, shared, built with. Someone who didn't rip her dream-visions out of her body like iron out of stone, then scorn her marked body afterwards for some twisted remnant of the First Civilisation. Jacob always sat, and listened, as she gestured over maps, lines over the globe, and worked out how they could go together. She wasn't left behind under the guise of her own good.
Not to mention... the other things. Spending all her mornings in bed, Jacob under the blankets with her. Tasting beer on his lips late at night, feeling her skin ache in his hand that was always a little rough. Wrapping her legs around him, holding him tightly, what it was like to shake and it not be from pain and hurt, but having all over herself given over to something and someone who cared. How good it could be to feel that and only that, in a hundred different ways. Her back dug into brick walls, supported and pinned by his weight when they both were foggy in the haze of opium and drink, high after his fights. Thick in the air with blood and purpose. When he stopped by on his running about of a day, just to kiss her hard and fast and all sharp grins, wanting more. That no matter how often he lit her markings up bright as the Ones Who Came Before Temples, he still always wanted her, let her, for once, like herself too.
That he did it all, and never looked back about any of it. Showed her that she could too.
Even if right now - as she gnaws on the side of her lips, picking at her nails where they're sat in her lap: the happiness she felt for months was washing away, taken back out to sea, and all the brightness that had built up in her, left too. To leave that scared, small woman she'd arrived as. The newspaper was in front of her, spread open, to see the drawing made years ago of her, just after her first wedding, there on the page, with the page of her husband to be on the opposite page. Even if they hadn't been confirmed. Telling a tragic tale, over the pages in a huge spread of an article. Dramatic, the sort of story that deserved the front page, and she laughs bitterly, she bet Jack paid top dollar for this misery that couldn't be further from the truth.
But truth never stopped Jack. The thing with him, that was always the thing with him. He wouldn't kill, not like that, not when he wasn't absolutely sure he could win, he was too much of a coward. No, he'd twist, and break, and destroy easy things underneath first to gain the control he needed first. Why it made him such a good Templar, made it so easy for him to step into the shoes left behind of all the people Jacob had killed. She could read between the lines of this so easy. What he meant when he spilt his proverbial heart. 'My daughter, was taken from me, stolen by nefarious members of the Underworld.' It went on, 'I fear she has fallen into disrepute, from Which she can Never Recover, Angel has never been anything but a kind and obedient girl, who always followed her betters. But no matter such things, he must in good conscience, break off her engagement because it could only be assured that any female placed in such a circumstance would be misused. What is an Honourable Man to do when faced with such unspeakable acts? Can not a good man even have his daughter out safely in Good Society? How can he keep his family Safe? When such vile, despicable creatures lurked, ready to befoul the good women of society with their filthy lecherous touch.'
Her teeth clenched, she could feel the sweat prickling on her neck, cold and hot all over her body. That bite of the collar around her throat. Because this wasn't just a way to smear her name, her face, to make as many people aware of her as possible, to drag her back to him. Leave her nowhere else to go but back to him. He was making it plain. Worse, he didn't name the Rooks, Jacob, or even the Frye family. He didn't have to, it was dotted there. Clues. Hints, he knew where to look.
- And he was right. She was a fallen woman. By any respectable definition, now especially. She began to gnaw on her thumb. Biting the nail in little clips of her teeth. How could she not have noticed? Yes, yes, she noticed she was putting on weight. But then, Jacob didn't starve her in locked rooms or leave her in asylums. So what if she was sick most mornings? She'd always been at least a little sickly, the trains kicked up dust, especially when they went through tunnels, it left her coughing a great deal anyway, throwing up wasn't out of the equation. She never slept at decent times without a household either, so what did it mean if she wanted to all the time now?
Except apparently, that all did mean something. One particular something. There were women in the rooks, and even if they weren't all mothers themselves. They were sisters in big families. Seen their own mother's pregnant enough to know the signs with a sharp glance. Knew her well enough to know now, she wouldn't haven't the faintest clue given to their best guess, that she was somewhere near four months along. Because all her previous husband's had tried, rutted on her like damn dogs about it, but there hadn't been one before. No sickly little baby off this sickly little body, one had scoffed after her perceived failure. So why would it be different with Jacob? Maybe because, you idiot, you never stopped to think about it as more than a few nights, and not the weeks you've spent in his bed. Groaning, she felt faint headed. But as soon as she shed her corset, there was no mistaking it. Then came the firm instruction that she wasn't to put the thing back on, and worse, when was she going to tell Jacob about it?
