Fictober 2023 prompts #3

#20 “This better be good.” - Joran (alternative post-meeting with the ‘client’ from Jewel’s route, a what-if MC went alone)

The air is still sprinkled with the malodour of petrol, but the downpour dilutes the stench of gunpowder clinging to your soaked clothes and skin.

The mercenaries must have ceased their pursuit a while ago. You haven’t heard nor smelled them since the secluded lane turned into a main, though not commonly used, street. The floor is damp, squeaking as your shoes beat on the asphalt.

You’ve been running for so long, and so fast, that by the time Joran yanks you to a stop, your legs feel shaky and numb.

“Here we are,” he says, letting go of your arm. He doesn’t even sound out of breath.

You, on the other hand, need to take a few calming exhalations before you can speak. “How far?”

The road looks as plain as they come. The fog here is denser, thickening into a near-opaque milky wall as the rain subdues. It’ll be hours before the sun ascends and the red streetlamps dim. Hours before you reach Elazar.

“Shouldn’t you know that?” Joran remarks, annoyance and bemusement blurring into one. “Whose idea was it to walk - alone - into a trap.”

“I had no other options,” you snap, louring in his general direction. He’s standing on your left, you’re pretty sure. His black suit merges with the night, but the scent of death is nigh.

Joran snorts, more with derision than amusement. “They always say that.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“People like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have many questions tonight. Unfortunately for you, I’m not getting paid to answer them.”

He might have saved your skin, but his attitude is really starting to piss you off, and the anger churning with pure adrenaline is never a good combination. Not in this weather, and not after today’s fiasco.

“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?” you snarl, shaking like a leaf at the unrelenting rainfall picking up again. “But you’re just an SPD’s dog playing on two fronts, with no dignity—”

“Dignity doesn’t pay for my Louboutin,” Joran cuts in, matter-of-factly. “Tell me, what does your freedom offer?” If you could see him, you can bet he’d be giving you a pointed once-over.

Unnecessarily. You know very well how you look, freezing solid in your out-of-season vesture.

Having drilled the point home, he doesn’t find it necessary to wait for a reply or argument. His comings and goings are unceremonious. His dress shoes clack clack clack on the pavement, fainter, and fainter until you finally realize this is a goodbye.

“Are you leaving me here?” you exclaim, wincing at the raw desperation you weren’t able to conceal. Your heart clenches in fright, relaxing only when you hear his dry voice.

“In case it escaped your notice, I just risked my life to get you out of a shootout. In pouring rain. What else—”

“You didn’t do it for free.”

“Obviously. But what does it have to do with you?” He pauses as if to let you answer.

But you know him enough by now to realize he’s doing it because there’s nothing you can say to refute him. At least he has the mercy not to pull a ‘See?’

“Walk uphill,” he says instead, long-suffering, as though he’s doing you a favor. “Don’t lose your way.”

“Wait!” As quickly as you can, you reach both of your hands blindly in hopes of keeping him from disappearing. Your fingers slide down the stretch of slippery leather, finally managing to grab a handful of it and squeeze. He’s much closer than you thought. “Wait. I have an offer.”

Though you don’t hear him sigh, you can feel the exhalation shaking his frame. “All right,” he says after a long, drawn-out moment. “This better be good.”

Of course, it’s good, funny even. Precisely because you have no offer. It’s not like you had the time to conjure one up before bluffing about it.

“How much are we talking?” Joran prompts, tone level. The scent of petrichor and gasoline increases in strength. “If you want to treat me like a private taxi, you should make it worth my while.”

“How much do you want?”

“How much can you pay me? Let’s start easy. How about ten grand?”

“You’re joking,” you sputter, waiting for him to laugh. He doesn’t. “You’re not joking.”

“Okay. How much do you have?”

“I— Ten bucks.”

“On you?”

“...In general.”

This time, his sigh is both audible and tangible. When he moves his arm, you’re half-worried he’s going to brush you off, but he only raises his hand to wipe the rain out of his face.

“That won’t even get me a coffee in this city.”

“I have coffee at home,” you offer promptly, holding onto him even tighter. You’ll wear him down. You have to.

“Is it any good?” Joran asks, and you ignore the doubt in his voice.

