Realistic or Modern 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐘𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀 : ̗̀ in character

[xayah.]

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the magician ✧･ﾟ:

evangeline

mood

fuck it

outfit

spill the tea

location

Adamski HQ -> the cloob

interactions

azure, matezh, marzi / baroque / casimir (mentioned)

tags

celadon. mother of sorrows

Oct. 2nd, 2:26pm.
A familiar building.

Light from the windows strikes at just the right angle, casting the room in a pastel yellow glow. Chandeliers hang all throughout the ceiling from corner to corner, their jewels scattering a spectrum of colors across the tile floor. A door lies on both the left and right, but it's the staircase with ornate, but not gaudy, rails that indicates the true way forward. The hall is bright.

And cold.

It's always been cold, even when this mansion was once considered home. The visitor takes a step forward, hearing the heel of her shoe lightly echoing upon impact. This was where she arrived every day after school alongside the other Adamski children, usually by Marzi's side. But just a few minutes ago, they played an act for all to see—enemies forced to sit near one another. Only when the ambulance arrived could the two drop the charade. Another step. And here, she ran after Casimir after his demon dog peed on her favorite pair of shoes; yet, she had just been forced to ask for his help at the banquet hall. With each step came a memory, all as warm as the sensation of bare skin near an open fire amidst snow despite feeling like they were from an entire lifetime ago, until the visitor found herself directly infront of the steps. A frown nipped at her face, threatening to break through on what was a normally unreadable expression. Of all the memories, this was the oldest and unfortunately the clearest.

She can still feel the sensation of drenched clothes sticking to skin and hair dripping nonstop as clear as the day it happened. Sight blurry, eyes puffy, and a throat gone raw from relentless crying made the child a pitiful sight to behold. Her hand held someone else's, although not voluntarily. It had been the means by which she'd been dragged to this mansion from her former home, one she couldn't even remember at this point. And in spite of all the endless running through the rain, the child was still cold.

Evangeline shivered. Why was she lingering? She walked up the stairs with haste, hoping to make this trip short. Not only were the events of this afternoon still replaying in her mind, but she felt like a wave about to crash. This was all too comfortable, too familiar. Whoever had said time changes all things had lied. The front entrance was still as unwelcoming as always.

And the upper level was no different than when she had last come to report. How long ago was that? A month ago? No, it was more like three. Maybe four. She no longer kept track. The visits had naturally become fewer and fewer as time passed, a far cry from when she started this little game of 'I spy'. Weekly updates became monthly ones, then every two, growing longer as time went on, and now they were as uncertain as her sense of belonging.

A series of doors alerted her that her destination was soon approaching. She remembered the order as clear as day.

Baroque's was here.

A room she rarely went into with an owner she rarely interacted with. He was carefree in a way none of the others ever could be. Spending some time in France away from the protection of his family's influence was nothing to him—something that'd be like asking to die for everyone else. His life of leisure annoyed Evangeline to no end, roused some uncomfortable feeling in her every time she thought about it that needed to be forced down before it bubbled over and out. She would never confess to herself what that emotion truly was, especially not when if anyone should have been jealous of him, it should've been his sister.

Marzi's next.

The most familiar of them all, besides her own of course. The two were often in the company of one another, doing as much as they could to be like every other pair of daughters out there. That meant sleepovers in one another's rooms instead of at friends, banding together against two brothers, and being one another's confidante at times. Evangeline hadn't entered in years, didn't dare to at this point in their lives. The door was closed, and it would remain that way as she strided by.

This next door, also closed, was hers. After moving out for the sake of the mission, she wasn't sure what had happened to the room's interior. Did one of the others clean it out and claim it for themselves? Was it renovated into a different space? Evangeline didn't check. It's one thing to leave, and another thing entirely to know the last vestige of your existence in this house has been erased. She moved on towards the last of the doors before her destination.

Bastard bitch.

Evangeline passed this one without a second thought. She was too grown to put Nair in Casimir's shampoo anymore, or stain his body wash with permanent dye, but it didn't mean that the two had grown up into adults who let bygones be bygones. At their core, they were both people who held a grudge like no other, and they made one another's childhood equally miserable as a result.

