on bargains, and finding your fate sealed, or: the lawyer's secret
Hereās the thing. Youāve lived in plenty of shadows. Your grandfatherās, your motherās, even your sisterās (though you doubt sheād ever believe she could cast a shadow long enough for you to fall into). Youāve even lived in your own shadow, that myth of the golden boy.
A shadow can become a knife, can become all consuming. You chafed at it, the way you were always placed under another. There would have to be a way out. The solution took the form of the merger between CASTOR MANUFACTURING and MARQUEZ CONSOLIDATED. Two old companies ā the sort that had maybe begun with cars, but then spiderwebbed outwards, consuming whole worlds with their reach. If you managed to be one of the lawyers to guide them through the merger, then you might begin to make your own name. You were fresh out of training then, just starting to get settled at your parents firm. Still cautious, but less cautious then you are now, the instincts not quite so finely honed.Ā
You saw this merger, and knew it could pull you one step further out of the shadows, into something known for your own merit. Onlyā¦ there was a catch (and isnāt there always?). Over drinks, as you sipped at whiskey in minute breaths, old Ephraim Marquez told you of indiscretionsā of multiple a handful financial, a handful personalā that would clash with certain moral clauses in the merger. He sighed about the whole thing, wondering if certain documents simply no longer existed in the discovery process.
You took the hint. Youāre not a fool. But you were foolish, certain that the process would be easy. Stillā you had to pull a couple strings to get at certain documents, to silence certain people. You had to ask THE TRAGEDY for aid, and youāve regretted it ever since. The whole merger went off without a hitch, everyone bound together tight as sin. It was a boon for you, your mother calling it an auspicious start to your career. And from old Marquez, you found other clients, other opportunities. But it niggles at youā all of this could be undone with a string pull. You hadnāt known how to be tidy yet. And soā you could have a fate worse than living in a shadow. You could be cast off the edge of the world, should someone take the time to unravel the whole thing.
Itās the classic thing: people always report that Dante will always turn down drugs at parties, at events, at any classic gathering where they might pop up for the elite and rich. Which always begets the rumor: does the golden boy really care enough about his image to not do drugs? This is FALSE. While he doesnāt do the classic party drugs, Dante does have a slight dependency on Adderall, which has only intensified as his career has gone upwards. He gets a doctor to prescribe him them in an under wraps sort of deal, as a way to maintain his work as effortless and flawless, even as he tries to pile on more in all capacities of his life. Itās one of those funny instances where the truth might be more inflammatory than the rumor.
Thereās a final one, from one of his roommates in boarding school. The man was convinced that Dante couldnāt cook, that any food he touched would go to a crisp, and that once he left school, heād have to be dependent on a mix of private chefs and takeout. This is FALSE. He can cook! He often prefers to prepare his own food, just because thereās always the fear of a rival trying to slip something in to make him miss a meeting or fall flat in his personal life. Itās all about the control issues xo
and then the second batch:
[1] the thing is, dante is supposed to be perfect. the golden boy image and all that. but there's an old rumor, the sort that swirled for a week, that he dismissed with a smile and reams of evidence, that one of his term papers was plagiarized. that it wasn't his own work, despite the praise heaped on it by the professor. maybe that would explain why he never submitted it for publication?
a truth -- in undergrad, in his second year, he'd gotten close to his limit. under the veneer, he felt close to snapping. as an out, he dug through copies of old masters theses in the library. there, he found one that suited the assignment for his class, stole the core argument and citations, and tried to make it his own. as an added bonus, he burnt the book, tried to erase his transgression. but the paper won him an undergrad honors thesis advisor, and through him, a wealth of connections. it bites at him that some of that ambition was built on desperation and theft, two things antithetical to the person he wants to think that he is.
[2] there's a thought, a thing that flits at the edge of conversation lately: dante arcari doesn't like to lose. and also he doesn't ever lose. there's something funny about it-- the way that during certain cases, where his clients seem liable to be caught guilty, the opposition lawyers will often fall ill. nothing too bad: a stomach bug, bedridden, a junior and often unprepared lawyer sent in their stead. it's almost a pattern, almost something that catches on the edge of the mind. but he wouldn't be that underhanded, would he?
or: there are certain cases, not often, not too much of a habit, where dante has taken up poisoning (non-lethally!) his rivals, to assure wins on cases where he's worried about the optics. it's a last ditch option, and one he doesn't want other people to pick up on the threads of but... might as well go for the gold when you already have done many other things to get it.
Coming home isn't like anything. It's just coming home, it's just fitting back into an old shape, old routines.
Dante has even fit himself back into his old room, the adolescent detritus lingering here and there from the last time he lived there with any real semblance of permanence. This time though, someone else has fit herself into the space, fingering through objects, considering the art on the wall with a sharp look. She's all pale hair, all a quick smile, fingers precise and nimble as she considers a football trophy, wiping away the dust.
Lea smiles, settling herself onto his bed, hands pressed against the mattress. Here, they don't have to act so close -- he ends up settling in an old desk chair that could easily do with replacement. It squeaks faintly.
"And you really can't tell me?"
She asks it quietly, shifting forwards to prop her chin in her hand, legs crossing underneath her.
It's a continuation of the conversation they had on the way here. The one they continued after dinner as well, the frigidity between Dante and Lucia even more pronounced than normal, his smiles even smaller, his mentions of his sister even more pointed. Lea had noticed. Of course she had. When had she ever not noticed something, hadn't tugged on a thread until the whole tapestry unraveled?
