ENDURE

SURVIVE

[avery-st-m]

Avery St. Martin, 34, has called Coronado home for the past 22 years. As a kagehito assassin, her world is steeped in butterfly knives, lightning concealed in the clouds, and denim worn through with sentimentality. Often found drowning bad decisions in bars, she moves through life with Caterpillar by Hollow in her ear.

[ basics/timeline/plots ] [ about ] [ visuals ] closed blog for @onecoronado

[simone-montgomery]

Bramble Cross, after sunset @avery-st-m

It all comes back in a rush as she pulls the little slip of paper out from her bag. The numbers and a name she'd received on Coronado Day, before it all went to shit. And a promise that wasn't kept.

"Shit." She mutters to herself as she pulls out her phone. She comes to a full stop on the sidewalk, ducking to the side to take cover next to a building. "Shitshitshitshitshit.." A fedora passes by, casting scowl her way before picking up their pace past her.

Avery's number is already saved in her phone, under the nickname Superfan, of course. Quickly, before she can think too hard or far about it, she sends off a quick message.

Simone: Hey, it's Simone Montgomery. We met on Coronado Day. I know I'm a little late but I'm hoping that you're still a Superfan. And still like whiskey. Simone: And also that you're free tonight. Or sometime this week?

[avery-st-m]

Avery is fully settled into her vrischikasana when she hears her phone buzz on the couch, and lets out a quiet grumble of discontent. She considers ignoring it, but considering her concentration is already broken — the whole reason she practices in the first place, an attempt to reign in her focus — she knows she’s not getting it back. Her legs sweep out of the inversion in a graceful arc, and Avery takes a moment to reorient herself before checking the notification.

Surprise, surprise; Avery quirks a smile when she sees the name of the sender. She knew the news cycle had been busy since Coronado Day for painfully obvious reasons, but she really had started to think Simone might’ve forgotten about her, or that Avery had misread their little run-in. 

The temptation to play hard to get is ever-present: a cheeky little who is this?, some inevitable teasing, but in reality, what would be the point?

She needs Simone for more than a date.

Avery: Hey, doll — way to remember us little people. Luckily for you, I’m usually free and I always like whiskey.

After some consideration, she sends the pin to one of her usual dives, definitely nothing fancy but with a certain Bramble Cross charm. It’s usually bustling, which means they’re likely to go unnoticed if they find a secluded corner.

Avery: Give me an hour to get prettied up and I’ll see you there?

[unmarkt]

“The family operates on data, not guesswork.” Fumiko’s voice drops—quiet enough to maintain privacy, precise enough to be heard clearly. “I’ve isolated fifteen unauthorized transmissions originating from Row’s End between 0200 and 0430 hours over the past week. Ten contain interference patterns matching those disrupting our secure channels.” She shifts exactly five centimeters toward the display counter, creating additional distance between herself and Avery. “Our intelligence indicates three specific coordinating points in Row’s End where transmissions intensify. Locations 17-B, 22-F, and 34-C.” A deliberate pause. “Though I doubt you’ve been briefed on these designations, given your… operational status.” Her gaze drops pointedly to the watchbox in Avery’s hand. “If you’re genuinely interested in contributing beyond courier assignments, perhaps request a formal briefing from Father. Though I understand he’s particularly occupied with kagehito who’ve demonstrated consistent operational precision.” The barb is delivered with such clinical detachment it could almost be mistaken for a neutral observation—almost. “Du Bois involvement is currently calculated at 73.2% probability. The remaining percentage accommodates potential outside influence. We pursue confirmation, not speculation.”

[avery-st-m]

Avery’s eyes start to glaze over as soon as Fumiko starts rattling off numbers, which was probably the intended effect. While Fumiko shifts to put more distance between them, Avery takes a half-step in.

The intended barb ricochets off of Avery’s armor ineffectually. Reminders that she isn’t one of the golden children don’t bother her, not when she’s been spending the past five-plus years trying to distance herself from the family’s ‘good work’ through malicious compliance. They haven’t yet realized she sees the lightening in her assignments as a blessing, not a curse. Unlike other kagehito, Avery doesn’t crave approval that’s written in blood.

“And has anyone expressed that they’re the least bit happy with your ‘consistent operational precision’?” Avery asks quietly, eyes fixed on Fumiko, almost unsettlingly genuine. “Least of all Father.” She may not come up with a ridiculous moniker this time, but there’s still that distinct sarcastic flavor.