( She could definitely say the only thing Jacob had noticed was that she didn't like him lying on her chest so much anymore, if only because he grumbled when she poked him to move. )
Now, there was this. This article, all over the front page. Had he seen the paper this morning? God, she hoped not. This was going to be bad enough to talk through. She was going to have to ask him for extra money out of the very considerate pension for her own expenses he gave her. He hated doctors, she knew, but she was going to have to find a very particular kind, and that wasn't going to be cheap. Especially now. But it would have to be now, Jack had inadvertently made sure of that.
... And like clockwork, she could hear him. It was about time for him to arrive. A little after 2am, by her count. Her lamp burning, and she heard the knock on her carriage door. It took her a second, to finally pry her lips apart from the fear of - everything - to speak. ] I'm awake, it's fine, come in.
[ Jacob knows that he likes company. On his own terms, of his own choosing. Just as Evie had preferred to pick her own friends, rather than always been attached to her brother. They had driven each other mad, and it had been as much her fault as it had been his that they drifted apart. They might have sorted out their differences, but the bond that had made them inseparable as children had been severed, and it was only inevitable that one of them would leave.
Maybe it's not Evie he misses, it's the presence of someone else. The Rooks are good. Agnes is a star, the best train manager one could hope for. Alec is a good friend, as is Freddy and the others. But somehow it's not the same.
Angel is... not the same either. Angel is something more than company. She's like Alec and Freddy and the Rooks combined. Smart, capable, with the sort of scientific understanding that escapes him. Logical. Always willing to help him if she can, either to scope out a target or make a hit, although he knows she'd rather keep the blood from her hands now. She's more than company. She was never going to be a replacement to Evie, although he doesn't think he ever thought that. They only have surface similarities- capable women who can kill as easily as look at a man, far more intelligent than he is. But there the similarities end.
He never bothered about making sure he was back at the train every night before. The Rooks would tell Evie if he'd died, and it's easier to pass out in a rented room behind a pub, or hunker down in the shelter of warm chimneys. Now he makes sure he comes back. He makes sure that there are always a few heavy, well-trusted men and a few sharpshooters on the train. He's had the armour upgraded too, and Agnes has improved the top speed of the engine by twenty percent.
Why? Because of Angel. Because while he knows she can kill as efficiently as he can, he doesn't know if she can protect herself against the sort of men who have tried to come after him in the past.
And now, thanks to her father, will probably come after him again. Jack Darling is no fool, he won't be following one line of attack. There's this piece in the Times, another in the Gazette, one in every major publication in London and the home counties. That'll work on Jacob's social betters, even if he does have a Knighthood. He doesn't much care about that. He does care about the fact Jack'll have every snot-nosed bastard south of Oxford sniffing around, trying to return little Angel to her father and put a knife between his ribs. It leaves a very bad taste in his mouth, and he's spent the last hour or so wondering how best to deal with it.
He comes home as chipper as he can. She's probably seen the paper, because, and this is another of those similarities with Evie, Angel likes to stay well informed. As upset as he knows she'll be, he can be positive. He's dealt with worse things than bad press and a few hired thugs. He cleared London of Templars, he can damn well deal with one more.
So he opens up the door at her call, carefully holding two cups in the one hand, before he hands one over to her. Hot sweet tea helps settle a stomach, and a hot toddy for him. He doesn't know if it'll help her nausea, but it's what everyone keeps suggesting.]
I didn't know if you'd fallen asleep with your nose in a book. Again.
[ Even if it's - all going to hell. Quick as one of her and Alec's explosion experiments, it's still good to see him. She doesn't know what that means, really. But it's always good to see him. Whether it was in the middle of the night, or the first thing in the morning, or right now, when she feels sick to her stomach any time she thinks about leaving this carriage, it's still good to see him. She smiles, reaching for the cup. ]
Not yet.
[ She curls her fingers around each side. Blowing on it softly, trying to figure out how to start this conversation.
Probably about as subtly as Jacob did almost everything. She keeps her eyes down on the tea, trying to cover the worst of it. She hasn't been this jumpy in weeks, but it isn't a surprise, probably. That the loud thud of the carriage against the tracks makes her skitter. That sound of people outside when they go through the stations makes her shoulders go tense and it takes her minutes to try and calm down again. ]
[ What stretches out in front of him, is a wasteland. Not, not some nuclear fallout, ancient earth notion of the end of the world. Not something man made, where once there was good and then there was bad.
