Amberspike-Sama's Asylum

More canonish Vesperia fics

2011-09-01T12:21:00.000-07:00

Since I devoted my previous post to the mafiaverse, I figured I'd dump the stuff that's in what I refer to as my canon arc (since it's more or less plausible in the context of the game's events) here.

The first two fics are drabbles--I was browsing some TOV drabbles the other day and remembered how much I really liked the form, because when I can do a lot more artistic, contemplative things with a short piece than with something longer that requires more plot. XD

Title: Subtlety
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Notes and things-to-know: I always saw Yeager and Barbos, the leader of Blood Alliance, as being bros. It's partly because they're both pretty shady, and partly because of the business opportunities (Yeager could make quite a bit of money off of a huge mercenary guild like that. It is canon, too, that Barbos hires out some of Yeager's guards at one point to supplement his own.) My backstory for Yeager involved him replacing the former leader of Leviathan's Claw, an older woman named Johanna, and I held that she got bumped off by Blood Alliance due to some instances of fraud she was investigating. Hence, the central issue of this fic.
Summary: Barbos doesn't expect any cooperation from a guildsman whose leader he had killed, but Yeager is anything but the average guildsman.

There are things that should be kept quiet, swept beneath the table like the dust that settles in the stagnant heat, coating every surface like the ashes of some great fire. There are things that should be glossed over and set aside, unpleasant dealings that make or break authority, things that Barbos would rather dismiss as he sits at his slab of a desk and lights his cigar with a little flicker of aer.

He’d like to fancy himself a gentleman, there in his office in his leather chair and his gold-buttoned coat, his hands thick and heavy with the weight of rings. He’d like to think that he knows something about subtlety from his travels across the border, mingling with the nobles who gossip and plot under the glow of chandeliers, communicate a world of danger with a caught glance. They walk in their fine shoes across ubiquitous shadows, treading carefully yet with ease, knowing when to speak and when to listen, when to act and when to stay their grasp. Deceitfulness is polished to an art with them; manipulation is the means to results.

Out his window every morning he can see guildsmen throwing punches, because there is no artfulness in Dahngrest. Voices are loud; words are frank; blood runs bright between the cobblestones. He isn’t far removed from it—he has scars enough to remind him of that. But he’d like to be.

He’d like to be pleasant to the new leader in spite of everything, in spite of the fact that Johanna’s ashes still seem to hang in the air, sweet like the cigar as he takes a drag, sinuous trails of smoke drifting from the tip. He smiles his crooked smile and he beckons, heavy-handed, to the chair, but he doesn’t foresee any pleasantries. He might fancy himself subtle, but when subtlety is a kind of perjury over the bullet in Johanna’s chest and the way she lay open-eyed in a pool of brightness, he can’t expect any in return.

He is surprised then when Yeager of Leviathan’s Claw sits, politely offers his hands—handsome, unblemished, unadorned hands with slim fingers and smooth ridges. Barbos sets his gray eye on the leader and the leader gazes back at him, calm and still and maybe the slightest bit expectant, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Yeager has that look about him, that suggestion that he might be a little more than calm, that possibility of hunger. He’s lean enough to slip through cracks, to curve around corners, to pounce like a predator at the whims of ambition.

Barbos has seen men like him before. He’s seen them in the empire, where civility keeps their claws retracted. Yet why Yeager would restrain himself here remains a question.

The question hovers about them through the introductions and the kind inquiries, through the offer of a cigar. Yeager lights it with a fingertip and breathes slowly, savoring the taste. He watches the smoke curl into the dimness of the ceiling.

He says then, after a time, “I think there are certain things worth putting behind us.”

Barbos stares at him. “You think so?”

“I think we could have a very healthy business relationship. I’d like to start things off on the right foot and forget some matters that don’t apply to me. I trust you know what I mean.”

Barbos knows all right. His smile stretches to a grin, and Yeager’s lips pull into a true smile, and he must be a recent convert from the empire, Barbos thinks, because he knows what ought to be set aside. There is art in Yeager’s posture as he tilts his head, art in his grasp as he taps ashes from the cigar, letting them mingle with the dust and the sweet cinders that were once his predecessor. There is art in his hungry gaze, greed in his lean, lean face; desire that would embrace a killer if influence was his reward.

There is subtlety in Yeager, and while there are many things Barbos would like to think, there is one thing he now knows for sure.

This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Title: Everything and Nothing
Rating: PG
Warnings: Somewhat graphic talk about death
Notes and things-to-know: One of the things I've been thinking about lately is the fact that in canon, Yeager dies and is resurrected with an artificial heart. There was a very nice fic my friend Haley wrote back when she was into Vesperia that involved Marion asking Raven (the other recipient of such a heart) about death, and I figured it'd be interesting to write him asking Yeager.
Summary: Marion makes a few curious inquiries.

“What was it like to die?” Marion asks as they sit in the half-darkness of the library, Yeager’s blastia painting the table the ruddy-brown color of old blood.

It’s natural for him to wonder, Yeager supposes, when he’s seen it so many times—cracked skulls, shattered jaws, scorched chests and stained clothing. Marion has seen death, smelt death—dampness and rot and the rank smell of feces—heard it in the strangled cries and gasps and gurgling of victims he could likely count but chooses not to. He has felt something close to it, too, in the darkness of unconsciousness and the uneasy fog of analgesics, but he’s never come near enough to trace its likeness.

To Yeager the memory resembles a bad dream. It’s a vague bridge between two lives, a passage that serves no greater purpose than to divide who he was from who he is. He’s accepted it in the way one accepts dreams, nebulous and nonsensical and full of intense sensations that could mean everything or nothing. Yet he can try to describe.

“Well I was struck in the chest, of course,” he says to ground his thoughts, “And I remember hearing this sort of snapping noise as part of my ribcage broke. It didn’t hurt right away; I think because I was so intent on fighting. My brain didn’t register the pain. Then as I tried to get up my chest started to ache and I felt this new pain, this very sharp one—that was when my aorta started to tear. I fell on my back and I remember grabbing at my chest, as though that would do anything, and struggling to breathe because of the broken ribs and all the pressure of the blood. Then I felt the dizziness sort of wash over me—my vision went blurry, my head started throbbing, and I sort of passed out. I don’t exactly know how long it took. It was like when you fall asleep, you know, and you can never tell at what time you go out.”

Marion nods, silent and rapt. His golden eyes are on Yeager in the careful way that he watches clients, ready for the instant that they step outside the boundaries of civility.

“I didn’t experience anything special,” Yeager continues. “No lights, no sounds. I remember feeling peaceful at one point, I think around the time that I was being brought back, though I can’t be sure. Mostly it was just like a very deep sleep, the kind where you might have dreamed but forget if you did, and you can’t tell how much time has gone by. I didn’t want to leave it when I started coming back, because I was so exhausted and everything hurt.”

“Then it was restful,” says Marion.

“Yes. Mostly because there was very little to feel and nothing to think about. I wouldn’t say I was scared leading up to it, either—I was mostly just overwhelmed, because everything happened so fast.”

“Would you be afraid to die again?”

Yeager considers this. “I wouldn’t want to go the same way. That was agonizing, after all. I’d want to go with as little pain as possible, with all my affairs in order. But no, I wouldn’t be afraid to face the thing itself. It wasn’t a terrible state to be in.”

Marion nods again, a nod that could mean everything or nothing. He asks the question that he surely meant to ask from the beginning, as soon as Yeager revealed his lack of a heart, described the years he counted as lost.

“Do you ever wish you’d stayed dead?”

At that Yeager smiles the way he smiled as he made his first trek through Dahngrest, as he sat for an interview with the first guild to hire him, as he stood before the men of Leviathan’s Claw for the first time, chin raised and features brilliant. He smiles the way he did when he appointed Marion as his heir, following the steps of the ceremonial conflict until Marion’s blade was at his chest and he was handing over his own, trusting the assassin in a way no one ever had.

He gives a small gesture towards the walls of books, a little flick of his wrist that encompasses everything past that dividing line, everything he’s bought and every life he’s changed.

“No,” he says. “I still had more to do.”

Marion smiles back, bows his head to that representation of everything, and says nothing.

And now for something more lighthearted.

Title: On Her Toes
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Notes and things-to-know: Ah, Yeager and Kaufman--I love how snarky and in denial about their feelings they are. Takes place sometime after the earlier fic I did about them.
In case you're wondering about the guilds that get namedropped: Platinum's Armory is a weapons manufacturing guild (that I made up), Altosk is the largest mercenary guild in Dahngrest, Salisty is another (made-up) mercenary/information-trading guild and the Soul Smiths are a weapons manufacturer. Blood Alliance is, as mentioned above, the shadier large mercenary guild in town, and Gardell is a (made-up) hand tool producer. (See how many guilds I have to invent? There's implied to be a ton ingame, but very few are actually mentioned.)
All of the gun and round names were invented by me, naturally. The defect Yeager mentions, on the other hand, is real.
Keep in mind Yeager's blastia heart, too. I like how smoothly he manages to avoid the subject at one point. xD
Summary: Kaufman decides to give Yeager a taste of his own medicine, only to find that he can still easily take the upper hand.

Somewhere in the past few years, he’d established himself as a fixture in her life. She wasn’t even surprised anymore.

There had been a time that upon walking to a meeting and finding him there, lounging outside with a newspaper or chatting with a secretary or—on more than one occasion—sitting with the representative she’d been intending to see, she’d always been surprised. She’d always been flabbergasted, thrown from her composure by his sly smirk or look of feigned confusion. She’d been stressed and paranoid about everything he did: posing as management and talking her guildsmen into changing prices, tricking her suppliers into altering shipping times and destinations, even such petty things as his making thinly veiled remarks about the documents he’d swiped off her desk. He’d always seemed one step ahead of her, a couple notches smarter than her, sneering from that shady territory Union law didn’t quite touch and pulling whatever strings he could get a grip on.

Indeed, he still seemed that way a lot of the time, but the difference was that she’d become used to it.

She’d done her part in strengthening her policies, plugging loopholes and retraining workers, and that had helped a bit. She’d studied, like a hunter tracking a predator, how he thought and how he moved, and kept those lessons back behind the sensible voice in her mind that insisted no one would ever try things like that. She still could not quite predict him, but at least when he showed up with one of her clients or let slip some worrying hint, she expected as much from him.

So when she stepped into the lobby of Platinum’s Armory’s Capua Torim branch and saw him seated on a couch, flipping calmly through their catalogue, she only sighed and went to stand beside him.

“Yeager,” she said.

He glanced up, his brilliant grin rising to his cheeks as though he had only just seen her (she doubted that.) “Kaufman! Good afternoon. How are you today?”

She ignored the question. “What business do you have here?”

“Negotiating specifications for a CV-26 order.” His grin settled into his usual, suspiciously friendly smile. “What about you?”

“Altosk is interested in replacing their Higneys with a new standard, though I’m sure you knew that. I’m choosing one for them.”

“Ah, yes. What did you decide on?”

“Haven’t decided yet. We’re going to talk over a few ideas.”

“What are your ideas? Perhaps I could offer you some guidance.”

She stared at him. “You say that as though I’d actually consider your opinion.”

“Well, this is my specialty.”

“Which means you could give me bad advice based on obscure details I wouldn’t know about.”

“Why would I ever do that?” He sounded offended. “I wouldn’t want to encourage my supplier to produce substandard guns.”

“You’d do it simply to make Altosk question my judgment.”

“But you could tell them you took my advice. That would not be good for my reputation.”

“You’d deny you ever encouraged my choice. Probably make up some long and somehow believable rendition of what actually happened and claim I was trying to make you look bad.”

“You think you have me all worked out, then?” His smile showed a hint of amusement.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea of the opportunities you like to take.”

“Would you give me the chance to prove that you don’t?”

She crossed her arms. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“I’ll give you advice that you can check against Platinum’s product reviews.”

“Then you’ll be telling me nothing I don’t already know, since I went through the reviews for my options.”

“Oh, I’m sure you haven’t seen the ones I’m thinking of. They aren’t freely available. Platinum would rather keep them quiet.”

“If that’s true, then how did you see them?”

“I know people,” he replied simply. “Now, which rifles were you considering?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m considering? You obviously have an idea of at least one.”

“If I must.” He rolled his eyes. “Palk L-8.”

He was right, of course. “What’s wrong with the L-8?”

“A significant number of people have reported it as being prone to slamfire.”

“Is that something I really have to be concerned about?”

“You don’t know what slamfire is, do you.”

“I’ll ask the representative about it.”

“No no, I’ll explain. It’s a malfunction where the gun will fire without the trigger being pressed due to the firing pin indenting the next round as it’s being loaded. Basically, after a shot is fired and the bolt moves forward to load the next cartridge, the pin travels too far with it and strikes that cartridge, setting it off.”

Her perplexity must have shown on her face, because he set down the catalogue and reached into his suit jacket pocket, withdrawing a pen. Leaning over, he sketched a rifle in the blank margin of the back cover, strokes quick and straight.

“So here,” he said, pointing with the tip of the pen, “is the magazine. This is the chamber and this apparatus over and inside it is the bolt. Let’s say we just loaded one of the stripper clips with ten cartridges on it, so we’ll have a cartridge here in the chamber and these nine waiting below it. We have the gun set to fire one round at a time. When we pull the trigger, the firing pin here strikes the primer on the cartridge, ignites the powder and sends the bullet down the barrel. The force of the bullet launching forward makes the whole bolt jerk backwards, which causes this now-empty cartridge to fall out.”

He added a few arrows to show the motion and a jotted down a small cylinder to show the falling cartridge. “Then, after the bolt hits the back of the chamber, it’s going to bounce forward. This is supposed to happen, because it actually helps load the next round—that ninth cartridge is going to come up from the magazine into the chamber through this motion. What isn’t supposed to happen is this—the firing pin is going to move forward enough that it will strike the back of that cartridge without the trigger being pulled and cause it to fire. If that shot goes off with about the same force as the last, theoretically, this whole process can happen again and again until the entire magazine is exhausted.”

Kaufman frowned. “And is this a defect in the design?”

“It is. Normally in a gun of this type the firing pin is restrained with a spring so it cannot move that far unless the trigger is pulled. Either that or it is light enough that inertia alone can’t cause it to really make a dent in the primer. There’s really no excuse for this kind of problem.”

She took a moment to absorb the information. “You’re being completely honest about this.”

“I am. Ask the representative for the reviews mentioning slamfire. You’ll see.”

“This sounds like an oversight that they could be prosecuted for.”

“Perhaps eventually. There haven’t been any nasty accidents yet. A few people have been scared, but that’s it. Still, I wouldn’t pick the L-8.”

She hadn’t intended to tell him much more about her options, but her curiosity got the better of her. “What about the SD-02?”

“That’s more economical as a specialty rifle for snipers. The .28 Madaras can get pricey.”

“The Pettinger?”

“Mm, that’s a good one. What else were you thinking?”

“I had it down to those three and the Isaza L-5.”

“Oh, that’s not bad either.” He rubbed his chin, mulling it over. “The feel of the L-5 is very similar to that of the SC-04s Altosk has now. In terms of an improvement in accuracy, though, it isn’t much. The Pettinger 03, though…low recoil, good grip surfaces, overall a nice performance for something of its price range. The .30 Kovach it uses has been becoming more of a standard among common mercenaries in recent years as well.”

He nodded, affirming his own thoughts. “I’d go for the Pettinger. What did your advisors think?”

“They were placing their bets on that or the L-8, mainly. But we wanted Platinum’s input on the other two as well.”

“Well, talk it out with the representative, but I think the Pettinger would be best.”

“Obviously I’m reserving the right to make my own decision after I do,” she reminded him. “If they make a better case for the Isaza, for instance, I’m putting their word above yours.”

“You can if you wish. I’m merely giving my opinion. Just be sure to ask about the L-8.”

“If that slamfire spiel turns out to be inaccurate—”

“Then, just as you expected, I took the opportunity to make your life difficult.” He sat back, smirking. “Otherwise, I’m a better person than you thought.”

She surveyed him steadily. “One good deed won’t make you a better person in my eyes.”

He glanced down at his wristwatch, then rose, capping the pen and studying it for a second. “That’s fine. I simply like to keep you on your toes. Hmm, this is from your Capua Torim office, isn’t it?”

Her gaze flickered to the pen. “I was wondering where that went. Give it back!”

She reached out to snatch it from him and in one smooth gesture he tucked it within his suit. She glared, fuming.

“Sorry, I rather like it,” he said teasingly. “Anyway, let me know how that meeting goes. I’ll be curious.”

He left, briskly crossing the lobby and climbing the stairs. She watched him go, wondering at his intentions.

His helping her out didn’t fit within the scope of his usual motivations. It wouldn’t aid his business, wouldn’t disadvantage hers. Conversely, if he’d just told an extensive lie, there was little for him to gain from that either. As he’d said, she could (and would) demand those product reviews and look for any mentions of slamfire, as even though keeping the reviews out of the public eye wasn’t a crime in itself, if Platinum were actively concealing such a defect she could threaten to take legal action against them. If the defect turned out to be nonexistent, she’d look like an idiot for the few moments before she changed the subject—that was all. It’d be annoying to endure, but not nearly enough to be worth his effort.

She picked up the catalogue he’d left, studying his diagram. Part of her wanted to think that this was part of some elaborate ruse that she wasn’t grasping. The other part entertained the idea that he had genuinely been trying to help her. What was the saying—‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend?’ Maybe he’d done it to get back at someone in Platinum? But she was still going to do business with them, so…

I simply like to keep you on your toes.

There was that, too, but he never engaged in something this involved just to mess with her mind. The day that he’d followed her around town to unnerve her—that was the sort of thing he did under that motivation. Helping her decide on a purchase was too much.

It would be too nice of someone like him, too capable of making her suspect he was better than the conniving, unscrupulous jerk she knew, in spite of her declaration that it wouldn’t.

She wasn’t sure how she might react to that.

It was about an hour later, while Yeager was conversing with a Ruins’ Gate representative that he’d happened to run into on his way out, that Kaufman gripped him by the arm and spun him around.

“We need to talk,” she snapped.

Yeager smiled and gave a parting nod to the representative. “All right, good luck with your contract. We’ll chat later.”

He let her practically drag him to the other end of the lobby, away from the other guildsmen waiting there. “So, the verdict?”

“Went with the Pettinger. But seriously, Yeager. About the L-8’s slamfire—”

“Were they surprised?”

“They looked terrified when I mentioned it. Apparently it was somewhat of a cover-up, like you said.”

“I told you I was being honest.”

“What exactly were you trying to accomplish?” she snapped.

“Nothing much.” He shrugged. “I was just proving that you don’t entirely understand me.”

“You helped me with one of the largest deals I’ll have this quarter. That’s a lot just to show that you can still confuse me.”

“Why, because it was so nice of me? I am capable of doing kind things.”

“To help Fortune’s Market? You’ve made a point of constantly impeding my business!”

“No,” he said patiently. “That was not how I looked at it. It was to help you.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I did it as a favor to you. If I were working merely in terms of business, I wouldn’t have told you anything.”

“Why the hell would you do me a favor?” She stared at him, incredulous. “You hate me.”

It was Yeager’s turn to look puzzled. “I don’t hate you. Wherever did you get that idea?”

“I don’t know, maybe from you giving me hundreds of problems to clean up? Maybe from you stealing off of my desk, deluding my guildsmen and tricking my customers? Maybe from you getting obvious pleasure out of seeing me angry? I refuse to believe that you’re so socially impaired that you did those things out of fondness for me!”

He shook his head. “Most of that is business. We’re rivals in the weapons sector—what do you expect?”

“But you—” She lowered her voice, noticing that she’d turned some heads. “You stole one of my pens, for goodness’ sake. How is that even vaguely related to business?”

“Oh, that wasn’t. That was just funny.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“You have no idea how amusing your reactions are.” He chuckled. “The look on your face was priceless when I mentioned that pen to you.”

She rolled her eyes. “So you don’t hate me because of how funny I am?”

“Kaufman, here. Let me break it down for you. I am the sort of person that likes a challenge, that likes pushing boundaries. I also direct a guild that was faced with a large market that was difficult to break into. The things I have done to Fortune’s Market were partly attempts to weaken its grip on the weapons trade and partly to see how far I could really go with some of my strategies. As for you personally, if I truly thought you were despicable, I wouldn’t bother with the little things. You’re funny when you’re surprised or angry precisely because most of the time you have your life so well together. You’re very smart, very reasonable, very good at what you do. I have a lot of respect for that, so I might as well cut you some slack now and then.”

“…You respect me?” she said, after a moment.

“It would be impossible for me not to. You’ve managed to thwart my plans pretty well recently, too. You keep me on my toes as much as I keep you on yours.”

She snorted. “I wish I could believe that.”

“Seriously. You’re pretty predictable, but not always predictable. You did throw me a bit with that impression of me hating you, for instance.”

The idea of her confounding him for a change was an attractive one. “How else have I thrown you for a loop?”

“Uh…” He pondered for a few seconds. “A month ago when you switched plants for your hoplon packaging line. That seemed to come out of nowhere. I was all set to have someone at the old plant tamper with the hoplon, too…”

“Then I guess my information security procedures are working,” she replied, feeling satisfied. “Anything else recently?”

“There was that bow deal with Salisty. I didn’t expect you to be able to drop your prices low enough for them to pick you instead of me.”

“Discount from the Soul Smiths,” she explained smugly. “What else?”

“How many things are you going to have me list? Trust me, there are plenty.”

“Why are you hesitant to list them? Are you embarrassed?”

He gave a laugh. “No. I just should not have to supply this much evidence that you’re a skilled opponent of mine. It should be obvious.”

“It isn’t. Apparently, you conceal your failings well.”

“Thank you.” He smirked. “I try.”

She gazed at him for a moment, at his smug little smirk and untroubled features. It would be gratifying, she thought, if she could surprise him here, where she could witness it. She would love to see him openmouthed and gaping, as uncomposed as he’d made her on many occasions. He deserved it many times over.

“I think I’d still like some more evidence,” she said, a hint of wit in her tone. “I’m not quite buying your statements.”

“Why not? I have no reason to be lying to you right now.”

“You could be trying to lull me into a false sense of security before pulling a trick on me.”

“You’re too paranoid. What else do I need to tell you?”

“How about you let me try something? I want to see for myself whether I can baffle you.”

He cocked his head, mildly intrigued. “Go ahead.”

It came as a random thought, really. She needed some gesture that was entirely unlike her, that didn’t make sense—slapping him, for instance, was a bit too in character to be an option. The thought, bizarre as it was, fit the criteria enough to make her want to grin.

She swept a glance around the lobby, making sure that none of the guildsmen still waiting there were looking, and took hold of his chin, tilting it downwards. In the split second before she drew close, she saw Yeager’s brow furrow—then she kissed him, hard and full on the lips.

It was quick, but it worked. As she stepped back, she watched his face redden noticeably, expression bewildered. He opened his mouth to say something, shut it again, swallowed and tried once more.

“That was pretty baffling,” he conceded.

She felt triumphant. “You have no idea how amusing your face is right now.”

“I can imagine,” he said, his gaze flickering as hers had to the other guildsmen, hoping none were watching. She caught the unease in his hands as they rose to adjust his tie.

“You’re embarrassed,” she declared.

He looked back at her, his fingers working rather forcefully at the knot. “I’m a bit in shock, that’s all.”

“I actually embarrassed you. I threw the great Yeager of Leviathan’s Claw off guard.”

“I don’t tend to expect affection from people who deeply dislike me.”

“But I told you I was going to try to baffle you. You should have figured I’d do something that unusual.”

“I didn’t think you would go to such an extreme.”

“It wasn’t that extreme,” she said. “I wasn’t touching you for very long. You’re not incredibly dirty and disgusting, either.”

“So I’m only moderately disgusting. Aw, how kind of you.”

“Yes, and more due to your actions than your appearance. It’s not that difficult to do something like that if I momentarily push aside the fact that you’re a deceitful bastard.”

Yeager managed a small smirk. “Are you saying that if you didn’t know me well, you would want to kiss me?”

“No!” She felt color rise to her own cheeks. “That’s not what I’m saying!”

“Well, if it’s ‘not that difficult’ when you forget about my actions, then it sounds like you find me otherwise attractive.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I would not go so far as to call you attractive.” She gave a dismissive huff.

He paused for a moment to form a suitable response. “What if I said you were pretty?”

“You expect me to change my mind due to an empty compliment?”

“It’s not empty,” he insisted. “You are pretty. You have lovely hair, nice eyes…”

“You’re making up statements on the spot.”

“You’re thinking too poorly of me again. I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“Says the man who is petty enough to steal things off my desk to get a reaction out of me. You’re just trying to make me say something you can mock.”

“That is an unrelated incident. Do I need to prove to you that I’m not lying?”

She began a rejoinder, but before she could complete a single phrase Yeager took a forward step, leaned over and planted a soft, gentle kiss on her cheek. He lingered there, his breath warm against her skin, and stroked a palm down the length of her hair before withdrawing.

She gaped at him, her words coming in a half-coherent sputter of astonishment at first, then settling into an angry hiss.

“What was that?!”

“You did the same thing to me,” he said, looking rather smug again. “You wanted to prove a point; I wanted to prove a point. My point being that I find you pretty, as that is not something I would do if you weren’t.”

“What I did was completely different! I didn’t—I didn’t touch you like that!”

“Well as I said, you have lovely hair, so that touching is only further proof of my statements.”

“You only wanted to rattle me! You wanted to get me back for before! You just had to one-up me and—”

“Kaufman,” Yeager said, turning his head towards two guildsmen that were now actively gawking at them. “Indoor voice.”

She fell silent and shot a piercing glare at the guildsmen. They looked away, not wanting to be yelled at, and she promptly jabbed an index finger into Yeager’s chest.

“Never do that again,” she ordered, accentuating each word with a sharp prod. “I don’t care how much you might think I’m pretty, or have a thing for me, or—”

“Now now, I never said I had a thing for you,” he replied with a chuckle. “You’re making false assumptions.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. The thought of you fancying me makes me sick.” Her brow pinched as she noticed that her finger was resting against something rigid beneath his shirt. “Are you carrying a knife here? I thought you had one on your ankle.”

“Correct on both counts,” he responded, smiling. “I’m an arms dealer.”

“Right,” she said, rolling her eyes as she let her hand drop. “Have to always be able to defend yourself against your own merchandise.”

“I was going more for the fact that I simply like weapons. Honestly, I don’t get threatened with force that often.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“My second-in-command shot a Blood Alliance supervisor in the foot last month for handing me a knife blade first,” Yeager said matter-of-factly. “He and the bodyguards don’t respond nicely to possible hazards. Helps my clients get the message.”

“I am exceedingly grateful that I never have to do business with you.”

“I like it better this way too. It’d be much less hilarious if we had to get along.”

“You have a really twisted sense of humor.”

“You have an overdeveloped temper and take things much too seriously.”

“You are an unrepentant jerk.”

He shrugged. “What I said was the truth. You should lighten up. Though it would be more entertaining for me if you didn’t.”

“Entertaining you is not and will never be part of my job description,” she snapped. “I’m not obligated to do a thing for you, regardless of how much you respect me or think I’m pretty or pull little favors like this slamfire thing. You had better realize that.”

“I do,” he said, “and that’s perfectly fine with me. I’m not asking for anything…well, a thank you for the favor would be nice.”

Her first instinct was to refuse, but a voice in the back of her mind reminded her that he had been genuinely helpful. Besides, the act had created the opportunity for her to unsettle him, and though he’d turned events against her, though she’d probably regret her actions later, she’d gotten such deep satisfaction out of that. She might as well show him a smidgen of decency.

“Thanks,” she remarked.

His smile faded slightly. An amazed grin spread across her face.

“Did I just surprise you again?”

“I thought you were more creative than that,” he said. “I was waiting for something really deprecating.”

“I’ll save the rant about how you don’t deserve common courtesy for another day,” she quipped. “Look forward to it.”

“Oh, I will. I’ll have to think of something really obnoxious to bring that on.”

“I’m sure that won’t be difficult for you.” She reached into an inner pocket of her tunic, withdrawing a small gold-colored watch. “Hmm, I should get going. Can’t stay here and banter with you all day.”

“Of course,” he said, and stepped up to examine the watch, reaching out to touch it. “Is that real gold?”

“If you think I’d spend my gald on something like that, then you don’t know me very well.” She snorted.

He lifted it from her hand, eyeing it for a moment more, then replaced it in her pocket. “I don’t know. I did just hear something about you getting a pair of diamond earrings.”

“I didn’t buy them. They were a bribe from Gardell—Sam was trying to get me to increase my tool orders.”

“So you got rid of the earrings?”

“No, I kept them. Figured I could get some use out of them at the next Union dance. Needless to say, I didn’t change a thing on the Gardell contract.”

“I should like to see them,” Yeager remarked. “I’m curious as to how much he spent.”

“Too much. He should know by now that my decisions can’t be bought.” She held out her hands. “Anyway, see you later.”