But nothing made her as miserable in the present as her visits to the office she was now standing in front of. Raising a fist to the door, she knocked three times before entering, spacing them out just a little bit. It was this pattern that always let the person on the other side know she had arrived. This room always made her feel chained, handcuffed to this life with no way out. It brewed resentment. Desperation. A whole potion of negative emotions as she stepped through the doorway, but Evangeline could never let them loose. Despite whatever she wanted herself and others to believe about her, she was weak and not nearly strong enough to cut ties.

After all, what type of person falters just from a mere two words?

"Welcome back."

Apparently her.

"I'm glad you're safe, Matezh."

---
Oct. 7th, 8:34pm.
The past few days had been rife with tension. Everyone was suspicious of the other, and although the spy wasn't unaccustomed to the atmosphere, nothing would be accomplished by hanging around the Avancini complex. Lips were sealed tighter than ever as if the image of an assassinated Melissa replayed in everyone's minds every second of every day since the memorial.

She talked. And she died.

No one had to say it outloud. It was the foregone conclusion, the most basic summary of events, and the clear moral of the story was to stay quiet. No one wants to die, especially not like that. But sealed lips are useless to a spy, so for the past five days, Evangeline had heard nothing, felt nothing, done nothing until she couldn't take the nothing anymore.

Maybe their lives depended on staying quiet, but her's depended on them talking.

So she traveled to a little spot in downtown. It certainly wasn't where you'd expect her to be, but it was always the gritty little places that held the most secrets. The places where she didn't fit in with the clientele—that much was obvious by the way they stared as her foot crossed the threshold. She had the money to sit in the nicer areas and be treated well but wasn't desperate enough to flaunt it like the other vips. She dressed nice but not because she wanted to be the object of other's affections. And most importantly, she wasn't here for a good time.

Taking a seat at the shoddy little bar—Evangeline takes care not to put her arms on the bar top because who knows what mess might be lingering unseen under the flashing lights—she raises a hand to signal over the bartender, and their eyes light up.

"The usual?"

A small smile plays on her lips as she leans towards them to hear over the music. The bartender leans forward unconsciously in response until Evangeline is close enough to whisper in their ear. Her voice is playfully teasing but quiet. It requires attention to hear, and that's when you've fallen into her trap.

"You know me so well."

The feeling of her breath leaves them a little flushed—some purple lights help hide it but not enough from her eyes—and they bow out of her reach towards the wine collection. Their feet carry them as fast as possible and they return with a single wine glass as if she's the only customer in this sordid place that actually matters.

Evangeline slides a few bills on the table towards the bartender before sliding the glass towards her body.

"Thank you."

A shy smile is all she receives in return.

...and time passes without any meaning to it.

"Hi, what's your-" No.

"Could I buy y-" No.

"Wanna get out of-" No.

Evangeline swirls a finger on the rim of her glass, glancing at what seems to be a sad excuse of a line of people waiting to try their luck. How long had it been? How fruitless had tonight been? Not a single person had what she wanted, but she clearly had what they did. Maybe that's why she stayed, to be the one dictating how things went for once, but whatever spilled from their loose lips was not what she was looking for.

Not until someone slid into the seat by their side, downing a shot of liquid courage before making their move.

"Hi. I hope I’m not bothering you."

And if I tell you you are?

"Please tell me if I am."

That answers that.

"But I think we’ve met.”

And for the first time this night, the lone figure at the bar whipped her head around to look at the person next to her. Blonde. Short hair. The shape of her nose. The way her eyes fluttered. A rambler. How familiar. This visitor was right that it wasn't the first time they'd met.

"...I’m sorry, I’ve been trying to remember your name."

A slight shake of her head.

Don't be. Keep talking.

And talk Azure did. She talked about how there was another club she went to just two days ago, how she had an awkward encounter with a gas station cashier, how Evangeline's name was more than 8 letters—Evangeline had never taken the time to count out something as stupid as how many letters her name was—and most importantly, how awful of a Sunday she had.