“Whether people think my talents are wasted playing passenger pigeon doesn’t matter. Yours are obviously wasted crunching numbers. And before you say ‘it’s important work that needs to be done,’ it’s important work that can be done by people who weren’t trained like you were.”

[nightmourned]

minho doesn't flinch when she says it again. his name. hajoon. but something flashes behind his eyes. not fear. just… weariness. a bone-deep, soul-heavy kind of ache that settles somewhere below his ribs and makes the night feel heavier than it already is. her anger rolls off her in waves, messy and raw. he doesn't meet it with more fire. doesn't snap back, doesn't try to defend himself the way he probably could. he just watches her and fuck, it hurts. not because she's wrong. because she isn't. there were people he left behind — physically anyway — but they kept him anchored here like invisible shackles all the same. "i didn't leave you. i left them," he insists, holding her gaze, the intensity in his eyes seeming to beg her to believe his words. he doesn't elaborate on who they are. he's sure it goes without saying. "you think i didn't try?” he asks then, voice low now, quieter, but sharp around the edges as he focuses on her questions, "you honestly think there's anywhere to go they can't reach?" it's not an excuse. just a fact. like gravity. like death. his jaw tightens, the tension subtle but there. his gaze lifts to meet hers — steady, unflinching, something like fire banked behind his eyes. "i didn't leave the island," he says after a beat, voice softer but no less certain, "because there's still people here who deserve to get out." he doesn't say who. doesn't say why. just lets the words sit there, solid as stone. he shouldn't be saying this much — not to anyone, let alone another kagehito. but there's something about avery. maybe it's the history. the fact that they came up in the same shadows, shaped by the same hands. or the way she'd never quite fit into the puzzle like the others did. or maybe it's the way her anger doesn't feel like a weapon. not aimed at him, not really. no matter what it is exactly, it slips through his armor before he can stop it. and he doesn't take it back.

[avery-st-m]

‘I didn’t leave you. I left them.’

That hits harder than Avery expects. You and them. He doesn’t consider her one of them. Maybe she doesn’t, either. She doesn’t know whether to be offended or relieved. It isn’t like she ever made her rebellion a secret, and all too often, Shibata punishments were public and intended to shame. Not that it ever deterred Avery.

She meets his gaze unsteadily but intensely, brows knit in a deep frown as he continues.

Deserve to get out. Deserve. Avery can’t help herself: she laughs, loud, short, and sharp.

“We don’t deserve shit.” There’s no ‘you’ and ‘them’ in her statement; only ‘we.’ She takes a couple weaving steps closer and, as long as he doesn’t back up, will stab an accusatory finger to the center of his chest. “You think this life has anything for us but handing us the same bullshit we do to everyone else?” Avery’s voice lowers to a hiss, because she might be drunk but she’s not a complete idiot; god knows who else could be listening. “The best you can hope for is leaving and hoping they never catch up. Staying here is fuckin’ stupid, Hajoon. It’s suicide.”

She sets her jaw and shakes her head, having to take another couple of steps backwards again to put distance between them. “You can’t white knight people who don’t want to be saved. Fuck — none of us can be white knights to begin with.” Avery’s fists ball at her sides, even if the angry energy ultimately goes nowhere; she doesn’t want to fight him. “So I’m gonna say it again: leave.”

[intheseaofred]

The previous night had been the best he had slept in months, maybe it was the fact that he had a very tiring day, not necessarily a stressful one, but definitely a day when he had barely any time to himself, so once his head hit the pillow there was no room left in his brain for any kind of dreams, let alone nightmares that so often plagued his nights, leaving him even more tired in the mornings than he was on the previous nights, but this time he was awake, feeling refreshed and definitely not expecting to witness such a situation. If it was any other kind of morning he may have been too exhausted, too groggy to even bother to acknowledge another human being so early in the morning, save for the small good morning that left his lips in an almost robotic way, but this time he stood there, keys still in hand, backpack slung over his shoulder as he watched the opposite door slam.

Now someone else wasn't having a good start to the day, what he couldn't have guessed was that the person just standing a few paces in front of him was Avery. His eyes observe her, more out of confusion than anything else, trying to piece together what just happened, since he hadn't run into her before at his own place, but quickly the rumpled fabric of her clothes, the slightly disheveled hair and the soft look that passes by her face in such a fast manner that almost leaves him thinking he imagined it, makes him draw a conclusion that he doesn't care enough to keep for too long in his brain - whatever had just happened clearly wasn't his business. He wouldn't ask and he doubted she would even tell him.