“Goodbye Kaufman,” he said, politely returning the gesture.

She caught the suppressed laugh in his smile, tightening the corners of his mouth. She didn’t know what to make of it—only threw him a warning glance on her way out—until she had passed through the door and descended the steps to the street. It was then that she noticed that something long and thin was in her pocket beside her watch, poking into her chest as she walked.

She reached inside, pulled the thing out, and found herself staring at the pen Yeager had swiped from her office.

For a few seconds her mind struggled to imagine how he might’ve pulled it out and replaced it with the watch without her seeing, to process why he might’ve given it back to her. She wondered whether it could have been in return for something—the gratitude she’d shown, maybe. Or perhaps it could have been a sign of respect, as the slamfire tip-off had been. Or perhaps it had meant nothing, had only been intended to spark a number of possible explanations that she couldn’t conclusively choose between, and Yeager was currently laughing to himself at the mere thought of her running circles in her mind.

She looked at it, sighed, and insisted that she wasn’t surprised. She’d given him far too much gratification already. She’d have to find a way to receive some more—who knew, maybe the affection and kindness route could work to shock him next time as well. Maybe she should try that again.

Or maybe she was only considering that because he’d been right, as much as she hated to admit it. If she didn’t know him any better, she’d want to kiss him.

There she went, running circles, she thought. That was the explanation. He’d wanted her to run, to be made paranoid by possibilities. He always wanted to keep her on her toes, so never mind the pen, never mind anything he’d said or done today—that was the explanation and nothing had changed in the interim. It was just as she was used to. She could not quite predict him, but she knew how he liked to act.

Oh, how she hoped she knew.

Finally, some writing! Mafia-esque scenes

2011-08-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

Wow, my inspiration was low most of this summer. I did find that I probably exhausted myself in terms of Hetalia--which isn't all that unusual, considering that I usually spend about two years on a fandom--but then I turned right around and got back into Vesperia. XD Hard. Which is something I've never done, because normally when I'm out of a fandom, I'm out.

But yeah, I basically went on a writing spree as a result of that, and I'll try to get the resulting stories up gradually because they sure as heck aren't going to fit in one post.

One of the universes I resurrected was a mafia-esque AU that I formerly dubbed the Aurnionverse. I originally had a lot of Vesperian elements in it--fighting with aer, monsters, the knights vs. the guilds--but in my plotting recently I ended up giving it a more 1920s feel, with gangs and police and the time period appropriate names for the characters. I also have the framework of a storyline for it now instead of just a bunch of scattered scenes, so here's a little synopsis:

Edna Maurer (Sodia) is a policewoman working alongside the corrupt Lieutenant Hartwell (Cumore). Determined to bring him to justice, she assembles a huge file of evidence detailing his illegal activities--only for Hartwell to find out and frame her for a crime, effectively getting her booted off the police force. Unable to retrieve the evidence on her own, she elicits the help of Irving Adenauer (Yeager), an amiable gangster with a vested interest in one of Hartwell's underworld contacts. After an attempt on her life, she becomes involved in the search for said contact and his network of associates, a man who everyone believed dead--the dangerous and vengeful Luis Uccello (Yuri), head of a ring of vice that even most gangsters want nothing to do with.

As you can tell, it's really getting to the point where it's practically original. XD For now, I'll shelve it under Vesperia, but that may change.

Have a few scenes.

Title: The Card
Rating: PG
Warnings: A bit of profanity
Notes and things-to-know: Takes place when Edna's still on the force. Guns are illegal for private ownership in this universe--I think the closest comparison I can make is to the laws England has, where you have to have a damn good reason to own anything worse than a shotgun. Hence the whole conniption Sauber (Kaufman) has over finding one.
Summary: Edna does a favor for Adenauer and receives the promise that will later prove a boon to her.

“You coming, Maurer?”

“I am,” Edna said, hurriedly stepping into the car and slamming the door shut behind her. She glanced at Lieutenant Hartwell, at his thinly pursed lips and beady eyes, looking out with haughty disapproval from above high, age-lined cheekbones, then quickly focused her gaze out the windshield as a sudden stab of disgust poured through her veins. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the leather seat as she tried to suppress the feeling.

Hartwell pulled the car to the edge of the street, hitting the gas as soon as the smallest of openings appeared in the line of cars. The coupe jerked into motion, careening down the road and weaving through traffic without regard for the speed limit signs whipping past. Edna wanted to wince.

“I hate checking out this shit,” Hartwell muttered, taking one hand off the wheel to smooth his greased blonde locks. “Second time this month the bitch’s called us. We ought to tell the staff to just hang up whenever her voice comes on the line, for goodness’ sake.”

“But it sounds like a legitimate concern this time…”

“So she found a rifle. So what? We all know the gun trade is nuts in this town.” He gave a dismissive snort. “And she can point fingers all she wants but she’s not gonna be able to pin it on anyone unless she found it in their own damn hands.”

You would know all about that, thought Edna. Or if you don’t, you will soon, once I get enough evidence to back the witnesses’ statements. I’m sure the courts will be pleased to see what’s been in your hands.

“Civilians are required to report illegal weapons at any rate,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t need to make such a big deal out of it. Wasting our time, that’s all this is.”

A few shuddering turns around corners brought them barreling down a narrow street flanked by tall gray buildings. Hartwell slammed on the brakes in front of a wrought iron lamppost, shutting off the car and practically leaping out in irritated impatience. Edna climbed carefully down from the runningboard to the sidewalk, smoothing her coat and letting Hartwell stride ahead of her through the glass-front doors of the general store.

The gentle tinkle of a bell announced her entrance. She knew the place, though not in an on-duty capacity, and for a second her gaze was drawn aside to the rows of glimmering bottles and brightly colored cans lining the walls. The sight of ‘the bitch’ herself—Josephine Sauber, who was currently engaged in a lively argument with a man leaning against one of the counters—took her attention back to the matter at hand, however.

“Don’t act like that was nothing! You had no good reason to be slinking around back behind the—”

“Ms. Sauber,” snapped Hartwell. “You’ve got a gun here?”

Sauber whipped her head around. She cut an imposing figure, Edna observed, with her shock of wavy auburn hair, piercing stare and tweed suit. As she spun and went to retrieve the object in question from behind the other counter, her heels thudded sharply against the wooden floor.

“Here,” she said, holding out the rifle to Hartwell for examination. “I found it this morning near the trash barrels in the back alley, boxed and wrapped in paper. I have little doubt someone was using that as a drop point for delivery. That someone most likely being Mr. Adenauer here, who I spotted loitering in that alley two days ago.”

Hartwell’s attention switched to the man, a mildly irked, slimly built individual in a dark blue jacket and pearl-pinned tie. “Just because you happened to see me in the alley sometime in the past week does not mean I have anything to do with the gun.”

“If you were someone more respectable, I’d agree with that,” Sauber declared. “But the fact is—Officers—he’s been turning up in all sorts of shady places for months now. I live above this store—I’ve seen him driving to and from work at eleven o’ clock at night, midnight, even as late as two in the morning on one occasion. Moreover, I’ve seen cars full of people turn up in front of his business down the street at those hours, long after his scheduled closing time.”

“Those are just friends. I tend to work late and my apartment is all the way on the other side of town. It’s easier for them to meet up with me at my main store.”

“They didn’t look too friendly to me. Besides, who works until two in the morning? And who stands around for no apparent reason in a place where guns get dropped off by the gangs, looking like he’s memorizing his surroundings?”

“I walked back there as a shortcut to Peckham’s. Perhaps I was a little distracted at the time, but I was not just standing there.”

“Oh, you were. I saw you; you were definitely—”

“Ms. Sauber,” Hartwell said again. “Quiet down. You said the gun was in a box?”

“Yes.” She stepped towards the counter again, then thought better of it, as Hartwell hadn’t yet taken the rifle from her hands. “Second shelf down behind the register.”

Edna walked over, slipping on a pair of gloves as she bent and pulled out the box. The brown paper was still partly over the cardboard and Edna lifted it gingerly, peering inside, noting a folded piece of linen that had served as a bed for the weapon.

“So you picked this up and opened it?” she asked to be sure.

“I did, out of curiosity. Honestly, it’s an odd-shaped thing. Seeing as there was no address label and it looked newly wrapped, I wanted to know what was in it.”

“It’d probably be best to get your fingerprints, then. Would you mind submitting to that?”

“Not at all. Just make sure to get his, too.” Sauber looked meaningfully at Adenauer.

“Don’t give the police orders, Josephine,” he said. “It isn’t polite.”

“If there is the slightest possibility that you could’ve slipped up and gotten your fingerprints on that box, then I—”

Hartwell exchanged glances with Edna, pointing to Sauber’s hand and nodding towards the car. Edna sighed but let him go fetch the fingerprinting cards and ink, leaving her momentarily to deal with the arguing pair.

“You are much too suspicious of me,” Adenauer responded. “You know as well as I do that a good part of it is our business interests. There is no need to send the authorities on a wild goose chase mainly because you are still mad at me for taking your customers.”

“That has nothing to do with it. I have every right to be suspicious of you. You’re a manipulative bastard that would do anything for money.”

“Anything? Oh, you must be talking about the time I redirected that socialite from this store to mine, aren’t you? The instance you thought was ‘so terribly rude?’”

“No, but—on that subject, there is no way you could logically sell that supply kit for twenty cents less. I had that price as low as possible. The only way you could feasibly take it lower would be if you were making far more money than me through the stores—which you’re not—or if you had some other source of income to balance the risk. It’s the latter, isn’t it? You’ve got a great arrangement going on under the table with the gangs, don’t you?”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“You’re shamelessly lying. You know what? I’d bet twenty dollars you know all about this gun—where it’s from, where it was headed, all the specifications.” She turned it over, surveying the polished barrel. “One of your ‘friends’ probably bought or sold it. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if that were the case.”

“Now you’re letting your imagination run away with you,” said Adenauer. “I don’t have those sorts of people as friends.”

Sauber started a curt reply to that but Edna came around to cut her off, reaching for the gun. “Might I have a look?”

“Of course.” Sauber laid it into her hands. “Is there anything you can tell me about it, Officer, seeing as Mr. Adenauer isn’t so keen on confessing?”

“Well,” Edna said, tilting the rifle. “It looks as though the manufacturer’s trademark has been removed, which isn’t unusual. Gangs often prefer to make firearms more personal by replacing that with marks of their own, like these little etched swirls here… This looks to me like a Pitzer, though. I’ve seen a few like it before. Pitzer’s considered a higher end brand because their firearms are more lightweight and finely machined…”

“This is considered lightweight?” Sauber took the gun back from her, holding it up. “Seems pretty heavy to me.”

“Well—”

It happened so quickly that Edna barely had time to react. From what she could tell afterwards, she and Adenauer came to a simultaneous realization that Sauber was inadvertently pointing the rifle at his chest. He moved first, taking two sprinting steps to her side and forcibly directing the weapon towards the ground. Had he done that motion alone, Edna would have dismissed the reaction as typical, but as he brought one hand down on the barrel the other went in a flash to click on the safety—beating her to it in a display of knowledge that definitely was above average.

She stared at him. For an instant, their eyes locked.

“Don’t point the thing at me,” he scolded Sauber, backing up as though nothing unusual had happened.

Edna continued to stare. The door creaked open behind her and she heard Hartwell walk in, beckoning to Sauber. Sauber set the rifle in Edna’s hands and went over to be fingerprinted, throwing some defensive remark to Adenauer about how she wasn’t stupid enough to put her finger on the trigger, so there really wasn’t anything for him to be afraid of.

Adenauer met her eyes again, expression turning from slight discomfort to impassive calm, tinged with a hint of a friendly smile.

“Mr. Adenauer,” Edna said, lowering her voice. “Because I do not know anything about you, I’m in no way prepared to buy into any of Ms. Sauber’s accusations and denote you as a person of interest in this investigation. However, as you are here, any pertinent information you could provide would be deeply appreciated.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer,” he responded. “A rumor or two, maybe, but otherwise I can’t be much help.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Things I have heard from my customers about gang activity. You know about the Pritchards, yes?”

“We believe they’ve been responsible for a lot of homicides on the west side as of late.”

“Indeed, I’ve heard their kill rates have been increasing due to inter-gang tensions. I’ve also heard that one of their major clients was killed recently and his resources immediately snatched by rival gangs, so they have been low on funds. Apparently they are planning a warehouse raid soon to meet their basic expenses.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere in the northwest district, possibly between Garia and Twenty-Fifth.”

“And the people you heard this from are trustworthy?”

Adenauer nodded. “They had no reason not to be.”

She studied him intently. Sauber had called him manipulative and she could see the potential in the smooth angles of his face, the gleam of his blue eyes, the gentle curve of his apologetic smile. He was handsome, with neatly swept back hair and a clean, understated affluence in his clothes, and she was sure he knew how to use it to his advantage. Her instincts told her not to trust him, insisted that she distrust him.

But her mind told her that she’d witnessed something that she could take him into questioning for, and he definitely knew that. He had a reason to stay on her good side, at least for now.

“Very well,” she said, withdrawing her notebook and scribbling a few phrases in it. “We will look into that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Maurer!” Hartwell called. “Do me a favor and check out back where the gun was found. I’m gonna take care of the box and the statements.”

Edna sighed, resisting the urge to mutter a sarcastic ‘yes, Master’ under her breath, and went for the door. She had just set her hand on the burnished knob when she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

She turned, facing Adenauer, who was subtly drawing a small card from an inner pocket of his suit.

“If you have any more questions in the future,” he said, in a slow, measured tone full of insinuations, “please let me know. I will see what I can do.”

He held the card out to her, close to the level of her free hand, and she took it in mild confusion. He retreated quickly, throwing her a smirk as he headed back to where Sauber stood and she glanced down, reading what he had given her. It was an ordinary business card bearing the name ‘Adenauer Hardware’ in serifed lettering, espousing the company’s ‘fine tools and supplies for home, recreation and business’ and naming three different locations about town. She hesitated, turning it over in her palm, then shoved it into her skirt pocket as Hartwell’s gaze shifted her way.

She opened the door and stepped outside, the jingle of the bell mingling with the breeze of traffic. Part of her felt as though she had just agreed to something shady and shuddered at the notion, while another part insisted that no harm had been wrought. Certainly Adenauer was up to something beneath the surface, but if he was willing to offer tips in exchange for her not bringing him in, then the good she could get out of this might very well be much greater than the consequences of letting him go free for the moment. It was so rare, after all, for anyone involved with the gangs to talk—she knew that well enough through her poking around into Hartwell’s dealings. This could prove a useful arrangement.

For now, though, she’d have to do without his aid. She had a fellow officer to take down, after all—her hands had to appear as spotless as she knew them to be.

Title: The Contract
Rating: PG
Warnings: Threatened violence (more of, Roscoe (Zagi) being Roscoe XD)
Notes and things-to-know: Pretty self-explanatory.
Summary: Edna seeks Adenauer's help and learns that Uccello may have defied death.

She arrived at Adenauer’s main store ten minutes too late, and for a moment or two she just stood at the doorway, feeling ready to cry over the latest in a week full of disappointments.

The store took up the bottom two stories in a narrow brownstone with an arched-windowed, vaguely Romanesque look about it. The blinds were drawn over the panes on either side of the doors, and in the light of a white-globed sconce whose iron fitting had left a greenish stain on the brick, she could easily read the little ‘closed’ placard hanging behind the glass. She stared at it, biting the inside of her cheek in frustration, then, as though the action would make it go away, knocked twice on the door.

A few seconds went by. Nothing happened.

She heaved a sigh. She could come by on Monday, she supposed, provided she still had the nerve. She could spend another few nights lying sleepless, drifting without a course of action and a hundred unpleasant possibilities thick in the air.

She turned, treading back down the steps and making a right towards the streetcar stop, flipping Adenauer’s business card over and over in her hand. The street, aside from the occasional passing car, was deserted, as the whole block was filled with businesses and most had shut for the night. There was no sense in being out here with nothing to buy or sell—well, unless you happened to reside on one of those upper stories, which were almost exclusively populated by the proprietors themselves anyway.

It was that passing thought that took Edna on impulse across the street and to the darkened windows of R. A. Sauber’s, heading into the grimy space separating it from the jewelry store next door. She stepped around barrels of trash, striding through the dimness until she reached the back alley she’d scoured during the incident with the rifle. The fire escape ladder was cold and rough with corrosion beneath her hands as she pulled herself up. She climbed up one story, two—then saw, with some relief, a barred glass door on the third level, dully illuminated by an inside light.

She strode across the platform to that door, hesitated in momentary regard to the oddity of her situation, and knocked.

Inside, she could see that the light was from a stained-glass lamp in the corner of a cozy parlor. There was a plush couch on one side, a round center table atop an oriental rug, and a smoothly curved, gleaming radio flanked by ferns. The single window was hung with straight flower-printed curtains and the walls were covered with the kind of nondescript meadow portraits that hotel rooms often sported. Indeed, the room seemed very average, aside from one striking detail—a long rapier resting on hooks above the radio in the way a ceremonial sword might over a mantelpiece, only far more modern and perfectly polished.

It was for self-defense, Edna knew. As Sauber stuck her head into the room, her eyes flickered reflexively to the weapon. Edna offered a helpless smile, showing her empty palms to try and convince Sauber that she wasn’t some disguised thief about to waltz in and knife her, and even with that gesture it took another few moments before Sauber decided to slide open the glass door.

“Ms. Maurer,” she said, looking mostly suspicious and mildly confused.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Edna apologized. “I was just wondering if I could ask you a question about Adenauer.”

“Why? I heard the police let you go.”

“I think his activities may have played a part in Lieutenant Hartwell’s decision,” she lied.

Sauber frowned, trying to understand. “You think the Lieutenant was working with Adenauer?”

“Yes. I uncovered some records that indicated that was likely the case. I think Hartwell may have spoken against me in order to prevent my eventually launching a corruption investigation.”

“I wouldn’t put that past him,” muttered Sauber. “Hartwell’s a bastard. You hardly seemed the type to play the system, either, regardless of what the papers are claiming.”

“Thanks,” Edna said, feeling a stab of gratitude. “So, I’m wondering where Adenauer is right now. I figured you might know.”

“Friday nights he likes to hit the bars,” she replied immediately. “He typically goes to the June Bug at Johnston and Sixth, stays there until eleven or midnight, and then comes back with two or three of his so-called friends to the store for ten, maybe twenty minutes. After that he goes home—he has a house in the fancy district around East Castillo Avenue.”

“All right.” Edna smiled, trying not to show her surprise over the barrage of information. “I guess I’ll go to the June Bug then.”

“Be careful if you try and interrogate him,” warned Sauber. “He’ll end up being the one asking questions if you’re not vigilant. And he lies as easily as breathing.”

“I will, Ma’am. Thank you.”

“And do let me know if you uncover anything interesting. I’ve been trying to prepare a case against him for years and any information helps.”

“I’ll be sure to,” she promised, knowing that she was lying again.

“Good luck,” Sauber said, shutting the door.

Edna climbed gingerly down the fire escape, letting herself drop the last few feet to the ground. She was fairly astonished that Sauber had been that compliant, but perhaps any venture putting Adenauer on the spot prompted her cooperation. She certainly seemed to have a thorough vendetta against him—enough to make Edna, oddly enough, pity Adenauer a little.

She took the streetcar from the corner to the deeper recesses of town, blinking as she stepped into the well-lit interior and again as she went back out into the gathering dusk. The car whizzed and snapped on its wires as it sped into the night, leaving her surrounded by the chatter of loitering pedestrians and the steady rumbling of automobile engines. Her eyes grazed the narrow street and its crowded buildings, then peered through the dimness up at the metal sign that marked Johnston and Sixth.

Well, here she was. It was more dingy than she’d expected, but she could make out the sign of the June Bug halfway down the cracked sidewalk, jaundiced under three bare, caged bulbs. She approached it, pulling her cloche a bit further down her forehead, trying to be inconspicuous.

The windows were blacked out by thick curtains, revealing none of the inside. She opened the door and immediately a wave rushed at her—talk, music and smoke mingling with the warmth of close-packed bodies. She skirted around some necking couples in the entryway, scanning the bar with its leather stools and glittering bottles, the jazz quartet crowded against the wall, and a mass of energetic dancers crammed into the space not occupied by small candlelit tables. Not seeing Adenauer anywhere, she began a slow walk about the room, trying her best not to get in anyone’s way.

It was the archetypical gang bar, all right. The location was not much to be desired, but the patrons were decidedly middle-class, all in white linen shirts and loose dresses dripping with rhinestones. They were raucous, too, laughing loudly and moving wildly, the seated ones keeping their hands full with glasses and bottles and cigars. Edna knew there was probably some back room or locked cellar for discreet business from which suited men would filter in and out, their conversations well-concealed by the zaniness of the customers. She hoped, for her own sake, that Adenauer wasn’t conducting such business tonight.

Her walk took her back by the tables, her roving gaze failing to see him among the dancers. She caught the stares of a few of the patrons there and realized what a contrast her plain blue dress must make to the other women—not wanting to be questioned, she increased her pace.

She had just reached the other end of the room when a hand fell on her shoulder.

She turned to face a tall, lanky man with blonde hair and a wide grin. He had his sleeves rolled up and his tie dangling half-undone about his neck, and her first impression was of playful wit.

“Hey, darlin’,” he greeted. “Who ya lookin’ for?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but in that moment his grin tightened a bit, and she saw dangerous intent lurking beneath the playfulness. She took a breath, considering her options.

“Just a friend of mine,” she said carefully, looking him straight in the eye and betraying no anxiety.

“Who? Maybe I know ‘em.” He took a step closer. “Maybe I could be your friend.”

“I don’t think so.” She stepped back.

“Are you suuuure?” He took another step.

“Quite.” Her glance darted around, seeking help—unfortunately, the others seemed content to ignore her now. “Please leave me alone.”

The man laughed a gleeful, cackly sort of laugh. She backed away, and with unexpected speed he leapt forward and grabbed her by the shoulder again, restraining her easily.

“I don’t want to,” he hissed into her ear, and she felt the unmistakable pressure of something thin and sharp against her neck.

Her eyes widened.

“Roscoe, put the weapon away,” a voice said. “That is no way to treat a lady.”

The man’s grin lowered into a pout. “But she’s that hound.”

“She’s not a hound anymore, and even if she was, you have no excuse to jump her like that. Put it away.”

Roscoe gave a light, dog-like whine, but dutifully backed off, sheathing his knife somewhere beneath his waistband. Edna forced herself to relax her stiff stance, looking at the man who had spoken.

Adenauer appeared much the same as he had the day she had met him. His auburn hair was slicked back and his high-cheekboned face was clean-shaven. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, but he did have on a pinstriped waistcoat with a silver watch chain looped through one of the top buttons. He smiled genially at Edna as their eyes met, the very portrait of friendliness.

“I’m so sorry about Roscoe,” he said. “He has no sense of tact to begin with, and he’s been terribly antsy since all those arms busts earlier this week.”

“Does he work for you?”

“Yes. Well, not in any manner you would find on my ledgers, so yes and no.” He squinted at the place where the knife had touched her neck, making sure that Roscoe hadn’t left any perceptible wound. “Might I ask what brings you here?”

“I came to find you, actually. I remembered that—”

His hand closed gently about hers, startling her into silence. “Let’s go sit down and talk.”

He turned on his heel, heading back to one of the tables. She followed, letting him guide her and studying his countenance—his gaze roved about the room easily, giving every impression of calm. She realized he was watchful without it being obvious, cautious without seeming wary.

His table was occupied by two thickly-built men in their shirtsleeves. They barely regarded her or him, automatically rising as he went to sit and leaving for some other part of the room. Adenauer scooted his chair closer to the edge of the table and reached for his wineglass, taking a sip as Edna lowered herself into the chair across from him, folding her hands.

“Chardonnay,” he said, catching her staring at the gold liquid. “Would you like a drink?”

Her first instinct was to refuse, but the incident with Roscoe had left her mouth a bit dry. Not wanting to impose, she said, “I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.”

Adenauer gave a small wave of his hand. Like a waiter, one of the men emerged from the crowd and drew to his side. He quietly repeated her request and the man went back towards the bar.

“So I assume you’ve come to ask me a favor,” Adenauer said, once Edna’s attention had returned to him.

“Well,” she replied, forcing a smile, “you offered.”

“I did.” He smiled back warmly. “I also am assuming that it has to do with getting back at Hartwell.”

“It does. I…never thought I would be doing this, honestly, but I don’t have much of a choice. Even my best friend on the force has decided to submit to Hartwell’s judgment. I want to finish what I started—I need to, to ensure that justice takes its proper course—but I’ve lost access to everything I compiled and I fear that it might be destroyed if I wait too long.”

“Probably,” Adenauer agreed. “The police have been becoming more conscious of document safety in recent years.”

“I figured that, you know, as a…an illegal arms dealer, to be perfectly precise, you wouldn’t mind helping me retrieve that evidence. I’m aware that Hartwell was involved in the arms trade and I have some thorough accounts of some of the representatives he met with. If there is any account related to you, I can give you the opportunity to remove it.”

“So you want to offer me the chance to dispose of that evidence in return for helping you get all of it.”

“Yes, if that’s acceptable to you.”

“I never thought you would do something of this nature either, Ms. Maurer,” he declared, amused.

“I—” Adenauer’s henchman returned with the water and set it down in front of her, giving her a moment to compose her retort. “I determined that the loss of that evidence would not be too detrimental to the overall case. Hartwell has participated in many different illegal activities, after all.”

“I do think you are making a fine offer.”

Adenauer sipped his wine, taking on a look of consideration that she realized a few seconds later he hadn’t meant. “But unfortunately there is little advantage to me in removing evidence, as I have never done business with Hartwell and I know exactly who has.”

“You do?”

“The Neilsens, mainly. They’re a smaller enterprise specializing in handguns, with some expertise in customization. They’re a bit annoying, what with their territorial tendencies and penchant for standing up other gangs’ runners. I wouldn’t mind seeing the law get to them. Neither would I much care for it catching up with the Murdochs or the Collettis.”

The first gang was vaguely familiar to Edna, while the others were unknown to her. She wondered briefly whether Adenauer’s under-the-table business went by his name.

“Couldn’t you use the evidence as blackmail against them, if they’re your competitors?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “They’re too confident to change their behavior much. Besides, if the Society caught wind of a possible sell-out, they would be all over me.”

“The Society exists?”

“Of course it does,” he said, looking amused again. “If the underworld didn’t have some manner of structure, things would be as violent here as they are in Berford right now. I’m surprised the police haven’t realized yet.”

“We’ve heard rumors of it, but we haven’t uncovered anything more,” she replied, realizing a moment later that ‘we’ was the wrong word. She sighed—old habits died hard. “So I suppose I have nothing to give you in return for doing this, then.”

Adenauer rested his arms on the table, leaning in a bit closer. “Not necessarily. I have many connections in different industries, some rather undesired, and I don’t know the full scope of Hartwell’s dealings. There probably is still a name or two in there that would be useful to me.”

“You think so?”

“Mm-hm. He engaged in a lot of bribery to support different runners, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” she said, straightening her posture. “I believe his most recent was the payment of five dollars to two officers that discovered crates of stolen liquor and opium in a home on the west side. The home belonged to a Mr. Engler, who had ties to a Mr. Viveros that Hartwell had made at least three alcohol purchases from.”

“That I wasn’t aware of. Viveros works for a smuggling ring operating out of the Kinkead station.”

She nodded, making a mental note of that piece of information. “Hartwell also recently paid off Officer Tousant in order to arrange a meeting with a man identified as Luis, with whom he discussed the destruction of evidence in a breaking-and-entering case.”

Adenauer’s brow twitched. For an instant, his tranquil features tightened into a look resembling fear.

“Did you say Luis?” he responded, lowering his voice.

“A witness stated he was referred to as Luis. They saw him only once, but described him as about 6’0, with dark brown hair and a black overcoat.”

“Do you by chance recall Luis Uccello, Ms. Maurer?”

She blinked. “The man that was gunned down a year ago in the Rothman warehouse massacre?”

“That one, yes.” Adenauer leaned still closer, nearly whispering. “If that story is indeed about the same Luis, it’s the fourth time in the past few months that I have heard talk of him being alive and well, and the most solid account of that rumor to date.”

“But three separate witnesses identified the body as his,” said Edna. “And everything in his apartment was found intact. His car was even still there on the street.”

“I agree; it is a pretty unlikely set of circumstances. But this sort of thing does happen every so often. A gangster gets himself into a dire situation and has to feign his own death as a way out. In less drastic forms it’s almost standard practice for the more illicit professions.”

He turned his head, glancing over to where Roscoe was having some animated conversation with a heavily made-up woman. “For instance, according to city records, he’s been dead for the past eleven years. Twelve, this year.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Though the city admits they never found his body.” Adenauer frowned. “The fact that Uccello provided a body makes his situation troubling, as well as the fact that he is apparently still in town. I have to wonder what his motivations might be.”