No, it is the growth of bad things over worse things, the living, over the dead. Waste. To be wasting. But, oh, how Pandora wastes things away. It takes the best, the worst, and everything else from all of the galaxy, all six fountains of human life, mingles it, chews it like a skag eats it dinner, and hurls it back up again. Bits of viscera, flesh and white, white bone left in the sun.
It is not just that Pandora takes, it is that it strips, down to the very bare of a person and twice as bloody.
She doesn't know if he's going to last very long. Statistically, and she runs them now like a minute hand on a clock, ticking over constantly, statistically, he wouldn't. There were thousands of deaths to die, and only one way to live, and judging by his past pattern of behaviour (carry the two, plus the one), it didn't look good for him.
But it never did for anyone. That had never stopped her, in her own way, from believing in each and every one of them.
It's by virtue of his enhancements, that she could appear to him. It's by his friend's money that she didn't have to limit her scope, to just a voice, some glowing eyes that watch him through his screen. No, as William wanders through the town of Scrapshot, looking for his friend, Angel - his new Guardian Angel, flickers digitally to life.
In person, she isn't that much to behold, but here, in the scope of the digital world she shimmered with her power. Wings that unfurled around her, a body made of blue digital flickering light. Inconstant, if only because of the satellites she's had to jump her mind through to reach him especially, it weakens the signal. But she stands there, all the same, letting him adjust to the shape in the distance, mirage like. ]
William, [ she calls to him, firm, direct, like she knows him. Knows him like a friend. Because she knew him as more than one. His life in front of her to be absorbed at the brush of her mind. ] It's okay, William. You're not alone. I know you're worried about your friend. But don't be scared - I promise, I'm here to help.
[ and she waits, a silence that is patient, for him to respond. ]
there is a look in your eyes, i know just what it means - ;
She didn't expect the knock on her door, this late at night. Already come back from one party, and in the process of kicking her heels, not inside for more than ten minutes, with a glass of wine in hand, cheap jewellery and a little black dress dancing around her living room for the last bit before she had to put herself to bed. Cigarette on her lips, the tacky smell of dollar store perfume that was inevitable for hanging around in women's bathrooms in cheap clubs in the east end.
But the heavy baseline of whatever it was she was listening to was broken up by the bang of a heavy fist. What the - ?
Angel jumped, scrambling on her bare feet to the door, to see who was the other side.
( She might have put so much of her Father's work behind her, but that didn't mean she was an idiot. She was a Darling, and she knew, one day, everything Jack did would catch up to her, and that would mean to her too. )
She didn't expect to see Jacob fucking Frye, leaning on her door, looking like hell had spat him back out. Shit, shit, was he bleeding? What the hell had he done? Shit, not him. God, not him. Was it Jack? She couldn't be sure. Knew, knew Jacob would have his own enemies, without piling the problems of screwing around with an American mob bosses daughter on top of it.
Angel doesn't waste any more time, yanking open the bolts ( at least two more than needed ). Pulling the door in a rush, leaning up to catch him. How similar this felt, to a childhood ago, when she'd wander out in the middle of the night, to find Jack slumped, bleeding, over the kitchen table trying to stitch himself back up. How little she understood it then, how well she does now.
Jacob never liked to answer questions about what kind of work he did.
Grabbing him with both hands, she hauls him through the door. "Jacob? Are they still out there?"
She's in. He knows she's in by the music that makes it's muffled way out from under the door, from the lights he'd seen at her window as he'd approached the dorms.
He could have gone to a hospital. He probably should have gone to Evie, but neither of those options appeals. Hospitals report this sort of shit to the police, and Evie is worse than the police. He nagging would be worse than an interrogation by bored, over-weight men in a blank room. Her anger would be much worse than any warning or caution on his already rather impressive record. He'd rather pay bail than deal with his sister.
Hell, he'd rather go to prison.
The laughter makes him hurt, makes the bruised ribs sting more than they already do. But it's hard to clutch at them when his arm feels like it does, full of pins and needles. The bullet only nicked him, he knows that, but it's still bleeding like the bloody devil and he can't do anything about it. Typically, he thinks, he's fucked up his right arm and his left side. Only an idiot manages to do that.
"Come on Angel," He hisses, as the bolts slide back and he feels himself almost collapse inwards, leaning too heavily on the door and once it's open, having to rebalance himself and focus on her question at the same time and trying to ignore the red stain on the white paint in the hallway as he steps in.
"Are who still out there?" He says, between gritted teeth, and then curses as her hand presses a little too close to his ribs. "Don't touch. Lemme... lemme just... take a minute."