And with that he takes her lead, "Morning," the words leave his lips before he gives her a small nod, almost as if this was a normal occurrence for them, "yeah, definitely didn't mind being away from all that" just the thought of what had happened made him shiver, the lack of safety he felt increased and with it the paranoia had come back even if he was trying to fight it every single day, trying his best to keep those thoughts away, "then, c'mon, I need a coffee and you look like you could use one too" he offers, trying to ease the conversation into a better, safer topic, him and Avery were far from best of friends, but Conrad had never been one to judge anyone, nor was he ever directly rude to anyone that didn't outright deserve it and just for this morning he figured having some company wouldn't kill either of them. "I know a really good place and I need a smoke too so let's get out of here"

[avery-st-m]

For a moment she thinks he’ll turn her down, and she thinks she’d probably deserve it, for how obnoxious her presence can be around the shop. When he doesn’t, though, and when he ups the ante by suggesting they grab coffee and a smoke? It’s such a perfect response that Avery thinks she might cry.

“Yeah. … okay.” Avery’s cavalier front slips again, just for a moment, but it’s long enough that the smile she offers him is a little too relieved and a little too real. “Thanks, Conrad.” She doesn’t even give him a stupid nickname — for now.

Falling into step as they head towards the end of the hall, she’s already pulled her ornate cigarette case out of her back pocket, a flash of silver as she turns it in her fingertips, the only indication she’s still feeling some kinda way as the rest of her body assumes its usual swagger. “Where are ya thinking?” It’s a lame excuse for conversation, but it’s the best Avery can come up with.

[avery-st-m]

You’re in your home when you hear a familiar, rhythmic tapping on your window. Standing outside on the sill is a raven, staring at you with beady, knowing eyes. You can see a familiar strip of paper wrapped around the bird’s leg. The details of your new mission are written inside. You’re to gather intelligence on certain members of the Du Bois organization: the private, in-house accountants for both The Clarion Network and The Coronado Current. Your objective is to search for possible financial proof that they had something to do with either the death of the Premier or the disappearance of the Vice Premier.

The Shibata call to action is about as pretentious as the rest of the family – a raven, of all things, peering at Avery through her kitchen window like the ominous little death omen it is. Not an omen for her, though. An omen for the rest of the city.

“Come here,” she mutters under her breath after pushing the window open, the raven first hopping away before it finally lets her unspool the thin piece of paper from its leg. Hand on hip, she stares at the bird as it stares at her. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Zero response. It’s like talking to her siblings.

Avery gestures the bird away with a wave of her hand. “Shoo, before you shit on my windowsill.” The bird shoos, a flurry of dark feathers that quickly melts into the night.

Avery is much the same when she leaves her apartment via the fire escape a mere thirty minutes later, kitted out for intel rather than for assassination; there’s a utilitarian bag strapped to her thigh with basic infiltration tools, and a belt with smaller, sleeker weapons. Her ceremonial blade stays where it lives, affixed to the underside of her bed. Its services won’t be necessary this time.

The nights are still cold this time of spring, the kind of weather that has you dressed in three layers when you leave and regretting your sweater by the time the sun hits its apex. Avery skims from rooftop to rooftop without much care for the cold, hair in a high ponytail and a black mask wrapped over the bottom half of her face to keep the soft clouds of steam from her breath in.

The city is still alive below her at this late hour, oblivious to the black-clad specter leaping nimbly from one gutter to the next, catching the railing of a rusty fire escape without so much as a creak of metal. As she runs, Avery thinks about the task at hand; it’s not worth reading into, the fact that feels like a milk run compared to missions she’s received in the past. Fumiko’s words are in the back of her mind, but only briefly: “If you’re genuinely interested in contributing beyond courier assignments…”

She’s not.

Avery genuinely considered refusing this assignment, or at least pretending she was too drunk to hear the tapping of the bird at her window. And yet here she still is: falling into line like an obedient dog, but more like a fighting dog brought to heel than one that enjoys its work.

Clarion News is both the logical and most dangerous place to start; she’s well aware the tall glass castle keep of a building is staffed twenty-four-seven, which doesn’t stop Avery but it does put her on a higher alert than it might otherwise. Even so, it’s easy enough to find a window devoid of light just a few stories up, as well as an unlocked window – because who would be crazy enough to try to get into the building this way?

Cameras are easily avoided with a keen enough eye, and Avery slips from shadow to shadow with nary an audible footfall on the ugly brown carpeting. It takes a couple of attempts before she manages to find the office of someone worth ransacking; on the corner, naturally, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. Avery pays the view no mind as she picks through stacks of files and folders, leaving everything as neat as she found it. There isn’t much here, which shouldn’t be surprising. The books are tidy to the point of sanitization, suspicious only in their lack of suspicion. Avery doesn’t have it in her to be frustrated. She only files those thoughts away for her report and moves on to the next place.