“If it’s indeed Luis Uccello,” commented Edna, “maybe someone’s operating under his identity?”

“Possibly, though I can’t see what they would gain. Uccello was in deep with the Society for being a suspected informant to the police. He wasn’t exactly beloved at the time that the Wools bumped him off, or tried to.”

“Well, the Wools were tracked down and arrested shortly after. That would be one less enemy to worry about, at least.”

“True. Nonetheless, the evidence against him was indisputable. A lot of well-respected bosses raised complaints. I doubt that’s something an impersonator would want to deal with.”

“I see,” Edna said. “Were you one of those bosses?”

Adenauer smirked. “What makes you think I’m a well-respected gang boss?”

“The fact that you’re here with bodyguards and you employ men like that.” She gestured to Roscoe. “And you just generally seem like…uh, you’re not the usual type personality-wise, but you seem as though you would be good at it.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But my situation aside, I’m intrigued by this news of a Luis. I’d like to see whatever else you have about him.”

“Can I show you in return for helping me retrieve the evidence?”

He nodded, raising his glass to his lips again. “It will be a somewhat difficult task, but my associates will be able to manage it. They’ll use utmost secrecy, of course. No need to pile problems atop problems.”

“Of course. Do you want to just let me know when the job is done?”

“Yes, I shouldn’t need any more input. Which method of communication would you prefer? If Hartwell at all has his eye on you, I’d rather not risk the phone.”

The possibility of Hartwell tracking her actions made Edna inwardly cringe. “How about I just check in with you at your main store?”

“That will work. Pretend you’re repairing something at home, if anyone asks.”

“I’ll come up with some excuse, if need be.” She gulped at her water, then extended a hand. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

Adenauer shook it lightly. “I’m happy to help.”

“If you need any further information or compensation—”

“This is a favor, Ms. Maurer. You saved me plenty of time and trouble by letting that rifle case go cold a few weeks ago, and I will not ask more from you.” He patted her hand. “I suggest you push this matter out of your mind for now and try to get some sleep. Come see me next week.”

“Okay,” she said, reddening a little at the touch.

She finished her drink and got to her feet. She took two steps away from the table, a bit dazed by Adenauer’s kindness, before she remembered something and turned back.

“Mr. Adenauer?”

“Hmm?” he said.

“I thought I should inform you that Ms. Sauber has been tracking you. She knows your entire Friday night schedule.”

“Does she?” Adenauer’s expression passed swiftly from incredulity to pleasure. “Oh my. That’s hilarious. I’ll have to mix things up a little next week and see if she gets jumpy.”

Edna had assumed he’d interpret Sauber’s knowledge as a threat, but he seemed genuinely entertained. “You’re not concerned about that?”

“The only thing that woman has ever managed to do to me is get me a parking ticket. She’s more amusing than anything.” He turned his gaze thoughtfully to the ceiling. “I wonder what she’d think if I decided to pay her a visit that Friday evening…”

Edna thought briefly of the rapier over Sauber’s mantelpiece. “Just try not to frighten her too much.”

“I won’t,” he promised, smirking. “Take care, now.”

She left the bar quickly, striding past Roscoe and Adenauer’s bodyguards. She felt the former’s eyes on her as she went by and had to suppress a shudder. It didn’t take much guessing to determine what role that man served, and in spite of how well the whole transaction had gone, she found herself looking forward to cutting ties with Adenauer as soon as the evidence was back in her hands.

As far as she was concerned, this was a desperate time, and she’d taken a desperate measure. There was no need to remain on the criminal side of things for long.

Title: The Escape
Rating: PG
Warnings: Talk of murder and assassins
Notes and things-to-know: I'm going chronologically here, so this takes place after Edna gets her evidence back and Adenauer starts looking into Uccello's doings. The 'ambush' is a reference to an event in the interim, where Marion and Roscoe were arrested after someone (one of Uccello's associates) anonymously tipped off the police about a gang deal they were going to make. Marion has a rather interesting backstory, which I'm not going to fully give away, but which does involve him spending some time on the police force. There's a hint dropped about it, so keep that in mind. :)
Summary: Marion rescues Edna from an assassination attempt.

Sometime around three in the morning, Edna awoke to a hand pressed against her mouth.

Her eyes snapped open, instantly alert. Her hands flew up before her mind could even process what was happening, fingers clutching and pulling at the foreign palm. She gave a muffled, panicked cry, and another hand intervened—her assailant pried away her digits with a firm grasp, seizing one of her wrists and twisting it back. She swung her free arm around, fist clenched, then heard the bedsprings creak in protest as a body pushed against her, an arm pinning her arm, a breath warm and steady against her face.

“Ssssh,” a voice whispered. “Quiet down. I’m with Adenauer.”

The statement was incomprehensible to her in her terror. She flailed her legs and screamed behind the pressed hand, struggling to free herself.

“Quiet!” the voice hissed. “Do you want to get yourself killed?!”

It occurred to her then in a flash of reasoning that the assailant might be armed. Realizing that it would be best not to let the situation escalate, she ceased her movements, gazing anxiously up at the black shadow of a head.

“Okay.” She saw the head turn towards the doorway, vaguely outlined in the darkness of the room. “All right. I’m going to let go of you and give you some instructions, but I need you to be completely silent. If you scream, you’re going to put both of us in grave danger. Understand?”

She didn’t understand beyond that order but nodded slightly anyhow. The assailant hesitated for a moment, then drew back, the bedsprings giving another light creak. She took a deep, shuddering breath as the hand came free from her mouth.

“Okay,” the voice whispered again. “Here’s the deal—someone put a hit on you. There’s a man coming up the stairs right now to do the job and two downstairs as backup. I need you to get up, put your shoes on, and follow me. I’m going to sneak you out the back way.”

Edna opened her mouth to ask who would possibly hire someone to kill her, as it was far more extreme than anything Hartwell had ever dared to do, but her reason again prevailed. She rose without a word, crossing the room and heading down the short passage to the apartment door. She knelt there, feeling for her leather police uniform shoes and putting them on. Figuring that it would probably be cold outside, she reached to where her coat hung as well.

“Leave that here,” said the voice. “The fabric makes too much noise when it moves.”

She jumped—she hadn’t heard any approaching footsteps. She did, however, catch the sound of the latch gently clicking open and the soft whine of the hinges. She blinked in the flood of yellowish light, dull as it was, as the door swung forth, her vision adjusting to the sight of the assailant—a short-statured man with dark, side-swept hair, dressed in a black woolen shirt and trousers.

He peered cautiously from left to right, then turned back to her, beckoning with two fingers. She followed on his heels as he inched out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him and sticking close to the papered wall. He took measured steps, his gold eyes flickering around, searching for any sign of movement.

As they came to the connecting hallway, he paused, listening. Edna pricked her ears and caught the bare hint of a sound—the creak of steps somewhere nearby.

The man made a sharp right, heading more briskly towards the back of the building. His right hand disappeared into his shirt, and with raised brows she saw it emerge with a small, sleek pistol, cocked and ready. She wished immediately that she still had her police-issued revolver, or at least had had the presence of mind to take the knife in her desk drawer with her.

As he came to the back stairs, he flattened himself against the section of wall beside them and leaned sideways, looking down the stairwell. Seeing that no one was there, he waved her down, staying near the railing.

At the fourth step from the bottom, he froze.

Edna stopped at once, glancing around herself. Her gaze snapped back to the lower landing as a man stepped into view beneath the clouded-glass fixture there, the shadows heavy on his bony features. He was carrying a modified military-issue rifle with a drum magazine, holding it off to an angle with one hand not far from the trigger.

For a long moment, barely breathing, Edna watched him. The dark-haired man before her stood with his pistol pointed, completely still, fully ready for the rifleman to turn and see the two of them there on the steps.

“Chilly night, ain’t it?”

The remark came from down the hall to the right. The rifleman turned—towards the outer wall, thank goodness—and walked back toward the speaker, muttering a response. Gradually, the voices grew more distant.

The dark-haired man shot a quick, one-eyed glance around the corner. Evidently the men had wandered off, as he proceeded to descend the last of the steps. Edna expected him to try the back door, but he went straight past it, taking a few strides to a tall window instead. The window, a sash design, was being held propped open by a wooden board, and without hesitation he bent and pulled himself through the cramped opening, gripping the sill and letting his feet hit the ground a few bricks’ length below. As he passed through, for an instant he was lost to the darkness—then his face reappeared, mouthing ‘quickly.’

She looked to ensure that the men were still out of sight and got down on her hands and knees, crawling through. She wasn’t nearly as good at squeezing hurriedly through a tight space and at one point she slipped, the top of her foot slamming against the sill. She scrambled for purchase and kicked herself off like a swimmer, managing to get her legs safely outside. One of the men’s voices echoed in the hallway.

The dark-haired man seized her hand and yanked her to her feet. He took off running and she kept pace with him, avoiding the pools of light from wall-mounted lamps. There was a shout of alarm but she didn’t glance back. She followed the man through a maze of alleyways, winding between buildings and around clustered boxes and barrels, until he emerged on the corner of a deserted side street.

He gazed about for good measure then crossed to where a rusty two-seater sat along the sidewalk. He sheathed his gun and pulled a key from his trouser pocket, unlocking the car. Without being asked, Edna climbed into the passenger seat. He sat down beside her, started the engine and pressed the gas as soon as it sputtered to life, advancing rapidly down the road.

For a few minutes the two of them rode in silence. Edna let her heartbeat settle and her eyes focus on the window, watching the turns the man made, wondering where exactly he was going. He didn’t take his view off the road or otherwise acknowledge her, and it soon became clear that she would have to ask for an explanation.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Safehouse out by the warehouse district,” he said simply.

There was an awkward pause. Edna faced him and said, “So you mentioned you work for Adenauer..?”

“Yes, I do. He’s been having me keep an eye on you since the ambush. Apparently his suspicions were justified.”

“The ambush?”

“Incident with another gang. There’s some connection with Uccello, we think.”

She frowned at his cryptic answer. “You think Uccello sent someone after me?”

The man shrugged. “Someone doesn’t like the evidence you’ve got; that’s for sure. Could be him if he’s still alive and kicking, could be somebody else that caught wind of it. I don’t know.”

Edna thought about that. According to Adenauer, stealing the evidence had gone without a hitch, as had placing copies of it back in the police records. Unless Hartwell had accessed the records during those few days in between, he shouldn’t know anything about the theft, and even then the hiring of a hitman was a bit too cold-blooded for him. She had a fair amount of faith that Adenauer didn’t notify other gangs about it, either—for some reason she felt a lot of trust in him, and he’d told her himself that there was no one he’d dare blackmail with the information. He was awfully careful about security, too—who could have found out, and how?

It occurred to her then how little she actually knew about Adenauer’s dealings. She knew his area of business and his personality, and knew what contacts he’d told her about over their meetings, but otherwise she was barely aware of how he operated. Before, she hadn’t had an interest in knowing, but now it seemed important. The fact that she was traveling to an indefinite location with an armed stranger only furthered that feeling.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Mr. Neal,” the man said.

“That’s an alias, isn’t it.”

The man shot her a brief look. “I don’t put a lot of trust in former officers.”

“I think I should be entitled to know the name of the man who saved my life,” she replied. “Besides, the real you is probably dead according to city records.”

“I see Adenauer’s been having some interesting conversations with you.”

“He’s told me a lot of things, yes.”

“He picks the strangest people to take pity on,” the man remarked with a sigh. “It’s dangerous to be so forthcoming.”

“You know, it wouldn’t be fair for me to try and condemn you after you did me such a service.”

“You do realize that since I barely know you, I have to suppose that you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying,” she said, offended. “You saved me. I’m practically indebted to you.”

Another look aside at her. “I did a job that I was assigned. If you have any debt, it’s to Adenauer.”

“Don’t trivialize your own actions. You went through the effort and regardless of your motives, what you did was great. I just…I want to be able to thank you properly, by name.”

He heaved another sigh. “If I had that kind of sentimental attitude, I would’ve gotten myself into a lot of trouble by now. But fine, if it’ll make you happy. I’m Marion.”

“Just Marion?”

“I don’t use my last name.”

“All right, then. Thank you, Marion. I’m deeply grateful for what you have done for me.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, practically staring down the road.

“At least as far as I remember, I’ve never seen a Marion in the police records,” she informed him. “I won’t look for it, either, if I ever get the opportunity. So you don’t need to worry.”

“Sure,” replied Marion, still sounding skeptical.

She figured it might be best to change the subject, but her curiosity got the better of her. As amiably as she could manage, she ventured, “So, does your job normally involve protecting Adenauer’s clients?”

“Sometimes does. I do a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Secretarial work, bodyguarding, whatever needs to get done.”

She thought of the way he’d restrained her, pinning her against the bed without suffering a punch or letting go of her mouth. She thought, too, of the way he’d lead her out—he had technique rivaling most officers she knew. Bodyguarding seemed too mild a description of his talents.

“Whatever needs to get done?” she echoed. “That means getting rid of people too, doesn’t it?”

Marion, who had been approaching a traffic light, slammed on the brakes a bit too hard. “Adenauer’s not fond of that.”

“But he orders it sometimes?”

“Look,” Marion said, letting his hands drift along the thin rim of the steering wheel. “When you go over to the gangs, you can’t expect the law to help you. If someone wants your head, you risk your safety and the safety of everyone else near the guy by blabbing about it to the police. You’ve got to solve the problem with the resources you have. It’s not pretty and it’s not always fair, but that’s the way it is. Safety’s something you take a lot of pains for.”

Edna nodded, startled by the sudden flood of speech. “I see. Just so you know, I’m…not incredibly horrified by the thought of you killing people. I’ve met quite a few murderers before.”

“I’m not a murderer,” he snapped. “I have no personal stake in it. When I do it, it’s a job.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that. What term do you like? Contract killer?”

The light turned green and the tires screeched as Marion hit the gas. “Hell no. I haven’t contracted out in years. It’s like prostitution. You get decent clients and you get all the riffraff that stick you with close deadlines and no background information. The pay gets annoyingly unpredictable, too. Much better to be salaried.”

“What about hitman?”

“Too common. If you’re going to make me choose, I’d pick assassin. That at least indicates skill.”

“Assassin it is, then. Out of curiosity, how long have you worked as an assassin?”

He took a moment to think. “About ten years. Less so in the past few years. Adenauer would rather try to talk it out with his enemies than bump them off.”

“Well, that explains how well you maintain stealth. You’re as good as some of my old colleagues.”

“I have to be. I’ve had the pigs on my tail more times than I can count.” Noting her look of disapproval, he corrected himself. “The police, I mean. I have to stay one step ahead of them, especially when I’m in their neighborhood.”

“I imagine you’ve been arrested a few times?”

“Three times. Been brought into questioning at least six times. Tiresome business, that.”

“And you were released?”

“The most I’ve ever gotten is two weeks in jail for reckless driving.”

“I must say, considering what you do, that’s rather impressive.”

“Thanks, Maurer.”

Marion turned the car onto a gravel road, the wheels thudding as they left the pavement. Up ahead, Edna could see a few blocks of tall red-brick and steel structures, some illuminated and some swathed in darkness. Rusted junk sat in piles along the pitted street, the refuse of industries that had moved south decades ago. In the distance, a locomotive steamed past the half-shattered skylights of an abandoned station, its white headlight like an eye, blinking in and out as it passed behind buildings.

The safehouse Marion pulled in front of was a former office of some kind with boarded windows and barred doors. It had once had a porch but the wood had rotted, causing the structure to collapse sideways. The lamppost out front was dark, its glass panels smashed from vandalism.

Marion parked and got out, not bothering to open the door for Edna. She hastily followed him, clutching her arms as she realized just how cold it was—she hadn’t felt the chill during the escape, but now it was bitterly apparent. Marion didn’t bother with the porch, instead leading her to a side entrance, which he unlocked with another key kept—she noted in disbelief—in a pocket on the inside of his trousers. She had to wonder how many pockets he had.

“It’s pretty dusty in here,” he said, stepping inside. “Still well-stocked, though. Haven’t used it in a while.”

From the outside, she’d expected something derelict. She was pleasantly surprised to find that the waiting room they came into was well-furnished and painted an unbroken white. The windows were covered with thick black cloth, letting no hint of a glow between the boards, and she took her look around as Marion strode through the place, flipping on the lights.

“This way,” he beckoned. She followed him down a small corridor to a room that had assumedly once held books and records—a few disintegrating volumes were still holed up on the corners of the shelves, which now were mainly filled with items of a different nature. There were rows of canned food and bottled beverages, piles of folded clothes and blankets, oil lamps and matches, bandages and antiseptic, and a variety of other items intended to sustain a few fugitives for at least a month. Marion walked past most of the stash without a glance, pausing at one shelf and retrieving a latched leather case.

He set it down on the rug, opening it and pulling out a handgun that appeared strikingly familiar.

“Is that a Stadtler M8?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s a Pig Stick,” he said. He missed her frown at the derogatory nickname, opening the loading gate and inserting cartridges one by one. “If Uccello or whoever goes after you again, you’d better be able to defend yourself. Figured you’d be most comfortable with what you’re familiar with.”

He shut the case, walking back to her and handing it and the gun over.

“Where did you get one of these?” she asked, examining the weapon. “From an officer?”

Marion shrugged. “Someone picked it up. Probably went through a couple gangs before it reached us, because I can’t remember where it’s from. It’s still in good condition, though, as far as I can tell.”

“Do you have a holster for it?” she asked.

“Hold on.” He retreated, going for one of the higher shelves. When it became apparent to him that he wasn’t tall enough to reach it, he grabbed a nearby table and dragged it over with ease, using it as a stepstool. He hopped back down with the leather straps of a shoulder holster in hand, giving it to Edna.

“This is definitely police-issue,” Edna commented, eyeing it.

“Yeah. Not the best for concealment, but it’ll work.”

“How do you usually carry your gun?”

Marion immediately started undoing the buttons of his shirt. Edna, embarrassed, thought to look away, but he did have a white undershirt on and stopped halfway down. He had a holster belted across his chest, his pistol positioned at an angle for his right hand to easily grasp from above.

“That’s one,” he said, and before she could ask what he meant he bent, pulled up the left leg of his trousers and revealed a second gun strapped to his ankle. “That’s the other. And I’ve got ammunition here, a knife here, another knife here, and some other things in here.”

He pointed to his waistband, his other ankle, and his left sleeve, then gave a general gesture towards the pockets of his pants. Edna stared at him.

“That’s…quite a bit.”

“Never hurts to be careful.” He gave her a hard look, as though daring her to call him paranoid. “And no, this isn’t unusual for a gangster. You met Roscoe, right?”

“Yes.”

“He carries a .45 and about ten different blades. Though he has a thing for knives, so maybe he isn’t the best example.”

Considering the nature of her run-in with Roscoe, Edna wasn’t surprised. “What about Adenauer?”

“What about him?” Marion said as he buttoned his shirt back up, suddenly guarded.

“You can tell me what he carries. I’m already doing business with him, so he’d surely find a way to incriminate me if I tipped off the police.”

“A couple of knives usually,” he replied, seeing her point. “It’s too dangerous to be walking around with guns most of the time when you’re out front. He does have a nice customized S-19 though.”

“I’ve never heard of an S-19.”

“You guys know it as a Palk M19. The S stands for service—it’s from the military.” Marion ran a hand through his hair. “Honestly, he’s a better shot with a long gun, but you’ve got to wait until autumn to start wearing one of those.”

“You need an overcoat to hide it,” Edna said, understanding.

“Yep.” He lifted his right sleeve, checking his wristwatch. “Well, we’d better get some rest. Have to meet up with Adenauer at noon tomorrow.”

He flicked off the lights and left the room—barely taking his gaze off of her, now that she had a loaded weapon—and went for the stairs to the second floor. Edna trailed after him tentatively, puzzled.

“You’re staying here?”

His mouth twitched with irritation. “Of course I’m staying here. I’m not giving you the run of the place.”

“What is that supposed to mean? You think I’m going to take anything out of here that you didn’t offer me?”

“How do I know that you aren’t? I barely know you.” She started a retort but he cut her off. “Besides, Adenauer’s not the only one who makes use of a safehouse in this area. On the off chance that someone from a different gang’s going to come creeping around, I want to be here.”

The latter reason seemed logical enough. In spite of the former, after the night she’d had, Edna found she didn’t much mind the idea of Marion staying around. Even if nothing happened and his presence proved unnecessary, it lent her some peace of mind.

“Fine,” she said, climbing the steps.

The floor contained six small rooms. Marion pointed her towards the cramped bathroom, then to a room near the end, which was fitted with a cheap nightstand, a bed, and a trunk of clean blankets and sheets. She set the gun, holster and case on the nightstand and on his advice retrieved a fresh set of sheets. He watched her for a bit as she changed out the ones on the bed, smoothing creases and tucking corners.

“You make beds like a nurse,” he observed.

“My mother was a nurse,” she informed him, stepping back to examine her work for a moment. “And I considered becoming one.”

“Changed your mind?”

“Well, the police academy finally opened to women and I felt that I could do more there.”

Marion leaned against the doorframe. “I can’t say you were right about that.”

“If I can convict Hartwell, that’ll strike a strong blow against the corruption in the police force and the power of numerous gangs,” she insisted. “When that happens, I will be able to consider my choice right.”

“So long as it’s not going to rain repercussions on Adenauer’s enterprise, I guess you can go ahead with that,” Marion said. “Teach a few gangsters not to play around with law enforcement.”

“Because that endangers the rest of you?”

“It’s always better to keep far away from the police. Dealing with them is like tossing bones to a guard dog. You might distract him for a while, but he’ll still bite you when you run out, because that’s what he was trained to do. And when you’re in pain you’re not exactly rational, so chances are you’ll follow up with something really stupid, like naming names. God help you when it comes to that.”

“I heard the Society gets up in arms over those situations.”

Marion nodded, his gaze vague and thoughtful. “Like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve seen some…pretty awful results.”

Edna felt a little prickle of unease—considering what Marion did for a living, his notion of ‘awful’ would have to imply something singularly disturbing. She sat down on the bed, not wanting to speculate and not sure how to reply.

Marion sensed the awkwardness and cleared his throat, deciding to bring the conversation to a close. “Well, good night. I’ll be across the hall. If you need to wake me up, give my bed a kick.”

“Give your…what?”

“You don’t want to wake me by touching me,” he informed her. “Roscoe tried that once and I started strangling him by reflex.”

“…Okay,” she said, managing a smile for lack of a more appropriate reaction. “Good night, Marion.”

He shut off the light and closed the door. She heard the creak of the opposite door but none of his footsteps, even though the floor was wooden. She lay down, listening until only the dull sounds of old, settling beams were left and exhaustion at last rose to overtake her.

Title: The Chase
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Gun violence (though no one actually gets injured), car accidents
Notes and things-to-know: Oh geez, was this fun to write. XD I've been wanting to do a car chase scene with Yeager for just about forever. This takes place sometime later in the story while they're still investigating Uccello. The officer mentioned by name is Flynn--Edna's old friend and romantic interest on the police force, who currently believes in spite of himself that she did commit the crime Hartwell framed her for, unfortunately.
All the car names are fictional--as are any gun and street names I use in these fics--so don't bother looking them up.
Also, keep in mind that while Adenauer is pulling crazy stunts, he is indeed driving a stick. And that fifty miles an hour is about the maximum speed of a 1920s car. I have deep respect for his skill. XD
Summary: The arrival of some of Uccello's henchmen propels Adenauer and crew into a high-speed chase.

They were just making a right off of Woodland Drive when Marion spoke up.

“Adenauer?”

“Hm?” Adenauer said absently.

“We’re being followed.”

“Are we?” He glanced at his rearview mirror. “The black cabriolet?”

“They’ve been on our tail for three blocks now.”

“Well, let me see.” As they came up to a small side street, Adenauer abruptly turned the wheel, pulling the car into a sharp left. The motion made Edna nearly smack against the door while Roscoe stayed still with his hand clutching the top of the leather seat, as though he’d expected such an action. Adenauer’s gaze flickered from the road to the mirror again.

“Ah,” he said. “They are following us.”

Edna turned to look out the back window. The driver was keeping a good distance from Adenauer’s sedan, enough that she couldn’t make out the features of any of the three passengers, all of who were clad in dark suits and newsboy caps.

“They’re probably planning to surprise us once we’re in a quieter area,” Marion said. “Think you can lose them?”

“Certainly,” replied Adenauer, up-shifting and pressing the gas.

The sound of the engine shot from a steady drone to a roar. In the space of a few moments, the cabriolet fell away into the distance, vanishing behind a building as Adenauer banked around a corner. Edna held on, keeping her gaze fixed to the window.

Halfway up the block, she saw the pursuing car round the corner after them, gradually increasing speed.

“They’re catching up,” she said.

Adenauer came to a red light and made a left, passing neatly in front of an approaching car. The driver hit their brakes, momentarily blocking the cabriolet as Adenauer went flying down the street, staying close to the center line to avoid pedestrians.

At the next intersection, he was forced to brake, hand nimbly working the shifter as a line of cars passed in front of him. As soon as an opening appeared, he zipped through, speeding up until he was inches from the car before him.

Seconds later, the cabriolet emerged from the intersection, undeterred.

Adenauer maneuvered into the space between the lane and the sidewalk to pass the car ahead, nearly side-swiping a lamppost. At the crosswalk, a pedestrian screamed and leapt back, and Adenauer careened right, slipping back into the lane as a parked car loomed. That obstacle went by and he quickly made use of the space again, frightening a group of ladies and popping the curb as he overtook another car observing the speed limit. The street widened after the following intersection, which he darted into amidst a barrage of horns, getting in the center lane.

“They’re still there,” Edna announced nervously, watching as the cabriolet cut off a few drivers, following the sedan’s movements.

“So they actually know what they’re doing,” Adenauer said coolly. “Well, I’ll just have to try a different method.”

He checked his mirrors, waited a moment, then swerved into oncoming traffic. Edna gasped as a truck bared down on them, honking deafeningly. Adenauer swept into the other lane, letting it pass, and switched lanes again as a town car barreled towards them. The driver, reacting too late, swung to the side and smashed into a post box, its radiator crumpling.

Another driver veered into the opposite side of the road upon seeing Adenauer advancing towards him, their car striking an oncoming vehicle and swinging in a wide arc that blocked both lanes. Tires screeched, glass shattered and horns sounded in a cacophony of protest. Adenauer pulled onto the sidewalk as he turned, causing a man to jump out of the way and a few other people to flatten themselves against the building walls as he went for a break in the traffic, making it over to the right side of the road before the light ahead turned green and allowed a whole group of vehicles through.

Somewhere to the right, Edna caught an unmistakable, thunderous crack.

“They’ve opened fire!” Marion cried.

The cabriolet—which now sported a wide dent on one side—was approaching fast. One of the passengers had produced a machine gun and was attempting to fire it whilst half-kneeling on his seat, while the other had a handgun. As they gained on the sedan, bullets ricocheted off the back bumper, and Edna crouched down below the windows, reaching beneath her coat for her gun.

“Now this is getting interesting!” Roscoe said in delight, retrieving his own weapon from beneath his waistband and reaching over Edna to roll down her window. He fired through it, striking a few passing cars and landing a bullet in the cabriolet’s windshield, breaking the glass. “Hell yeah!”

Edna fired more cautiously, keeping low enough to easily duck and trying not to cause collateral damage. As the cabriolet pressed on, bullets riddled the door on her side and she and Roscoe dove for cover. Roscoe flopped on top of her and, as the machine gun shooter paused, brought his hand up and fired blindly, the blast of the pistol painful to her ears.

Evidently he’d done something right, as the cabriolet fell back. From the passenger seat, Marion leaned out the window and shot after the pursuers, ducking as they returned fire. After some further exchanges of bullets, Edna heard a different sort of blast and looked from the cabriolet to Marion, catching a brief flash of satisfaction on his face.

“One down,” he said, eyeing the flat tire.

“Ooh, ooh, let me get one!” cried Roscoe, loading another clip into his pistol. He shot towards the road, striking the radiator and runners with sharp chinks of metal, and jerked back to avoid another barrage of machine gun bullets. Edna, leaning low across the window frame, sighted carefully and fired—one of the front tires collapsed, causing the cabriolet to pull into a spin.

“Niiice!” Roscoe congratulated, but before Edna could reply the sedan jerked beneath them. She exchanged glances with Marion, whose glance turned to the back right wheel—the tire had been hit.

Adenauer pulled back on the shifter, slowing to regain control. The cabriolet, thankfully, seemed to have come to a stop on the edge of the road, so Adenauer guided the sedan a few blocks further and pulled into an alley. He switched off the ignition and got out, surveying the damage.

“This is going to be difficult to explain to the shop,” he remarked.

Edna, extricating herself from beneath Roscoe—who was peering, dog-like, out her window in interest—opened the door and went to stand beside Adenauer. The right side of the car was pretty well torn up, peppered with round indentations. The back bumper had partly fallen and one of the right wheel’s spokes was cracked, as well as its tire blown.