When Evangeline was little, she would've thought to herself what a coincidence that was that both of their Sundays were awful, but she's no longer little. Coincidences don't exist in this line of work.

"It's... it’s Evangeline, isn’t it?"

Ah.

Evangeline had half a mind right then and there to reject any further inquiries or advances from Azure. Truthfully, she hadn't bothered remembering her name. She doesn't do repeat performances, but the fact that this girl remembered her even in an unfamiliar setting unsettled her. Yet, Evangeline couldn't pull herself away from the bar. At least not at this moment. She had found her loose lips, and she was not going to end the night without prying some sort of secret out of them one way or another.

With a swirl and a sip of what little wine remained in her glass, Evangeline leaned in under Azure's face, making sure that even with lowered eyes, the blonde could see all of her face and maybe a little more.

"Do you want to continue this conversation elsewhere?"

Her fingers landed on Azure's wrist, giving them a light pinch to open the eyes of tonight's company. When Azure's finally met hers, Evangeline purses her lips into a cute little pout before the corners of her lips turn upwards. It's obvious Azure is hanging onto her every word, every touch—she's drunk on not just alcohol but attention. A little tug is all it takes to pry her away from the seat at the bar, to convince her to come with.

"I know just the place."

And maybe the two left together that night—the whole affair a mix of words with underlying secrets drawn out by sensitive touches—but Evangeline made sure they both left alone in the morning. She departed first, smoothing everything on her side as if she had never even been there in the first place.

Just like last time.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

Movement

Hozier

Auguste Cortes

• aaaaaa
• aaaa

• .
• 
  

  incoming message!

  
  
  

  
  

  Mood Is this how one converses?????
  
  Location Not at the grocery store fast enough
  
  
  
  
  
  
  tag

  
  

  @baby blue jay
  
  
  
  outfit

  
  
  
  

And suddenly, there was a withdrawal. Just a small withdrawal from the puppy like glee of the idea being amongst feline friends as questions were peppered into the conversation.

Eyes narrowed as suspicion flickered throughout the blue. A hand finding its way nervously in long curly locks as a finger wound its way around, over and over again. A small tug at the white hairs that cut through the black void.

A shift outside the car and then back to her. A clearing of the throat. “Ehm…”

Almost meek sounding, always a soft-spoken individual, even when he wasn’t shrinking away from the spotlight with the most basic of questions. While on the clock, he’d be more focused with a glare and a small snort of air - like a mad bull - there was a simplicity to the shyness which he exhibited. The airs of the hitman, and the core of the man, after all, were two sides of the same coin.

“I… Phillipe looked hungry and there was an angry woman who threw a rolled up newspaper at him. So I come back with some canned tuna a short while later.” He said, finger now releasing the curl only to start winding it up again. “Ehm.. after. After a couple of days of this, he comes with more friends… So I feed them too and now… ehm… I suppose that it is… it is a bit out of control now.”

A forced laugh accompanied it, the type of laugh that you give when awkward silence has descended and you’re fairly certain that everyone hates you. A look down at his feet to escape eye contact as his hand left his hair to start squeezing at his other hand.

There. That would satisfy her yearning ache for knowledge from the hitman, now wouldn’t it? His brush with death had put many things into perspective for him. One being that he could see that his general lonesome nature meant that there weren’t actually going to be many people that could speak about him at his funeral. Perhaps he just wanted someone that knew him outside of his job… just in case they were all he had left when the chips were down.

A blink or two. A furrowing of eyebrows as a dark storm overtook his features as the anxieties took him over again. The what ifs of the world that seemed so hellbent on crushing any fledgling hope of happiness that he could’ve ever managed to foster and carry deep within his heart. A reminder of his place in this wretched world, to be tread upon and to carry the burden of death.

“... if any of the Avancinis or the Adamskis hurt these cats I will personally hunt them down and kill them.”

A simple statement, a declaration of fact. Perhaps, though, a warning in the bright colors of a poisonous animal. No matter how mild or painfully shy Auguste seemed, it was never good to forget that he was generally speaking a fearsome person. He tried to never let his business associates forget it, at the very least.