“The best you’ve ever had.” Unless he’s not a fan of three-in-one instant.

“It better be. It’s been a long night.”

Sure was. Is. No need to remind you.

#22 “Who takes care of you?” - Alan (pre-game, pre-romance)

It says something about your life that the two (or only?) important people in your life hide behind a perfectly crafted persona, though balanced on the opposite ends of the spectrum.

What that ‘something’ is, you have no clue. Alois would insist it keeps you from boredom. Alan, pertaining to his occupation, ‘would like to deny the accusation.’ They’d both tell you they’re ‘fine.’ And maybe they are. Maybe it’s the definition that’s screwed.

Be that as it may, the duo of Alan and broken glasses is, still, too common an occurrence for your tastes. It’s always the small things, coffee cups and ugly vintage vases. But he hates himself for this, even if he’s the only one who’s ever hurt, and so you hold your tongue when you step into his office, a large, if empty, room bathed in twilight.

His new secretary-right-hand-whatever must have turned off the light when she left. You passed her in the stairwell just a minute ago, exchanging dry ‘hellos,’ and even dryer smiles. She still has that air of desperation about her, like a starving dog. You expected her to run with her tail between her legs once her case was over. She didn’t. Well. Yet.

Though there are no remains of whatever it was that shattered on the floor, you feel the smallest speckles of glass under your soles, smooth against the even smoother tiles. The sand-sized specks glimmer under the moonlight, spilling from the tall windows encompassing two out of the four walls of the room.

Alan sits at his desk, with his back to the door. His forehead rests in the cup of his palm, casting a long shadow over his face. His other hand hangs limply over the armrest of his chair. His glassless frames are squished between his fingers like plasticine, bent out of shape.

He doesn’t notice you approach. He would have greeted you, or at least acknowledged, if he did. Far too often now, his eyes zero in on you when you enter his space. You’d recognize the weight of them even in a crowd. His interest, and disinterest, both are a heavy burden to bear. If only because you know how fast he can shift from one to the other.

It’s rare of him to rest where anyone can see him— Where Colton saw him. A stranger he knows barely a handful of months. He looks asleep. You’re not bitter about it. You’re not. And you don’t feel any relief when his eyes finally open, with no traces of drowsiness, or surprise, in them.

“You’re late.” The shadows rearrange his features into an expression you can’t read anything from.

“I would have called, but my phone’s dead.” Lost, more like. Under a wave of a hundred feet, or however many people Alois squished at his penthouse.

“You didn’t have to come if you were busy.” The deep crease between his brows suggests a reaction heavier than simple annoyance, but it smoothens when you pry his fingers apart, fighting against the token resistance to retrieve the broken frames.

As you have expected, there’s dried blood on his fingertips. The cuts are shallow but visible.

“I wasn’t,” you shrug, pulling a packet of disinfectant from your pocket. “The party was boring, anyway.” Not to mention, half of Alois’ new ‘friends’ are complete morons. “Hard day?”

“Yes,” Alan says plainly, taking the wet tissue from you and cleaning himself off. He refuses the neon-pink bandage, rolling his eyes at the sight.

He used to despise you seeing him like this - tired, weak. You know this, because now he doesn’t, and the difference is stark.

He doesn’t put indifference into his words and actions, or brush your concern off with a caustic smirk. There are no more excuses, no circling around the truth carefully so as to not stumble upon a lie.

“Hard day?” Alan parrots the question at you, and you don’t know what he means until he brushes a hand over a bruise on your temple. It stings, but it stings more when he takes his hand back. He touches you so rarely, rarer still of his own volition. Maybe he’s scared you’ll shatter, like the glasses. “What happened?”

“Alois had an... episode.” Meeting with his father and his new mother never ends well. He refused to listen to you the whole day, but it’s not like you could leave him to choke on his own vomit after the mystery ‘seven pills’ cocktail his dealer buddy served. “His penthouse is trashed. I had to get him to my place before he—”

“You know he’s not a child.” Alan’s usual smile looks snide, even when he doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just his face with no intention behind it. The well-learned coldness, pretty eyes sharp like a knife. “But you still coddle him.”

