a fate that befell me

“The heaviest penalty for declining to rule is to be ruled by someone inferior to yourself.” ― Plato, The Republic Miran Yildiz. 36. Local Representative. 1. House of Minerva 2. Fighter. 3. The People's Pick.

[miranforpresident]

serenamadera​:

                                            ─┉─ • ─┉─

Thunderbolt heart ── it hammered against her ribcage like a war drum. It was familiar. It was all she ever wanted. It didn’t feel quite right though. Serena has been thinking about this moment since the day she decided to leave Miran behind. For years, she nurtured what she had with Miran like a death. Quietly, and to herself. They were only kids when they had each other, and they were each other’s everything ; they would forget all about the troubles that they had, but there are many more good memories that out-weights those nights of holding Miran in her arms, caressing his warm face wet with tears and bruises. It had always been them against the world, until the world had different paths for them. 

There’s no doubt that Serena is proud of what Miran has done for himself. He has always shinned, even when he was desperate not to. There was a spark in him. It was a miracle that they even found each other – and in each other, they found their worlds a little less lonely. Day after day, bounded by the shared resilience to keep going ; the mutual dedication to live, and to never let another person lay a hand on either of them. Now here they are as different people, as much as Miran tries to deny it. 

❝ Just because it’s late doesn’t mean the work stops. ❞ 

It’s true. It feels as if Serena is gaining more responsibility day by day. There’s not a part of her that hesitates to saunter casually towards the brunette. Meadow green hues focus on surprised, dark eyes. Extending a hand to toward the representative, a slender card is held between two fingers. ❝ You’re officially being cordially invited to the funeral of all funerals. Congratulations. ❞ Her tone is flat to hide the sadness that is heavy in her throat.  

.

Miran drinks her in like wine. He’d been caught off guard, but now with new clarity, the impact was so strong he was amazed his fingers didn’t let his laptop slip from his fingers. Memories rushed to his mind. Good ones. Suddenly he was twelve years old, with dewy wet grass underfoot as he chased behind her, laughter in their wake. There was cruelty all around, but here they were safe, and there were games to be played. Fun to be had. 

Serena doesn’t smile, but Miran does. He grins. With a startle, he remembers to set his laptop aside, atop sheets of paper and an empty bag of chips. Then he’s up, and they’re both moving. It is at this moment he registers her expression. Miran doesn’t know her anymore, not really, but he was around enough people to read the lines of tension that painted her face. His own smile falls as he understands the gravity of Serena’s own life, of what Ervig Rossi’s death may mean for her. 

The presentation of the card surprises him, and he reaches for it instinctually. Then he lingers, and for a moment they are both gripping the card together, before he finally tugs it into his own grasp. 

“Shit. Yeah.” Despite Iseul’s mention of it earlier that day, Miran had forgotten any thoughts of Ervig Rossi’s funeral. He glances down at the invitation, not seeing it really, before he’s looking back up at Serena again. “Sorry -- I’m just so surprised to see you here.” He gathers himself together. 

"Why--?” He frowns, “I don’t understand.”

[miranforpresident]

noellepersaud​:

The dissatisfaction is apparent in her eyes. But it’s of no surprise to her. Miran may dip his toe into the filth for personal gain, but he does not plunge his soul into it quite like she does. The vicious banter that makes for fierce competition and satisfaction? It does not come. Not from Miran. It prompts something of a humored smile, in turn. He may not be the shining, People’s Pick that he set out to be. His armor may be tarnished by his misgivings. But Miran is not lost to the likes of her yet. And while Noelle can and will call it naivete, there’s something to be said for the balance it creates. Is that not what the different houses are set to do?

This time, she tips the scale into a palatable strategy. Self-serving and indecent, but not morally back breaking. That comes later. When Miran is back on top, and the needs of the Grand Cavour Hotel (and by extension, Dubois Conglomerate) become more apparent. Like any client, Noelle doesn’t start with her ultimate preposition. No, she extends a favor, under the guise of consultation and the camaraderie of partnership. It hangs in the air, heavy with malicious intent. But the Fighter does not reject it outright. It’s enough for her to know his consideration, and to meet his eventual acceptance with a nod.