Adenauer met eyes with Marion. “Get the jack and the wrench.”

Marion immediately went shuffling around within one of the inner compartments. Roscoe folded up the back seats and pulled out the spare tire from beneath them—a good place for it, Edna thought, considering what the outside of the car had gone through. He rolled it over to the men, stretching idly as Marion jacked up the car and Adenauer undid the nuts.

“I’m glad it was this car,” Adenauer commented as he lifted off the tire. “I would have been very displeased if they’d shot up the Embrey.”

“You also have an Embrey?” said Edna.

“And a Duprais roadster,” he replied with a smile, watching her eyebrows shoot up at the well-known name. “I’m a bit of an automobile enthusiast.”

“A bit?” Marion scoffed. “Do I need to remind you how much you spent last week on custom headlights for the Embrey? And of the fact that you have a heated garage?”

“That’s not that unusual,” said Adenauer, popping on the new tire and tightening it into place. “So, which route are we going to take now?”

“We’re near Second, so if you make a left there you can follow the road west towards Trivett,” Edna suggested. “And then head north to your store.”

“That’ll work,” Adenauer agreed, climbing to his feet as Marion lowered the jack. “I think I’ll take a few side streets before Trivett, though, to keep from attracting attention.”

He brushed the dirt from his gloves and went back to the driver’s seat. Marion resumed his position beside Adenauer, leaving Roscoe to stow away the useless tire and take his place with Edna in the back. Firing up the engine, Adenauer shifted into gear and took them out of the alley, turning left at the next intersection.

He was getting ready to make a calm turn onto a back road when Edna spotted an unmistakable black and white car with a flashing red light behind them.

“Adenauer,” she warned, pointing towards the back window.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Well, let’s not dawdle.”

He yanked the shifter forward. Edna found herself holding onto the seat again as he barreled around the corner, accelerating down the narrow road.

“Wait!” she cried. “Don’t do that; if you only explained that there was a chase and other cars were shot at—”

“I’d rather not bother,” he murmured, taking another turn into a neighborhood and dodging parked cars. Behind them, Edna heard the police car’s siren go on and covered her face with her hand.

“Don’t worry, Eddie,” Roscoe drawled. “The bulls don’t usually start shooting.”

Marion, on the other hand, seemed to be siding with Edna on the issue. “Adenauer, really? What license do you have on you?”

“Elliot Bristow.”

“Oh, that explains a lot,” he huffed. “Didn’t I tell you to take Lawrence Sykes? Elliot’s still suspended!”

“I was busy this morning and I forgot,” Adenauer explained lightly. “Anyway, I can outrun this guy.”

Edna watched the speedometer’s needle broach fifty miles an hour. The police car did its best to keep up, and when the sedan reached a green-lit intersection, Adenauer yanked the car around. The sedan went into a spin, causing Roscoe to let out a whoop of excitement and Edna’s breath to catch in her throat, and from the corner of her eye she saw the police car skid away and smack into the edge of a building.

Adenauer stopped the sedan, shot a glance at the police car, and shifted into reverse. He hit the gas.

Edna wasn’t sure whether she was impressed or simply terrified as the sedan flew backwards down the street, with Adenauer half-twisted in his seat to look out the rear window. He side-swiped a trash barrel but managed to successfully weave between two cars and a mail truck. As he reached a busier road, he swung around and backed his way a short distance through traffic until he reached a strip of grass at the median. There he stopped, shifted forward again, and waited a moment to merge into the left lane.

There was a second in which it seemed that Adenauer, Marion, Roscoe and Edna all looked across the road at once, realizing that another police car was parked there with a pulled-over towncar, and that the officer was staring openmouthed at the sedan.

“My luck is just terrible today,” Adenauer remarked.

“Oh my God,” Edna said, ducking down. “I know him. That’s Clarence…”

A space opened and Adenauer entered the lane, passing deftly from left to right. The siren of Clarence’s car shrieked to life and like the parting of waves, Edna saw the vehicles behind them pull over, making way for the police car.

“Go,” she urged. “Don’t let him reach us!”

“I won’t,” Adenauer said, somehow managing a soothing tone while jumping the curb to the sidewalk and blowing through a red light.

Clarence managed to stay hot on their heels, the deference of other vehicles giving him an advantage. Marion leaned forward in his seat, looking for a good escape route as Adenauer zigzagged around obstacles, horns honking in his wake.

“Should I shoot him out?” Roscoe asked. “He’s gaining on us.”

“No!” cried Edna. “Don’t make this worse!”

“It won’t matter if he doesn’t catch us.”

“Adenauer,” Marion said, pointing to the left. “Go through there.”

Edna followed his hand and saw a fenced-in park coming up. Adenauer took Marion’s advice, swerving over the median and through a gap in approaching traffic. He blew his horn as he came to the crosswalk, scaring pedestrians out of the way as he maneuvered through the open gates and onto the gravel path inside.

“There’s a lot of people here,” he commented, swiftly deciding that it’d be safer to drive on the grass. He pulled off of the path, steering around trees and bushes. Clarence’s car followed, but the policeman had slowed to avoid walkers instead of expecting them to move aside and was not as close to the sedan as before.

As they came to a large pond, Adenauer downshifted. Clarence’s car loomed in the rearview mirror.

“What are you doing?!” Edna yelled.

“Trying something.” He rode to the edge of the pond, the sedan’s wheels slowing.

She caught a glimpse of Clarence’s surprised face as he realized that they were stopping. Just as he started to brake, Adenauer upshifted and hit the gas again, careening to the right. The sedan’s left wheels splashed through the shallows and as Clarence brought his speed back up to try and follow, his car swung into the pond, water pouring into his exhaust pipe and radiator.

Roscoe cheered and Adenauer chuckled as he drove away from the stalled car, exiting the park and turning onto the road.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll take Trivett,” he said. “Better to just go north to begin with. This part of town is too busy.”

“I’d say so,” Marion put in with a snort.

“I guess Clarence will have an interesting story for the other officers,” Edna observed, barely believing what Adenauer had just pulled off. “He didn’t really see us, did he?”

“Nah,” Roscoe assured her. “I was watching. He didn’t get a good look. By the way, Ad, can we go out for food soon? I’m hungry.”

“I suppose,” Adenauer said, entirely relaxed. “What would you like?”

“Chinese would be great. I’ve got a hankering for eggrolls.”

“Would that be fine with you?” inquired Adenauer, glancing at Marion and Edna.

Marion nodded. Edna, astonished that the conversation had so quickly turned to something so normal, hesitated before saying, “Yes, that’s fine.”

“Chinese it is, then.” Adenauer pulled to a smooth stop and leaned back in his seat, waiting for the light to turn.

The rest of the drive was entirely uneventful.

Picture post

2011-06-16T11:59:00.000-07:00

My ideas have kind of been all over the place, but I have been drawing some pics, so here.

The Concert of Europe refers to the reorganization of alliances that occurred after the Napoleonic wars. The whole thing was masterminded by the Austrian ambassador Metternich, who reminds me way too much of Roderich in his policies, so I'd been wanting to draw a picture about it for a while. However, I was also on a 18th century clothing kick, so instead I ended up representing the great powers of that era under that fancy name. XD We have Roderich in the middle, of course, and then from left to right: Francis (France,) Gilbert (Prussia,) Antonio (Spain) and Arthur (England.) The flag is the Holy Roman Empire flag, which Austria was part of at the time.

Roderich and the Holy Roman Empire character. (He never was given a name, but I generally assume he's a younger version of Ludwig (Germany,) so.) I've been kind of fascinated lately with the fact that Austria, through the Habsburgs, had a whole lot of control over the empire before becoming an empire in itself. There's just something rather creepy about Roderich pulling Ludwig's strings, even though his intentions would be good.

Roderich in an outfit that, in reality, belonged to Napoleon. I used this very Roderichy picture as reference for his neckcloth and hair.

Yeager in a tuxedo. I have such a thing for men in formal clothes.

I've been dabbling here and there in the 1920s mafia kind of ideas I've had with Yeager and crew--here's Roscoe (Zagi,) Adenauer (Yeager) and Marion, in obligatory dramatic shadow.

And because I don't really have a finished fic to share, here's what I've mainly been playing with:

~ I've had an idea for a while for a fic that's basically a love letter to the diplomatic connivery of the 18th century. Basically, it involves Roderich, an ambassador from Austria, mentoring Alfred, an ambassador from England's colonies, and teaching him how to get by in the super-formal, cutthroat world of high society. It'll be more loosely historical than anything so that I can get away with making up my own plots and events, and perhaps even a multi-chapter if I care to pull it off.
~ I really would like to make the Yeager mafia stuff an original tale. I'd have to sit down and re-plot some of it to my liking, though--one of the things I want to do is make it more of a direct police vs. criminals dichotomy--and I'm debating on including some kind of fantasy element because the stuff with aer honestly did make the fight scenes way more interesting.
~ I've been dabbling in the more canon Yeager stuff as well because of the forum I joined. His relationship with Kaufman in a canon setting is so interesting to me...I should really work on that.

I've also been gradually picking up things for cosplay. I'm going to JAFAX this year as Roderich and Yeager (rather, I'm being dragged to JAFAX--my friends more or less arranged everything and ordered me to come XD) and have a few other projects, like:

- Mafia!Yeager/Adenauer (I have the coat and hat and pants for this and am otherwise pretty much done--I just want to find somewhere, probably in Detroit, to take pictures. Gotta have some art deco backgrounds. XD)
- Roderich Edelstein, infectious disease specialist (This one's done, and honestly pretty cool. I even have an ID card. Brit has proposed that I come to work with her sometime--she works with her dad at a hospital--and take pictures there, so I'm hoping to do that.)
- War of Austrian Succession Roderich (My brother has informed me that he can in fact woodcarve and use a sewing machine, so I'm looking to do this. It pretty much resembles the middle outfit here. The coat will probably be a modified labcoat, while the waistcoat will have to made. I'm looking to add details such as a sash with Austrian flag colors, the Order of the Golden Fleece and other historically-based finery. And yes, I do already have that wig.)
- Celia Verstraeten (This one's on the back burner, but I would like to do her at some point. Either I'm going to do a blue dress she has in canon or I'm just going to get the wig and come up with my own outfit, I think.)

That's all for now.

Fics

2011-05-24T16:07:00.000-07:00

I know the first one's already up on my LJ, but it seems I didn't post it here, so I'll get it up here, too. The other two are new. :3

Title: A Kind of Despair
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of blood, sensuality
Notes and things-to-know: I wrote this for a prompt asking for fics describing lovers reuniting or having to part. Naturally, that prompt made me think of Austria/Belgium, and as my other fic about them, Politics of the Heart, had been from Belgium's perspective, I decided to write this one from Austria's. It doesn't follow the events of Politics exactly and is a lot more introspective, and honestly I think I like it better. Austria, it's fun to get inside your head.
Summary: After he takes over her lands in 1713, Belgium sets out to capture Austria's heart, causing him to reconsider whether his strict self-control is worth as much as he thought.

“You’re lucky,” Antonio had said in the candlelit haze with his slanting, doggish smile while blood dripped from his lip. “You’re lucky to get her.”

Roderich had glanced up briefly, not pausing the movements of his pen, precise words in precise script because the give and take of lives was a precise matter and he was never one to disregard the weight of change. “In what way?”

“She’s a darling. A pleasure to work with, much better than most. You’ll see. You’ll like her.”

He had looked up again, staid-faced, passing the paper to Antonio. “Sign, please.”

“I envy you, I really do.” Antonio’s sore-covered, war-ravaged hand had jerked a scribble from the quill. “I’m going to miss her. You’re lucky to get her out of this.”

But she was only the representation of the gain, Roderich had thought, a vessel worked beneath the hands of those with voices. She was a means to ease management, to bring tangibility to transfers, not someone to befriend, especially in a world where friends habitually massacred each other’s citizenry through broken promises and veiled greed.

“Not lucky,” he’d said, folding the paper—once, twice, corners all aligned, seams thin and flat. “Astute. My acquisitions are the result of perceptive thinking and preparation. I do not leave my affairs to luck.”

Control—that was the strategy, the method that had brought him this far. Planning for all possibilities, so that when the winds shifted he might not be the one on Antonio’s side of the table, bloody-mouthed and smiling from habit alone. He would not be swayed by impulse, put his faith in anything less solid than tactics that could be written and obeyed and worn like time-tested shackles. He would not be needlessly diverted from his paths.

So when he met her, the girl whom Antonio had delivered to luck, he regarded her without seeing her loose, unpowdered curls or her smirkish smile or the motion of her curtsey and he bowed and nodded stiffly, as though to an object, and it should have discouraged her then and there except for the fact that she was persistent as he was persistent and would see fit to apply her persistence to whatever stirrings had lit within her at the sight of him.

He wasn’t sure what she’d seen in him.

Roderich had always known that he was not the most handsome or charismatic of men. He’d kept a mental listing of his faults, aspects that might make him appear weak to others—dangers all, in the salesmanship that diplomacy could be. He was thin, too lean and bony, gangly in frame and below average in height. He did not have fine cheekbones or a strong jaw. What he made up for in posture and bearing—straight-backed, quietly composed and vigilant—he lost in expression, finding it difficult to convey comfort or promote national pride. Sometimes he came off as arrogant. Sometimes he came off as cruel.

He certainly wasn’t very friendly, especially not among his possessions. While he could have spared some additional regard for them, accentuating his higher status was imperative. He made no invitations to her, subtly or directly, to get to know him on a personal level. He gave no implications that he favored her or perceived her differently from the others in any way. He summoned her for political reasons alone, seated rigidly with folded hands and unsmiling visage as she rocked on her heels and rubbed her neck and leaned over, palms on the edge of his desk, brazenly showing off her décolletage. He brushed aside inappropriate questions and flirtatious remarks.

He gave her nothing and yet she sought. He did his best to discourage her, eventually to the point of scolding her outright for her inappropriate conduct, and she persevered. She giggled and teased and it occurred to him that perhaps it was the challenge itself that had captured her interest. He found that deeply irrational. Why she would undertake such a thing without promise of practical gain was beyond him.

For what was there to be gained? He occupied one tier of society, she another. He was not Francis; he did not have a courtful of concubines or a predilection for sensual matters. He had taken her land for economic benefit and power—as a wall against Francis’ ambitions for the meantime, and if the balance happened to shift so that he might safely give it away for the more valuable terrains of Bavaria, he would. She had no stable future with him.

She was irrational. She was fortunate to have someone of his caliber managing her political situation, as she was hardly fit to manage it herself. She was ignorant and naïve, too optimistic and too focused on trivialities. Antonio had been far too indulgent with her. He had been foolish to think that Roderich would enjoy what, to the practically oriented mind, was simply insubordination.

Roderich did not like her. The levelheaded part of him could not respect the likes of her. The very prospect was impossible.

But slowly, gradually, his body turned against his sense.

When he sent for her she always came smelling of freshness and soil as though she’d been chatting the day away in a field, loose dress stained with mud at the hem, cheeks flushed with sunlight.

She never bothered to dress decently. He told her court protocol was most appropriate and she arrived without panniers or corset, often aproned, often with her face framed by the ruffles of a mob cap. She crossed her legs and arms and dared him, outright dared him to criticize her, and he held his tongue as not to entertain her wishes. He moved on to the subjects at hand and resolved to ignore her appearance.

He resolved to, but when she would stand and pace and rub and bend, his eyes would dart to the motion because without the molding of the corset or the stiffness of false hips, her curves were soft and subtle beneath the shifting fabric. She let her attire fit her rather than shaping herself to fit her attire, rather than aspiring to some furniture-like form of beauty, and in spite of himself he would stare as with one movement, he caught the pinch of her waist; with another, the ridge of her hipbone. He would think, sometimes, about how quickly she must be able to undress without the excess hooks and ties, and how the frame he saw glimpses of would be the same beneath—and then he would catch himself, stumbling over a word and clearing his throat, folded fingers tightening.

He tried to focus on other things in the room. There was a painting on the wall behind her seat, some glorified depiction of a battle he couldn’t remember, and he looked at that, studied it with the intensity of a critic. That failing, he made attempts to scrutinize the state of the paneling or to see out into the distance through the window. Outside were rooftops, pointed hills jutting chimneys into blue sky, but somewhere past that there was countryside, he knew, full of woods and meadows and furrows thick with corn and potatoes and fresh, fresh mud—

She smelled of life, and when she’d approach him the scent grew thick in the air, filling his nostrils. His office normally smelled of dust and parchment, of the burnt-sweet incense of firewood against hints of entrenched damp, and her smell spread through those odors as something altogether foreign and strangely potent. It was frivolous, he thought, that she would be away from the city center and befriending farming folk, but she brought life back with her, leaves and dirt and petrichor and the musk of light sweat. He had to fight himself to keep from breathing deep of it, from speculating on how it might be nice to breathe of her hair, free of the sourness of powder and full of oils that were so feminine, so human, so unmistakably alive. Her skin, too—if he could position his face in the softness at the base of her neck, warm and drenched with the smell of her and the natural world, then that, why that—

That was impossible, he told himself sternly. He had to maintain his superior rank and keep his politics at the forefront. He couldn’t allow himself descent into idle, childish behavior, entertaining such fancies about an irrational woman. Certainly he was better than that.

Certainly Austria was better than that.

But she would tease, though he would not betray anything, and she would peck and pester until the days came when she was quite content in spite of his reproaches to grasp his hand across the desk, or speak softly inches from his face, eyes shining with amusement. He was a man of intellectual bent and thus could combat thoughts, but touch—he had no decent defenses against such a thing. When she would rub her thumb in slow circles along his palm his composure would shudder and crack like ice and he would outright snatch his hand away, voice jumping in pitch and volume as he chastised her. When she would draw close enough that he could feel her breath he would bolt back, chair legs scraping, arm shaking as he would order her out. Out, for there had to be distance—there had to be formality—there had to be stability and not this shivery rush of emotion that would breeze through him, reddening his face and wobbling his stance and muddling his thoughts, his well-laid plans.

She disobeyed him whenever she could for the sheer fun of it. Sometimes she would desist but bicker, telling him no until he actually crossed the room to fetch the guards. Sometimes she would intensify her actions, seating herself on the desk and getting closer, casually reaching for him while he retreated, trying his hardest to hold his head high and keep his calm impermeable as he asserted this was not proper, this was not right, and he could have this and that punishment inflicted on her if she would not stop. He ruled her and her lands, after all, and he could honestly do what he liked with her, and she ought to be grateful that he was sensible and professional.

He could, theoretically. Maybe that was the poisonous tincture that brought him down eventually, when he was weary from war with Gilbert and in no mood to argue. She laughed and smiled and came close enough that maybe her nose or her cheek brushed his face—in retrospect he couldn’t tell—but he was tired, so tired and the temptation was too high and before he knew it he was kissing her, lips against lips, fingers grasping at her curls and chin. He felt her freeze, surprised, then respond, mouth moving breathlessly, and God it felt wonderful and he was so lucky, so astoundingly lucky—

She won that day. Irrationality won over reason, sensuality over higher purposes. He saw the triumph in her eyes when he yanked himself back, gasping and nauseous. He muttered something, some half-formed, stuttered excuse, but the deed was done and the distance jumped.

Nothing would be the same between them after that.

He insisted that there would be no repeat of his slip of control, that it had been only a slip, not a start of anything. But she didn’t believe him and she became bolder after that, enough to put her arms around his neck or waist, head nestled alongside his chin, scent intoxicating. He would try to speak and his eloquence would be lost to him. He would try to protest and his mind would be overcome, instincts taking precedence, prompting further offenses—another kiss, a caress of her back, a pressing of himself against her to bask in her warmth.

She said she fancied him. He thought he was temporarily insane. There was no other way of explaining what he grew to allow or how even his thoughts were drawn in and twisted, anticipating her, scrutinizing her, wanting her. He couldn’t figure out how to cure it other than denying it, just as he had denied the attentions of other women of higher status and refinement, pushing them aside as irrelevant—and yet, though he’d succeeded before, here his self-denial was melting smoothly away. He wondered whether it was because of how illogical she was—perhaps she was a problem on another plane altogether, an issue that conventional analysis could not be applied to. Perhaps he would have to try to look from her perspective to accomplish anything.

So he asked, when they were seated on the couch in his office and she was running her lips along his neck in a way that made him tremble, what exactly it was that she wanted on a long-term basis. She established that she wasn’t delusional, at least—she knew there was no hope of courtship or marriage, of any kind of lasting relationship. She knew he’d readily use her lands as a bargaining chip, that his contact with her now was facilitated by politics and would likely be lost to politics. What she wanted was something immediate, a way to keep up the thrill of her existence, daring for the now that would be a pleasant memory for later.

There was no depth to it—it was what it was. She ascribed to no ideals, bought in to no lofty dreams. As he considered it he found it made some sense, since high ambitions were useless when one was a possession of greater nations. He had complexities to handle and enduring plans to make, not her.

It was strange how beneath that burden he could feel so dead sometimes, while occupying such an ineffectual place, she stayed so alive.

It was enough to make him wonder whether happiness could be a kind of despair.

“You impressed me,” she said on why it’d begun. “I don’t know. It wasn’t that you were strikingly handsome or charming. I just recall seeing you for that first time and watching you bow and wondering how anyone could be so completely collected, like a statue. I wanted to figure out how you worked. I wanted to find where you put the human parts of you.”

He sighed, the heat rising to his cheeks. “Well, you’ve certainly found them, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” She gave a pleasant laugh. “And I feel very lucky that I did.”

There was no depth at all to their relationship—there couldn’t be. It very nearly became routine.

He would come into town by carriage, exchange the most urgent news with the local bureaucrats in the front lobby of the building. Afterwards he would go to his office, shedding his coat and sitting behind his desk, reading the documents left for him there. He would write a few letters, sign some proposals, then, when he had appeased his work-oriented side for the moment, send for her.

She would arrive a bit late (improperly clothed of course) and beam at the sight of him. They would talk briefly, then she would stride around his desk and he would stand so she could embrace him. They would kiss, gently at first, growing increasingly passionate until he could barely breathe and she would be content to hold him, fingers tracing slow outlines along his spine and sides.

It was habitual enough that when she drew beside him and he did not stand, she could be sure that something was wrong.

On that night, he watched her cross her arms and cock her head in concern. He shuffled through some papers to buy time, gathering himself. He straightened, sitting stiffly, perfectly poised.

“It seems Francis’ latest ambitions have been taking us all by surprise,” he said.

She nodded. There was a bruise on her cheek from the troops the man had sent in, flushed with the madness of revolution. It was little compared to what Roderich had endured but his empathetic wounds at least had not yet touched his face, all bandaged well beneath his clothes.

“I have considered the input of manpower and resources that would be necessary to combat him on this front and have determined that the cost would be dangerously high in view of the other, more valuable regions I will likely soon need to defend. Therefore I have decided to allow France control of your lands and plan to begin negotiations on that subject tomorrow.”

She blinked a bit. Her expression didn’t change from mild concern, staying locked in place. He wasn’t sure whether it was the result of shock or if she’d learned from him at some point how to stay impassive in the face of startling news. The possibility of the latter gave him an odd, bitter urge to smile.

“All right,” she said. “I’d thought this might happen.”

“It is the best course of action,” he told her, as though he needed to offer reassurance, as though he had some sort of obligation to reason with a possession.

“I’ll miss you,” she replied.

He gripped the arm of his chair. Inwardly, he debated with himself for a time, then at length, he sighed and rose. “Admittedly, the feeling is mutual.”

There was no depth at all to their relationship but that didn’t stop her from bolting the few steps to him and pulling him into a tight hug. That didn’t stop him from kissing her forehead, her hair, whatever he could reach. That didn’t stop her from whispering in a strained, fervent voice that she would always remember him, or him from being too choked to properly respond.

When half an hour later—or thereabouts, as he’d had little sense of the passage of time—he told her that he wanted to turn in for the night, she asked to follow him. He let her.

They sat and conversed for a while, he on his four-poster bed, she on a chair by his dressing table. When he grew tired he politely requested that she leave but she got up and sat beside him, promising not to do anything he’d find uncouth, because she’d won against him long ago and there was no need to try for any higher goal. He understood her reasoning and shed his shoes and wig, donning his nightcap and otherwise laying down clothed on his side. She nestled herself against him, chest pressed to his back, one arm about his waist and the other beneath his neck, breathing soft and steady.

“I wish you could stay my ruler,” she said. “I wish things could just stay like this.”

“I have to make sacrifices of this nature sometimes,” he murmured. “This is a ruthless world we live in—a constant battle for dominance. If I do not give a little for the sake of the whole, my nation will be entirely swept under by the greed of others.”

“It’s always been strange to me how you have so much power and so little chance to use it. For yourself, I mean.”

“Nothing useful is given without consequence. I wouldn’t have such power if I couldn’t be trusted to put my nation’s interests at the forefront.”

Her left hand, which had been moving in light caress against his stomach, stilled. “Can you promise me something, Roderich?”

“What?”

“That if you get another chance to be happy like this, you’ll take it. That you’ll do something for yourself once in a while.”

He was silent for a moment. “I’ll place more consideration on my opportunities.”

“Good,” she said, accepting the diplomatic answer in her naivety, easing her hand back into motion in a way he knew would haunt him for months to come.

“She’s a pretty one,” Francis remarked as Roderich piled the last of the paperwork. “A nice prize.”

Roderich looked at him, violet eyes as cold as the glass of his spectacles. He looked at Francis’ ragged uniform, drab cloth holding gold braid up for mockery; at his loose blonde hair, scraggly with sweat; at his fingers, dusted with soot and reddish with blood in the cracks, hungrily flexing on the tabletop. He felt disgusted at the sight but showed nothing on his face, as this was no time to be human.

“She’s competent,” he only said. “Decently kind as well.”

“I’m looking forward to having her.”

Then you won’t, Roderich thought. There was no life to be gained without some conquest, after all, no excitement without struggle now that she was accustomed to it. He would not have her if he tried.

Roderich pulled himself to his feet, stepping out of dull candlelight and bowing from habit, impeccably balanced. “Thank you for your time.”

“Quite welcome,” Francis said, grinning. “I’m pleased that we could come to this arrangement.”

Roderich turned, taking his copy of the treaty and striding towards the door. Perhaps it was a whiff of a memory, an overdeveloped sense of irony that stopped him, left over from the insanity the years had entertained. At any rate, the closing niceties did not seem enough.

He glanced back over his shoulder, unyieldingly statuesque, and remarked, “Good luck.”

Goodness knew Francis would need it.

Title: Status Quo
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Blood, some physical violence
Notes and things-to-know: (This is more a drabble than anything, but requires some explanation. XD)
I've been wanting to write a fic on the revolutions of 1848 for forever, mainly because in Hetalia it would be represented by Liz (Hungary) rebelling against Roderich (Austria.) I had a couple points of inspiration (like a comment I happened to read in which someone figured Austria would be delirious for a while from the pain of his people fighting each other) but no solid idea--and then I randomly was struck with inspiration and started writing. What resulted was this: a more thematic piece than a conversational scene, with ample hints of what kind of crazy Roderich is going to reach around WWI.
Summary: Roderich captures Elizaveta and gives her a nasty taste of certainty.

When they push her forward she stumbles to her knees, battered and snarling, and Roderich looks at her and thinks yes, this is the way things should be.

Never mind that he looks as though the blood has drained from his face or that when he climbs to his feet the weight of his crown and his robes bear down on him and his advisors have to take his arms, hold him up. Never mind that his voice is softer than normal, cracking with phlegm. Never mind that there are buildings toppled and streets charred and that the puppet strings of a well-orchestrated plan are slipping and snapping from his fingers, because she is chained and on her knees, bleeding from a hundred wounds and darkening the tile.

“Hungary,” he says, not Elizaveta, and she seethes and glares and spits rouge droplets at his feet. “You have been a great disappointment.”

She tells him to do something obscene to himself, but never mind that. She screams at him, calling him a despot and a devil when he outlines her punishment, but he pays no mind to the insults that a year ago, ten years ago, might have put painful pressure on his heart. The pieces of his universe have fallen, albeit roughed and cracked, back into place.

This is the way things should be.

He has no doubt. He had doubts at the conference where he drew the lines of the world, but he has no doubts here. There is something, he suspects, about convulsing half-delirious on a bed for weeks from agonizing empathy that eliminates doubts, eradicates pity. He is the one that has always been in the position to know best, that has strived to do what was best, so why should he bother with such things?

Why should he bother tolerating her, fearing her, caring for her?

Oh, it’s true that she is pretty, even in mud and blood and wet. It’s true that she is determined, that her eyes shine with fire. But fire warps, destroys, and his expression and his tone are all dense and ancient ice, freezing and preserving status quo. She can stir the populace, but she can’t move him.

When the guards leave and she is left with him she can’t move him. She shouts and she appeals and she calls him by name but he looks down at her and thinks of how much he wants to stifle her, and when she calls again—Roderich—the toe of his shoe connects with her ribs. He stumbles but he stays steady, enough to say how dare you address me so improperly, you impertinent woman, and when she protests he kicks her again, once, twice, telling her about how she is such a bitter disappointment when she had been such a dutiful servant—such a demure lady—such an agreeable confidant that he’d trusted, God damn her, he’d trusted—!