Frankly, he's impressed to have got to her before collapsing or crashing. It's taken at least ten minutes to drive here, one-handed, without getting spotted by any police cars or patrols, and to get passed the security on the door downstairs. But now he's running on almost empty.
She catches him, getting an arm around his back as she hauls him the rest of the way into the room, kicking the door with her bare foot shut behind them.
"Jesus, Jacob - " it's breathed out, pulling him step by step, trying to avoid where the blood is coming from. It's running over her fingers. Staining them red on her fair skin. God - where did she put her first aid kit? Somewhere, somewhere. He looked like hell. He looked worse than that. Even when she knew he'd been up to something, the kind of things she'd made sure never to ask about.
More importantly, where did she put her gun?
" - Whoever did this, that's who. Do I need to get rid of them?"
Her goal isn't far, the kitchen table that once they reach, she shoves all her books off, to sit him on the edge.
[ This long-drawn guerrilla turns life into a series of dust-covered tunnels leading to secret stairways and basements, rooms in brothels with the windows sealed shut to keep the sins from slipping out. The things precious to them must be hidden to be kept safe. It is a paltry life for anyone, an existence made too small to bear, let alone for a queen.
As for herself, well, she has long considered herself nothing at all. And so she wants for nothing. To make her bed on the musty floor is comfort enough, to ration moonlight from the gaps between the soiled curtains is beauty enough to behold (even then, some nights she dreams still of wide open skies, so blue and vast that she could almost reach out to rest her fingertips upon its soft surface, and overhead, an eagle caws for its young). But ah, it is cruelty to dream of plenty in times of scarcity. When even a queen cannot order her most favored man to stay by her side, it is such a paltry existence indeed.
Shuyi counts, one, two, three, four, five. Is it enough time yet that to speak would not be to wound? ]
Is it because he is a knight that he is dear to you?
[ It is a pity, that words spoken can never be unsaid, for now she purses her lips in regret over her own insouciance. If only her voice could be drawn back and put into the bag in her hand, one by one like what remains of her necessities: weapons, food, that is all. ]
Or do you call him that to give him a mask to wear. To keep from knowing too much.
[ Her hands are braced on the edge of the table. Her head hung low, the sway of gold glittering at her brow with her eyes closed. Trying to measure her breath against the shout in her chest. That wants still, to tear down the stairs after him. To stand by his side and fight for a friend that meant much to both of them.
Her fingers curl around tightly. Holding, holding, holding. She is always just holding onto something. Held so long that she didn't know how to let go unless it was pulled, and even then, it always went with claw marks dug in.
Lakshmi's head does not rise when Shuyi speaks. Her feet braced hard, her shoulders stiff. She will have to move, soon. But this is how she can grieve. Because she knows she might lose them both tonight, and if life has taught her anything, it is that is her fate.
But looks at her hand, looks at her fingers where she could still feel his over them. Lets out a slow, long, thin breath. ]
[ As the man said as he turned his back to the both of them. Courage begets courage, as one might say. That is, foolishness begets more foolishness. As the seconds wear on, Shuyi finds less need to bite her tongue because these could be the last words she might ever speak to her friend. Coddled words are of no worth in times like these. ]
What will you call him now? Nobody?
[ She keeps her voice low, barely rising above the carnal sounds seeping from the next room, too soft to wound, or so she hopes. Then it occurs to her, that if she had to have someone dear twist a blade into her heart that she would rather it be fierce, unforgiving, and certain. There is so little time to say the things that matter, or to wound in order to let heal.
Shuyi looks up from her own busy hands to look at Lakshmi's back to her, unyielding as ever. This time she raises her voice. ]
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The outside is not as loud as you would have guessed. War is an odd thing. War is never-ending, but it sleeps on odd occasions. The last onslaught on the riots of the streets by Hyperion, the allied forces of Earth and Jack, has made it quieter in recent nights. But silence can be under the loudness of protesters. While activists push through the safe zones, holding their signs and screaming their throats raw, on the other side stand the handful of instigators. They carry the voices into action in silence.
Reading between the lines, it did not take long to see through Jack. A boastful creature, displaying his achievements like prizes, there is one thing he seems particularly careful in hiding. Whatever there is on the towering building in the heart of the city, he keeps it hidden. And Parker has to believe whatever it is, it's something precious.