He thinks that Lucia is lucky -- that there are enough people that he can't pull out the proverbial knife, can't cut her clean to the bone.
He sighs, folding his hands behind his head. "I'm afraid not. It's tighter than even the most steadfast NDA."
She frowns, eyes tightening as she considers him. Slowly, she shifts back to an upright position. "But she's there. And she's left you on tenterhooks."
It sometimes rankles, how clearly she can see him. Not all of him, but more of the picture than normal. Enough to see the patterns. Enough to know how something in him is wrong. Burnt clean through the inside, unnerved, out of step. The polish given over to a more vicious edge, a more clean cut cruelty. Something that simmers near the surface, rather than being buried deep.
He doesn't respond, not fully. A nod of his head.
She sighs, pulling to her feet. A few steps towards him, hand cradling his cheek. "Cherie, you're a fool. I thought we agreed: no secrets when they could hurt the other person."
And then there's the other part of it. He hadn't mentioned Archer to her. Hadn't asked if she'd heard from the other woman. That's a knife that might cut both ways, might hit right to her bone.
Her palm is cold against him, fingers not quite curling in. It's simply there, a reminder of the things that bound them. The engagement ring freezes against him, a sharp point of clarity. A future that continued in a clear bright line.
Through this and to the other side.
He glances up, his eyes meeting hers.
"If it gets that bad, I promise I'll tell you."
A snort on her end. "I'd prefer a contract, if you could write one up quick."
"Unfortunately, all my good pens are at home."
When she pulls back her hand, laughing, he can feel the ghost of her still. It's an uneasy balance, her standing over him, the past few months hanging unsteady.
"Well, you could at least help me with this damn dress."
And that's that. He pulls to his feet, and the dance pauses.
Hauntings of their past flash across her mind as he leads her through the steps of their dance. He would never dance with her unless others were watching. It was all about pretenses and shaping the way others saw them. It's a charade they've spent their whole lives preparing for. ā @arcaris
dante + lucia having such a bad time at the ball š„°
this is not athena's exacting gaze you pull out of the box. still-- it's a prey bird, a hunter, a watcher from the sky. and still-- it's a mirror, sharp as glass, the reminder that none of you are really hidden at this ball. not from the society, and surely not from each other.
Hunger, Redāto sate a hunger or to stoke it, to feel hunger as a furnace, to trace its edges like teethāis this a thing you, singly, know? Have you ever had a hunger that whetted itself on what you fed it, sharpened so keen and bright that it might split you open, break a new thing out? Sometimes I think thatās what I have instead of friends.
amal el-mohtar and max gladstone, this is how you lose the time war
āPeople donāt understand the word ruthless. They think it means āmean.ā Itās not about being mean. Itās about seeing the bright, clear line that leads from A to B. The line that goes from motive to means. Beginning to end. Itās about seeing that bright, clear line and not caring about anything but the beautiful fact that you can see the solution. Not caring about anything else but the perfection of it.ā
- Marco, Book #30: The Reunion, pg. 71 (by K.A. Applegate)
"We are deeply grateful for your return to the BLUE IVY Campus and appreciate your acceptance of our invitation to serve as guidance for the current participants of the Trial of Hearts. I must ask, what within your heart and mind compelled you to come here?"
As he stands in this room, this black box with nothing save himself and the woman (and the recording device, though that hardly factors inā he is always surrounded by recording devices, in the form of othersā minds, their eyes, their memory), Dante considers his posture. He doesnāt cross his arms as a sign of aggressionā though anger is one of his cardinal emotions as of late, the sharp irritation towards his sister having blossomed from latent noise to a harsh static. He also doesnāt fold his hands in front of himā the action is too boyish, too eager to please.
Thereās a line to walk here, after all. He might have returned, the deal might have been sealed, but a contract can always be broken. Heād have to play the part of diligent mentor, worm his way into the heart of this apple, before anything else could be let loose. It was a matter of pacingā a matter of both being the flower, and the serpent underneath. The games might not unfold for him as he had hoped, butā he could always tilt them towards a winner who might fold in his favor.
And away from his sister, though that was always going to be his approach.
In the end, he opts for something almost casual. Hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, head tilting off to the side. āI meanā Iām flattered. Itās not every day that youāre asked to have a hand in something like this.ā One hand pulls out of his pocket, running through his curls, an almost sheepish motion that he had well refined over the years. āIf Iām honest though, part of it is selfish. I was supposed to be a competitor.ā If heās to cement himself here, there are some dregs of honesty that must come out. This is one of them. They know about the letterā they likely know about his frustration.
To settle the stomach for future falsehoods, give them some truth first. Better yet, never lieā only talk in truths spun through a mirror darkly. āPart of me wants to see how everything will play out. A what could have been, if you want to be a bit poetic about it.ā Here, he grins, as if at his own folly.Ā
āButā this university was important to me.ā A truth. āI want to help with the traditions here. Even if I canāt properly be part of the Trial, Iād like to help with it.ā True enoughā even if helping with it means making it his own, changing the rules on the players to make it play out in his hand. āAnd Iād like to think Iāve learned enough about people and problems over the years to provide some compelling strategy, for those that seek me out.ā Itās easy, once he starts talking. The way he settles into his smile, tries to remind them of the benevolence in his bones. Heās always been golden, always been bright. Lately, heās felt a molten core at the center of him, all that brightness turned to fury. Itās still what it isā or so heās like to thinkā just turned towards a new form.āThatās all there is to it.ā His free hand rises towards the woman, gesturing towards her with the same smile still set on his face. āAny other questions?ā
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