But she is dutiful again despite her sharp words and when he tells her to rise she rises, and when he tells her to go she goes off to be whipped and imprisoned. She is subservient again and he is cold and unforgiving as law, and the toppled buildings will be rebuilt and the streets cleaned and all is right, all is in order.

All is as it should be.

Austria has no doubt.

Title: Can't Imagine Why
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Notes and things-to-know: For a change of pace, here's a Vesperia fic I wrote. It's more or less canon in setting and about good ol' Yeager and his rival in business, Kaufman. The guild she leads, Fortune's Market, is basically the equivalent of Walmart in that it sells everything, but since her culture is pretty big on weapons, Yeager's weapon-selling guild poses a pretty palpable threat to one of her largest areas of profit. It doesn't help that Yeager generally likes to troll her, either. XD
In case you're wondering about the property values, fifty gald ingame is equivalent to about a dollar. So the warehouse is originally priced at $60,000, not millions of dollars. XD
Summary: Kaufman meets Yeager for the first time. Naturally, the circumstances are less than pleasant.

Of all the possible problems Kaufman had figured she might run into that day, discovering another guild emptying out one of her warehouses was not one of them.

She’d met the morning with a cup of strong coffee and a gloomy frame of mind, bracing herself in anticipation of tense meetings and continued bad news. Storms had been raging off the coast of Capua Torim for the past few days, wrecking a few supply ships and keeping others delayed at port. As a result, Fortune’s Market’s stores were quickly becoming understocked and profits were falling notably. There was also the issue of an imperial trade violation caused by some dull-witted manager who’d marketed prohibited arms in Zaphias, something that she was struggling to diplomatically settle over telegrams until sea passage became feasible again. At worst, that violation could result in months of store shut-downs, while at best she could pay a few hefty fees and hope the authorities would remain merciful. All in all, she was having a fairly awful week.

Her first order of business was to speak with the head of Traveler’s Road, a logistics guild, about diverting shipping routes. She’d gone for the most direct course—taking a cab through the east end of Dahngrest—and pestered the driver into setting the horses at a gallop, wanting to quickly get the errand over with. Indeed, they were speeding across the cobblestones so rapidly that she almost failed to notice the workmen backing out of Warehouse Five, except the Fortune’s Market symbol on one of the crates caught her eye, filling her with sudden shock and confusion.

“Wait! Stop here,” she ordered the driver, and he pulled back on the reins until the horses slowed to a halt. She opened the door and leapt out, heeled boots clacking against stone as she strode up to one of the men.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Set that down right now!”

The man blinked at her. “We’re clearin’ everything out.”

“You don’t have permission to do that! This stuff is supposed to stay in storage right here! Go put it back!”

“But—”

“Put it back!” She pointed fiercely at the doorway.

The man looked at it and back at her, bewildered. “Um, Lady, I—”

“Look, we’re just doin’ what we were told,” an older man said, coming up alongside the first. “Leviathan’s Claw bought the place and they want it empty. You got an issue, go take it up with them.”

Incredulousness passed over Kaufman’s features. “This warehouse wasn’t for sale!”

“They say it was. Go talk to them.” The older man pointed to two men standing some distance away, chatting beside a group of carts that had pulled up.

She spun on her heel and made a beeline for them, fuming. The taller of the men, a graying fortysomething with hair pulled back in a ponytail, turned and noticed her first. She yelled out to him.

“Hey, you! You’re trespassing on Fortune’s Market property!”

The fortysomething exchanged looks with his companion, who calmly stepped around to face her. He regarded her, blue eyes flickering up and down her frame, before responding lightly, “This is Leviathan’s Claw property.”

“It is not! This warehouse belongs to Fortune’s Market and was never put up for sale! I don’t know where you got that ridiculous idea!”

“It was for sale,” Blue-Eyes replied, entirely unfazed. “I have copies of the associated paperwork if you’d like to see.”

“Yes, I would love to see,” she spat, holding out a hand.

Blue-Eyes reached into the inner pocket of his navy suit jacket (a very imperial-looking one, she mentally noted, fitting of a recent convert) and withdrew a few folded sheets of paper, giving them to her. She pulled them open, scanning the text. Contrary to what she’d expected, the forms were indeed copies of purchasing orders, marked with yesterday’s date and the signature of someone in Fortune’s Market’s sales department. The tabulated property value was three million gald—apparently Leviathan’s Claw had not only managed to make a purchase, but got it at a discount of two million, eight hundred thousand gald.

“I didn’t authorize any of my representatives to sell this warehouse,” Kaufman said. “And unless I give them that clearance, any sale of one million gald or more has to have my signature on it. That’s my policy. Therefore, this sale is invalid.”

Blue-Eyes beckoned for the sheets back, taking a moment to study them himself. “It still appears valid to me.”

“It isn’t. I was never even informed that this sale was taking place. According to our policy, it never actually happened.”

“Isn’t it true that under Union law the only three things required in a contract are the guilds’ emblems, a description of the obligations of each guild, and the signatures of the leaders or appointed representatives?”

Kaufman stared at him. A small smile crossed his face.

“That representative didn’t have my authorization,” she said.

“But they were a sales representative, weren’t they? It says so here.”

“Yes, but they didn’t have the proper clearance.”

“Still, they were a representative of you that you appointed specifically to conduct sales in your stead. They used the proper paperwork, outlined all the terms, and signed knowing exactly what they were selling and what would be paid in return. I believe in the eyes of the Union there is nothing to render this agreement invalid.”

His smile widened. “Perhaps you just need to learn to micromanage a little better, Kaufman.”

For a second or two she gaped at him. Blue-Eyes gazed at her serenely, appearing quite self-satisfied.

“Give me that,” she snapped, grabbing the sheets from him, glancing them over and prodding at one of the signatures. “Is this you? Yeager?”

He nodded. “Yeager, director of Leviathan’s Claw.”

“Well, Yeager, I’m assuming you haven’t been in Dahngrest long?”

“I’ve been here about two years.”

“Obviously it hasn’t been long enough for you to understand the way things work around here. The Union isn’t like the imperial government—it doesn’t dictate the minutia of how guilds do business. Its laws are merely guidelines for settling disputes. In cases like this, it prefers to bend to individual guilds’ policies rather than get involved, especially if the guild in question is of good repute. So if you decide not to yield to my judgment in this matter and have the gall to drag me, leader of one of the five master guilds, in front of a Union court, you will get your pretty little argument thrown back in your face.”

Yeager gave a sniff of a laugh. “I would not call them guidelines. I have been here long enough to see the way they operate—they are more of a basis, a framework for individual policies. Your guild’s specific policies only have the force of law insofar as you can enforce them. If you cannot, the Union’s word decides what must be done. And the Union, unfortunately, is not so tight with its definition of who can make a sale.”

“I have more authority than you realize,” Kaufman retorted. “My policies are well-known and highly respected. The Union would much rather support them than let some hazy unknown like yourself undermine them.”

“I believe the Union is reasonable enough to place rule of law before its own preferences.”

“They’ll side with me—just you wait. I’m going to take this straight to Whitehorse,” she vowed.

Yeager merely smiled that infuriatingly relaxed, friendly smile of his. “I’ll be waiting.”

By the time Kaufman did manage to schedule a hearing with the Don, she was feeling a bit better about the state of her business. The storms had finally let up, letting ships pass freely again, and she had managed to make the trip to Zaphias to do damage control for the weapons incident. The knights, luckily, had been persuaded by words and charm into dropping the issue without forcing any store closures, and while the fees had been high, it had been the most ideal of possible solutions.

Her mood dropped as soon as she stepped in the Don’s office and got a look at Yeager, though.

He was dressed in a dark gray suit, barely distinguished from its imperial styling by an ornamental belt and the guild symbol on his arm. He had on a silk ascot and gloves and his violet hair was slicked back in that feigned-haphazard way that purposely left a lock or two hanging loose. He was seated in complete ease, leaning back with his ankle resting on his knee, and when she came in he turned and shot her his smile. She eyed him, studying the smooth angles of his face, and it occurred to her that he was rather handsome—well, that he would be if he wasn’t a conniving bastard.

She sat to the left of him, crossing her legs and holding her folder of papers in her lap.

Don Whitehorse looked from her to Yeager, expression reticent. A stenographer sat ready at a desk nearby, pen poised.

“The Union hereby welcomes the case of Fortune’s Market vs. Leviathan’s Claw,” he said. “As the plaintiff, Fortune’s Market will speak first. What are the charges?”

Kaufman rose from her seat. “One count of theft under the guise of a fraudulent contract.”

“Very well. Please explain the matter.”

She took a breath. “On the sixteenth of Undine Decan, I met the defendant at Warehouse Five in the eastern district. This warehouse was purchased by Fortune’s Market three years ago on the eighth of Ifrit Decan and has never been up for rent or sale. I have records from four days prior to the incident with the defendant that show what the warehouse contained and the lack of available space for that stock in the other storage facilities Fortune’s Market maintains.”

“Let me see them,” the Don said.

Kaufman reached into the folder, withdrew some documents and held them out to him. He studied them for a moment, then nodded for her to continue.

“On the sixteenth I came upon the defendant clearing out the aforementioned warehouse. I had had no previous knowledge of his presence there and just happened to be passing by the warehouse on my way to a meeting. Upon being questioned, the defendant claimed he had made an agreement with a sales representative, a Tamika of Fortune’s Market, and showed me a signed contract for the sale. However, Tamika had not been authorized to perform a sale of any property worth one million gald or more. According to guild policy, if a representative does not have such authorization, the president’s signature is required to validate the contract. The defendant did not have my signature. Therefore, this contract is invalid, and the defendant’s taking of Warehouse Five is an act of theft.”

“Do you have a copy of this policy?”

“Yes.” She handed up some stapled sheets. “Page two has the authorization clause.”

The Don read it carefully, finishing with an unemotional “hmm. All right, let’s hear from the defendant.”

Yeager stood, his own folder of paperwork in hand. “I contacted the sales department of Fortune’s Market via telegram on the fourteenth of Undine Decan to ask whether any of their storage facilities were up for sale. Leviathan’s Claw has been greatly expanding its customer base recently and has found the need for additional storage. A telegram came back later that day indicating that I would have to meet with a sales representative to arrange a purchase. I responded that I was free the following day, and at eight o’clock the following morning I met with Tamika of Fortune’s Market.”

“When did you express your intention of purchasing Warehouse Five?” the Don asked.

“Only after Tamika had shown me the available properties. I was not aware beforehand which were for sale.”

“So Tamika was under the impression that Warehouse Five was for sale?”

“What happened was that after looking at the properties, I expressed an interest in purchasing Warehouse Five. Tamika informed me that it was not for sale. I saw that it was close by one of my other warehouses and thus asked if that were truly so, offering to pay a high sum for it. At that point Tamika reconsidered and offered to sell. I was not informed at any time of her authorizations regarding the property.”

“So what did you pay for it?”

“Two million, eight hundred thousand gald. The initial price I mentioned was three million, but after I agreed to pay for the movers, we brought the price down to that value.”

“Three mills was the correct price for a warehouse that size,” Kaufman retorted. “I sold one just like that for three million, five hundred thousand last year. You didn’t bring that up as a ‘high sum.’”

“Quiet,” the Don ordered, holding up a hand. “So, may I see the contract?”

Yeager pulled it out promptly. A few seconds ticked by.

“You were never informed that this sale would be against accepted policy,” the Don said.

“I was not informed.”

“And you have already paid for it?”

“The check was handed to Tamika in person on the fifteenth and cashed on the sixteenth.”

The Don looked at Kaufman. “Where is Tamika, by the way?”

“She is no longer a member of Fortune’s Market,” Kaufman told him. “She was removed from the payroll on the eighteenth.”

“How long was she a member of your guild?”

“Five years. She had gone through full training and been informed of guild policy.”

“Well. It sounds to me as though there was some sort of miscommunication and you’ve done your part in taking disciplinary action within your guild. The contract as it stands, though, appears to still be valid.”

“What?” Kaufman, who had sat down again, jumped to her feet. “Of course it’s invalid. Fortune’s Market has a well-established, time-tested procedure that was not followed. The Union has precedents that have ruled in favor of my guild in similar matters.”

“According to Union law, a signatory of a contract between guilds must be either the leader of a guild or a representative appointed to sign in place of the leader. In precedents the Union has interpreted the latter to mean anyone within the guild whose responsibilities expressly include the creation and signing of contracts. As a sales representative, Tamika expressly had these responsibilities. The additional aspects of Fortune’s Market’s internal policy are not protected by the Union.”

“What about Fortune’s Market vs. Gull’s Song? In that the Union ruled that the integrity of Fortune’s Market’s policies are such that a violation of them could void a contract.”

“In that the Union ruled against Gull’s Song because Gull’s Song did not follow the terms outlined in the contract and thus committed fraud.” The Don flipped through Yeager’s contract, shaking his head. “This makes no mention of authorizations or the sale requiring the president’s signature. It only promises the warehouse in return for two million, eight hundred thousand gald and the moving services that the defendant claims he has already provided. Unless he did not uphold his end of the contract, it is valid. Do you have evidence that he failed to provide either of those things?”

Kaufman glowered at him. “…No.”

“Then I’m afraid I must rule in favor of the defendant. He has committed no crime in the eyes of the Union. Your case is dismissed.”

“He probably had full knowledge that he was working outside of my policy!” Kaufman cried. “I bet he lied right to your face about it!”

“Kaufman, I can only decide by docum—”

“He’s just trying to work through a loophole in the law! You can’t possibly think he—”

“Kaufman, his intentions aren’t pertinent to this. This is simply a matter of written contract law and I made my decision based on that law.” The Don sighed. “You’re dismissed.”

“But—”

“Kaufman, don’t raise a fuss,” Yeager murmured, taking his contract back.

She rounded on him, snatching her own paperwork from the Don’s desk and striding up so that she was inches from his face. “Who do you think you are, Yeager? Who exactly do you think you are?!”

“A businessman,” he replied, voice quiet and smooth. “Just a businessman looking for opportunities.”

“You had better stay out of my way from now on,” she hissed, “or else I might have to blacklist you.”

“As though I require Fortune’s Market’s support?”

“It would ruin your reputation! You wouldn’t want that this soon into your leadership, would you?”

“You know,” he said, dropping to nearly a whisper as not to be overheard by the Don, “it would be nice if you would stop trying to make up for your lack of business sense by exaggerating your own social clout.”

Her first instinct was to give him a well-warranted slap in the face, but of course that wasn’t the kind of behavior that would be received well by the Don, so she merely glared at him in intense rage until she’d gathered her wits enough to snap, “You’re blacklisted. And I am going to be watching for the instant you set foot outside of the law to ensure that you get what you deserve.”

“My, all right then. I’m so flattered you’re taking such an interest in me.”

Kaufman opened her mouth to make a rejoinder but Yeager went for the door, chuckling. She huffed, looking back at the Don, who was engaged in conversation with the stenographer.

“Oh, and Kaufman?”

She jerked her head around.

Yeager had paused by the doorway, his smile a veritable sneer. “You probably ought to educate the rest of your imperial division on the current arms regulations. Last I checked, there were at least three other managers that believed semi-automatic assault rifles could be privately owned in the empire. I can’t imagine why.”

With that, he left.

She stared after him, mouthing silent obscenities, deciding that he was definitely getting that slap the next time they met.

Pictures; sorry for the delay

2011-05-20T10:24:00.000-07:00

God, it's been a while since I posted. Part of that was school, of course, but part of it also was the fact that I've really kinda been all over the place in terms of fandoms. I was very much into Hetalia for a while, and then slid into my steampunky stuff, and then ended up back into Tales of Vesperia after finding out that one of my Prussias had always loved that game, and...that's kind of where I am now. XD At any rate, here's some stuffs for you to look at.

I attended a cosplay meet with the aforementioned Prussia recently. I was dressed as Roderich, she as a female version of Prussia, Maria. Because of some really adorable roleplays we'd had before, we ended up taking all kinds of cute and romantic-looking pictures as those two. They're in her deviantart gallery.

As for roleplay, I've been posting around at Hospitalia (god, I love my infectious disease specialist Roderich--I'm even planning to cosplay him) and a TOV forum Prussia made, Of Guilds and Unions. The latter doesn't have much up yet, but I do have a pretty lovely app for Yeager. He's evolved a bit since I last played him--a lot of the angst I used to attribute to him is pretty well-covered by Roderich, so he's become pretty content with his amoral dealings as of late rather than being wracked with guilt over them. XD It's fun to play a self-confident and socially savvy man for a change.

Anyway, pictures! I think that's what I'm gonna devote this entry to.

Steampunk! This is Prussia's character Emil (who's one of those raised-from-a-child-to-fight types that doesn't understand emotions very well) and my character Saniper, aka Sanford in that particular universe. I had fun with the clothes, obviously.

Sketch of Aletha Leventis from my completed novel, The Misdiagnosis of Sandy Tabori. Man, I do hope to get that thing published at some point. She was always such a cool, calculating well-intentioned extremist...

More art for my novel. Sandy's the one in the middle, while on the top there's the lab tech protagonist Perry and the neurochemist antagonist Leventis, and on the bottom is Perry's veternarian friend Collin and Leventis' unwitting henchman, chairman of the board of health Brezinski.

18th century styled femPrussia (Maria.) Yes, that's a divided riding skirt she's got on. Masculine lady is masculine.

More modern version of Maria. Man, I like her--she's like a somewhat gentler, more flirtatious Gilbert.

Sketch of Gilbert, Roderich and Gilbert's younger brother Ludwig (Germany.) I always found it interesting how while Gilbert's his brother, Ludwig really resembles Roderich more in personality. My headcanon says it's because Ludwig came into power in a time where there was lots of land reorganization and unrest in Europe, and that caused him to become more serious, practical and reserved, much like the front Roderich presents. But yeah, they both kind of had a hand in raising him.

DoctorRoddy and his patient Ivan. Ivan's a car accident victim with head injuries, as well as someone that loves deliberately messing with other patients and doctors. Lately he's been faking symptoms to mess with Roderich. Roderich's probably going to flip his lid when he finds out.

DoctorRoddy, being an infectious disease specialist and germophobe, has been known to scare the living hell out of interns that fail to wash their hands, like so. (Also, the people off to the side are Roderich's surgeon friend Aldrich and pseudo-girlfriend nurse Braelyn.)

In the chatbox on Hospitalia once we had a scenario in which someone brought in a stray cat to the hospital lobby. Most characters thought it was cute. Roderich...not so much. (Luckily, Brae ended up rescuing and adopting the poor thing. XD)

Annnd finally, have a Yeager. Ingame, he has a backstory where due to an injury, his heart was replaced by an artificial one powered by a blastia. It's kind of a pretty jewel-like thing, so I decided to draw it. (I also used reference for doing the muscles, of course. He's not incredibly ripped, but...he's not some twig like Roderich, either. XD)

Alright, that's all I've got for the moment. Fics will follow later.

Lots of sketches and some drabbles~

2011-02-27T18:33:00.000-08:00

Whew! Finally on break now. I haven't written a ton due alternately to writer's block and lack of time, but I do doodle quite a bit in class, so I have mostly pics...

Eighteenth century Celia sketches.

A darkly symbolic depiction of the First Partition of Poland. From left to right, we have Roderich (Austria), Ivan (Russia) and Gilbert (Prussia), with the representation of Poland, Feliks, on the table. I've seen different representations of this, from the three hacking away at Feliks with knives to things with a sexual bent, but I wanted something with more of a feigned civility to it. Hence, an oddly dinner party-esque scene.

I do have a drabble for this event that's probably internet-worthy for the characterization at least, so here.

"Chains"

Feliks is brought in in chains, soaked and shuddering in blood.

The room before him is dim and wavering in candlelight, enough to make the map look like glowing embers as he is forced into a chair before it. Across from him, Ivan is smiling a small, pleasant smile, barely illuminated and wholly out of place, his wide hands folded and furred cuffs like motionless rodents on the table.

“May we begin?” he rumbles in slurred French, his voice echoing like distant thunder among the sounds of Feliks’ ragged breathing and the ticking of the clock.

To Ivan’s right, Roderich dons his spectacles, the lenses shimmering briefly as they catch the glow. Feliks’ eyes dart to him, meeting his violet gaze as it settles on him, and Feliks is struck with the strange sensation of being studied as an object, intently and unabashedly.

“Why is he still chained?” Roderich inquires, elocution clear and impassive, speaking as though Feliks is not in the room at all.

“Why not?” another voice responds, a leisurely, familiar drawl from the shadows. “We don’t want to have to deal with him trying anything.”

“I had assumed our victory was complete enough to allow us to negotiate without having to restrain one of the pertinent parties.”

“I don’t see the harm in it,” Gilbert says, resting his elbow on the table and head in his hand, red irises gleaming, flicking languidly from Feliks to Roderich.

Roderich’s lips tighten slightly. The result is an expression something like frustration or disapproval, and as the night drags on it will be the most emotion he will show. Feliks, struck silent through terror and growing increasingly hazy-headed from his wounds, will mentally label him the voice of reason amidst Gilbert’s deceptively careless hunger and Ivan’s greed, and will note that there is a part of Roderich that surely doesn’t want to be here, that never wanted to be here. He is here out of compulsion, rather than desire—in spite of himself, he has never been able to pass up an opportunity for gain.

“It is unnecessary,” he replies. “I don’t wish to proceed like highwaymen stripping a hostage. Surely we are more civilized than that.”

“You care too much about appearances,” murmurs Gilbert, chuckling quietly. “There’s no crowd here to watch. But hell, we’ll submit to your sensibilities, if it’ll keep you from complaining. Guards!”

Gilbert motions with his free hand. The thud of boots sounds from across the room, approaching Feliks fast and unlocking his shackles. The clatter of the chains, too much like the clatter of sword on sword, reverberates off the plastered walls, making Feliks shiver anew as the weight is lifted from him.

“So,” Ivan says. “Ready now?”

Roderich nods. He adjusts his posture, sitting with his back perfectly erect and chin inclined expectantly. Ivan dips a gray quill into a bottle of ink, scrawling the first few formal sentences onto a sheet of parchment, lavish nothings to make the meeting seem like the ethical actions of principled men. Gilbert, wolfishly alert beneath his outward indolence, looks at Feliks meaningfully and communicates a whole paragraph of victorious obscenities simply by passing his tongue over his front teeth.

Feliks feels like dying and wishes he could.

Oh, crazy Roderich. You're such fun to write. XD This is in my AU, naturally, so on the left from top to bottom are Halvard, Johannes and Henrik, and on the right are Francis, Gilbert and Celia.

Another crazy!Roddy, inked and cleaned up in PSP.

Art of Dr. Roderich Edelstein, the version of him that I play on Hospitalia. He's practically his own unique character at this point--his most defining trait being his utter germophobia. Which is rather understandable, considering that he deals with unusual and dangerous diseases all day, but a lot of it is from stress and angst that makes him need more of a sense of control over his life as well. He's just generally a bit of a nut.

Also, the resident Ivan drew a rather hilarious picture of him that I like very much. XD

Redrawn version of that one doodle. Hardcore infectious disease specialist is hardcore. Might color this one sometime, I dunno.

Proof that I don't just draw Hetalia (though I mostly draw Hetalia.) XD This is Yeager (with Marion and Zagi behind him) from my Aurnionverse, which I've been playing with on and off as of late. I've lately adapted it into less of an AU and more of an original story, complete with gangs and crime and 1920s fashions. Some of the characters were re-named--Yeager, for instance, goes by Adenauer, while Zagi is Roscoe and Marion is still Marion. XD And Yeager's gang is called the Geisslers, after the family of the chick who previously ran it and who, through charm and conniving, he managed to inherit it from.

It's a pretty cool setting, and I do hope to write some scenes from it that I'll get up here.

To top this stuff off, have another drabble that I jotted down while procrastinating on the other fics I've got in progress.

"Common Time"

(A portrait of Roderich in the latter days of WWI, with an allusion I've been wanting to use for forever. Ludwig, of course, is Germany.)

He taps a rhythm on the table with his fingertip, a slow, steady pulse in 4-4 time.

Across from him, Ludwig is staring. His gaze is unrepentantly intent, the eyes of someone peering through a window off into the distance, searching for some sign of human life. Roderich ought to admonish him for it, but he doesn’t. He sips his tea and taps and looks at nothing, only listens.

They are losing the war. It is becoming clear, bit by bit. He can hear it like the shifting of earth beneath his feet, like the rumbling of thunder in the distance, approaching fast to rip and tear through his resolve. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it because the roar will be so loud—the glissando whistles of bombs, the drum-crashes of dynamite, the trumpet-staccato syncopation of gunfire. There was an age when he would hear none of it, when war was just like this: the tap of fingers and bell-clink of china and the metronome ticking of the grandfather clock, marking hushed time for silent melodies. When war was forgivable ambition more than anything else, conducted on paper by well-dressed men in parlors, a distant play of power to meet the needs of greater minds.

But that age is dead in the trenches now, and he knows he will see no forgiveness for this.

The clock ticks. Ludwig is staring, looking for scraps of sanity in Roderich’s dark eyes. Somewhere, Roderich thinks, Elizaveta is crying in shrill oboe tones and eventually he will have to listen to that too, high above the jarring, discordant blast. He will clutch at his ears and scream and writhe, scream for the quiet of a funeral dirge for a death that should have happened a century before. He will scream because he will not belong in a reality where there is no silence, no subtlety, where corpses upon corpses are the reward he gets for trying to preserve the past.

Oh, how he will scream when they decide to outlaw imperialism, strike his holdings from the map.

He will but not yet. As of yet he can still delude himself into thinking the world is clear and refined, that he may conduct diplomacy from parlors and rule the world over tea, and no matter how hard Ludwig looks he will not find a thing. Roderich is apart from truth, a ghost from the pages of history that will linger until they tear his abode down around him, reveal the rotten timbers of what used to be an empire.

There is an old legend of Nero fiddling as Rome burned and Roderich resolves to be that man, playing sentimental tunes to make the fantasy last just a little bit longer, to fall with the dignity that only denial can offer.

For now, he keeps his worldly affairs in strict 4-4 time, even while the tempo has long ago moved on without him.

Fics [part 2]

2011-01-05T12:06:00.000-08:00

Continued from the previous post because gosh darn I have so many. XD

These two were actually written as responses to requests on the Hetalia Kink Meme (which is not for the innocent of mind--mixed in with the interesting and tame requests is a lot of very explicit R-rated content.) They were intriguing and fun to do because they really ended up touching upon characters that I don't usually work with and required me to actually deal somewhat in historical canon, so. XD

Title: The Letter
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Notes and things-to-know: This was written for the prompt:
"Chibitalia is having trouble adjusting to HRE’s absence after he leaves for the war and spends a lot of time worrying about him...I’d like to see Austria or Hungary offering comfort to poor little Italy like a good daddy/mommy."
Now, for the uninitiated out there, HRE is the Holy Roman Empire, and Chibitalia is the fandom's name for young Italy (Feliciano). Both are represented as having children's bodies and living in Austria (Roderich's) home, where Hungary (Liz) works as a maid (as Austria had control of Italy and Hungary and was pretty much the prominent state in the loosely connected empire.) The war mentioned is the Thirty Years' War, after which the empire's territories had near-complete sovereignty, making it more or less the death of the HRE character.
Anyway, little Italy and HRE had an adorable little romance going, which is basically what I wrote about in this. It's very fluffy. :3
Summary: Feliciano decides to write a letter to his love. Roderich takes pity on him.

The letters, when they come, smell like gunpowder and filth.

Roderich does not know this. He sits at his desk and peers at them through his spectacles, dark eyes flickering over lines of script written in a clumsy hand, then sets them aside, adding them without deference to the piles of mail that come in each day. He reads for news of cities taken and lost, and when he answers in his perfect, precise lettering he offers pages of political advice and possible strategy, devoting only a paragraph at most to personal remarks.

He does not perceive anything beyond the text. When Feliciano asks, hands nervously kneading his apron, Roderich speaks of the content but not the emotion, of the nation but not the person. He does not understand (as Feliciano does, slipping into his office in the late hours of the night) that every smudge has a meaning, that every clinging scent speaks volumes, that a phrase like ‘I miss the household’ has so many shades of emphasis, with the most falling like a weight on the young servant’s shoulders.

Roderich asks him sometimes, out of courtesy, whether he has anything to add to his reply letter, but what Feliciano wants, needs to say cannot be expressed through another’s hand, much less the hand of a man who—as far as Feliciano can tell—has never loved.

So it is that Feliciano takes it upon himself to write a response. He writes when he has a free moment, when Roderich is not demanding tea or the carriage or a dusted parlor, and what he cannot write he draws, coloring with dabs of Elizaveta’s paints. He is not eloquent and he is not talented but he knows it will mean something, and when the pages upon pages are complete he folds them all within each other and wanders into Roderich’s office for some sealing wax.