“Why would you do that?” Noelle knows the answer. Loyalty to one’s Elder can be as powerful as the bond of connected souls. Especially for a house like Minerva, so steadfast in their moral high ground and ethics. But by her assessment, Edgar is the incumbent. The penultimate idea that Miran will one day set out to become. Is he truly willing to loop him into this idea, instead of leverage it for personal gain? It’s an unfamiliar concept to her. But the House of Mercury is different. While Noelle is loyal to Ayesha, she would play a trump card and usurp her if given the chance. And the difference? Ayesha would laud her action, rather than persecute her for disloyalty.

“You don’t think Ma-Ri and Edgar are having this exact conversation, and planning to do just that?” She points out with fervor. “With Lorelai gone and the enormity of this scandal, they will want to spin the story as well. Sure, it may seem indigenous. But people will be quick to forget that when you write up a few, low level Rossi capo’s or even write me up for a minor, commercial infraction.” She offers her own skin in the game, with a mischievous smile. It’s benevolent of her - until one realizes just how many CEO’s like Noelle endure in any given week. But this time, it’s to their benefit.

.

Despite his prior outburst, Miran was too diplomatic to roll his eyes at Noelle’s question. Edgar was many things, but a bad leader he was not -- in Miran’s eyes anyway. He wasn’t perfect. Nobody was. But Miran had seen first hand the drive and the vision that Edgar wielded. Perhaps one day... Miran might rise to those ranks -- take the place... it was something he pondered, long after twilight, when he was lying in bed alone with his own thoughts. It would not be today. 

And yet, that having been said, the suggestion remained, lying heavy in his head. 

“I’d be surprised if they weren’t." If he knew Ma-Ri, and he liked to think that he did, then surely she’d already littered Edgar’s desk with dozens of potentials speeches and plans for action. “But would it not be prudent to make sure my statement aligns with theirs? If I can present a united front with Edgar, I feel confident I can convince him to stand beside me.” And if not Edgar, then perhaps Ma-Ri. Even despite his unflattering scandal, Miran was certain he had enough political capital to be considered useful. 

Noelle’s smile, however teasing, pulls one of his own. Miran chuckled. “I’m not saying no, though.” The battle of Miran’s life had been to fight against his baser urges. His impulsivity had never done him well. Taking his time to decide on anything, however small, proved fruitful. It was why he even had something to lose. 

“Although you do surprise me with your generosity.” Miran’s laugh melted into a grin. “I’ll only write you up if I fail with Rossi’s capo’s. Last resort, promise. Scout’s honor.” He stood up from his seat and grabbed his glass, moving back to the bar cart for a refill. “If I were... to do as you asked.” 

Miran leveled her with a stare that was unlike his usual self. This was the look of a politician, a storyteller, and a survivor. “Who would I pivot to? Who do you think killed Ervig Rossi?”

[miranforpresident]

seungseuls​:

It is obvious that there was some similarity in the earlier chapters of their stories, but the two of them had gone down two very different paths in order to reach a similar goal. He had been a halcyon in his youth ( that much was evident ) and while he couldn’t be blamed for the idyllicism in his youth, she had hoped that he would not shy away from accountability…at the very least, she hoped that Miran would keep her words as a footnote when moving forward. 

All the same she took his thanks, diplomatic as it may have sounded, and knew that he was genuine in his words. “I think it says something about you that you’ve managed to exist unscathed in the political sphere for as long as you have…but the essence of politics is exactly this.”

She would say more ( much more ), but now wasn’t exactly the time to go on about her beliefs— she was always so candid with Miran that nothing else needed stripping. “I don’t think criticism is the strongest point for anyone in your position,” she teases a laugh, “so you’re not alone there; still, you may be alone in considering betterment as far as that goes.”