The Current is much less glamorous and far easier to infiltrate, with a lax scattering of cameras and a skeleton security crew. The corner office Avery finds here is also much less organized, which is actually reassuring – she can only hope these books won’t be as bleached clean.

Combing through the mess is annoying and methodical, with her leaving every file folder as askew as she found it. Fast food wrappers are moved gingerly from desk to chair and then back again, and a moldy half-cup of coffee is left untouched for more than one reason. This search is starting to look like it’ll come up as empty as the last before Avery sets her sights on a squat filing cabinet in the corner, barely concealed behind a chair stacked with archival paper prints. She moves it carefully and soundlessly out of the way, willing the teetering stacks not to fall, and crouches to unroll the belt of tools at her hip. She probably could’ve picked the lock with a paperclip and a hairpin, meaning her far more professional set of tools makes embarrassingly quick work of the budget lock.

The only sound Avery has let out so far escapes as a quiet hum of approval; these files have clearly been gone through time and time again, the edges worn and discolored by oily fingerprints and smudged ink.

Taking a half-step back, Avery spreads a couple of the files out on the floor in front of her, eyes rapidly scanning the lines and lines of figures even in the dim light. Once again, the damning evidence is in the omission; money poured into properties without clear use, addresses in districts neither business nor residential. It isn’t what she’s looking for – there’s still no clear evidence the Du Bois had anything to do with the assassination or the disappearance of the heads of office – but the carefully laid out addresses of a few family safehouses is a decent enough consolation prize.

So Avery hopes, anyway. As much as she’s never cared about being a good little soldier, she does have some pride, and that pride tells her it’d be embarrassing to come up empty when the stakes of this mission already feel so low.

Unfortunately, it’s the brief flashes of her compact camera taking snapshots of the evidence that alert the passing security. Beyond that, he’ll have no idea what hit him – a smear of shadow darting up from the corner, indistinguishable, finding exactly the right point at his neck to pinch and wait until two-hundred some odd pounds of muscle turn to putty. Avery manhandles him into the desk chair with an unceremonious grunt. He’s unlikely to have seen enough of her even to get a bead on her height, so she leaves him slumped over the desk as if in the throes of an unfortunate nap.

In another time she might’ve done more to discredit him – sprinkled him with the smell of whiskey, or put one of the rummaged, damning files in his hands while he was still passed out. Not tonight, though. This man is just putting food on the table; she doesn’t know the life he leads, how many kids he might have. She’s not here to penalize anyone for doing their job in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hopefully he’ll just wake up wondering what the fuck hit him, and go back to his beat too embarrassed to bring it up to anyone when he doesn't clock anything missing.

After a few more minutes of careful picture-taking, Avery replaces everything exactly where it was found, locks the file cabinet, and slides the precariously balanced chair of papers back into the divots the legs have left in the carpet.

As she slips out of the building the way she came and escapes back up to the rooftops, Avery heads for the designated drop point and idly wonders if the Shibata will be disappointed with her intel. She wonders if she would’ve brought them the useful stuff even if she’d found it. She wonders if they’ll think she’s withholding it even if she isn’t, even if she thought about it. That would probably be the worst, she thinks: that they’d assume she’s being disobedient, even when she wasn’t. Not that she hadn’t given them plenty of reason to assume that, anyway – it’d only be annoying in that she wouldn’t have the satisfaction of actual disobedience.

None of that really matters, at the end of the night. Avery leaves two rolls of film tucked where she knows they’ll only be discovered by the right hands and heads homeward, to a dark apartment that feels like her only refuge anymore.

That bird better not have shit on her windowsill.