He does it all with as much secrecy as he can manage, aside from inquiring with Elizaveta once or twice how to draw a horse or a building. Elizaveta, unfeminine as she is, understands somehow, enough to respect his feelings and keep her mouth shut about his silly, clichéd phrases when they catch her eye. Roderich would not understand, so Feliciano keeps it from him, making sure he is busy playing his harpsichord as he melts the stick of wax and lets droplets of it fall to the paper (and to his thumb, making him gasp and quickly reposition his hand) and stamps Roderich’s seal down.

He stands there for a time, blowing on the wax to dry it, and somewhere between doing that and thinking about the letter’s contents he fails to hear when the notes from the parlor fade, only snapping back into reality at the sound of hard-heeled boots thudding on the floorboards.

Roderich’s brows shoot up for an instant as he steps into the room and catches Feliciano there, then furrow as he sees the letter.

“Give that here,” he orders, holding out a hand.

“It’s mine,” says Feliciano.

“I don’t care. I would like to see it.”

“It doesn’t have anything bad in it. It’s just a nice friendly letter to Holy Roman because he misses me and—”

“I will not allow you to mail it until I have the opportunity to inspect it.”

Feliciano frowns. “But it’s not like I put any state secrets in there; you know I don’t know anything because I—”

“Give it here or it is not leaving this house.”

“But—”

Roderich steps forward, looming over him, and that is enough to make Feliciano shudder and regretfully place the letter into his outstretched hand.

He tears open the seal. His cold, dark eyes study the first page, then the second, then he flips quickly through the rest, something like confusion or annoyance tugging at the corner of his mouth. A lump forms in Feliciano’s throat.

When he is through, he strides over to his desk, picks up a letter opener and starts cutting away at the seal with it, leaving ugly bits of wax on the clean parchment.

“I will not have this nonsense labeled as official correspondence,” he declares. “You may send it, but not under my seal.”

“It has to be sent that way! It might get lost otherwise!” cries Feliciano.

“It cannot. It does not warrant that sort of importance, and I would not want to trouble anyone with thinking so.”

“It is important, though!” Feliciano insists, and he can feel his eyes start to prickle and burn. “It’s important to me, and Holy Roman, too!”

Roderich gives it back to him, unsealed and wax-stained. “Not in a time of war. There are greater matters to place first. Find another way to address it if it has that much value to you.”

Feliciano looks at it, then up at Roderich. Roderich turns and walks to his desk, shuffling through papers.

Feliciano bites his lip and begins to sniffle.

Roderich either does not hear him or ignores him. At first Feliciano is certain it is the latter, as Roderich has silently ignored Feliciano on many occasions, particularly when the young servant would become upset after a punishment—and that, that callousness brings Feliciano’s sniffles into full, hiccupping sobs.

He stares at the floor, clutching the letter’s sheets in his hand, tears dripping down his cheeks.

He remains like that, not having enough sense to move even as Roderich walks to his side, boot-steps loud and authoritative.

“Italy,” he says sharply, “Stop it.”

Feliciano wipes his nose and squeezed-shut eyes on his sleeve.

“Don’t do that,” Roderich commands with an irritated scoff, withdrawing a handkerchief and shoving it into Feliciano’s hand. “Calm down. Stop crying.”

Feliciano can’t. Roderich bends down to his level to regard him seriously and only then does he raise his eyes, blinking through the wetness, still gasping for breath. He holds the handkerchief in one white-knuckled fist, the letter partly crumpling in the other, clinging to each but unable to comprehend through his grief what to do with either.

Roderich watches him for a moment, then extracts the handkerchief from Feliciano’s fingers and takes it to the servant’s damp face himself, gently wiping it.

“Blow,” he says, placing the cloth over Feliciano’s nose, and Feliciano manages to steady his breathing enough to do that. “Better now?”

Feliciano shakes his head as a fresh tear trails down his flushed cheek.

Roderich straightens up, crossing the room and depositing the soiled handkerchief on his desk. “…If you want, Italy, I can speak to some of my advisors and see if one of them is willing to put their personal seal on your letter. They are influential enough that I have little doubt it would get through to Holy Roman, in that case.”

Feliciano stares at him. “B-But they’d read through it first…”

“Why does it have to be so private?”

“It’s special. It—it says things about how he’s my friend and I miss him and I…love him…”

An odd, unreadable expression crosses Roderich’s face. “It’s a love letter?”

Feliciano continues to stare. It dawns on him that Roderich, though he’d seen the pictures and the flowery phrases, hadn’t realized love was involved. Perhaps, Feliciano supposes, because the word ‘love’ had never shown up in the text—he’d thought words wouldn’t give it justice and had represented it with a picture of himself and Holy Roman holding hands instead.

Roderich walks back to him, hesitating, glancing away from him before saying, “My apologies. I suppose this must carry some considerable significance to you.”

Feliciano nods.

Roderich looks at him, his mouth tightening into a small frown. He raises an arm to make some motion, then thinks better of it and lets it drop. A few moments later, he lifts both arms, holding them out in what appears to Feliciano like some strange, halfhearted gesture of peace.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice still tinged with brusque authority, but softer than before.

Feliciano looks at him, at his face—which is definitely discontented now—and his arms, still and stiff in the air, and realizes that he is not just gesturing, but offering.

With a sudden jolt of emotion, he bolts the two steps between himself and Roderich and wraps his arms around Roderich’s waist, burying his face in his chest.

Roderich stiffens in shock. Feliciano starts to sob again, and then Roderich lets his palms fall on the servant’s back, not quite hugging him, his touch light and full of the uncertainty that he will not let show in his expression. Feliciano clings to him, pulling at the embroidered fabric of Roderich’s doublet, bunching it in his small fists.

He half-expects that even after taking the trouble to offer him a hug, Roderich will push him away. He figures that at any moment, Roderich will have enough of his own slipping composure and awkwardness and declare the deed done, the pity given. However, Roderich does not, and moreover, he attempts to pull Feliciano a bit closer. It is strange, and it makes Feliciano recognize something else—that Roderich, who has never loved, has also not done something of this nature in years. It is not so much his concerns about propriety that are holding him back, but the fact that he doesn’t know how hugging is done.

When Feliciano quiets, he decides to help him, taking hold of his arms and repositioning them to hold himself snugly against Roderich. He catches a glimpse of Roderich’s face before nestling back into his chest—he is red, thoroughly softened and embarrassed; enough to make Feliciano almost want to giggle.

Roderich coughs, attempting to gather himself. “I think I…I can do something that would remedy the problem of your letter.”

“Mmph?” Feliciano gives a muffled sound.

“I will let you send it with my next official letter. Then, at least, it will have something practical in it, and Holy Roman’s advisors will have something to gain from its contents.”

“You will?” says Feliciano, craning his neck. “Really?”

“If you wish, yes.”

“Thank you!” Feliciano squeezes him tightly, elated.

Roderich smiles a bit, in spite of his position. Roderich also coughs again, twice, until it occurs to Feliciano that he is crushing Roderich’s lungs. He breaks the embrace then, beaming up at his master.

Roderich breathes slowly through his nose, straightening his posture and reestablishing his stoicism. “Now, run along. I have work to do.”

Feliciano bows, trembling from excited relief, and grins from ear to ear as he goes.

The reply, when it comes weeks later, has a drawing in it.

It is mud-smudged and smells of filth. To Feliciano it is beautiful, though, as the rough sketch depicts the two of them standing with linked hands in a field of clumsily cross-hatched flowers.

Roderich barely regards it. He strides into the kitchen while Feliciano is washing the dishes and absently deposits it beside him, walking off with the remainder of the letter, the news of politics and the movements of armies. Feliciano, startled by it, is too moved to acknowledge him then.

So at night when he is at last done with the cleaning—Roderich is short-staffed in these troubled times, and the house is so big—he tiptoes to Roderich’s room and gently opens the door. The hinges creak and Roderich looks up from the book he is reading by candlelight, frowning in puzzlement.

“Yes?”

Feliciano bounds over to his four-poster bed and hoists himself onto it, lying down beside Roderich. He scoots over, hugging him. “Thanks.”

Roderich goes rigid and appears thoroughly annoyed for a few moments, but Feliciano is happy, so happy to know that Holy Roman is well and loves him that he is not afraid. He remains there and gradually Roderich’s demeanor lightens, relaxes, and like one trying to imitate an action he has only seen and never felt, he places a hand on Feliciano’s head and massages his fingers against his hair.

Feliciano gives a contented murmur. Roderich turns shortly after back to his book, for he has never loved and hardly knows the workings of affection, swallowing uncomfortably and setting the impulse to show it aside. He does not order Feliciano to leave, though, so Feliciano stays.

Feliciano ends up drifting off to sleep there beside him, nostrils filled with the scent of clean linen and cologne, dreaming of flowers and the warmth of hands.

Title: Picture-Perfect
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Physical abuse (mostly slapping and hair-pulling), suicidal thoughts (though, these being nations, they reincarnate after violent death unless they're very old, so...it's not as big a deal as it would be with human beings) and some (non-lethal) gun violence. Oh, and Roderich being nuts. How I love to write him nuts. XD
Notes and things-to-know: This was written for the prompt:
"A nation starts very suspicious of the others and thinks that he/she can't trust anyone. Especially not the person he/she is in love with."
Austria/Hungary was listed as one of the pairings to choose from, and immediately I thought of the headcanon I already have of Roderich being paranoid delusional. XD Historically, I always saw that happening not long before the First World War (when Austria was kind of starting to come apart), which coincided with the time in which Roderich was married to Liz. And I'd been wanting to write something about their marriage for a while, so. I really pounced on this prompt. XD
If you can guess what historical figures' assassinations I had Roderich and Liz fill the roles of at the end, you get a cookie. XD
Summary: Liz's marriage was primarily political, but still, she loved him a little. At least, until he began to lose his mind.

Bride, n. A woman with a fine prospect behind her. ~Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary, 1911

Their life is, in all appearances, picture-perfect.

It is smiles and nods and good-natured conversation. It is lace and silk wrapped about her arms and hair done up in ringlets, dark modest coats and glittering watch chains. It is tea on the porch with the hills sweeping forth in vibrant green, calls in the parlor with the gaslight gleaming off the piano and polished divan, evenings with whispered nothings laden among soft linens. It is linked arms, held hands, the diamond on her finger and the posed photograph on her wardrobe where her white veil trails like a fog.

It is all the things that make a couple decent and respectable and more—heroic, even, in their partnership—and yet, many nights she looks at herself and her reflection looks back and she wonders just how hard it would be to put a knife through her own throat.

“I don’t love you,” she’d told him when he’d asked, bowed before her for the first and last time.

He had only gazed at her seriously, the crinkling of his brow revealing his puzzlement. Love? So what if she did not love him then? Marriage came like a contract, with all its exchanges of funds and land and authorities, and then if the parties involved worked towards romance, it blossomed. That was the way he had seen it, the pretext under which he’d paired numerous nobles, strategically binding them to secure holdings across Europe. She and he were surely no different.

So he’d said, “You will love me and I you, given time.” And she hadn’t really believed him, but when he’d gone on to speak of the powers she would have and the freedoms she would reap she saw the opportunity and felt it best to take it, for her nation—thinking like him, working for her nation—and he’d slid that diamond onto her finger with the air of one dressing a mannequin.

Then, of course, there’d been the grand affair of the ceremony, echoing Latin beneath soaring gothic ceilings; the ball full of gold and crystal and wine-loosened senses carried along by the waltz; and when at last he laid atop her in the gentle shadows of his room, smiling an awkward little smile that had nothing to do with politics or trade, she did love him, just a little.

That was what it was and remained—just a little. She maintained enough affection for him to want to hold him and kiss him and to be bothered when her people would attempt something rash, bucking the system and making him clench his delicate fists and massage his weary forehead. He, she suspected, always felt more than just enough, when he’d shoo away the servants and drop his stiffness and his guard, clinging to her out of loneliness he could never express in words. Early in those instances she was almost frightened, because she had never been someone’s anchor and wasn’t sure whether she was doing it correctly, but he hardly knew how these things worked either and like so much over time they grew normal.

It grew normal for her to have little to do at home, idly wandering the grounds and the nice clean rooms. It grew normal for her to sit with him in meetings as their respective advisors bickered and his, more often than not, won out. It grew normal for her to sleep in his bed, running a hand down his bony joints and the ridges of his ribs, so vulnerable without his rich waistcoats and frocks to conceal them.

It all grew normal and she convinced herself that the monotony was contentedness and her halfhearted feelings were all love could be, and for years she had no doubts that this situation was best, that she could have no other, for herself or for her country.

She can’t be sure when it began, exactly.

Perhaps it was after the meeting in Bohemia where he arrived to find that the resident powers had agreed to let the Czech language stand equal to German. She recalls standing by the doorway, watching his delicate, long-fingered hand swipe the meeting minutes onto the floor in a harsh rustle of paper, his normally calm tone giving way to fury as he yelled about what message such an allowance might send—was this what his authority had come to? Was this what his empire would be reduced to, its words on the same level to those in a lower tongue?

(She’d wanted to correct him—our empire—but something about the scene sent anxious chills through her, killing the pronouncement before it even reached her throat.)

Or perhaps that was only a slip that stress rendered him well-capable of, and the real beginning was the coup in Serbia. He was certainly no stranger to riots and violent overthrow—she’d lead one such movement against him herself prior to their marriage, mistakenly believing that that was the way to play the game of power—but this was different, somehow. The news had sent him pacing about the parlor, muttering about reasserting his power and barbaric peoples that didn’t know what was best for them, and when she’d dared to ask why he was so concerned about it anyway—

“These are difficult times. If one does not keep a firm hold over one’s possessions, then one will be viewed as weak and picked apart like carrion by one’s enemies. I cannot allow even this to go unchecked.”

“But you don’t own the land,” she’d reminded him. “You occupy it.”

“Occupation is ownership in all but name. I must secure my control over it as though it were officially one of my own.”

She hadn’t known quite what to say to that. There had been an odd look in his eyes, a certain harsh, crystalline brightness that she hadn’t seen before, and she’d felt suddenly this gulf between them—she, who had been so long ruled, and he, who had always ruled. She hadn’t understood his point, why he couldn’t let some territory diplomatically wrested from a foreign war out of his hands, but maybe she couldn’t understand, wasn’t experienced enough to understand. She’d decided to defer to his judgment.

At any rate, it had only progressed from there.

The first time he struck her, they had just walked out of a meeting, and the slap rang through the empty hall like a gunshot.

She’d been seated beside him during the conference with Russia, doing her best to heed his reminders not to slouch and not to make faces. She’d felt so uneasy, though, in the small shut-up room with the old gas sconces painting funnels of soot on the wallpaper, listening to him quietly murmur, expression staid. She’d folded and unfolded her hands as he’d jotted notes onto the paper, because she’d known this was how diplomacy was so often done—not by groups but secret pairs pledging vows of silence until the time was right—but it’d still seemed so underhanded, so wrong.

She’d tried, too, not to say anything in opposition to the arrangements he was making, because he always did what he thought was best for their collective nations and she’d respected that. When the treaty was brought up, though, she’d been unable to help herself.

“Didn’t the Treaty of Berlin specifically state that the Ottoman Empire was entitled to some rule over the land?”

Russia had smirked and given a low chuckle. Her husband had turned to face her, eyes again alert and bright and ice-cold, remarking, “That treaty is a mere set of guidelines pertaining to the administration of Bosnia-Herzegovina.”

“But shouldn’t His Imperial Majesty Sadiq at least have a say in these proceedings?”

“That is not necessary. His authority is in title only and irrelevant to our interests.”

“Whose interests?” she’d snapped back. “Yours and His Imperial Majesty Ivan’s, or yours and mine?”

“You ought not to speak to me in that manner.”

“I will speak to you in that manner,” she’d retorted, feeling the old frustration from her days of servitude heating her blood. “Don’t condescend me.”

“You fail to understand the minutia of this issue.”

“I do fail to understand. I fail to understand why you find it right to annex a territory behind the back of the other nation entitled to it.”

He’d stood, then, looming over her, face absolutely stony. “Ivan, let us have a moment.”

She’d glared at him as he’d beckoned, but followed. She’d followed him out into the hall, watching his expression, watching his composure, and then his palm had grazed her face with a sharp jolt of pain.

“How dare you attempt to embarrass me in the middle of an important conference!” he’d hissed, practically shuddering. “Making me out to be some sort of criminal, perpetrating scandalous action! I do not need my own wife, of all people, offering resistance to an action that is necessary for Austria-Hungary!”

“Is it necessary, truly?!” she’d demanded. “It is hardly part of our empire in the first place, just some—some greed-grabbed state on the outskirts!”

“If it was not necessary then I would not be doing it! If you think I enjoy breaking rules, inviting conflict, then you are even more foolish than I suspected! My reasoning is as I have said before—one must not be perceived weak. In this world, you must always try to gain and keep territory, or else you will crushed underfoot by the other powers!”

“Which other powers?! We’re not under threat of war by anyone worth—”

His glance had turned towards the shut door as though he could see straight through it to where Russia sat waiting. She’d fallen silent abruptly in response.

“Yes,” he’d said. “Yes we are. By many powers, in fact, though most are more willing to scavenge pieces of fallen nations than to begin a conflict.”

“You really think—”

“I know. And indeed, it is a factor in why I am conducting this agreement with him. Our cooperation in the present may aid in staving off future confrontations.”

“But where did you get the idea—”

“Elizaveta.” His voice had taken on a pleading tone. “Why is it so difficult for you to trust me?”

She’d bitten her lip. “I want to trust you, but when you are acting like this—”

“I’m sorry,” he’d said then, and bent to kiss her, and she’d felt herself forgiving him, just a little.

“Explain fully to me, later, about the threats over us. I cannot take you at your word. I’m sorry, too, but…I cannot take you at your word anymore.”

“That is a fine quality to have in diplomacy, but not in relations with your husband.”

“I know,” she’d whispered, wrapping her arms around him. “Later, please.”

“Very well.”

He never did bother to explain.

The second time he struck her, he did not apologize.

He’d been busy at the piano when the mail arrived, and thus, one of the maids had handed it over to her. She’d opened one of the letters meant for him, one sporting the Russian Empire’s official seal, and her eyebrows had risen at the sight of the disparaging rampage within.

She’d gone over to him, standing there momentarily at the piano bench as his hands rose and fell in the gentle chords of the sonata, then declared, “You blackmailed him.”

He did not stop playing, only said, “Russia raised a threat and I acted in response to it.”

“But you blackmailed him! You threatened to release documents that would damage his national security!”

“I am allowed to use my resources to ensure the safety of my empire.”

“Your empire?!” And here she’d decided to finally say it—“It is not yours but ours! Is my opinion so worthless, my authority so meaningless?! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to threaten something of that nature!”

“I don’t need—” He’d stood, shutting the lid of the piano with a slam, “—your express approval to do what needs to be done. I don’t need your excessive doubts impeding my actions and troubling my judgments.”

“Perhaps my sense of judgment is better than yours! Have you considered that?! Have you considered that this scheming you’re undertaking could be wron—”

He’d smacked her again, right across the face. She’d frozen in shock for a moment and then, crying out, reached for him, pulling him forward by the collar. He’d grabbed her by the hair, yanking strands of it out of place, and because she was no longer strong, riding horses and shooting guns and wielding swords these days, he’d managed to force her down, shoving her head against the bench and inciting tears from her detesting eyes.

“You have been a possession of mine for much of your existence, and even now, you still think like a possession,” he’d spat, and she could barely recognize his face. “You don’t know how to make sacrifices, to choose between evils. All my life I have had to make tough decisions, more often than not against common moral sensibilities, and you expect me to yield to your inferior wisdom and experience in this? I will tell you this, Elizaveta—I am not going to allow you to hinder my defending our interests in the very field where I know best. That would be betrayal of my people’s confidence and contrary to your well-being.”

“There is no way,” she’d muttered between clenched teeth, “that you can claim to be maintaining my well-being if you will not hear my thoughts!”

She’d attempted to raise her head, but he’d brought it down upon the bench again, shooting pain through her skull. “I have neither time nor the inclination to hear such nonsense!”

She’d flailed her arms, attempting to punch him, scratch him, whatever she could manage, but he had merely risen, shoving her aside, and taken quick steps from the room. She’d scrambled to her feet, but had stopped upon hearing the slam of a door and click of a lock from somewhere down the corridor.

It was anger, frustration, stress, she’d told herself as she’d stood there and trembled with dread and grief. It had to be. Goodness knew he had never been skilled at expressing emotions, only suppressing them, so he would hopefully regret this later, and…

Her hopes were ultimately in vain.

The third time he struck her, she realized that she no longer loved him.

This time, he did not bother confining the action to when they were alone. She’d barely provoked it, too—a passing comment on the disapproval of her nobles over his desire to combine Croatia with Bosnia-Herzegovina—and his hand had collided with her cheek and chin, drawing blood from her lip.

The servants had stared, wide-eyed. She’d jumped up, determined this time to harm him, to make him suffer, but he’d called for them and they’d come, pulling her off of him and restraining her like a mad dog.

“I am well-aware what resistance you and your nobles would like to offer,” he’d said levelly, “and you would do well to notify them that I will try them on counts of treason if they become public with it.”

“What are you saying?!” she’d snapped. “You have no grounds for such a case! They are not planning any kind of violence—merely expressing opinions!”

“You are lying! This nation is well under fire from within, and I will meet such actions accordingly!”

“You—” she’d begun, swallowing to gather herself and keep from lashing out, “You are exaggerating! The only region under fire is the one I was speaking of, and that is your own fault! You are not some sort of victim, you—you have no decent reason to own those lands in the first place!”

“I have no more patience for your ridiculous criticism!” He’d motioned to the servants. “Take her up to her room.”

“Leave me be!” she’d shot back at them. “I am the mistress of this house and you are obedient to me as well!”

“She is merely here as a result of my benevolence and diplomatic concessions! Take her out of my sight!”

“We are married!” she’d screamed, and against her will she’d cried, astonished by his callousness. “I am his wife and we are equals!”

“In name, but no more!”

He’d made a shooing motion with his hand, and while the thoroughly confused servants had decided to answer to him and drag her up the stairs, she’d stared at him, wondering if this was indeed the man that had cared about her and clung to her and smiled so clumsily when they had first sought to make love. She’d stared at him and he’d stared at her, red-faced and shivering and bright-eyed with what she realized was vigilance born of fear. He was so afraid of her, of the world, of everything—but she could not forgive him this time for his faults.

She hated him too much for that.

Nowadays, their life remains, in all appearances, picture-perfect.

As they set out in the carriage, she attempts to scoot away from him, to sit practically leaning out of the seat. He gives her a glare, though, and she reluctantly remains beside him. He could not have his (his and her, but she’s given up correcting him) citizens thinking that something might be wrong, after all.

He takes her hand, holding it tightly. Her engagement ring glints in the sun, hard crystal like his eyes when he speaks of extinguishing nationalist groups that battle with the local authorities, of the possible necessity of war. He sees said groups everywhere—on the streets, in the buildings, lurking in the shadows behind fellow-nations when they oppose him in any way, and on that front she suspects that a few other nations may know that he is definitely not who he used to be. They may know in the political sense, but not at all in the personal, because to everyone she and he have always been a strong alliance and doting couple, while alone at night she considers stabbing herself to escape the torment that is Austria-Hungary.

She considers it often and would do it, take a kitchen knife to her throat and be done with it, except that her nation would be ashamed of her and her husband would woefully chalk it up to a disturbed mind, and by God, she cannot have that.

So she stays. In public, they smile and are happy, he in his fine frock coats and she in her lacy gowns. In private, she has bruises beneath her sleeves and petticoats from his distrust of her. In private, he takes calls in an old robe and his imperial crown, because he distrusts everyone and constantly feels the need to show his authority, gripping onto his disorderly landholdings with insatiable anxiety.

In private, he hardly plays music anymore, just wild, tuneless arpeggios and smashing chords, loud and brash and the very antithesis of weak.

In private, he is mad. But in public, he is calm, stable, rational, and thus they ride into Sarajevo looking like the perfect pair, pillars of their nations, deeply in love. They maintain the illusion of perfection for the sake of their peoples, and even as the gunshots echo through the air and the crowd screams, screams, Elizaveta is smiling.

Roderich is the first to break, pressing a palm to where blood is blossoming over his white uniform, his other hand pointing, accusing—“Get him! Seize him!”

And Elizaveta blinks, as though coming out of a dream or a gripping nightmare, absently touching her own bullet-ridden torso, eyes flickering to her husband as his guards take hold of the assassin, his expression full of vindication and wrath. She has the sudden, insane urge to laugh.

“Wire Germany,” he is saying to one of the guards as the doctors come, taking her carefully from the carriage. “Tell him what has happened. And I want to meet with the Serbian representative within twenty-four hours. I need to know why this was allowed to occur, and if I am not given a straight answer—”

Then war will come, Elizaveta knows. And because she has no other choice, she will welcome it with open arms.

Videos, roleplay and fics [part 1]

2011-01-05T11:26:00.000-08:00

Man, I've had so much stuff going on lately. Haley came to visit me, which resulted in a winter photoshoot (which I will get online as soon as I can actually find where my camera cable went) and some pretty outrageous videos (including me discovering that I can cosplay the Lithuania character and dancing to polka, as well as a parody of an Ed Edd n Eddy clip.) We also, of course, roleplayed for hours, which resulted in me getting a ton of inspiration to write, as you'll see soon enough.

Christmas was quite good too. By far my favorite gift were the rabies and toxoplasmosis plushies (I researched those diseases for The Misdiagnosis of Sandy Tabori~) and I also got a Zune and webcam that I have yet to play with. Oh, and an external hard drive, so I won't have to worry about losing a ton of crap if I happen to drop my laptop again XD

And I saw the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Which not only inspired some crackish plotlining involving Roderich being dragged to a death metal concert, but which was also generally awesome. Check out their carol of the bells arrangement if you haven't heard it; that was pretty much the inspiration for that TOA Death of Friendship fic I wrote a couple years back.

Anyway. Writing. Brace yourself. XD

First off, I'd like to pimp some of the places where I've been roleplaying recently.

Hospitalia - A really entertaining hospital-themed AU with the Hetalia characters. I'm enough of a dork that I made my character (Roderich) an infectious disease specialist, which means I end up researching all kinds of bizarre and nasty things to mention in my threads. XD There's a lot of very interesting and talented people on this one, as well, and I'm looking forward to getting more involved in it.

World of Steam and Gears - A steampunk-themed forum run by a friend of mine. It still hasn't really taken off yet, but I've got a version of Saniper on there, and I'm seeing a lot of possibility in the future. And yes, I mod it because I more or less insisted on helping with the plot (man, I go so nuts when I have the chance to worldbuild. XD)

Facebook - Yeah, I've got a couple of these now--Roderich, Yeager and Marion. Roderich's the most active at the moment, and he and Halle have ridiculously snarky conversations on his wall. XD Lighter reading than the paragraph-style RPs and really quite funny.

And now, fics. (I'm going to actually split this entry because I have so many. XD)

Title: Realistic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Gilbert's mouth and Roderich being a nutjob.
Notes and things-to-know: Remember when I realized that Roderich was actually delusional at one point? This is more or less that applied to my AU (which I really need to revamp sometime, since I've changed it up quite a bit since I wrote it about it.) And Roderich rambles enough that I think it's otherwise self-explanatory.
Summary: Gilbert comes to negotiate the end of a war. Roderich is not so keen on compromise.

“I want to see him,” Gilbert growled. “I’m here to negotiate. Let me see him.”

“We have strict orders not to let anyone in, including members of His Highness’ own court,” the guard to the right of the doors said, holding his polearm across the doorway.

“But I told you—I’m here to negotiate. Look. I even brought the goddamned white flags,” he declared, gesturing to the small entourage of soldiers behind him, each carrying a small flag. “At least let him know I’m here.”

“His Highness wishes not to be disturbed. He’s in a highly classified meeting with his advisors.”

“Well, their advice is going to change as soon as I say what I’m going to say. Just go in and tell him I’m here. I’ll wait.”

“His Highness—”

“Tell His Highness I rode all the way from the German front to talk to him and I am not leaving his doorstep without getting the chance to,” he snarled, leaning close to the guard’s face.

The guard exchanged glances with his fellow, then, after a moment’s deliberation, turned and pushed open one of the heavy oak doors. It slid shut behind him with a loud thud, leaving Gilbert in tense silence on the steps for a couple minutes.

When the guard returned, his face was oddly pallid. He gestured half-heartedly to the door. “Go on.”

“He’ll see me now?”

The guard nodded.

Gilbert wasted no time, shoving the door open and crossing the front hall, mud-caked boots leaving marks on the tile. As he came to the base of a staircase, it dawned on him that there had been no servant within to direct him—that he didn’t actually know where he was going. He turned in a circle, glancing at the oak doors of shut-up rooms, and yelled, voice echoing off the high ceiling and glimmering chandelier.