It’s as much of a compliment as she can offer given the circumstances…

“As far as my voice…I guess my immediate reaction is always loud; loud anger, loud outrage, loud grief. But death doesn’t lend itself to that…” from one odd circumstance to another, from one person’s misfortune to another. “This time, my voice was quieter— due to shock or proximity, or out of respect, I don’t know. It’s weird when these things happen.”

Death was an inevitable thing in this life; while she knew this, it never affected her any less. “It’s one of those certainties of life that will always render you stunned and confused— but that’s life. Are you going to the funeral?”

.

Miran pondered that for a moment. The essence of politics. For better and for worse (and it was often the latter), he loved his work. He reveled in it. The pride he felt when he saw a bill successfully passed spurred him forward, but recently his days were filled with a special perplexity and depression. The path of public duty was unusually rugged indeed.  It wasn’t the lack of compassion that bothered him, nor the criticism, or comments. What rankled him the most was a record of written proof spoiling his service record.

Blinking back to attention, Miran smiled, thankful. He and Iseul’s friendship was not an obvious one, but it was a connection he appreciated all the same.

While listening, he dug his wallet from his pocket. A black credit card was set on the edge of the table in preemptive expectation for the waiter and their arrival with the bill. Miran held mixed feelings towards the death of Ervig Rossi. He was loyal to his house, and Lorelei... well, he’d always liked her. But murder -- even the one of a known criminal -- was unacceptable. 

He took in Iseul’s words. Her quiet anger, her grim acceptance, and he nodded. 

“There should be justice.” He murmured, and vaguely in the back of his mind Miran acknowledged that surely the two of them would have different definitions of what justice meant. “I can’t say that I liked him very much. But his death was a crime.” Against his will, a narrative began to form in the back of his mind. He pushed aside the thought. For now, anyways. 

“I don’t know yet.” He answered honestly. “The funeral is Friday, isn’t it? I planned to go, but I’ve heard it’s by invitation only. I’ve yet to receive one, though I expect to.” He tilted his head to the side, looking at her curiously, “Are you?” 

[miranforpresident]

taintedvalentine​:

Valentine smirks. She lets out a nervous sigh as she tries to catch her breath. “It’s just for a local magazine for cakes. It was Noelle. She suggested I enter the contest, so well… here we are.” Miran has become a familiar companion of hers. "I decided to go all red. Against minimalism and all.”

She observes him while moving to clean the counter. She felt a warmness observing her treats in the bag.    Valentine had developed a strong sense of empathy and intuition. Something wasn’t right. The state between the houses could certainly be a factor. It felt deeper than that "I’ve been doing well. We both know how I feel about Evrig. I won’t speak much on that.” She answers his question quickly. Her head moves to the side for a moment as her eyebrows furrow. “I hate to be that person.” She begins before pausing. “What’s going on Miran? A listening ear comes good with a treat.”

.

“That’s wonderful!” Miran exclaimed, eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “You’ll have to send a copy to my office. I’d love to see the final product of...” he gestured at the mess staining her hands, “whatever this is. You always impress.” In general, he found joy in seeing his friends, neighbors, and constituents find success in their chosen fields. This, however, brought him just a bit more. He welcomed the happy feeling. It was a pleasant change after the stress he otherwise felt. 

After tucking his credit card back into wallet and thus his pocket, Miran leaned against the counter. He nodded. Less than some, but more than others, he knew the distaste that Valentine held for the deceased Ervig Rossi. Personally, Miran felt the same. Many from his house were skeptical of those belonging to Janus, but he limited his distrust towards the Rossi family, and those affiliated with them. 

Mostly, anyways. 

Miran doesn’t press Valentine when she indicates an urgency to move past that topic of conversation. Though he wishes that he had, once she changed the subject. 

A line knitted itself between his eyebrows, but otherwise his discomfort wasn’t displayed on his face. 