[nightmourned]

he hears her before he sees her — drunk footsteps, sloppy cadence, the low hum of someone trying to walk straight and failing. any other night, he'd have slipped back into shadow, let them stumble past, none the wiser. but he's tired, more focused on getting home than on which drunkard is in this alley with him, trudging ahead until she says it. that name. his real one. minho freezes. it's nothing dramatic, just a small stillness that settles in his bones. the kind that only comes when you hear something you were sure no one remembered. no one should remember. the kind of stillness that means sensing danger. he exhales through his nose, slow and steady, raising his head to meet her gaze with the kind of calm that's practiced, precise, masking the way her voice stirred something cold in his gut. "careful," he says, tone almost light, almost teasing, "saying that name out loud? you might get fined. or burst into flames. hard to say which is worse." his gaze flicks over her — swaying slightly, hand half-heartedly reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. "you look like shit, by the way," he adds, voice low but not unkind. just observant. familiar. like he knows exactly what she's made of despite tonight's condition. because he does. "any chance you've had enough to drink for me to convince you you're hallucinating?" he tilts his head, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, "ghost of kagehito past or whatever." he doesn’t step closer — keeping a safety distance between them seems like a wise choice, whether she's drunk or not — but he doesn’t back away either. he keeps her in his line of sight, balanced on that fine edge between i don't want trouble and i will fight you if i have to. "so," he says, quieter now, the humor thinning just slightly, "what’s it gonna be, avery?"

[avery-st-m]

He’s so fucking flippant about it, it drives her insane — which is rich, coming from the crown princess of flippancy. Avery’s heart is pounding in her chest, sobering and sickening all at once, and she swallows it back with a stubbornness and simmering fury.

“No,” she says sharply, suddenly, and it’s wholly unclear what it is she’s saying ‘no’ to. All of it, probably. The fact that he's even there. Avery starts to pace, which doesn’t get her far in as narrow an alley as this. One unsteady finger waggles at him for a moment, then points more resolutely. “No.”

Yeah, she’s mad. But she’s not mad for the reasons he probably assumes. Avery’s mad because he got out; he made it. Sure, the Shibata might be hunting him down like a dog in the streets at every opportunity — fuckin’ hilarious, since they’re the ones who trained him to be so good at evasion in the first place — but at least he’s out. The blood on his hands is fading day by day, presumably. Avery doesn’t have that luxury.

“Fuck you, Hajoon,” she all but spits out, purposefully using his name again. Ghost of kagehito past, her ass. “You left. You left all of us.” Like she actually believes she’s one of them, one of the family. Avery knows she’s just another piece of the machine, and a broken one, at that. “So why the hell are you still here?” She gestures wildly, taking an unsteady half-step back. “Why didn’t you leave this- this fuckin’ island?”

[unmarkt]

Despite herself, Fumiko shoots her ‘sister’ a glare—ultimately unbecoming, yet ultimately deserving. She ignores the abhorrent sobriquet, and instead graces Avery with an explanation, despite thinking she certainly doesn’t need one. The woman’s always been a bulldozer. A loudhailer. An outsider. “I’ve intercepted rogue signals from the station,” she starts simply enough, “not quite intelligible—both from the intentional obfuscation of the frequencies and the use of codewords. But they’re nothing like I’ve encountered in the years I’ve been in charge. I’ve also gone through archival broadcasts and found no similarities, patterns, or callbacks.” Fumiko finally turns to Avery, brows low and chin tilted down in scrutiny, “And I’ve considered the possibility that it could be a mutiny, a sub-shadow directive. It’s highly unlikely. I doubt my hypotheses are incorrect.”

[avery-st-m]

Avery never specifically wanted to piss her so-called sister off, not really, not despite what she and everyone around her might say or assume. It was only ever about getting a reaction, any reaction. Ever since she lost her mother, Avery was forced into a box of sit back and endure, and that wasn’t the box for her. She knew she’d never get attention from Fumiko in the right way; that just wasn’t in the cards, not when Avery had inadvertently taken over the right to work shoulder-to-shoulder with their brother. Fumiko was never going to treat her with kindness. The best Avery would ever get is indifference, and there was no way she was going to be satisfied with that. So she had to settle for ‘any attention is good attention,’ and as such, the glare that Fumiko shoots her is like a wash of warm breath over an ember.

Straightening up and folding her arms firmly over her chest, the watch box still clutched carefully in one hand, Avery takes that scrutiny in stride. Whatever the fuck Fumiko is trying to imply with that look overlaid with the suggestion of mutiny, she won’t give her the satisfaction.

“Okay. Cool,” she replies flatly, tone unimpressed. “That sounds like a great list of who it isn't. When do we start getting the list of who it might be, instead?”

[avery-st-m]

March 29th, morning :: Kitley Village @intheseaofred

It’s not an argument they’re having, not really, but a serious and slightly heated conversation in low, hushed tones. Avery is standing just outside the threshold in an outfit that’s almost assuredly last night’s, considering the state of it, and the woman just inside the door is pursing her lips and shaking her head. She disappears for a moment and Avery tries to take a step inside, but she’s pushed back into the hall again when her bag is thrust into her arms, and the door is shut neatly in her face.

