Fractured Starlight - Part 3
Jesper! He basically fails on a date-not-date and learns a piece of information vital to the plot to SoC. Yeah.
Corporalki: @aragentum, @rebooka17
Materialki: @abaduchi, @paphns, @catpidgeon, @wavesofinkdrops, @erlaszx
@catpidgeon made a fanart inspired by this chapter -- go check it out!
Fic summary: A series of perspectives following the crows pre-SoC and post-CK. Canon compliant.
It started with an itch. It always did. The itch in his fingers, the restless energy that he tried to ignore, building, bubbling up inside him until he couldn’t anymore. And he knew, he knew how to satisfy that urge, that itch, that tingling just under his skin. He knew how the cards would feel sliding against each other in his hand, and how the Makker’s Wheel would click as it spun -- oh, that beautiful, beautiful sound.
And he also knew, just about, that he’d likely lose. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he was almost broke, that he’d soon be borrowing money for food, and that he still owed a couple hundred kruge to the last gambling hall he’d been to.
But he realized, as he found himself walking down the streets of the East Stave and searching out a high-stakes den, that he couldn’t bring himself to care. Debts he would worry about later, and for now, all there was would be the cards in his hands and the taste of risk on his tongue. And if it was nearly morning and there was nobody with him, well, as he stood in the shadows of the alleyway outside one of the gambling halls, he was very, very grateful.
There was a Grisha standing outside Morpheus’ Palace.
He almost stumbled when he saw her, dressed in a deep blue kefta trimmed with the intricate grey embroidery of a Squallor. She was tall, with hair, done up in an elaborate bun, just blonde enough to be Fjerdan. Pretty too, in an angular sort of way, her neck thin and her face sharp.
There was a silver brooch pinned to the kefta, just above her breast, inlaid with crystals that shimmered in the faint light of the building. The symbol of an--
Jesper drew in a breath. The woman stiffened, turned her gaze to the alley he stood in. She read him in a glance.
He tried to turn, run, but the Grisha’s eyes had locked onto his, trapped him in such an intense glare that all he could do was stumble a few helpless steps back as she started to approach, hand on hip, eyes like shards of ice.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Jesper cut in first.
“Hi, um, just passing through.” He almost winced. There were no other places in the region open at such an hour. He blustered on anyways, fixing an awkward smile to his face. “You know, I wouldn’t mind some directions to the nearest, um, restroom.”
A hand shot out and fingers clasped around his wrist. He flinched. The hand tightened.
“Are you really stupid enough to fabrikate inside a gambling hall?”
It should’ve been easy to reach for the pistol he carried on him. Should’ve. Not that it would’ve been much use anyways.
“Well, ah,” his throat was dry, his heart pounding, “I swear I wasn’t really planning on doing that.”
“And why would I trust you?” Her voice was sharper than her face.
“Because I,” he shrank back as far as her grip would allow, “Look trustworthy?”
An elegantly arched brow, a slight turn of her head as if to indicate here? Trustworthy, here?
She had a point. Unfortunately, that meant he didn’t. “Because I--” his palms were sweating, “I can’t fabrikate to save my life?”
One elegant eyebrow rose. “You’re a fabrikator, of course you can fabrikate.”
A swell of some odd feeling inside him. A tingling heat on his cheeks. “I’m not-- I wasn’t trained.”
Her eyes searched his face for a long moment before her grip loosened. Jesper snatched his hand back, rubbing his wrist with his other hand. Damn, the woman’s grip was strong.
It was then that a voice called out behind her, and she stiffened. Jesper’s hand flew to the pistol at his hip, but the Squallor raised a pale hand to stop him.
“I still don’t believe you, but I can’t stay and talk to you. Noon, Kooperom.” It wasn’t even a question.
Jesper, still trying to quell the beating of his heart as she walked away, forced a smile across his face. “Who’d refuse a pretty girl like you?”
It was almost worth the gust of wind slamming him into the wall.
His back still ached as he made his way to the Kooperom late that morning. He’d managed to dig up his tweed jacket from the university and a passable pair of black shoes that would probably fall apart before the end of the day, given how much he was shuffling and fidgeting. He adjusted the jacket.
He glanced at the clock tower.
He adjusted his jacket again.
Then, considerably past twelve, he strode into the Kooperom with a posture of forced relaxation. Then, he saw her.