The distractions begin early in the morning. The riots push too close to the city centre and it draws out more security. The clash of voices and strength is always distinct. The vibrations of opposition, the loudness of injustice. It rattles through the streets, their footsteps and instigated cries for freedom. They are more important than many give them credit, these people of many different background - the students, the fathers, the mothers, the young, the old. They shout for what they believe. And as they do and draw out the violence of Hyperion, a handful of rioters infiltrate the tower. It is not easy to do so, but with patience and careful planning, they slowly make their way, floor after floor. Climbing up the tower, it takes a lot longer than you would think. Finding the entrance to that room is even harder.
Eventually, it is Parker who volunteers to take the risk to slip in the room. They have to go around again and finally, she manages to find the way inside through the window. Had to go around, too high up to be spotted by anyone, and who would think anyone insane enough to crawl along the slick, slippery surface of the tower? The rain that falls makes it harder to hold on to the building, but it does not stop her.
The room hurts her eyes, too pristine, too clinical. It makes her feel uncomfortable. She is a stain of dirt against the chemical white of it. Maybe it is the cleanness of it, maybe it is not. Wet fingertips let drops trickle down against the floor and where she stands is soon stained, impossible to hide her presence in her dark clothes. Down the helmet she uses, the water trickles down slowly and loudly in the artificial silence of the room.
Her feet move forward then and as she does, the evidence is left there - the blood trickling down from the wound on her leg, hard scarlet against too much white. Her footsteps are lighter than they look, barely no sound at all, silent save for the soft sound click of a gun as she reaches back into her holster and pulls it out as she walks to the bed where the secret lies.
The barrel of the gun is cold, metallic, dark. It is rough and worn out. There are a million scratches on it, of long use. It is not a gun that has been recently acquired - it is a gun that tells a past, a true story and not a legend. It settles slow and oddly gentle, a juxtaposition against the action, under the chin of the girl. A little tighter then, to bring her out of the slumber. From her hands, water still trickles, down the drenched dirty clothes against soft pale skin, staining it grey and red and black and all that is tainted, from the wounds in the palm of her hands inflicted during the climb of hard stone and glass. She does not speak, however, just waiting for her to wake. Parker does not have much time. But she is not afraid. ]
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A steady rain, a drip, drip, drip, thud, drip. It only seems to grow louder, grow colder, she shivers where she feels the trickle of it cold and slick and wet down her chin and her nose wrinkles, trying to turn her head away from it, but it does not leave her and she shivers once more, trying to loosen herself away from it. Still, nothing.
When it does not part from her, it draws her up, awake, a slow blink of half haze. An extension into herself, that crossover point of unawareness to true consciousness is slow, ill-done, clutching at the blanket and sucking a deep breath like her skin was an unwelcome feeling, and in many ways it is. Looking for what - what that feeling could be. Her head lifting, and when she meets the barrel of a gun and eyes she has never seen before, she draws in a breath. Mouth parted and her blue, blue eyes light from underneath, deep down depths. Pale but coloured in soft tones against all that colour that makes her flushed in comparison.
She tries to work out if she should feel something when she meets the face of death. She realises, she still can't manage much of anything. ]
Have you come to free me?
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No. [ The voice that comes from it is covered with static, a microphone of low quality but purposefully so. Older, shittier tech impossible to be tracked down or taped. ] Get up.
[ Her bruised, hurt hands are steady, as if unaffected by the pain. She moves carefully, dragging the gun from her chin to her neck, down to the chest. Letting it unspoken, the threat of the gun. Her free hand reaches down to Angel's arm. She is not rough but neither is she gentle as her cold fingers wrap around and under her arm, dragging her up to pull her out of the comfort of her bed. ]
Let's go.
for byerly
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Dear Rani.
[ He bows to her, a lock of hair falling over his forehead as he straightens. He settles down across from her. His smile is not, perhaps, fully convincing. ]
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Sure that she looked as hellish after this war's end as he did. That exhaustion which was so palatable thing - but this wasn't her home. She could scarce imagine what it was to look over all of this and know your home laid in the balance, some future that was beyond you now. ]
It is good to see you alive, still. I thought the celebrations might have done you under in drink.
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[ His eyes sweep over her, taking her in. Good to see you alive. It's...shocking, in its way, that she made it through. But that's the way of it, isn't it? Life isn't cruel all the time. Just most of it. ]
It is how I aspire to go. [ A hand, pressed to his chest, and a mock-wistful sigh. ] I've been working at it for years...One of these days it'll take.