“I probably sounded silly bringing it up last week, didn’t I?”

Well. The truth was that quite frankly he couldn’t quite remember what had happened in between the time he’d been shot and the time he woke up in the hospital. He vaguely remembered getting furious, more furious than he’d ever been in his life.

But besides that, no. He didn’t really remember much. He supposed that shock and pain would do that to you, wouldn’t it?

“Ehm…” But what was the nice thing to say? Because even though he’d probably just threatened Azalea with her life over a bunch of stray cats, he did, in fact, want her to not go running to Victor about his one joy in his wretched existence. “... It was nice. I… guess it is kind of… ehm… on the sad side that this is the only thing to think of to bring me back, though, yes?”

But it was the truth, it wasn’t like he had that much to live for anyways besides spite. And that was becoming in short supply recently, burning out and running on empty.

“... I hope I didn’t worry you too much.” And somehow, that sounded more genuine than the death threat.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[ravensunset]

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the hierophant

Marzanna
Adamski.

mood

tired. not well.

outfit

fit check!

location

Harris' Apartment

interactions

Harris

co writing credits!

@LeilaRF

Marzanna Adamski woke up with her arms covered in blood.

No light outlined her curtains; it was still into the deep of the night, and the room was pitch-black. The violent start she woke with threw a pillow off her bed, and her hand slammed against the switch on her wall, turning on a small light.

With it, the blood vanished. In only the most literal sense, her hands were clean. Another nightmare. She turned her hands over, examining every detail, rubbing them against each other until she was satisfied with the feeling of dry, clean skin.

Marzanna could taste gunpowder and the iron of blood in the air.

Her fingers pulled open the bed stand drawer, pinching the note between them. It had been brushed aside before the memorial, but after, seemed to weigh a million pounds. Somebody you trust has already betrayed you.. When Marzanna had gotten home after the memorial, she’d wanted nothing more than to blame the Avancini for breaking their delicate peace. To take revenge for it, continue the war, guns blazing. They had betrayed them, and that day of all days.

She couldn’t. The idea fell apart at the slightest scrutiny. An Avancini dead on impact, an Avancini mortally wounded, and an Adamski minimally injured. It would be more fair for the Avancini to blame them- and it wasn’t them. Marzanna couldn’t be deputy in another war. Marzanna couldn’t even sleep. She couldn’t talk to anyone. Somebody you trust….

Marzanna folded the note back up, running her fingers along the carefully made creases to smooth them. It was tucked safely back into its place.

The light clicked off. She didn’t go back to sleep, just waited until the hint of light through her curtains indicated it was an excusable hour to wake.

Adamski Manor in the early morning felt stifling, full of demands. Marzanna’s room, clean white stone and an expensive simplicity to it, became washed an orange gold found only in the sunrise, the light attacking through every window. Her door slipped open quietly as she stepped out into the hall, looking at the rooms her siblings occupied.

Sounds of commotion filtered through from their kitchen. Had Cyril crashed for breakfast again? She couldn’t bring herself to head in and face it.

Marzanna decided she didn’t have to. She’d go out and get a coffee, drive around, clear her head. It was early enough that she had the time, and then she’d come back and deal with the fallout. Ensuring she wasn’t seen on her way out, Marzanna found herself outside, breathing in the cold morning air. Without a clue of what she was about to do next, she opened the door of her car and stepped inside.

​

Marzanna’s car parked itself outside of an apartment building she knew of, but had never yet been to. The wing mirror forced her reflection into her view as she stepped out, the lines and shadows of her face betraying how little sleep she’d been able to get. She considered, briefly, trying to cover it, but even that seemed like effort she did not quite have.

She found herself at Harris’ door, a coffee in each hand. Her elbow hit against his doorbell, the sound reverberating out from it. Marzanna smoothed her features into her typical, expressionless face, trying to similarly still the doubts in her mind.