For a moment Avery stands there, stock-still, and then her shoulders sag as she lets out a slow breath. It’s only when she finally turns from the door and swings her bag over her shoulder that she realizes she’s not alone in the hall.

“Conrad,” she blurts out, and there’s a flash of vulnerability that’s on full display for a split-second, accentuated by the dull black eye that’s still developing, as well as a thick, freshly scabbed split in her lip. With practiced ease, though, that vulnerability is shoved behind several walls, kept in place by her subsequent smile of typical bravado. “Hey, you still owe me a coffee or somethin’ from festival day. Bet you were probably glad Dusty kept you from going, in the end.” She might as well be running into him at Dusty’s, for the ease with which she settles into the conversation as she approaches him. It’s easier, pretending whatever conversation she did just have didn’t happen.

[avery-st-m]

March 22nd, before dawn :: the streets of Coronado @nightmourned

She’s not gonna puke. She swears she’s not gonna puke. They tossed her out on her ass for looking like she was gonna puke, and now every rebellious ounce in Avery’s body fights the urge to, even as she picks a dark alleyway to turn down that’s probably been puked in a million times.

It’s the kind of alleyway she feels at home with, a thought that makes Avery laugh blearily to herself as her feet cross over each other in anything resembling a straight line. A young woman who feels most comfortable traversing dark alleyways, wasted, at god-knows-what-hour. She’s a piece of fucking work.

Drunk as she may be, her senses aren’t completely useless; everything that was drilled into the kagehito from a young age came as second nature, regardless of how pickled she currently is. There’s someone else here. Avery’s unsteady steps slow to a stop, and for a moment she simply frowns into the dark.

The face she finally manages to process is like a bucket of cold water to the face. Avery’s hand immediately flies to her hip, where one of her weapons typically is, but tonight, it isn’t.

The traitor. The runaway. Maybe the only one who’s ever made it out. “Hajoon?” she slurs, blinking rapidly. Surely the fuck not. “Fuckin’- Hajoon?”

[unmarkt]

“I’m surprised they haven’t assigned a shadow directive for you—regarding the Premier and Vice Premier.” Fumiko is sure that Katashi will receive one, if he hasn’t already. At a time like this, the best of the kagehito would be corralled and tasked to see this tragedy through, down to the last detail. It’d be a pity if Avery isn’t a part of that. Perhaps, that’s what she wants to know, too. “This is the entire family’s topmost priority. Banking affairs have been delegated to myself and Dimitri, while all kagehito conduct reconnaissance across the island.” A beat. “And no. It couldn’t have been from the inside. You should know that I’ve been picking up disruptions at the station. Our frequency should be undetectable, and is.” Fumiko lets the implication linger for a moment, before she sighs, “I assume it’s them. I don’t think there’s much to argue against my hypothesis.”

[avery-st-m]

Avery only narrowly avoids the urge to roll her eyes; she doubts Fumiko is actually surprised she hasn’t been assigned a shadow directive. Those are for the finer tools in the Shibata’s toolbox; their darling brother, for one. Skilled though she may be, Avery is still a blunt instrument. A last resort. A sledgehammer amongst scalpels. Her malicious compliance keeps her in the game, but it certainly doesn’t make her a key player. 

‘Disruptions at the station.’ Avery’s eyes narrow briefly. The fuck is that supposed to mean? The Del Bosque/Shibata alliance has been untouchable for so long that Avery finds it infuriating when they can’t seem to comprehend that they can be fucked with. They are being fucked with. No one, she hopes, would be stupid enough to think they could assassinate the premier without sending shockwaves through the other political players, regardless of how public their plays are.

As it is, she folds her arms, unimpressed. “Girlie, I really hope your grand hypothesis is more than ‘they did it because we didn’t,’ because that’d be the laziest damn thing I ever heard.”

[simone-montgomery]

She stilled as Avery gently poked at the scrap of paper over her shoulder, her breath caught in her chest. Her tongue pushed into her cheek, but it nothing to hide the involuntary smile. She knew she should do-- maybe say-- something, anything in this moment, but she didn't trust herself to. Even if she could think of anything other desperately trying to remember how to breathe, or how wonderful the woman smelled now that they were so close, it would only have come out all wrong.

Somehow, she figured that stumbling through asking 'what shampoo do you use?' would be even less alluring than it sounded in her head.

Luckily, Avery seemed to be better at this.. whatever this was. Her fingers itched to reach out and pluck the chosen badge up-- the Clarion Network, fitting as that one seemed to get her into more places these days-- but the need to not look like a total fool won out. So instead, she ran those fingers through her hair and gave Avery one last bright (she hoped) smile.