“I’m here, Roddy!”

There was no answer. Gilbert did, however, catch a shuffling noise from somewhere down the hall beyond the curving stairs, and directed his path in that direction, motioning for his soldiers to follow.

He came to another set of double doors, white-painted and neatly carved. One door was slightly ajar and he directed two soldiers through it, again surprised that there were no servants about. Not even a single one to announce his presence—what did Roderich have them all occupied with?

“Your Highness,” one of the two soldiers declared awkwardly, just to keep custom, “Markgraf Beilschmidt.”

Gilbert stepped in after them, holding out his palm to tell the remaining soldiers to stay behind. He stopped in his tracks for a moment to survey the room—a wide, airy ballroom, with tall windows that did nothing to hold back the winter’s chill—and blinked, feeling deep confusion wash over him.

Roderich sat in the middle in a small upholstered chair, hands resting on its armrests as though it were a throne. Around him were what Gilbert suspected to be all the servants in the building, standing in tight-knit groups and rows, surrounded by white, staggering lines painted on the dark parquet floor. He couldn’t make out any rhyme or reason to their positions—they were too random to be dance formations or divisions by rank. He couldn’t imagine why Roderich would allow someone to take a paintbrush to the polished floorboards.

He wanted to give a nice, direct, ‘what the hell is going on’, but all the servants were looking at him and something strange in their expressions gave him pause. He ventured politely, “What’s all this?”

Roderich surveyed him coldly. Gilbert stared at him and realized that the green thing circling his powdered wig was a wreath. It looked absurd, but for some reason, he couldn’t laugh.

“I’m making plans,” Roderich said. “This way I can see them.”

He rose and pointed to a few of the groups and lines. “This is the northern front—France’s forces and mine. Here is where you are concentrating on Germany, while your other troops are scattered about northern Italy. Russia is currently here, and—you, disperse. That is not for him to see.”

Roderich waved at a group on the right side of the room. The cluster of servants stepped from the lines, revealing a space that Gilbert recognized as the sharp tip of Turkey’s lands.

“Roddy, can we talk somewhere private?” Gilbert asked, before Roderich could wave another few servants away from their spot. “I have some propositions to offer you.”

“I don’t answer to ‘Roddy’, Markgraf.”

“Herzog, then. I want to discuss—”

“Austria,” Roderich corrected. “You want to try and appease me, don’t you.”

“Look,” said Gilbert, arching an eyebrow at his frankness. “Hear me out. I’ll say it straight if you want—I don’t want the fighting to go on the way it is. Sure, maybe I thought Prussia could get something out of it before, but things are getting too bad. I’ve been running short on men and resources since you cut my supply lines. You’ve already taken two of my lower provinces. Winter’s going to hit soon and I really don’t want to try to hold those mountain passes once the weather turns nasty—in short, I’ve got a lot of reasons to want to quit this war. And I’m willing to give you some things if you let me.”

“I’m not interested. My plans are in place and I mean to continue.”

“Silesia—I’m willing to hand over Silesia.”

“I would rather take Silesia than accept a handout,” declared Roderich.

“And Germany. Seriously. I’ll turn that treaty right back on its head.”

“I see no need to bow to your wishes when I have the ability to procure everything you’re offering.”

“At what cost? Hundreds more men?” Gilbert shook his head, flabbergasted. “What happened to averting war? Marrying off your nobles all over Europe to keep blood off your hands? All the time I’ve known you you’ve gone on about how barbaric violence is. And now you’re, what—sending horde after horde to take over my country because you think you can?”

“Times have changed, Markgraf. The only way to ensure national safety is to eliminate outside threats—both extant and possible. Your nation was and will always be an army at heart, out to seize what you can. The best solution—the sole lasting solution—is to do away with it entirely.”

Roderich approached him with his arms folded, passing through what shafts of light from the windows were left uncovered by the standing servants. “I assure you that I can. Your willingness to negotiate only confirms it.”

“You’re going to destroy Prussia?” Gilbert’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’ve been planning to take over my whole nation?”

“For the sake of my people and their safety, yes.”

“How the hell is destroying a nation outright justified by safety? Do you have any idea how much you’re going to lose?!”

“The results will be worth the sacrifice. My people will never suffer at your hand again.”

“God, Roderich, at least I never hid my ambition behind anything like that. I never told my people the dead would keep far more from dying. You know as well as I do that my wars with you have only been for bits and pieces, and you have got to be kidding me if you truly think it’s fair to—”

“It isn’t about what’s fair,” Roderich said curtly. “It’s about certainty. How do I trust that the wars will always be for bits and pieces? How do I know that my enemies will always work within the same boundaries? I’ve played the game of politics long enough to realize that I can trust no man at his word, written or spoken, because every great power on the world’s stage is a hungry dog just waiting for a chance to tear the others to shreds. At some point we ought to all throw down our polite pretenses and embrace the truth—the only way to ensure national peace is to conquer the conflicting interests, whatever the cost.”

Gilbert opened and closed his mouth, speechless. Roderich’s expression, which had barely changed throughout their conversation, remained grave, violet eyes icy beneath his prickled crown.

“Y—You’re crazy,” Gilbert stammered at last. “You’re out of your fricking mind. That’s not how it works. Politics—there is always uncertainty in politics, no matter what you do! There is always conflict! If you think you can fix things for yourself by destroying all your enemies, you’ve learned nothing in your time as Herzog! It won’t last—the people won’t take that kind of suffering, they’ll revolt, and your whole government will come crashing—”

“It will be better than now,” he insisted. “Now, when I am constantly met with insurrections fueled by you and France. When if I turn my back only for a moment, you will try and put a knife in it. You told me that, remember? You said that to me years ago and it has taken me until recently to comprehend that the rest of the world is like that, too. I cannot go on this way, with my people in continuous danger. I cannot function when everyone is so at each other’s throats.”

“You have to—that’s the challenge of being a leader. You have to be able to face the unknown. Roddy, you’re—you’re putting yourself before your people. You’re not doing this for Austria; you’re doing this for—”

As he’d spoken, Gilbert had instinctively raised an arm to touch his cousin’s shoulder, and as the duchy’s name left his lips, Roderich’s hand suddenly grasped and twisted his.

“Everything I have done,” he hissed furiously, “was for my nation. Everything I do is done in the best interest of my nation. You have no idea how much I have given up for it—how many times I have broken my own heart for some greater goal. I am Austria and you have no right to suggest otherwise!”

Gilbert yanked his hand from him, stepping back. For a few moments he and Roderich only exchanged glares, the previously chilly room stifling with heat.

“What happened to you?” Gilbert asked. “What the hell happened to you, cousin?”

“I became realistic,” said Roderich.

“You used to be realistic. You were realistic when we fought over Silesia, working out all your campaigns, catching me off guard a few times…I was almost proud to be able to match you, to have you as my opponent. You had so much less experience than me, and yet you were able to hold so much of your ground. You understood how war worked, what it was for, but…I don’t get what’s going through your head now. I came here to make a deal—”

“The only deal I’ll consider is your complete surrender.”

“Roddy,” Gilbert said slowly, making sure he took in every word, “I’m not making that deal, especially not with a man who’s turned his ballroom into a giant map and has a wreath on his head.”

“I did those things out of necessity,” Roderich insisted. “My advisors have been attempting to depose me, so I must be certain that I can make my own plans in the clearest manner possible. And in this time of war I have found it crucial to further profess my authority, but my crown was left back in Vienna—”

“Your advisors were trying to depose you?”

“Yes. They were plotting it in secret while resisting nearly all my suggestions. As I said, if I turn my back for even a moment—”

“Roddy, if you can’t even trust your own advisors, I think something is—”

“No one in this day and age can be trusted. Not you, not France, Spain, my advisors, my citizenry—you’re all greedy, self-interested, breaking terms left and right! Half a year ago, I thought I was at peace with France, and what happens? He invades my Netherlands. It was only after weeks of pleading that I managed to turn that disaster into a trade. I’m sick and tired of having to reason with all of you, to have to grovel at your feet, speaking of justice and upholding precedents when those concepts are obsolete in this field! My nation deserves certainty, even if it is in a world where violence is the only truly effective means!”

“I told you, you have to face uncertainty! You can’t win everything at once; you have to take trials as they—”

“I refuse to stand by and let outside forces dictate my country’s fate!”

“If you keep at this you’re not going to help Austria, your people are just going to—”

The sudden sharp hiss of sliding metal made Gilbert jump. He gaped at the point of the sword now inches from his chest, positioned at his heart.

“Don’t you dare speak for my people!” Roderich snapped. “You don’t know them! You have no idea what is best for them!”

“Hey, put that away! We all came unarmed, to talk—”

“I’m not going to listen to you lecture me about how to run my nation! As far as I am concerned the only valid purpose you have in being here is making a formal surrender!”

Gilbert felt a stab of rage. “You know what? I’m done with this. As far as I am concerned, Roddy, you’re not fit to be recognized as the leader of Austria anymore. You should be locked up in a madhouse—there’d be plenty of certainty for you there. Day after day in the same cell, chained to a wall, with all the time in the world to yell about how everyone’s ready to screw you over! Wouldn’t that be nice?!”

“I will not be spoken to in that manner!” Roderich swung the sword, barely missing Gilbert’s waistcoat. “Get out! Unless you will surrender I—”

“Surrender? You are going to have to wrench Prussia from my cold, dead hands!”

Gilbert spun on his heel and walked out of the room, crying, “Hell if I’m going to hand any part of my lands over to a lunatic! Keep making your goddamned plans, you’re going to need some fantastic ones to take me down!”

One of the soldiers he had left outside of the room followed close at his heels as he strode back down the hall and out to his carriage, fists clenched. “Sir, did you—”

“No,” Gilbert muttered, climbing in and trying his best to ignore the fear in the soldier’s eyes, in all of their eyes. “He’s impossible. I’m going to have to call a meeting when we get back—this is going to be a long winter.”

Title: The Reasons Why
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Notes and things-to-know: Johannes (Iceland) and Roderich's relationship in my AU fascinates me. I've written two fics about them already and have lately come to a better understanding of how I want Johannes to view Roderich--which is basically what I drabbled about here.
And yeah, if you want to see what goes on in Roderich's head, the fic above this one pretty much has it down. ><
Summary: Johannes decides to emulate Roderich, only to discover that Roderich isn't quite the perfect leader he thought he was.

For the longest time, to Johannes, he is perfect.

Coming into Schloss Albanstadt for the first time is like entering a different world, a realm above the cold and earth-toned atmosphere he is familiar with. His first impressions are of inconceivable brightness, of glittering gold and crystal-refracted light, of floors so polished that he can see his reflection in them. It’s blinding, bewildering, like being born, and he finds himself staggering as Halle lets go of his shoulder, nearly falling at the feet of the man on the throne before him.

He feels Halle move to catch him, but lithe, uncalloused hands get there first, lifting him by the armpits like a child. He hears a light, brief laugh, and when he raises his eyes he sees him—lean oval face, bare hint of a smile, eyes only a few shades brighter than Halle’s but so different, so much more sharp and alert and full of calm command. He is close enough to blot out the light, and for that Johannes is grateful. Johannes stays staring for a few moments, awed by this mortal face amidst the glory of the palace, wanting to stand within his shadow where he can see, where he can think.

So it is that is begins—Johannes’ following in His Majesty Roderich’s shadow.

Roderich is something altogether remarkable, straddling the line between high-blooded human and the ideal leader, interested first and foremost in the affairs of his state. He wears fine silks and lace and one of those ubiquitous white-powdered wigs, which makes him seem older than he is, more aged and worldly than wheat-haired Halle. His posture is flawless, his gestures are fluid, his expressions are neatly controlled and his manner is polite to a fault. Johannes goes to meetings with him and observes how he negotiates without anger, without drawing a blade and making demands, using words as his weapons and never giving in without a trade, without turning every failure into some sort of victory. Somehow, he is able to battle and not make enemies, to gain land and funds without starting wars, and it is a kind of politics violence-scarred Johannes basks in, tries to absorb every trick and tread in, because Roderich is loved for it.

He is loved by everyone, as far as Johannes can tell. He hosts grand balls and everyone that arrives respects him, bowing to him and asking him questions and savoring every word that leaves his lips. Woman after woman asks him to dance; man after man goes to him for guidance. There is hardly enough time for him to attend to them all. Somehow, too, he is never caught up in it, pulled along by the current of praise—he always remains rational, reasonable enough to avoid any action he’d regret.

He is, as far as Johannes can tell, exactly what a leader should be, and exactly what Johannes would like to be.

Johannes decides very quickly that Roderich is what he wants to be. He seeks to become him, to learn his ways, from his etiquette to his political techniques to his skill on the piano—more refined and beautiful than any music Johannes has yet heard—and Roderich considers all of his interests, appointing tutors to aid him and teaching him himself when he can. He is kind, compassionate enough to bend to his wishes, even though Johannes knows nothing in comparison to him, even though Johannes is the brother of a man who would like nothing better than to wreak havoc on Roderich’s forces. He is even interested in Johannes’ culture, willing to be taught as well as teach, and Johannes finds himself feeling like he is worth something, like he can be more than the boy who collapsed under the weight of his brother’s lent empathy.

Roderich gives him so much, and Johannes is honored to walk behind him like the rest, taking everything he says as truth.

For the longest time, he makes Roderich his symbol of truth and certainty, his flawless, perfect model.

This is why he changes his name. This is why, when Roderich explains that marriage is only allowable so far as it furthers the state’s well-being, Johannes believes him. This is why, when he catches Roderich shuddering and panicking, he thinks it must be a fluke, a reaction to empathy. This is why, when Roderich tells him he must be handed over to Russia’s brutal hands, Johannes bites his lip and nods and says that he understands, that he will go.

This is why Johannes does not believe it until he sees it for himself—Roderich half-dressed and holding Halle at the point of a pistol, alert eyes wild with rage, yelling about how killing him will bring certainty, precious, precious certainty to an insane world.

This is why Johannes feels blinded again in the end, as though he has come full circle and gone back to the stumbling child he was, trying to walk on a landscape that is slipping and sliding beneath his feet.

This is why, when Roderich comes apart, Johannes does, too.

Title: The Dress
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of a self-inflicted wound and loads of angst.
Notes and things-to-know: This is one of those interesting fics that I actually wrote off of a specific source of inspiration, that being the vid for Once Upon A December. It reminded me immediately of a character I haven't worked with much--Natalia Arlovskaya, who represents Belarus, and I had this really vivid vision of her dancing in some ruined palace with Roderich while wearing...well, you'll see. XD
Natalia has a rough history and is more or less known for being a quiet and somewhat violent woman with the desire to marry the one person who really protected her in her past--Ivan (Russia), her brother. Whether she's actually mental or not, I don't know, though she definitely comes off as starved of human contact to me, due to my headcanon that Ivan kept her in isolation most of the time as he managed her politics.
This is very roughly historical, taking place after WWI--i.e., after Austria goes bankrupt and splits from Hungary, costing Roderich his empire and his wife (Liz.) The rather gruesome action he did to himself is recycled headcanon from a fic I lost when my comp crashed, and is as he says it is--an attempt to make a point, namely, that the Allies were metaphorically doing that same thing to him by taking away so much that he loved.
Also, take note of when I actually start mentioning the characters' names. It's kind of interesting and perhaps symbolic.
Summary: Roderich seeks refuge in Eastern Europe after his losses. Natalia is deeply intrigued by him and the fact that he once knew love.

“Why are you here?” she demands.

He shrugs. “Because according to Europe, you’re all mad. I need some like-minded company.”

He doesn’t look it—not like her brother, at least. He has none of the fidgeting, grasping want in his hands, the asymmetric violence in his smile. He sits straight-backed in a time when no one sits straight anymore, holds his cup steadily as he brings it to his lips. He looks just like what she remembers of him, albeit vaguely, before alliances broke and treaties tore, the fragments bourne away on the winds of fate.

If it is anywhere, she thinks, it must be in his eyes. As he speaks she watches them flicker from the cup to her face to the background of the room, roving over dusty treasures and faded paintings. They are the youngest part of him, full of crystalline brightness against deep violet shadows, too bright against the worn, drawn landscape of his features.

When she addresses him and his gaze falls more steadily upon her, it is sharp and demanding and scrutinizing, as though half-expecting her to leap up and stab him. It is such a powerful look that she is half-inclined to take hold of the knife tucked beneath the waistband of her skirt, just to fulfill his suspicions, but at the same time, she can tell that the harshness is not meant for her.

So it is that she fixes her own dark eyes on him and asks, “What exactly happened after the armistice? I’ve heard different things.”

He sips his tea and his tone is even as he replies. “Well, most importantly, I am no longer a nation in the personal sense.”

“So you were removed from your position.”

“Naturally. I inadvertently began the largest war this continent has yet known. Of course the others would desire a change in leadership.”

“So you are entirely cut off?”

He nods slowly. “No title, no empathy, no home. Only my possessions.”

“And the memories,” she adds.

Another nod, steady, unrevealing. “Yes. Those as well.”

“Did you really stab yourself in front of the embassy?”

He sets his cup down. For a moment, he is somewhere between rising from his seat and holding onto it, hand closing about the armrest, and his eyes are like glass in the glare of the sun.

“When the world would like nothing more than to be rid of you,” he says, “it takes drastic measures to ensure you are heard.”

She barely blinks, only inquires, “Were you?”

He shakes his head. “By that time, it was too late.”

“It is too late for a lot of things,” she says, and perhaps it is a trick of the light, but he seems to almost smile.

It is too late for dreams.

Oftentimes at night she ends up wandering the halls of the palace, crossing dirty marble floors and moth-eaten carpets. She carries a lamp and watches the little flame bend and buck with the breeze from the burnt section, where the chill seeps in through the fallen, snow-tinged beams. She goes barefoot, but she is already numb and does not feel cold.

After he comes she spends the dull hours looking through the furniture and the boxes he brought. They fill two rooms, hastily packaged and left spilling open by the workmen, and they remind her of the things she used to have. There is lots of gold and china, silk and brass, items belonging to an era that was beautiful, not in ashes.

He has clothing in there, formal ensembles from decades past, coats tailored to his slim frame and white gloves fit to delicate fingers. There are hats in velvet boxes and cravats folded into traveling cases, and because she does not know him well, never did, sometimes she lifts his garments to her nose.

They smell like sweet cologne and sour parchment, with the faintest hints of sweat, of humanity.

Her brother—he is too human, too full of the fragrance of sweat and blood. There is nothing nostalgic about him, nothing like the aroma of perfume lingering from glad times. This man is different, already mostly memory, tucked away from a future with little to offer him.

He kept everything, it seems. Somewhere in the midst of it all she finds gowns, corsets, petticoats, ruched lace and shimmering beads. They smell like potpourri and decay, and as she looks at them and imagines the skirts twirling and sleeves draping from strong arms she wonders if that is what love smells like.

He does not wear a ring anymore, but he thinks he does.

More than once she sees his thumb touch the base of his ring finger as though to make sure it is still gone. She watches him as he takes tea by the balcony and looks out through the glass panes, mentally wandering among the smooth, snowy hills. His expression is always the same—a bit distant, but somber as ever.

She stands beside him and says nothing and now and then he attempts to initiate one of those polite, meaningless conversations that belong to high-class engagements, but it never gets far. It is only to acknowledge her, she knows, and she is well-used to being a form in the background, a figure without worth. Besides, she is fond of silence.

Silence is relative peace. Silence is what exists between an ending and beginning and thus it keeps her going, balancing in limbo after the long, long ending that was her struggles. She only breaks it after days and nights of flickering curiosity, culminating in—

—“Do you miss her?”

At first, he only sighs, a soft and graceful sigh that may or may not be real. Then, “Sometimes.”

His expression is the same, always the same. His face is trained and frozen that way by years of careful composure. She touches his hand and she can feel it stiffen, drawing feeling inwards, and his eyes alight on her accusingly.

She smooths his fingers, one by one, until they are lithe again, limp like a dead man’s, and notes the slightest mark, the smallest depression from where his ring used to be.

That night, she searches meticulously, but she finds it nowhere among his things.

When her brother visits, the two men talk only briefly.

She listens by the door to the drawing room, ear pressed against the wood. Her brother’s voice is deep and echoing with a feigned friendliness that the other man sees through, hears the pain through. His voice, on contrast, is soft and coldly cordial, and in her mind’s eye she can envision him standing stiff and erect, neck craned to look her brother in the eye as he thanks him for allowing him to stay in the palace, half-ruined as it is.

Then her brother is out, and in a separate room she is alone with him, and he is saying, “I know what you want to ask of me. You should not bother.”

“I must,” she responds. “My nation needs it.”

“It is not about your nation.”

“It would help my nation significantly. I need to be on higher terms with you to make sure my people are heard.”

“My rule is enough. This is only you being ridiculous.”

“I need,” she says, passion hardening her tone, “to marry you, Brother.”

“No. For the last time, no.”

“At least let me go with you, be with you. I need that. My nation needs me by your side.”

“You will stay here,” he orders. “It is best for you to be here, out of the way.”

“You have no idea what is best for me!” she spits, and then she is angry, so frustrated that she lunges at him, arms out. He catches her, of course, pushes her back with thick palms and plants a fist into her jaw, and she finds herself on the floor, scowling up at him with fingers gingerly touching a forming bruise.

“I know much better than you,” he tells her on his way out. “I always have.”

“You never have!” she yells and she swears, words full of the poison that obstructed love brings. She swears at him and pounds the floor and takes one of her knives to the tattered rug, slashing back and forth, back and forth because she cannot cry, cannot cry, is much too far gone for crying.

When she rises and exits, the other man is lingering there, turning quickly to pretend he was not listening. She seizes his arm, stops him in his tracks.

“When you stabbed yourself,” she demands, “where was it?”

He touches his chest.

“And you died?”

“I survived. I missed my heart,” he says, almost shamefully.

“And still no one listened, as you were recovering?”

He nods, brow furrowed, trying to comprehend what she is thinking.

She presses on the spot he touched, hand slipping beneath his suit jacket and waistcoat, kneading the thin fabric of his shirt. There is no scar there, at least that she can feel.

“Would you have liked to die?” she asks.

His eyes are glassy. “There would have been no point in it, if I had.”

She takes a step back, nodding a little, understanding. There would have been no point in it, when he would have only come back. There is no point for either of them.

She leaves him in silence for there is nothing more to say in their limbo, thick with the metallic taste of stillborn happiness.

A few nights later, she discovers that the dress fits.

It is wide-skirted, meant for a crinoline and tight-laced waist, and she disregards both undergarments for her own comfort. It fits nonetheless because she is thinner than the one it was tailored for, and while the bodice is a bit loose in the chest and the inner petticoats are itchy on her bare legs, she likes it. It is pure white silk, after all, dripping with lace and sheer, gauzy layers, and goodness knows she has always looked her best in white.

She finds the veil and the elbow-length gloves near it and dons them as well. She practically runs, skirts rustling, down the hall to her room to gaze at herself in her mirror, that rotting-potpourri smell hanging in her nostrils, and for a long time she merely stares. She smoothes the pleats of the fabric, clutches the veil about her like a shawl.

She wonders again about love, what it smells like, what it tastes like.

She wonders if, when he touches his ring finger, he remembers.

He is still awake when she comes into the library, bare feet soundless on dark floorboards. He is up, stretching to pull a disintegrating volume from a shelf, and at first he does not notice her. She clears her throat.

He turns and for a moment he seems to freeze, time stopping around him. He tenses, balances with his chin still inclined and hand holding the book, and then the world tilts and the volume hits the floor with a loud thud that sends tremors through her feet, through the foundations.

She walks to him. He stares at her as though she is an apparition, a guilty fantasy brought out of the shadows of his mind. When she is near enough his fingers come down on her shoulders, digging into flesh.

“Natalia, I…” he starts to say, but cannot finish.

He misses her desperately. He misses the woman with the long brown hair and thick, toned arms, or perhaps he misses the idea of her, the sensations—holding hands, embracing, the warmth of her beside him in bed. He grips Natalia’s shoulders in an effort to hold onto reality because he is slipping fast, and he is leaving marks on her skin but she is well-used to pain.

She runs an index finger down the slope of his cheek. “Roderich.”

He was loved, once. He is gangly and bony and his eyes are too bright for his lined face but someone loved him, and to her it is hardly fair. Part of her wants to hate him for having had the opportunity, while the other part sees him starting to tremble and has to try—has to see that perhaps if she—then he will—

She leans forward and touches her lips to his. She pauses there, waiting half an instant before something answers within him and he moves beneath her, kissing her hard and long and passionately, hands floundering, tangling with her long platinum hair. Her arms find their way around his waist, clinging to him, and he smells different than his clothes—more sweet, with a fresh masculinity that is very much alive but not stifling. He makes small, muffled sounds, half-words, and she only breathes, breathes, breathes of him and revels in the immediacy of it all.

Minutes pass as they kiss and grasp and fumble. She touches his coat and his neck and his hair, feeling all the way around him, all the angles of the bones and tendons. At the base of his jaw she can feel his pulse and it is fascinating to her, that he is vulnerable, that his heart still beats when they are both so like ghosts.

It is not love but curiosity and pretending, but to her that doesn’t matter at all.

He is flushed and embarrassed when he pulls away. His cheeks are damp with tears and she dries them with her veil, keeping an arm about him to prevent him from stepping back. He tries to speak but the words turn incoherently in his throat. She doesn’t bother trying more than a whisper.

“Why did she leave you?”

Roderich shuts his eyes. “…She didn’t like the way I treated her.”

“What did you do?”

He doesn’t reply. She rests her head on his shoulder and nuzzles his neck, coaxing out a choked response.

“I gave her orders. I attempted to make her polite, ladylike, and she—I was only trying to do what was best for us and my nation and she—”

“You did not know what was best.”

He nods, admits it. He is crying again, silently.

She begins to sway from side to side, as though the movement will comfort him like rocking stills a child. It takes some time, but it draws forth a memory and she hears him start to hum some waltz under his breath, thin, saccharine notes that were too sentimental to survive the years. His hand grasps hers; their fingers entwine.

They travel in slow step about the room. She has not danced in ages and her movements are clumsy, dragging along, but he does not mind. His steps are perfect, posture effortless, and when his mind wanders sufficiently he manages a smile. She can see it in her imagination—a glittering gold ballroom lit in heady gaslight, filled with the sounds and smells of guests in silk and gemstones, with the brown-haired woman that to her is faceless holding him and loving him while he surely feels as though everything, everything is right—

But now he has only the trappings of completeness. She thinks about them as they pass crumbling books and darkened windows—all of his beautiful things, left boxed and stowed away. Maybe if they took them out, furnished the palace with them, they could underpin this fantasy they are treading in, make it so a dance in the dust is a turn through bliss for her, too.

With the dress on and rustling like windblown leaves, after all, it feels so like love, even though it is not love, cannot be love.

It is a play of sensations that she realizes is a service, for him and for her, when he parts from her and bows at the waist, his dry smile thankful.

Her lips thin, and it occurs to her that for the first time in a long time, she is smiling too.

He does have a scar on his chest.

It is slight and she is only able to discern it when she strokes a fingertip across his bare skin. She tilts her head and kisses it long enough to feel his chest rise and fall with breathing. He makes a light, relaxed sound.

He is in his nightshirt with the collar left unbuttoned, she in the dress. She is beside him atop the covers of his bed, a looming four-poster draped in velvet, and she is awed that the scar is so thin for the manner of wound he inflicted on himself. It is almost pretty.

His violet eyes are deep and glimmering at the edges like gold leaf as he surveys her. “Natalia?”

“What?” she asks.

“Why are you here?”

There are many ways she might respond. There is curiosity, there is comfort, there is the potency of pretending. There is the notion that if she remains long enough he might sleep and she might sleep and awake beside him, and perhaps he will shift in the night to drape an arm across her and she will know how it is, to wake in an embrace. There is the simple truth that she has no future and little past, that he has no future yet so much past, and that through him she might fill herself halfway.

They are both partial people, uselessly alive. She has no great reason to give him, really. Her brother will not return her feelings and his wife will not reconcile with him, not after all that happened. Neither of them have much of a reason.

She only says, “Because I like your company.”

He nods, understanding. It is a mad and futile pretext, maybe, but he allows it nonetheless.

His silence lets her stay.

A pic and fics from Abyss and Hetalia

2010-11-20T19:45:00.000-08:00

Oh geez, between school, the insanity that was Youmacon and the fact that my laptop crashed and had to get a new hard drive (I had most everything backed up, thankfully, so it wasn't that great of a loss), I haven't had the will to post. Anyway, I have since done some ficcage and a drawing, mostly Hetalia-related due to the fact that cosplaying Roderich two days in a row made me very Hetalia-high. XD

Historical arc Roderich. One of the things that has always really bothered me about some fanart is how people trying to portray him in a past time change his clothing style but not the style of his hair or glasses. XD So I decided to draw his face if he conformed to period fashions in those respects, too.