Harris usually would’ve been asleep at this time, but given the day that he’d had prior, a good full night of sleep evaded him. He now perched in front of a blank canvas, back bent over his palette. None of the colors made sense to him right now, not the way they usually do, and the prospect of using any of them seemed increasingly daunting the more he pondered them. Interrupting his thoughts as if on cue, he heard the doorbell resound through his apartment. Thankful for the excuse to step away from the emptiness of the canvas, he rushed to the door, greeted by an unexpected face.
“Marzanna.” He said, with an awkward grin. “Hey.”

“Hello,”

She should’ve called ahead. She hadn't known. She looked into blue eyes, at his smile, and all she could think about was the contents of that note. Marzanna reached out a hand,

“Coffee? I wanted to,” she swallowed, thinking through her words, “Thank you for getting Baroque home. After the memorial.”

“Oh!” Harris took the cup of coffee in Marzanna’s outstretched hand. “Thank you.” He said, absorbing the warmth of the drink and the chill of Marzanna’s gaze. “It was really nothing. I should’ve done more, I just-“
He paused, mind filled with visions of the chaos of the evening in question. He shook his head.
“Sorry… Do you want to come in?” He stepped away from the opening of the door invitingly. You could use a break.

Marzanna nodded, now empty hand dropping to her side, and took a sip of her own drink. The hit of caffeine would be nice, if nowhere near enough.

She wasn’t sure whether his offer was genuine, whether she should accept it, but,

“Yes. Thank you,”

the acceptance came out steadily. Her boots clicked against his floor as she stepped in, door clicking closed behind her.

For a moment, as the room enclosed her, her mind flashed back to the note, the promise of betrayal, the rumors and distrust and Avancini history surrounding the man opposite her, and her nerves spiked with the sense of danger. But as she took in the space, the colors across the wall, it hardly seemed the space of a traitor.

Marzanna’s eyes landed on a blank canvas, colors on a palette in front of it.

She wasn’t much of a painter; much of an artist in any sense. Looking at it, however, she thought of something she had forgotten she knew, as memories of watching her mother paint while still a child flooded through her.

“Were you working on something?”

“Yeah. Well, trying to at least.” He smiled sheepishly. The blank canvas that was first a source of frustration was now a source of faint embarrassment.

Marzanna looked at him, a curious expression behind her eyes. The idea of being at home, trying to paint, seemed a million worlds away from her. It was just what she was looking for.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[idiot]

Doctor, can you fix it up with a stitch? I’m craving structure in this mix. I fear I’m leaking out. Someone tipped me over by my spout. While

dakota adamski

The apartment was a whirlwind; unfinished garments, sketches and books were strewn about the minimalistic furniture that decorated the studio apartment. The soft glow of the moon attempted to shine through the drawn curtains; paranoia had led to them being shut all week - day and night. The smell of burnt popcorn lingered in the air, along with the smell of soil from the dozens of plants that Dakota had collected over the years.

The Truman Show, one of Eddie's picks, played on the television that clung to the concrete wall. He would of preferred a romantic comedy but the idea of leaving the decision up to Eddie put him at ease. Having no choice is a good choice. Dakota was huddled on the couch, knees to his chest. Eddie was by his side, a bowl of microwaved popcorn between them. Dakota had needed this. After what happened at the funeral last week, Dakota needed a night of normalcy. He couldn't think of anyone better to spent it with than Eddie.

“Honestly if I was Truman," Dakota took a handful of popcorn, "I think I’d just keep going along with it.” His voice somewhat echoed in the expansive space.

The pink-haired boy turned to Eddie, watching as he rubbed away the smile that had formed. "Really?" He seemed to contemplate his words for a moment, "If I were him, I'd try to cause as much mayhem as possible. Force me off the air, ya know?" A classic response from Eddie To be fair, did he expected anything different?

Now it was his tun to contemplate his words, mouth gaped for a moment. Regardless, his mouth moved faster than the brain, inner thoughts spilling out. “What’s the point though? May as well give in." Dakota shrugged, not realising the irony in his words, "Plus, it’s a nice world he has.” His tone had grown sombre.