"Good to know." She managed before Avery hopped off. The driver yelled but Simone only laughed and waved goodbye as she lost sight of her in the building crowd. As the trolley started up again, she turned to face away from the crowd, and finally pulled out the carefully scratched out phone number. With a hum, she added it to her contacts list: Avery St. Martin, Superfan.

Fin.

[semidull]

A high school geometry teacher. Not a chance in the depths below nor the skies above is this person telling the truth, but Josephine gives them a single nod of acknowledgment in return, anyway. Lies don’t bother her, anyway. Especially in a time like this, where getting to know your fellow citizens wasn’t exactly at the top of her priority list. Instead, she thinks fast (or, as fast as she can), eyes darting toward the wide sprawl of Old Town. People were running in all sorts of directions, yes, but even amid the chaos, Josephine knew they needed to do something other than take part in it. “The tram doesn’t look like it’d take us out of here—but I know a shortcut, if you want to get away from all this, yeah?” THE END.

[unmarkt]

Avery St. Martin. A sibling on paper, but nothing more. Truly, it doesn’t concern her. It doesn’t concern anyone, not even Avery herself. It’s a common practice in their family: a belief—a method, if you’d like—to keep their stronghold. But Fumiko would be lying if she denied feeling a sliver of something unpleasant toward her ‘sister.’ She can’t quite place it—where the feeling sits, why she feels it, or even when it started. But it’s all there. Perhaps it’s because she’s too much of a… civilian. Their family is a champion of timeless etiquette; they possess a sort of unnameable yet powerful grace where they go. Or, at least, they should. In Fumiko’s eyes, Avery doesn’t rise to their standards. And it’s a pity. That’s why she doesn’t spare a glance at her ‘sister.’ Instead, she remains still as she stops at a row of timepieces encased in glass. “‘Busy’ is one word for it,” she replies, mulling over the taste of civilian-speak on her tongue. “Given all that’s happened, I doubt any of us aren’t busy.” She staves off a little prickle of irritation underneath her cheeks; they burrow in her muscles like mites. “Do you truly address Mother and Father like that?” The words come out smooth, soft, almost lazy. Whether it’s a complaint or a taunt, Fumiko herself doesn’t know. Maybe it’s a genuine question, too.

[avery-st-m]

“Yeah. ‘Course.” Avery deadpans, one arm crossed over her chest while the other holds the elegant watch case at a lazy angle. “Mom n’ Pops. Mammy n’ Peepaw.” Weird for Fumiko to pick on that particular turn of phrase, but sure. If she wants to focus on that, they can focus on that. “How are they feeling about the whole situation?” Avery is genuinely curious, despite confidence she won’t get an answer. The Shibatas were no doubt as unflappable as ever, even in the face of an exceptionally public political assassination. ‘How are they feeling’ isn’t a question that can even be answered, probably. The Shibatas don’t do feeling.

“Kind of embarrassing, isn’t it? That we weren’t the ones who got to off the premier?” It’s a test, like it always is. Prodding, questing. She studies Fumiko’s face but doesn’t expect to find anything in those planes of fine porcelain. We didn’t do this, did we? There’s no way. Too sloppy. Too obvious.

[semidull]

Something in Josephine stills at Avery’s grin, at how easily she explains the geometry of an assassination. Her eyes follow Avery’s gestures: bullets, stampede, smoke break. Like plotting points on a map where someone just died. She shakes her head at the offered cigarette, but stays where she is, caught between curiosity and caution. “That’s quite the equation,” she says quietly, eyes catching on the Midnight Decree matchbook. Blue performs there—headlines some nights, though she never talks about the crowds in detail. The connection makes Josephine’s world feel suddenly smaller, more dangerous. “Though I have to wonder what makes someone good at calculating angles like that.” She doesn’t reach for the cigarette case, keeps her hands loose at her sides. Ready to run, ready to stay—she hasn’t decided which yet. “Must be an interesting line of work.” Somewhere in the distance, sirens start to wail. But here, in this pocket of manufactured calm, Josephine finds herself studying this woman who treats murder like mathematics, wondering what other equations she knows by heart. “Let me guess—you’re in risk assessment?” The question comes out drier than intended, almost sardonic. “Or is that the kind of thing I shouldn’t ask while we’re standing between the bullets and the stampede?”