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I think I fucked up that last tag but I am not sure where laughs
hey girl hey
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Even so, they had made what notes they could, Jacob had instructed the Rooks to listen out of further information on the Angel in the dank pubs and dens of London, and the message filtered out to their contacts at every port in the country. And then, one day, a whisper came back. The Angel was in England. And some days after that, the short note arrived for Jacob.
The Featherton Ball was an event that he was only vaguely aware of. He had as little to do with events of high society as possible, and the Featherton Ball was for the best in the land to bring their eligible sons and daughters together and treat them like livestock. It was one of the few things Jacob had to be thankful for: despite all of Ethan's faults, he had not attempted to marry either of his children off. Evie would never have submitted to it of course, but perhaps that was why he had not done it. Evie worshipped the ground he walked on, forcing her to marry would forever have turned her against him.
The invitation intrigued him. There was no explanation, no detail, only a name, a time, and a place. He did not connect the invitation to the notorious Angel of Death, if only because it seemed completely ridiculous that a woman of such status could have anything to do with a violent string of deaths. But he attended, if only to satisfy his curiosity.
The evening was dark enough, save the silvery light of the moon when it appeared from behind the light clouds. The garden, which was larger than most streets in Whitechapel, was planted densely enough for him to arrive sometime before the party began, and settle in to watch the carriages pull up on the drive. He could identify most of the guests but not all, and he certainly wasn't sure which of them was the young woman who had invited him here. But as the time for their meeting drew closer, and he made his way to the deepest part of the garden, perched up in a tree over the main path, he caught sight of a bright flash of white through the foliage. A dress, elegant in its design and almost certainly more expensive than most party frocks, and worn by a slight creature even smaller in stature than Evie.
He paused, remaining in the shadows a little longer to see if the young lady would be followed by a suitor or a chaperone, but it was clear after a minute that she was alone. Ah, this must be the girl. A moment passes in which he slips from his hiding place, and steps out from the undergrowth.]
I was expecting a garden party, not a Ball. But I suppose you haven't asked me here to dance.
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If he caught her alone outside so long, there will be one thing for her, she will be locked back in her chambers. She will stay there on meagre bread and water until she is reminded about everything she had to be thankful for. Did she know what he had come from, did she want to live like that?
The sound of his voice so suddenly in the dark makes her whirl, skittering on her heel like a startled deer. Her gloved hand reaching up to cover herself before she made a noise. Because for all her infamy, for her terrifying name to some, her eyes go wide, and she looks...
... Very much just like any young woman, barely grown, and terrified. But once she adjusts, her fingers slowly lower, curling in on her hand. ]
You came. I didn't really think you would.
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okay even I want to punch Jack rn
the universal state: punch jack
sounds like a good option
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He doesn't need more trouble right now. With Evie in India, Jacob has everything to deal with on his tod. He likes that. He can do things his way, he can focus on what he must do and not split his time between his priorities and Evie's little treasure hunts. He supposes that's unfair, really, but it is hard to come away from that thinking quickly. And he knows that Evie would never have looked into this.
Thankfully, Mrs Disraeli still has a soft spot for him, and when troubling matters pass through parliament, she more often than not will request he look into it. That is how he has come to hear of this new Automatic Gun. He's seen a Gatling Gun first hand, and hasn't much liked it. A weapon even more powerful than that, which does not require a man to crank and fire it, can never be allowed to fall into Templar hands. Unfortunately, the man who seems to be developing such a weapon is a known associate of some of the Templar Captains of Industry, and Jacob is willing to bet that if the man is not a Templar yet, he will be soon.
That is why he's sneaking into the man's home. There is a workshop in his estate, and Jacob plans to blow that to kingdom come as soon as the man himself is dealt with.
The man seems to be having supper with guests when Jacob slips through an upstairs window, glancing around the room and moving out into the corridor. There's a muffled noise of conversation and music from downstairs, and that's good, it means everyone is distracted by being social. Jacob can see if there's any plans hidden away in the man's private rooms and study, and then wait for him to come up to bed before getting rid of him.
It sounds like a fantastic plan. What could go wrong? ]
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Erg.
It was boring, having to praise him so insipidly. Heaping the words onto him. It was pathetically easy to lure him where she wanted him past a point. He was so sure he would have her this time, so sure that just as she thought she could get away ( excuses that she just wanted some quiet to go and be alone for a moment, with that weak little cough that was only half faked for the thick haze of cigars, no one thought much of it, she, after all, was so slight, so fragile ) to start digging through his room for the plans for his factories. Then, he had appeared after her.