Eddie sat up straighter, his posture matching that of the mannequins behind him. "It’s different though,” his tone was pressing and the sheer speed of his words were notable. “Being in a comfortable world someone else created, owns, dictates,” bitterness leaked with the final word, punctuating it. He shook his head and seemed to give up as quickly as he had begun. Dakota knew the feelings. The personal nature of the conversation shifted back to the content at hand, “but he lives in such a small environment, compared to the rest of the world. Why wouldn’t you want to stick it to your God, especially if all you had to do was make His ratings stink?”

Oh god what have I done, Dakota knew he had opened an old wound for the pair. To spare picking the scab of Eddie's parental relationship, he focused on the latter of Eddie's conversation. “I guess." Unsure if that was a rebuttal or a response he continued, "don’t you feel that way here though? Sometimes I wonder if we are much different to Truman.”

Dakota’s fingers circled the ceramic bowl of burnt popcorn. “I just feel so trapped in this city. Instead of an audience we have people watching our every move—waiting for us to fail. We are expendable, maybe that’s the difference between Truman and us.” Dakota could tell he was getting worked up, so he took a moment. A brief moment.

Breathe.

Only a singular beat was skipped.

“I’ve just been thinking a lot about the funeral. What happened—about Melissa.” Dakota huffed, ignoring the endless headache in the back of his head after the stampede. He had refused to go to the hospital, feeling too embarrassed and sorry for himself when people had been actually hurt.

Jumping from the couch, his calf-high socks saved him from the cold, concrete floors. He eyed the windows, remembering they were locked. The door was the same. Paranoia was creeping up behind him.

“Someone is watching us. I can feel their eyes, Eddie.” He didn't elaborate further, Dakota's fingers reaching into a stack of fashion magazines and grasping a worn-thin letter from between. He thumbed the all-too-familiar envelope, placing it in front of Eddie as he forced himself to sit once more.

“I found this on my doorstep the day before the funeral." A pang of guilt. "I—I wanted to tell you sooner but I didn’t know who to trust.” Dakota felt horrible for saying those words but he couldn’t lie to Eddie. He had been fed nothing but lies and half truths his entire life. Dakota didn’t want to add to it.

“What if the shooter wasn’t trying to shoot Vince.” Dakota whimpered, tears threatened to spill his wet eyes but he fought them back; thinking of the one time he had worked up the courage to visit Vince at the hospital this week. He needed to call him.

“I should be the one who got shot.”

Thankfully his rambling came to a close as he watched Eddie's eyes widen at the sheer sight of the envelope. Opening it to reveal the menacing letter, Eddie's expression didn't change as though he knew of the contents.

“I thought it was about me,” he admitted after a long swell of silence.

“Wait…you got this as well?” The realisation of what Eddie had said had hit him. He fought the urge to triple check if the door was locked or if the slither of moonlight through one of the windows was enough for someone to peer through. He could feel the eyes on him.

“Kota, I doubt someone put a hit out on you,” he spoke pragmatically. “And you being hurt wouldn’t put us in any better position than we are now.”

Dakota ignored the lack of tact, knowing he meant well. “I understand, though.” Softness returned. “I wish it had been me instead of Auguste. Or Melissa. She’s the least guilty out of us all.”

“I guess that much is true, it’s just…” He wanted to tell Eddie everything about his father and that wretched night, but trailed off in favour of supporting his friend.

“Eddie, you are the last person that deserves to be harmed.” Dakota said reassuringly. Their eyes locked and for a brief moment the paranoia hid in the shadows, allowing for Dakota to breathe clearly.

“Thank you,” he said, breaking eye contact with Dakota shortly after. Anytime, I’m always here for you, is what Dakota wanted to say the but the words never came. Instead he offered a small smile to Eddie’s thanks.

“How is Auguste? I heard he got hurt pretty bad.” Dakota changed the subject, realising he had not asked him all week.