“I dragged him to the couch. That’s hardly coddling.” Alan snorts, disbelieving, so you admit, “He didn’t want to go to the ER.”

“You care for him well. But who takes care of you?” Taking the previously rejected bandage, Alan rips it open, and plasters it over your forehead. “It looks worse like this.”

“It’s a fashion statement. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I hope not.” That’s what he says, but he doesn’t fight when you put one on his hand as well.

“Now we’re matching.”

“Joy of joys,” he groans, letting his hand rest in yours. “You don’t know how to pick friends,” he says after a moment, studying your face.

“Are you speaking for yourself? Or are you the exception?”

“I never said I’m a good friend.”

“True. You called me here in the middle of the night.”

“Where would you go if I didn’t? Or did you want to be alone?”

“No.” Certainly not today.

“Stay the night.”

You grin. “At your office?”

“Yes,” he says deadpan, then stands up, reaching for his car keys. “I have a gift basket I think you’ll like.”

“What happened to not accepting bribes?”

“It’s not a bribe. Come on. Check for yourself.”

#23 “No, you won’t understand, ever.” - Malitiose and Saltire

“You don’t look like someone willing to stomach discomfort for the sake of another,” Saltire says, keeping [his/her] voice low. The chances of them waking up their ghost friend with a heated conversation are low, but Saltire wouldn’t want to deprive them of a well-needed rest.

Malitiose doesn’t refute, but [his/her] hands pause mid-folding. “What’s it to you, hunter?”

“Nothing much. I just thought you came here to kill, not save.”

“Bullshit.” Malitiose snorts. “You wouldn’t take me here if you thought I’d ‘bring harm.’”

“Not that I could stop you.”

“What are you on about? The cultists? They gave us a ride, that’s all. Don’t tell me you wanted to wade through all this sand.”

“They gave us coin—”

“And we used it well,” Malitiose dismisses, pointing at the bags filled with provisions and clothes. “If they want to waste their gold throwing it into the sea for the glory of some god or other, isn’t it better for it to end up in our hands instead?”

Silenced by the soundness of the argument, Saltire wears at [his/her] lips. Regardless of their pressing needs, taking the funds right from the collection plate under the guise of being the gods’ prophets doesn’t sit right with [him/her]. It’s not like starvation would have killed [him/her].

Malitiose, though. The coyote is an undeniably selfish individual. That was plain to see almost from the get-go.

From their short and eventful voyage, Saltire would have never believed [him/her] to be capable of concern... To see [him/her] clean the blood and sand from the frail body of the ghost with utmost care is a surreal sight.

Up until they rested at one of Malitiose’s friend’s abode, Saltire thought [he/she] was the only one who, for some reason, has earned [himself/herself] Malitiose’s ire. It’s only when [he/she] saw Malitiose’s genuine emotion at finding the one they were seeking, that Saltire understood how counterfeit the shifter’s politeness was, and how short-lasting.

When Malitiose first showed up in front of Saltire, spinning a lie or two to get the hunter to comply with [his/her] wishes, Malitiose seemed frantic in a way Saltire never saw [him/her] again. But [he/she] was honest, then, when [he/she] said it’s a life or death situation. Saltire just didn’t know Malitiose meant [himself/herself].

“If you had told me the truth, I would have understood—”

“You?” Malitiose growls, with more anger than the simple sentence warrants. “What do you think you know about us? Nothing. So, no, you won’t understand. Ever.”

What a little temper tantrum. Saltire rubs the side of [his/her] head, willing the headache away. “I still would have helped you, at any rate.”

“Please. You came with me because you had nothing else to do. I know people like you, begging to be brought to the slaughter. Your Order exiled you, and you’re still making excuses for them. You’d run to them in a second if they say they’d take you back. You have no spine. You think your sacrifices will be worth something.”

Saltire winces at being read so thoroughly. And here [he/she] thought [he/she] gave out so little. “Sometimes you’re rather wise. Most of the time, though, you’re terribly childish.”

“And you put your nose where it’s not wanted.”

“I guess I do. But aren’t we in this together?”

“No,” Malitiose sneers, putting a hand between the sleeping berth to separate it, and its occupant, from Saltire. “We are in this together. You’re the third wheel.”