Shit, is the first thought. Go away, is the second. But what comes out of her face is a smile, a little laugh unbeknownst to someone else be in the room but him and her. ]
You found me, at long last.
[ How sweet she sounds, how forlorn, a painters idea of a lover waiting on the desk as Disraeli moves in closer, too involved to think about the fact she was in his study for any other reason. She sags against the edge of the desk, her skirts blue this evening, flickered with gold thread, her hair piled up in braids on her head.
Waits for him to come close, how he boxes her in. Tilting her head back so he could kiss her - Good, concentrate on that you great dolt.
Just as he seems so sure of himself, smugly involved in kissing her, she jabs him in the neck. Not with her fist, God knew there was no strength in that, and not even harshly. But with the concealed needle hidden in her cuff of lacey sleeves. It takes a few seconds, enough time for him to roughly slide his hands everywhere.
Then all at once, he slides down onto the floor in a pile. Snoring loudly almost immediately. Angel's face scrunches up, wretched. ]
You dolt, why couldn't you stay downstairs like you were supposed to you? Now what am I going to do with you, you useless fucking -
[ Language, Angel. ]
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closed }
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Maybe it's not Evie he misses, it's the presence of someone else. The Rooks are good. Agnes is a star, the best train manager one could hope for. Alec is a good friend, as is Freddy and the others. But somehow it's not the same.
Angel is... not the same either. Angel is something more than company. She's like Alec and Freddy and the Rooks combined. Smart, capable, with the sort of scientific understanding that escapes him. Logical. Always willing to help him if she can, either to scope out a target or make a hit, although he knows she'd rather keep the blood from her hands now. She's more than company. She was never going to be a replacement to Evie, although he doesn't think he ever thought that. They only have surface similarities- capable women who can kill as easily as look at a man, far more intelligent than he is. But there the similarities end.
He never bothered about making sure he was back at the train every night before. The Rooks would tell Evie if he'd died, and it's easier to pass out in a rented room behind a pub, or hunker down in the shelter of warm chimneys. Now he makes sure he comes back. He makes sure that there are always a few heavy, well-trusted men and a few sharpshooters on the train. He's had the armour upgraded too, and Agnes has improved the top speed of the engine by twenty percent.
Why? Because of Angel. Because while he knows she can kill as efficiently as he can, he doesn't know if she can protect herself against the sort of men who have tried to come after him in the past.
And now, thanks to her father, will probably come after him again. Jack Darling is no fool, he won't be following one line of attack. There's this piece in the Times, another in the Gazette, one in every major publication in London and the home counties. That'll work on Jacob's social betters, even if he does have a Knighthood. He doesn't much care about that. He does care about the fact Jack'll have every snot-nosed bastard south of Oxford sniffing around, trying to return little Angel to her father and put a knife between his ribs. It leaves a very bad taste in his mouth, and he's spent the last hour or so wondering how best to deal with it.
He comes home as chipper as he can. She's probably seen the paper, because, and this is another of those similarities with Evie, Angel likes to stay well informed. As upset as he knows she'll be, he can be positive. He's dealt with worse things than bad press and a few hired thugs. He cleared London of Templars, he can damn well deal with one more.
So he opens up the door at her call, carefully holding two cups in the one hand, before he hands one over to her. Hot sweet tea helps settle a stomach, and a hot toddy for him. He doesn't know if it'll help her nausea, but it's what everyone keeps suggesting.]
I didn't know if you'd fallen asleep with your nose in a book. Again.
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Not yet.
[ She curls her fingers around each side. Blowing on it softly, trying to figure out how to start this conversation.
Probably about as subtly as Jacob did almost everything. She keeps her eyes down on the tea, trying to cover the worst of it. She hasn't been this jumpy in weeks, but it isn't a surprise, probably. That the loud thud of the carriage against the tracks makes her skitter. That sound of people outside when they go through the stations makes her shoulders go tense and it takes her minutes to try and calm down again. ]
You've seen it?
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ok im here and ready to die
The correct frame of mind for Pandora.
No, it is the growth of bad things over worse things, the living, over the dead. Waste. To be wasting. But, oh, how Pandora wastes things away. It takes the best, the worst, and everything else from all of the galaxy, all six fountains of human life, mingles it, chews it like a skag eats it dinner, and hurls it back up again. Bits of viscera, flesh and white, white bone left in the sun.
It is not just that Pandora takes, it is that it strips, down to the very bare of a person and twice as bloody.