“He’s stable,” Eddie shifted on the sofa and eyed the movie for a moment. Truman was running through the street like a chicken with his head cut off. “I’m hoping to stop by and see him tomorrow.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m sure there are some in the Adamski family that would prefer him dead but he seems like a nice guy…well behind all the death.” Dakota shrugged.

mood | trying to keep his cool

scroll

location |dakota's studio apartment, above a nice lil coffee shop/florist.

tag | interactions: eddie demonology mentions: vince, augustus.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

mood :

practical, calm, yet sullen

location :

kota’s apartment

outfit :

mentions :

auguste

interactions :

kota — idiot

Bechtel

• • • hero

When the inviting text had been received on Hero Edmund’s cell, he had been dreaming. Nothing particularly harrowing or fanciful, as the gods of Saint Heights had blessed him with peaceful sleep, allowing him to be ignorant until approximately one in the afternoon. There had been nothing nefarious or unearthly in his veins, except perhaps caffeine from the espresso he had after dinner, and the excess dopamine his mom supplied with her teasing and affection.

“I can’t believe you,” she had said with an incredulous tone, mocking. “You ran into a fire for this girl, and yet, you can’t tell me her name.”

He had decided to avoid mentions of how the fire had begun, instead opting for a change in location from Keypark to Marnie’s abode. Thankfully, Mom did not ask questions, which Hero was too thankful for to question himself.

Sonia knew her son had likely been at the Hall. Sonia knew everything about her son, as much as any parent could be aware of their blood, but she knew her job as paternus, her title as matriarch, and her past mistake made it impossible to mingle with Eddie’s life without needling her way in via discreet force. That force was an eye always towards the Adamski, towards the creature that once haunted her heart and now haunts her boy. Their child, as Edmund’s hands, his eyes, his blond tufts from when he was a newborn, always reminded her.

H.E. was allowed ignorance. He was allowed peace. As a result, he unknowingly took advantage of this opportunity, thinking he could continue feigning something that did not belong to him, and waltzed into circumstances that could never allow him to deny fate. Whenever Her’s eyes shot open and his brain whirred like a computer processing too much information, he was aware of the fact that he was bound, trying to escape the fibers that unavoidably tied him to the plain, to the people around him, to fate.

Dakota revealed his own copy of the letter, and a hard sum of saliva and blood spilt from a gnawed-edge of his cheek settled into his throat. He allowed the conversation to continue, aware of the weight but unwilling to allow its presence known just yet.

“Yeah, I think I caught the end of your scene,” Dakota said with his eyes in descent, studying the impressions of his hands. “Let’s just say I wasn’t in the right headspace to hear what was going on. And before you ask, same shit. Just was overwhelmed by it all. That letter didn’t help of course. Lucky I had my trusty friend.” He brought up his inhaler with a flourish, presenting it as though he had won an award only those most excellent could receive, a Nobel Prize for breathing through cortisol and adrenaline.

A blanket woven of the fibers that tied Hero to the earth settled between them. It appeared that Kota had also felt the suffocation and the dampness it provided to their conversation. Eddie’s visual attention was captivated by the television, returning there when the lump threatened to spew across the room in the form of verbage or intestinal sewage. Dimly, he heard his friend say, “Plus Vince helped…”

Softly and through the lens of a quiet giggle, he began, “I’m glad you—.”

His cousin blurted, “I’m leaving soon. I’m going to leave all of this behind.” He stumbled over the words, shoving them into the echo-ed space like his head and heart would burst from the pressure of holding them in any longer.

“You should come.”

“Oh,” was all he could muster, as though he had heard an abrupt change in evening plans and not a soldier’s desertion.

He stumbled, drunk on the collision he was always evading. “I’m—“

“Why?” he blurted right back, looking at his friend with fresh eyes. His tone pushed from his lungs. Still, he resolved himself, lessening the strength in his voice with a scant break in eye contact, capturing Truman in his gaze once more before returning to the whirlpool of hot cocoa that swallowed him when his eyes connected with Dakota’s.

Simply, like a spoiled school child unwilling to risk losing daddy’s favor, he said, “It would only make you look suspicious on your own, and with me, it’d be like we signed our own hits.”

“I can’t handle it anymore, Eddie.” Dakota abandoned the couch to begin his shuffle to and fro. He continued his tirade, saying, “I can feel eyes on me all the time. Watching my every move!”