“Ah, but I thought you needed me?”

Malitiose snarls, shredding the remnants of softness [he/she] clung to. With all teeth on display and viscera staining [his/her] skin, [he/she] looks exactly like the beast people accuse [him/her] of being. Unfortunately for [him/her], Saltire bested worse.

“For now.”

“See? I knew we were going to be friends.”

“Over my dead body, hunter.”

“Easier to arrange than you think, I assure you.” Saltire would know, after all.

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m sharing trivia. I thought you enjoyed learning.”

“You have nothing to teach me. Now shut up, and watch the coast.”

Feeling all [his/her] patience drain, Saltire casts [his/her] eyes skyward. “As you say, oh ‘holy one.’’’ The blasphemy makes [him/her] chuckle. At least the chances of the shifter being a real messenger are low, if not nonexistent. A small mercy, that.

# 30 “Are you with me?” - Nino (pre-romance)

You don’t feel the pain until you see the blood pooling under your feet, tinting the concrete red. It looks just like the burnt toast Nino made you this morning, with too little butter and too much cherry jam, spilling over your fingers and onto the white countertop.

Nino pulls at your arm, as if to ask why you’re stopping, but her face changes and blurs so fast you can’t catch her expression. She’s cursing, louder than you’ve ever heard her, then she’s lifts you up, pushing you inside the car.

It always surprises you how strong she is, and how fast. You’ve never bested her in training, and you’re not hoping to do it now. Obediently, you let the gravity do its job and pull you onto the seats like a broken doll.

Your blood smears on the upholstery, drips on the empty cans of energy drinks she’s driving around for fuck knows how long.

“—saying?”

“What?”

“Don’t fall asleep. Max will meet us halfway.”

“Halfway to where?” Is what you’re trying to ask. A nonsensical murmur is all that escapes your numb lips. “Cemetery?”

Instead of a flash of vexation, you’re met with a pale, stricken face watching you instead of the street. The short strands of her hair are plastered to her cheeks. Was it raining? She’s wet.

“Shut up.” You think it’s supposed to be an order, but it comes out shaky and frail. It weirds you out, it really does.

What comes next is worse, but your consciousness doesn’t hang around long enough to witness it.

In a blink, that feels like a second, maybe two, the darkness that pulled you in disperses in favor of a white room. Before you can start to panic at the implication, the steady bleep of a heart monitor ensures you that you are not dead.

It’d suck if paradise looked like this - big and empty, with the stench of bleach and vinegar heavy in the air. No, wait, not empty.

More like an angel of death rather than life, Nino’s perched by your side. Her lips move, but the sound comes to you in waves, one syllable at a time.

“--with me?”

“What?”

“Are you with me?” Her voice is hoarse. Worse than yours, and it’s been you who was shackled to the bed with no sips of water or chips of ice for... at least the whole night, given the sun blaring outside.

“Yeah.” You’d like to add something corny, something like ‘always,’ maybe, but you don’t want her to second you into a coma for making light of the situation. She was supposed to protect you, after all, not that you’re blaming her for your own recklessness.

Though your brain has already started to filter out the cardiac monitor, it catches on to a new set of beep beep beeps. You only register it as the sound of the call button when you tilt your head and watch Nino slap it repeatedly with her hand.

“Busy eating cakes, are they,” she snarls under her breath, sending a glare towards the closed door as if willing it to melt.

The movement dislodges the too-large jacket she’s been blanketed with, baring the sliver of her bloodied collar. Her face and hands are clean, but she must have waited by your side since they brought you here.

“You stayed with me,” you mumble, warming up inside. And here you thought you were nothing but a nuisance. “The whole time?”

The surprise in your voice turns the glare your way, though it lacks most of the earlier heat. She shrugs, a bit awkwardly, which makes her look ready to slap some sense into you.

You can recognize the ‘obviously,’ without her having to spell it out.

“Were you worried?’

“No, I was having fun,” she snaps just as the nurse arrives. Standing up with vehemence - either at the late arrival or you pushing your luck - she sends the chair’s legs dragging across the floor with an ear-piercing screech. “Get some sleep after she’s done. You look like shit.”

“Nice seeing you, too!”