[avery-st-m]

Avery lights her match in one smooth gesture, the flicker of flame weirdly stable amidst the chaos churning around them. Unconsciously, she notes that little tidbit alongside everything else she’s noticed about the morning’s conditions: the shooter wouldn’t’ve had to account for much wind.

Joey speaks and brings her back to the present as she takes a warm lungful of smoke, pocketing the matchbook and taking another glance around them as she shrugs. “I’m a high school geometry teacher,” she lies, and blatantly; Avery doesn’t particularly care what Joey thinks she does, because there isn’t much that could be close to the truth, and certainly nothing that could be worse than it. She still looks skittish in a way Avery doesn’t understand, even if it’s warranted, in a way.

“If you don’t like the company, I can find another food cart to squat behind,” Avery offers simply and without judgement or malice; she’s not here to make anyone more uncomfortable.

[intheseaofred]

His eyes followed her movements, the tension on his body still present enough to be noticed, maybe it was not the fact that Avery was too friendly to someone she barely knew that put him on edge, that might him doubt her true nature - maybe he just wasn't used to seeing someone so confident, so outgoing and sociable, who moved around like she knew exactly what to do.

"That tends to happen sometimes, try not to push her too hard" a small smile formed at the corner of his lips for a fraction of a moment, talking about work made him more comfortable. "I appreciate the gesture but - not much of a drinker and not a big fan of crowds nowadays" at least he was making an effort, and even if short the words were still true "everything looks beautiful though, saw some decorations while grabbing a coffee so if that's your thing you should definitely go and have fun" as for Conrad he was just hoping to take a big long nap.

"And well - if you need anything else, I'll be here for the rest of the morning"

[avery-st-m]

Avery could take a hint, though at least that sliver of a smile let her believe Conrad didn’t outright hate her — he probably just thought she was ‘too much,’ as just about everyone else in her life tended to assess her.

“Cool beans,” she said simply, shouldering her bag and starting for the garage exit, offering a brief wave as she went. “Say hi to Dusty for me. Tell him not to push you too hard,” Avery added with a smile. “And I’ll see you around, kiddo.”

With that, she disappeared just as quickly as she’d appeared, ready to try her own luck at the festival grounds.

FIN.

[simone-montgomery]

"If it could," She started with a slow shake of her head and a quick glance at their immediate surroundings, before she leaned in towards the now-closer Avery ever so slightly. "I doubt the Del Bosque's would have as many complaints against me as they do." There was a smug sort of satisfaction in her smile as she mused.

Just last week she'd put out an article on how her latest unfavorable piece against the Head of House had earned her a (supposedly 'very serious') meeting with her editor and someone from the paper's legal team where they had 'seriously considered' forcing her to print a retraction.

She'd refused to make a public apology, and instead re-laid out the facts to include what she called a 'gross attempt of silencing a competitor using school yard bullying tactics'. It hadn't won her any favors, but it had brought a warmth to her soul to know how under-their-skin she'd gotten.

"And you, Ms. St. Martin?" The drop of formality was coated with another challenge, though this time she wasn't sure exactly what that challenge was. The sudden formalities? Daring her to correct the prefix? "Are you going to Old Town too? See your taxes at work and listen to recycled speeches?"

[avery-st-m]

The Ms. St. Martin caught her off-guard in a way that prompted a quick, light laugh. ‘That was my mother’s name.’ Wasn’t that how the joke went? Avery didn’t particularly feel like making it when this conversation, though brief, had been delightful.

“Yeah, eventually. But-” She managed to tear her eyes away from the lovely investigative journalist just long enough to survey how far they’d gotten; one of her favorite coffee stops was coming up. “First, I need caffeine.”

Avery hooked her elbow around the trolley bar, tugging her bag around to dig through and find a pen and a scrap of paper. “Pardon me,” she said with a brazen smile before pressing the paper against Simone’s shoulder, careful enough with the pen that she managed not to poke it through and ruin that professional attire. She scrawled out her name and her number before stuffing the pen back in her bag and, rather than simply hand the note to Simone, she reached down and slipped the bit of paper in the back of one of the plastic coverings for her press passes. And yes, Avery was exactly aware of how close that brought her deft fingertips to Simone’s hips.

Avery glanced up again with a wink as the trolley slowed towards its next stop. “In case you’re curious, I can be bought. Coffee works, but whiskey works even better.” Without even looking behind her or waiting for the car to stop completely, Avery hopped off on her back foot so she could smile and offer a cavalier salute in the same gesture.

“See you around!”

You didn’t pay! The man driving the trolley shouted back, but Avery was already lost in the festival day crowd.