Hero sat with wide eyes, as though he were in a park watching Hamlet. Dakota stopped, turning to stare him down, and it now became clear that H.E. was Horatio.

His voice struck Eddie’s heart, and he became complicit in his poor friend’s suffering. “I’m scared, okay? I’m just…done with feeling like this. I’ve got money saved up and we could slip out when they least expect it .”

He was too in awe to wonder how, why, and where the artist had acquired such a plump allowance. He didn’t wonder how long Kota had been wasting away as a victim of conspiracy and paranoia. Instead, he flowed freely within the haste that drowned them both.

Kota continued, and Hero watched his body move, thinking that they were swimming. Was he drowning? He didn’t care, rapt. “I’m thinking Seoul. My university is offering me a place there. Wouldn’t it be nice? This city is a deathtrap. It is only a matter of time before we are next.”

Dakota paused to gape, inhaling and exhaling. Tempered, he went on, “I want you to come because…I’m worried about you, Eddie. It’s only a matter of time before you are on Augustus’ list. We signed our own hits when we were born. It’s only a matter of time.”

It appeared that his cousin was finished, as he heaved a great sigh. The spell was broken. He sat there, mute, but not deaf to Dakota’s plight. A statue that beckoned secrets, offered advice, but could not move from Saint Heights.

"I understand," he offered, an inconsequential whisper against the sounds of Truman also being offered escape.

He watched the lost man on the television, then the lost man in front of him, and then the one within. Flashes of his mother's mocha curls and Marnie's stained-glass eyes. He realized, intermixed, there were shots of Kota sipping from a coffee cup, highlighted by the sun, but that only served to complicate the tsunami within. There was no easy way out for Hero Edmund.

"Seoul is lovely this time of year," he commented first. "But I think I could only visit, not stay."






"Besides, who would hire an American as a lawyer? I don't even know how Korean laws work," he continued to spout his practicality, though light-heartedly. The spell had been broken, and now he hoped to navigate the rushing waters, the ones he always saw coming and had survived thus far.

He stood, too, placing a hand on the other's shoulder. "I feel the walls closing in too, dude. I just can't do anything except hope I don't get crushed. That this madness ends before I end up actually being crushed by a garbage truck or a cement block at the bottom of a river."

"I want you to leave, though," he spoke solemnly, sitting back down and poising his hands over his stomach, folded like his legs. He was at a business meeting, plotting legal strategy instead of abandonment.

"Anyone who can escape the box, should. And you have the most potential out of all of us to be more than just a pawn—" he cut off, throat tight. "A sacrifice knight or rook, or hell, even the queen, in their game. We all signed on to be these major players, but we are ultimately being controlled by men who think themselves gods. Friendly gods who will mingle with mortals, but they'll crush us if it suits their war."

Yet, he remained starched to his viewpoint, defying any sense of logic he might have learned in college. "I'll come visit in Seoul, maybe even see if they'd even consider an out-of-towner as a lawyer"

“I, uh see…” The mad prince struck down, taking to the couch. “I wouldn’t say we signed on. Usually that means we had a choice. This life is a death sentence, Eddie. Whose to say we aren’t next?”

Dakota continued, unable to relinquish his embers to the encroaching sea, “There is no such thing as friendly gods. Everyone in this family is selfish, a culmination of greed and power. They’d kill us if it benefited them.”

Silence capped his words, like the plunger on a needle.

“I know,” Eddie spoke quietly, but there was a current to his voice that remained petulant.

“I know,” he said again, putting an arm around Kota. “I just hope I can wreck some things for dear old dad before he whacks me,” he mumbled, turning away from his friend to the TV.

“If I can’t escape this life, if this is truly my birthright, then…” he cut himself off.

“Kota, I’m letting this be my life,” he spoke this time to the floor, unable to glimpse at the once-invisible binds that existed amongst all, from the Avancini, the Adamski, to the entirety of Saint Heights. He signed his death warrant the way you might sign a credit card bill: limp as it is a necessity you'd rather not think about. Solemnly, he assured his friend, “You don’t have to.”

coded by reveriee.