In case you're wondering why the 18th century one doesn't have a little haircurl, that's because he's wearing a wig with his natural hair pretty much shaved beneath it, like most men did during that time.

Also, for some reference, the 18th century one would be what he looked like during my Politics of the Heart fic, and in the 19th century one he's sporting a style that might have been around at the time that he married Liz (Hungary.)

As for the fanfictions, I'll start with the one from another uni and then go to the Hetalia...

Title: Morbid

Rating: PG

Warnings: This is an Ionverse fic. I haven't done one of those for a while, so if you're not that familiar with the basics of that universe, I suggest you read the Ionverse summary. Otherwise, this might be pretty confusing.

Notes and things-to-know: This was originally part of a three-drabble compilation I did when I got on an Ionverse kick a couple months ago. This one is Nebilim-centric; the other two were Ion and Dist-centric, respectively. The document, unfortunately, was lost when my laptop crashed, but I was able to recover this one (and I may rewrite the Dist one from what I can remember of it; I liked that one a lot too.)

Gelda Nebilim always kind of fascinated me in the Ionverse because she was more or less the most 'normal' of the group. She, did, though, have some skeletons in her closet like the rest of them, particularly involving Ion's father after the death of Ion's mother Kiselle. I never really explored her background effectively, so I sorta wrote this to do that.

Summary: Even Gelda has her reasons for being there, and even she is capable of being trapped by the treads of dependency that grow to intertwine them all.

“Ah,” Ion says upon seeing her, “The penitent is here.”

It takes a moment for her to realize that the understanding in his eyes, the wry curve of his lips is not because anyone told him anything. It is because the boy all but reads minds—he watches and feels what is past and draws conclusions that no one else can. She realizes that he read about Evenos, about her, and that he can pretty well ascertain why she agreed to this.

She wonders whether he knows why his father is dead.

It’d be cruel to ask. She tells him, “I’m here because I’m best for the job.”

Ion chuckles. “You’re only best because you’re next-of-kin. Van figures family is more likely to keep secrets. There isn’t much to be done, you know, at any rate.”

“There is plenty to be done, even if your illness is terminal.” She strides across the room, sits down on the bed. “I’m going to make sure you go as painlessly as possible.”

She opens her bag. Ion observes as she pulls out a pill bottle, a blood pressure cuff, a stethoscope.

“I think,” he remarks, “you have a taste for the morbid, Ms. Nebilim.”

She opens the bottle. In her mind’s eye she sees Kiselle, white-haired and white-faced in her coffin. She sees Evenos—or rather, his face, the rest of him obscured by tooled brass and ceremonial drapery. She sees patients lying still and intubated, recalls the odd silence of a hospital room when its occupant ceases breathing. She thinks of the books in her room, the reading material she uses to unwind, full of grisly discoveries and paranormal occurrences.

“Maybe I do,” she concedes, silently adding that it’s more from familiarity than anything else.

Ion stays smiling. “Good for you. I doubt you’d be able to carry out this penance otherwise. It’s going to be a long, ghastly road ahead.”

She decides not to respond to that. She decides not to think about Evenos and how she insulted him. She decides not to think about how mangled his body might have been beneath the brass and cloth, wrecked by his own son.

“Get a glass of water and take this,” she instructs, handing Ion a pill. “You’ll need to take one a day to stave off the symptoms.”

Ion stands, doesn’t pester her further, and takes quiet, measured steps on his way out. For one so burdened by knowledge and sin, his tread is oddly light.

*

Evenos had ignored his son after his wife’s death. He had been a good man but he had loved her too deeply to function after Kiselle was relegated to the catacombs. Young as Gelda had been at the time, distracted as she had been with her schoolwork while staying with him, she had known Ion was suffering from neglect.

She’d watched Ion sometimes, sitting on the railing of the courtyard while he paced listlessly around the grass, kicking a ball back and forth.

She watches him now as he takes his turns about the enclosure, past the trees and flowerbeds and broken fountain, hands clasped and eyes cast upwards in prayer. She’s found that he speaks little of religion, of eternal life, and she wonders whether he does his daily walk out of habit or belief.

He has many habits. While impulse keeps his confined existence interesting, habit keeps him grounded. He always awakens at the same time, partakes in the same ceremonies, uses the same hours for reading and eating and working. He doesn’t let his sampling sessions interfere with what is set.

Sampling—how disgusting. She has him strip and takes a sponge to his chest afterwards to clean and cool the burns. Mentally she curses Mr. Neis, the man she will not sit with at table, that she will not sit beside during mass. She can argue with Van about his presence but because his presence is at Ion’s request, there is nothing to be done.

She can only try to ensure that he doesn’t make Ion die quicker.

She tries and she copes by, when she can, pretending Neis doesn’t exist. She is too used to being called into patients’ rooms at strange hours to be a creature of habit. She goes about her business, whatever it may be, and doesn’t acknowledge Neis, barely acknowledges Van, because if she thinks too hard about what the former does and the latter allows, she might be too revolted to stay.

Besides, she took Ion’s comment about penance as a challenge of sorts, and backing out of the game now would be losing.

*

Neglect is a strangely expressed thing. Most of the time, Ion seems stable, sensible, wise. He isn’t kind, per se, as he likes to gently prod and provoke and unsettle people to see how they might react, but he isn’t cruel either. When Arietta comes to visit him, he strokes her hair and hands her treats like a fond master with his puppy. He knows when to push, when to disagree, when to love.

But she does see him slip now and then, when she takes his blood or listens to his breath. She sees the flickers of fear and rage in his eyes when she straightens, when he is reminded of his own morality. He smiles, but he doesn’t want to die. He chuckles, but would spit in the face of fate if he could.

One night, she inquires, “Are there things you keep yourself from reading, when you read the Score?”

“Some things,” he admits indifferently. “There are different kinds of tragedies in this world. Ones that it is better to expect and plan for and ones that are better left unknown. Ones you can change and ones that can’t be helped. I try to avoid the latter.”

Does she dare? She dares: “Like deaths?”

“Not all,” he says, “but some.”

He is not smiling. He is deeply calm but he is not smiling, and he knows that he killed his father, albeit accidentally. He found it out some naïve, curious day when he went looking for answers, perhaps saw himself standing stunned over Evenos’ corpse, felt again the attendants’ hands as they dragged him away.

Complacently detached as he is, he wouldn’t use such discretion otherwise.

He knows why Evenos died and why Evenos threw Gelda out, denying that he had abandoned his child. He knows that Evenos had afterwards understood, tried too hard to make up for lost time, teaching his son skills too difficult for Ion to control. He knows that Gelda, in a part of her mind that she keeps under lock and key, has never forgiven herself for urging Evenos towards that outcome, even if her observations about Ion had been correct.

He knows quite a bit but offers few clues to the depth of his knowledge, only flickers of otherwise obscured emotion. He remembers as she looks at him that he has yet to take his pill. He gets to his feet, takes a step.

Maybe it is because she has dredged up some memories, but his step is heavy and he stumbles on light, weak legs and she rises to catch him. She puts her arms around him to catch him and his face falls into her chest and his fingers grip her sides like she is more a piece of furniture than a person.

She steadies him and releases her hold but he does not release his.

It takes a moment for her to realize that he is crying.

Maybe it is because of the mother he never knew, saw alive only in the Score. Maybe it is because of the father he killed. Maybe it is because of guilt, or helplessness in the face of his destiny. For some reason or other, Ion starts crying.

Gelda awkwardly hugs him, feeling helpless herself because Ion will die, Neis’ closest replica will replace him, and try as she might she can’t, more and more lately, stop thinking about it.

She can’t keep pretending inevitably, nor can she leave. She has become involved, connected, someone that Ion can cry to. Taking herself from the scene would be like ripping out part of her patient’s heart.

She stays there with Ion until he quiets, stays with him in the instances when it happens again. She stays at the cathedral and begins to open her mind to what she can no longer pretend isn’t real, and somewhere along the way she starts trying to treat Neis, too, who has plenty of things he can’t forgive himself for. She starts to understand and draw conclusions that aren’t quite as harsh as the ones she drew previously.

When the day comes that she meets Neis in the hallway, bloodstained and tearful and as lost as a man doomed to die, she hugs him too, more out of familiarity with the sight than anything else. She lets his palms leave crimson stains on her back.

She’s involved, after all, and well-used to the morbid.

Title: Lunacy of Greed
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some sensuality. No sex, of course, but some possessive kissing and stuff.
Notes and things-to-know: Politics of the Heart is easily one of my favorite Hetalia fics I've written. I just really find Roderich and Celia's relationship intriguing for some reason and keep wanting to explore it in different ways.
This is more or less a darker take on them, a little while after Roderich loses her lands to France. Though both of them knew from the start that Roderich might very well have to give her away with her territory, thus ending their relationship, they certainly still have feelings for each other. The problem is that while Celia very much wants to draw out his (as well as give him some crap for handing her off), Roderich's struggling to suppress his. And when she does crack his demeanor, the results are hardly pretty.
Summary: Celia makes advances on Roderich when he cannot have her and he finds himself hating her, just a little, just enough to make a point about who really has the power here.

Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.

John Dryden

They think they can have everything.

It slips and slithers into the way they talk and dress, the way they move and act. In the grand parlor he can see it gleaming in the gold braid of Antonio’s coat and hear it clear as a bell in Arthur’s laugh. He can feel it in the rough, firm grip of the hand Ivan extends to him, uncouth as ever, and he knows it must linger in the taste of François’ lips as they press against another noblewoman’s rouged cheek. It is everywhere, wafting in the smoke of the dripping candles, drifting in the perfume, smirking behind fans and silently casting glances that speak volumes quoted from vicious script on still-fresh parchment.

It will destroy them, Roderich thinks—the greed. He steps neatly about them and tries not to inhale too deeply because it is so easy to catch the contagion, to let it twist diplomacy into hoarded knots. It is so easy to get lost in the gold and the wine, in the giggling of the women and the soft strains of the quartet, to be too much an individual and not enough of a ruler. When they debate, it is about reputations and power and the maneuvering of armies like pieces, bloodshed hidden in politeness and hate under tact like a sheen, and it is easy to forget that it is not all some game played by men named England, France, Russia.

He has to remind himself here and there that he is Kaiser Edelstein, not Austria, to maintain his place in reality.

He knows he cannot have everything. He plays along, certainly, as a matter of communication, as a way of watching his back, pretending everything is in his hands and meeting their glances with features set and chin uplift. He plays and plans and watches, looks for telling motions and furtive meanings, for he has to dance on the edge of their gambling match—yes, that’s the trick to it. On the edge but never quite in. Part of the madness but unafflicted by it.

It is a dance, a careful minuet, and it is so very easy to make the mistake of enjoying it, especially because of what is perhaps one of his greatest weaknesses—a penchant for beauty.

Beauty—such a dangerous, logic-confounding thing. She confounded him once, twice, so many times with it, and when he sees her alongside François his breath stops because of it and the flush rises to his face because of it. He feels himself teeter on the edge as she looks at him. He forces himself to stiffen, stand straight and show nothing as she smiles.

“Roderich,” she breathes when she has glided to his side, “It’s been too long.”

It hasn’t been long enough. He wants to retort, to tell her to rejoin the man that has her bound in paper shackles locked by bitter pens, but he does not have the strength. She has long-lashed eyes that glisten like emeralds and golden curls and when she smiles her little, teasing smile he recalls too much and he wants what, for a multitude of reasons, he cannot have.

She violates custom, takes him out into the center of the room and dances not the minuet but the waltz, hands squeezing his shoulder and his palm, and he tells her only once, he will allow this only once, because his head is spinning with vertigo and he needs to step back. She doesn’t hear him. She is just like the rest—she thinks she can get everything with a smirk and a laugh and a turn of her hips, when she will only get herself stabbed in the back. Caught in it all, she cannot realize that they will kick her and destroy her when she ceases to be funny, charming, interesting, when François—

Then they are in the hallway, the chatter and music muffled behind the half-open door, and she is saying, “I don’t mind François so much. He’s surprisingly gentle. When I let him hug me, he rubs his hand up and down like this…”

He thinks of François’ hands and where they have been, of François’ lips and how many women he has tasted, and he looks at her and sees her smirking and he knows damn well what she is up to. He knows but he still stumbles and feels himself falling, because she is so beautiful and he can’t help it.

She winds her arms about his neck. His hands fall on her back. Her lips alight on the line of his jaw and it is like a shock running through him, shuddering through his stiffness and restraint. He feels her breath, sickly sweet as she shifts, brushing his chin, his mouth, and his blood is burning through his veins.

He cannot help himself as she says, “And he kisses me like this…”

He kisses her, grasping her cheek and holding her to him. He kisses her because he cannot stand to hear the truth. He kisses her and she tries to tilt her head, search for new softness and new angles, but he holds her still and tightly and doesn’t let her. His fingers smear and wring the powder from her cheek, force their way beneath the back of her neckline, seizing gauzy folds and pinching ivory skin.

He feels her twitch with pain. Roderich doesn’t let her go, keeps his lips pressed to hers so she can say nothing more about François and the things that bastard does to her because he can, because not a thing in the treaty says he can’t. Roderich holds her and pins her arms as she begins to struggle and hates her, just a little, just enough to want to oppress her in this game where he is Austria and she is nothing, a possession, currency of trade—

She gives a small cry. He breaks his kiss and shoves her face into his shoulder and mutters breathlessly, sullenly, “You should know better than to do this to me.”

And she can say nothing so he lets his hands wander, just like François, because when he falls he is just the same as the rest of them, just as cruel, just as greedy. He traces the curve of her spine and backside, rounds the edges of her shoulderblades, tangles his fingers with her curls.

He whispers that she is his, she is his as much as she is François’, since treaties and lives are so easily torn and shattered and he can have whatever he wishes, provided he can take it.

When he lets her go at last, she is red and disheveled, pulling up her sleeves and smoothing her gown, and she stumbles in her slippers off to fix the limp ringlets of her hair. She gives him a look, not quite of scorn, but more of fear.

It is the way things should be, Roderich thinks. She should be afraid, not bold.

He adjusts his cravat, climbs carefully up from madness and re-enters the parlor, reminding himself once more that he is Kaiser Edelstein, not Austria, capable in spite of his blunders of residing above the lunacy of the game.

But capable as he is, when François questioningly meets his eyes, he can’t help but bare the smallest of smiles.

Title: The Delusion
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Gilbert's mouth at one point.
Notes and things-to-know: This is basically the result of my friend Lauren and I having a discussion about Roderich and his political ventures. At one point, she realized that what we'd been imagining him doing that really stopped making logical sense, and remarked that she thought he was actually delusional. Lots of excited flipping out commenced after that. XD
I remarked on my Reality fic that I've been wanting to do something in which Roderich gradually alienates the people he's close to due to his politics, and what better way than to have him get a persecutory delusion, thinking some other nations are after him in spite of all evidence to the contrary? It's kind of a hidden sort of insanity that I haven't played with before (Dist was more of just numb and dissociated when he went crazy) and very, very fitting for normally logical-minded Roderich.
So yeah, this is more or less a little scene (in my universe, as not to offend any actual Austrian) where he talks to one of his advisors, followed by a scene where he's in a world meeting. All parlimentary procedure stuff was learned from Haley, who used to do Model UN. XD I apologize for any inaccuracies that might have slipped in on that front.
Summary: Gilbert tries to convince the world that Roderich is unfit to rule, and Roderich reveals just what years of job-related stress can do to a person.

“Why does France have designs on us?”

“Why not? France has been hungry for power for years since his duchy collapsed. He probably sees us as easy prey in our time of weakness.”

“And Spain?”

“Spain and France are bound by treaty to support each other. Most of the world has forgotten since the last war, but the terms still stand. If France attacks, Spain must follow.”

“What about Prussia?”

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Prussia has always wanted our land. If he sees an opportunity to occupy some region, he’ll take it.”

“And you have proof that France is mobilizing?”

“In bits and pieces, yes. But every piece is part of a greater picture, and there are just enough to make out the shape. I’ve heard France take credit for the riots and speak of moving his army. I know that he wants to destroy us.”

“And the only solution is to destroy him?”

“The only permanent solution. I present that solution to you now because this is the first time in my reign that we may be able to achieve it. France is weak, Spain is distracted, and Prussia is nowhere near the force that he used to be. Though our military clout has decreased as well, with the right combination of alliances, we can ensure that our old enemies will never pose a threat to us again.”

“Do you truly think this would be a wise venture, sir?”

Roderich turns, regards his advisor with resolute eyes. “I think in the grand scheme of history, this may be one of the wisest things Austria will have ever done.”

“…So again, the Duchy of Austria offers its full support for renewed economic aid to be administered to the Countship of Italy by the German states. Due to the relative position of the Countship of Italy to the Duchy of Austria and the Countship’s status as a center of trade, the Duchy of Austria predicts adverse effects on its own economy if the Countship’s state of economic downtown is allowed to continue. Therefore it—”

“Point of order,” Gilbert says, waving his placard, and Roderich’s gaze flits to him in disdain.

“Yes, March of Prussia?” answers Arthur, motioning for him to speak from his seat in the center of the room.

Gilbert stands, pauses for half a second, then cries, “How can you all sit by and allow this? Don’t pretend that you don’t see what he’s doing! In the past couple months he’s renewed alliances with Germany, strengthened his presence in Poland, and even struck a deal with freaking Turkey, for goodness’ sake. And now he wants Italy? He’s preparing for war!”

“March of Prussia, that is not a point of order,” Arthur scolds. “You will have time to make a response when it is your turn to speak. Sit down.”

“Look, I know this issue is not going to reach the damn table unless I put it out here, and now is as good a time as any. He’s going to go to war, and he’s going to do it because he thinks France is—”

“March of Prussia, if you don’t sit down, I’m going to motion to censure you.”

“You’re going to shut up and let me save your country,” spits Gilbert, and before Arthur can give a flabbergasted reply, he continues, “He thinks France is going to attack him. We all know that isn’t true—especially you, England, because you’ve kept an eye on France since his duchy fell. France’s army is in no state to do anything. Austria’s going nuts because his duchy is falling apart too and he can’t help it. He wants France—and Spain, and Prussia—out of the picture because he doesn’t know who the hell else to blame. And how do I know? Because he threatened me, told me he knew the three of us were making all these secret military treaties behind his back with the intent to take him down. And I found this on his desk.”

He reaches down, fishes out a wide, rolled-up sheet of paper from beneath his chair and spreads it out on the table before him. “He’s got a ton of maps, all like this, all marked up. Look at this mess. He’s planning out the whole course of his delusional war and he’s dragging everyone else into it.”

On the other side of the table, Feliks and Ivan lean over curiously to examine the map. Vash rises from his seat and walks over to peer at it, frowning suspiciously.

“That is a classified document highly pertinent to the security of the Duchy of Austria!” Roderich exclaims. “Neither Mr. Beilschmidt nor the rest of the council have any right to see it!”

Arthur stands, walking towards Gilbert. “March of Prussia, you are in violation of numerous international regulations. Hand over that document and submit yourself to censure.”

“Here,” says Gilbert, holding it out to him. “Take it. Give it a good, long stare. You’ll see what I’m talking about. In fact, I think I’m going to make a motion of my own. The March of Prussia motions to declare the seat of the Duchy of Austria vacant until the mental health of its representative can be properly assessed.”

“Point of order! Mr. Beilschmidt’s conduct is entirely dilatory! I demand that I be allowed at least fifteen extra minutes to respond to his flagrant accusations!”

Arthur, in spite of himself, glances down at the map in his hands, then up at Roderich, barely processing his words.

“Fifteen minutes, please!” Roderich repeats. “I will not stand to be subjected to such treatment!”

“Fine,” Arthur says, looking down and up again, apprehension showing on his face. “Fifteen minutes to explain.”

He brings his gavel down on the table beside him. Roderich straightens, compulsively smoothing his waistcoat and hair, and begins to speak.

“Before I address the claims the March of Prussia has brought forth, I seek to remind the council that the March of Prussia has had a long and disputatious history with the Duchy of Austria. Though the March and the Duchy are not currently in a state of war, the March’s stance towards the Duchy of Austria has not grown more tolerant or accepting in recent times. The March has publicly opposed the union of the Duchy of Austria and the Countship of Hungary, and it has threatened aggressive action against the Duchy under anti-imperialist pretenses four times in the past five years. The Duchy invites all to keep in mind the March’s essential biases and possible motivations as it considers the March’s statements.”

“Opposed for perfectly good reason, you—” Gilbert begins, but Arthur shoots him a glare and he falls silent.

“First of all, the Duchy acknowledges that the alliances it has recently constructed have a defensive element to them. The Duchy is attentive to the recent uprisings within its borders and wishes to have strong bonds with its neighboring nations if the need for outside aid to ensure its internal peace arises. The Duchy reminds the council that defense is one of the most basic, and fully legal, purposes of an alliance, and assures all that it does not act out of anything more than the best interests of its citizenry.

“Furthermore, the Duchy asserts its right to make plans for defensive action without the express permission of the council. The Duchy has indeed made preparations for numerous possible situations recently, the internal riots rendering defense an increasingly imperative issue in its legislators’ minds. The secrecy of the progress and nature of these preparations is guaranteed under the war crimes protocols outlined by the Treaty of Vienna. The Duchy assures the council that in spite of these plans’ secrecy, they contain nothing outside of the laws of war and do not represent certain action, only possible response.

“Finally, I, Roderich Edelstein, counter Mr. Beilschmidt’s personal attack on my sanity by saying that the conclusions I and my advisors have drawn are the result of study of gathered intelligence, not ideas pulled from the air. I would never begin a conflict in order to save my reputation or push aside personal guilt. I do what is best for my nation, for my people, and I have always followed that ideal. Whether or not an individual like Mr. Beilschmidt trusts my judgment is inconsequential to me—I listen to my advisors, my citizens, and the opinion of the council at large, and let my logic speak for itself.”

Ivan raises his placard. Arthur nods to him.

“I believe I speak for all present,” he says, “when I ask for the Duchy of Austria to inform us whether it indeed currently views the March of France, the March of Prussia and Duchy of Spain as enemies.”

“The Duchy of Austria reserves the right not to declare its diplomatic alignments until in an official state of war.”

“The Duchy of Russia believes that this right may be suspended if the Duchy of Austria has the express intent to enter a state of war.”

“The Duchy of Austria has no such intent.”

“The chair rules that, due to the nature of the Duchy of Austria’s plans, the Duchy’s statement is perjurous,” says Arthur, raising the map. “There are dates written here.”

Roderich pauses, flushing a little. “Which dates?”

“Dates from June onwards, at weekly intervals appearing to approximate the transport times of infantry regiments.”

“The Duchy affirms that such a conclusion about the meaning of the dates, as well as their presence in a concrete plan, cannot be proven.”

Arthur eyes him for a moment, then says quietly, “The chair rules the Duchy’s remark dilatory and orders the Duchy to answer the question posed by the Duchy of Russia.”

Mild surprise shows on Roderich’s features. He looks from Gilbert to Arthur and back at Russia, and says, “The Duchy of Austria considers the Marches of France and Prussia and the Duchy of Spain enemies.”

Vash raises his placard and says, “The Countship of Switzerland requests more details on the matter in the interest of international security.”

“The Duchy of Austria has made plans against the nations in question in the event of attacks by the nations in question. The Duchy considers this a matter of national security and references the treaties of Florence, Paris and the late treaty of Berlin as evidence of its strained relations with these nations and the probability of future attack. It, again, reserves all its rights to make plans and initiate defensive action if attacked.”

Vash again raises his card. “The Countship of Switzerland would like to know whether the Duchy of Austria has been attacked by any of these nations in the past year.”

Roderich considers the question for an instant, weighing his options, before saying, “Yes. The Duchy has reason to believe so.”

“Elaborate,” Arthur demands.

“The Duchy makes no solid accusations, but it has retrieved intelligence suggesting a link between the March of France and a number of riots along the Duchy’s borders.”

“Bullshit!” Gilbert exclaims. “If François was here, he’d—”

“Intelligence from where?” inquires Arthur, raising a hand to cut Gilbert off.

“The Duchy wishes not to disclose its sources in the interest of maintaining security.”

“In that case, the chair is afraid that, for the sake of the security and well-being of the members of the council, keeping in mind recent and longstanding alliances, a motion for a warrant must be put forth. All members of the council that support the creation of a warrant to investigate the source material of the Duchy of Austria, please raise your placards.”

A flurry of placards go up.

“All members opposed, please raise your placards.”

A few, half-hearted placards rise.

Arthur bangs his gavel. “The motion passes by a wide margin.”

Roderich blinks incredulously, mouthing some soundless retort. His hands grip and pull anxiously at his clothing.

“Proceeding along, I would also like to motion to place the March of Prussia under impeachment for confessed theft of intelligence and exceptional dilatory action. All in favor.”

A number of placards go up, though less than those in favor of the warrant.

“All opposed.”

One or two placards rise.

“The motion passes. Mr. Beilschmidt, while the investigation and trial are underway you are under probation and may not attend meetings. Please leave the room and begin making arrangements to send a different representative in your place.”

“Sure,” says Gilbert, striding away from his seat. “Though, trust me, you want to replace Roderich too. He already lied to you once and he’s going to keep lying until it comes time to start his war and he doesn’t have to worry about hiding it anymore.”

“I did not lie!” Roderich cries after him. “How dare you say such a thing!”

“The chair did rule your earlier statement perjurous,” Arthur reminds him. “The map belonging to you obviously contains battle plans to be initiated within a specific timeframe, rather than a hypothetical course of action.”

“It only appears that way because of Mr. Beilschmidt’s accusations! Were you looking at that map without comment from him, you would believe what I have been telling you! He’s attempting to sabotage me!”

“I assure you, Mr. Edelstein, the chair is considering this issue in as unbiased a manner as possible. The map as it is appears to point towards scheduled warfare, and hopefully the investigation of your sources will convince the council there is adequate reasoning behind that.”

“It won’t,” says Roderich. “Not with Beilschmidt around. He’s doing what he can to sway opinion against me, can’t you see? He’s trying to prevent me from fending off France and its allies, and he will be whispering in your ear all throughout the investigation about how mad and misguided I am! He’s already planted the seeds of partiality in you and he’s going to make sure they grow to fruition!”

“Mr. Edelstein, if you are so concerned about Mr. Beilschmidt interfering in the investigative process, we can ensure he will not have any hand in the investigation’s proceedings. You can trust that—”

“You need to trust me,” Roderich pleads, and all eyes are on him now, watching angry desperation leak through his composure. “You need to stop believing him and you need to trust me. I am doing what is best for my nation. France has indeed attacked Austria, and he is indeed planning more attacks, and he and Spain and Prussia want to rip Austria all to shreds. I am not inventing this information, I have intelligence indicating it all, and I would be a fool to ignore such intelligence! You all need to stop listening to the baseless claims of my enemy and listen to what I am saying!”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “If you would be willing to disclose the sources and nature of your intelligence, and the council found it fit, the council would place its full faith in that information. Considering the current state of France, the council is currently hesitant to believe without proof that—”

“France isn’t as weak as he seems! It’s obvious that he’s only been portraying weakness in order to avoid harsh reparations and military action against him! Since the war he’s been gradually building his forces, and he is fit and ready to send thousands of men across my borders!”

“Mr. Edelstein, we don’t know where you found reason to believe that—”

“My God,” Roderich says, his voice jumping in pitch, fingers stiffly clutching the podium. “He has you all so well-deceived. He, Prussia and Spain all have you deceived, trusting them, thinking they’re decent men without designs or intent. This is ridiculous, I—I can’t believe how foolish you are! All of you! This is beyond simple persuasion, you’re—you’re truly allied with them, aren’t you? You’ve been bent against me, haven’t you?!”

“Mr. Edelstein, calm down, the council is not—”

“You are and you don’t even know it! I’m surprised you haven’t impeached me too in your deluded ignorance! I tell you, I won’t stand for this—if any, any of you take action against me, try to depose me or meet me on the battlefield, I will show you no mercy! I will treat you as one of them! I will disobey the world if it means protecting my nation—”

Arthur steps slowly towards the podium, hand outstretched. “You’re not well, Mr. Edelstein. Come on. Come sit back down. No one’s proposing that you leave your position…”

“You’d like to, I’m certain! You’d like to have me out of it, because I’m mad, right?! Because I’m blaming other countries for my problems and starting wars without reason! You’ve swallowed his whole message; you’re all sympathetic to that damnable—”

“Mr. Edelstein—!”

“Austria!” he exclaims, taking quick steps past Arthur and snatching up the map. “As far as you are concerned I am the Duchy of Austria, and I am done with being needlessly doubted and disrespected! ‘You’re not well.’ You’re not well, and I have better things to do with my time than put up with this preposterous conduct!”

He turns and walks straight out the door, shaking with fury, face aflame and hands clutching, gripping, pulling. The council watches him go with widened eyes.

“Motion to place Mr. Edelstein on temporary leave,” Arthur says softly once he is out of earshot.

All placards rise.