Her hair was done in a simple braid, her clothes plain and somewhat bland. When she glanced up at him, she merely glanced at the chair opposite her before turning back to her food with an entirely unimpressed expression on her face.
His heart thumping up in his throat, he strode over to the empty seat, sliding into it and draping a long arm over the back of it. He felt strange doing so, almost as if he was plunging into something incredibly dangerous, but, well, who said he was cautious?
“Stop, shut up,” She glanced over at him, “And stop twitching. You’re late.”
“Fashionably, of course,” Jesper tried for a smile.
She ignored him. “What I want to know is,” she leaned back in her chair, “Why haven’t I heard of you?”
He blinked. “Come again?”
“Apart from the Council of Tides, the Grisha in Ketterdam know each other, or at least know of each other. Even the ones who don’t know of the rest of us are watched, and yet the only Zemeni fabrikator I know of is an old woman.”
Jesper blinked. His mouth fell open slightly, mouthing the beginning of something, but his thoughts had frozen.
“Now, that normally wouldn’t mean much, but last night you said you weren’t trained to use your powers. But with your power and any kind of regular usage, you’d be able to cheat in a gambling hall. And that made me think. If you were sincere, that means you don’t use your powers very much, do you?”
“Stop,” he finally managed to croak, his voice faint and his head spinning with how surreal the conversation was becoming. He knew on some level he was Grisha -- Zowa, whatever -- obviously, but to hear it spoken of so matter-of-factly with a stranger he’d met not even a day before in broad daylight in the middle of the Barrel… “Should we even be talking about this here?”
She gave him a small smile. “I’m a Squallor. They’ll hear what I want them to hear.”
Oh. Oh. He blinked. “Well, I-- um, no, I don’t.”
She looked at him seriously, her soup all but forgotten. “You have to know that’s not good for you.”
He looked at her blankly.
She sighed. “Look, I’m trying to help you. Grisha to grisha. What I’m offering is connections. You wouldn’t have to hide your powers so much if you had others looking out for you.”
And something clicked inside of him, and he started panicking. “No,” he shook his head, wringing his hands. Nobody can know. “No, don’t tell anyone.” His voice was wavering slightly.
The woman’s face softened. “Are you sure?”
She looked at him, then offered a single-shouldered shrug. “You can always change your mind.”
There was a long silence in which the Squallor turned back to her soup. Jesper adjusted his jacket.
“Well then,” he started, lounging backwards. His voice almost — but only almost — cracked, “You’re not married, are you?”
The conversation carried on like that for a while, with him flirting and failing and being incredibly charming. Then it changed. He didn’t know when he’d started pleading with her, when he’d started rambling, wringing his hands, begging. He knew he looked pathetic, probably, but he was desperate enough to not care.
He hadn’t even gotten around to asking her name.
Maybe it was when she’d hesitated when he’d asked after gambling halls without Amplifiers. Maybe it was when she’d turned him down for the third time and he’d finally accepted that. Maybe it was when she’d refused to answer when he asked her a direct question.
And all she was doing was eating and ignoring him. She who knew something about hiding from Amplifiers. She who might know, being an Amplifier herself.
“Stop,” she said, her spoon clattering against the side of her bowl. Her expression was conflicted. “You know I shouldn’t tell you.”
She ignored him. “I have to go,” she said abruptly. Then, placing both hands on the table, she stood up. Before Jesper had even half risen out of his seat, a cry on his lips, the door had closed behind her.
His heart tightened inside his chest, and a cold shame flushed through him. He could give up any hope of an answer now. He’d scared off his date, or acquaintance, or possible future friend, or whatever she was. Or annoyed the hell out of her, if the speed at which she left was any indication. That was a new low, even for him -- Had he really been that bad?
He sat back down slowly, looking at her empty dishes, then at the small bowl of soup he’d ordered that he hadn’t even finished.
He hoped, vaguely, she wouldn’t tell anyone he was a fabrikator. Then he shook himself. He’d probably pissed her off, badly, and she had no obligation to do anything he asked. A knot tied itself in his stomach.
He really was an idiot, wasn’t he?
His face fell into his hands, but his gaze wandered, and he noticed the folded napkin under one of her plates. Huh. That was strange. The Kooperom didn’t provide napkins. He stared at it for a while, then reached forward and tugged it out, unfolding it. He looked at it in confusion.
Written across it in a slanting scrawl was one word.
A/N: The flow’s not entirely right, but it was getting worse the more I edited it. So, feedback?
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