She doesn't know if he's going to last very long. Statistically, and she runs them now like a minute hand on a clock, ticking over constantly, statistically, he wouldn't. There were thousands of deaths to die, and only one way to live, and judging by his past pattern of behaviour (carry the two, plus the one), it didn't look good for him.
But it never did for anyone. That had never stopped her, in her own way, from believing in each and every one of them.
It's by virtue of his enhancements, that she could appear to him. It's by his friend's money that she didn't have to limit her scope, to just a voice, some glowing eyes that watch him through his screen. No, as William wanders through the town of Scrapshot, looking for his friend, Angel - his new Guardian Angel, flickers digitally to life.
In person, she isn't that much to behold, but here, in the scope of the digital world she shimmered with her power. Wings that unfurled around her, a body made of blue digital flickering light. Inconstant, if only because of the satellites she's had to jump her mind through to reach him especially, it weakens the signal. But she stands there, all the same, letting him adjust to the shape in the distance, mirage like. ]
William, [ she calls to him, firm, direct, like she knows him. Knows him like a friend. Because she knew him as more than one. His life in front of her to be absorbed at the brush of her mind. ] It's okay, William. You're not alone. I know you're worried about your friend. But don't be scared - I promise, I'm here to help.
[ and she waits, a silence that is patient, for him to respond. ]
there is a look in your eyes, i know just what it means - ;
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He could have gone to a hospital. He probably should have gone to Evie, but neither of those options appeals. Hospitals report this sort of shit to the police, and Evie is worse than the police. He nagging would be worse than an interrogation by bored, over-weight men in a blank room. Her anger would be much worse than any warning or caution on his already rather impressive record. He'd rather pay bail than deal with his sister.
Hell, he'd rather go to prison.
The laughter makes him hurt, makes the bruised ribs sting more than they already do. But it's hard to clutch at them when his arm feels like it does, full of pins and needles. The bullet only nicked him, he knows that, but it's still bleeding like the bloody devil and he can't do anything about it. Typically, he thinks, he's fucked up his right arm and his left side. Only an idiot manages to do that.
"Come on Angel," He hisses, as the bolts slide back and he feels himself almost collapse inwards, leaning too heavily on the door and once it's open, having to rebalance himself and focus on her question at the same time and trying to ignore the red stain on the white paint in the hallway as he steps in.
"Are who still out there?" He says, between gritted teeth, and then curses as her hand presses a little too close to his ribs. "Don't touch. Lemme... lemme just... take a minute."
Frankly, he's impressed to have got to her before collapsing or crashing. It's taken at least ten minutes to drive here, one-handed, without getting spotted by any police cars or patrols, and to get passed the security on the door downstairs. But now he's running on almost empty.
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"Jesus, Jacob - " it's breathed out, pulling him step by step, trying to avoid where the blood is coming from. It's running over her fingers. Staining them red on her fair skin. God - where did she put her first aid kit? Somewhere, somewhere. He looked like hell. He looked worse than that. Even when she knew he'd been up to something, the kind of things she'd made sure never to ask about.
More importantly, where did she put her gun?
" - Whoever did this, that's who. Do I need to get rid of them?"
Her goal isn't far, the kitchen table that once they reach, she shoves all her books off, to sit him on the edge.
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THE BROTHEL
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Her fingers curl around tightly. Holding, holding, holding. She is always just holding onto something. Held so long that she didn't know how to let go unless it was pulled, and even then, it always went with claw marks dug in.
Lakshmi's head does not rise when Shuyi speaks. Her feet braced hard, her shoulders stiff. She will have to move, soon. But this is how she can grieve. Because she knows she might lose them both tonight, and if life has taught her anything, it is that is her fate.
But looks at her hand, looks at her fingers where she could still feel his over them. Lets out a slow, long, thin breath. ]
I call him knight because that is what he is.
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[ As the man said as he turned his back to the both of them. Courage begets courage, as one might say. That is, foolishness begets more foolishness. As the seconds wear on, Shuyi finds less need to bite her tongue because these could be the last words she might ever speak to her friend. Coddled words are of no worth in times like these. ]
What will you call him now? Nobody?
[ She keeps her voice low, barely rising above the carnal sounds seeping from the next room, too soft to wound, or so she hopes. Then it occurs to her, that if she had to have someone dear twist a blade into her heart that she would rather it be fierce, unforgiving, and certain. There is so little time to say the things that matter, or to wound in order to let heal.
Shuyi looks up from her own busy hands to look at Lakshmi's back to her, unyielding as ever. This time she raises her voice. ]
If you ask me to follow him, I would.
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