“You don’t know already? I’m surprised Noelle hasn’t mentioned it.” There was a bit of inflection to his tone that betrayed a hint of his mixed feelings at his part-friend, part-financier, part-annoyance. Miran grimaced, and cocked his head, indicating his intentions to sit down at a nearby table. “It’s in the papers. Luckily everyone is distracted, what with... all that’s going on. -- I made a mistake, a long time ago. The press isn’t great.” 

Miran sat down. “I’ve got to prepare a statement today, but I haven’t decided what I’ll say. I’ve made my career on honesty, and well.. Politics, right?”

[miranforpresident]

noellepersaud​:

She peers back at him, unflinching dark eyes as the bitterness of scotch lines her tongue. His moment of exasperation is nothing compared to the trading floors of Wall Street, or the ravenous hunger on the Florentine Bank’s ground floor. His outburst, met with a quick politician’s apology, is just that. It’s white noise. And for a woman who has only ever known loud, masculine voices and a flurry of profanities - it does little to land. The impact comes at his suggestion. And at that, she tips her lips up from the edge of the glass. A cynical scoff at his suggestion.

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Yildiz. Without me, you’d be printing your own campaign posters and wearing a Timex watch.” A nod towards the exquisite time piece on his wrist. How many local representatives could boast the finest suits and most elaborate watches? Power comes at a cost - and he balances that with an unsavory business partner. She places the scotch on the rock atop the table, allowing its condensation to drip on the Florence Today paper - with Miran’s face at the bottom half of the publication.

Half a mind to egg him on, if only to prove she can cut him down a size. Noelle is wrought to over-compensate, in that way. But his re-direction is a reminder of the bigger issue, and she swallows her ego down with a curt nod.

“I heard about Lorelai.” Noelle begins, a moment of sympathy coloring her features. Mrs. holier-than-thou was a brilliant Performer, and the source of power behind Edgar Ra’s. The mother to Minerva, whose tragic death puts an end to the unsavory love story. “My condolences.” She adds, almost apologetic that it would be an after thought. Almost. “Anyway - the fact of the matter is that, because of her death, you’re running as the B-story in most of these publications. What’s political scandal to the death of a President’s wife?” People were glued to the unprecedented romance, watching with tormented eyes as it rocked Florence’s foundation.

“And when the dust settles and the focus lands back on you… You pivot. You express your apologies, and then turn the attention elsewhere. Like, say…” Her hands flip through the papers, before landing on the simple death announcement of Ervig Rossi. “Who killed Ervig Rossi?”

.

Miran rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond to her jab. In truth, she was right. Part of the reason he was able to actually get the work done was the financial backing she provided: the galas, the fundraisers, public relation events... they all cost money, and thanks to Noelle, Miran didn’t have to break the bank. Or jump into bed with someone even worse. He didn’t appreciate the way she phrased it, but he couldn’t argue with her logic, nor did he want to. 

The sudden sympathy that appears on Noelle’s face is startling. Miran doesn’t like the way it looks. He gulped down another swig of scotch, enjoying the burn. When Noelle returned to the calculated persona he knew best, a comfort settled over him. 

When the story first hit, Miran hoped --selfishly -- that Lorelei’s, and then Ervig’s, death would relegate his sordid affair out of existence. And to a point, that was true. However, there was just enough chatter to render him anxious and unsure. It didn’t yet look like the dust was settled, no matter what else his constituents were worrying over. 

Noelle’s follow up suggestion is unsettling, and it doesn’t sit right in his gut. Miran was uncomfortable to even entertain the idea, and he shifted anxiously in his seat. Another gulp of scotch was needed to process it fully, and he nearly downed the entire glass. He set the tumbler back to the table and watch the ice cubes sway like boats of an amber ocean. “That’s certainly an idea.” He said neutrally. “I would need to talk to Edgar before making that decision.” Miran had so far been avoiding Edgar, ashamed as he was and not wanting to bother the man while he mourned his wife. 

The more he thought about it though, the more he couldn’t ignore the idea, however much he might want to. He glanced down, and sighed. “But say hypothetically, I do pivot in that direction... Wouldn’t it seem a bit... I dunno, obvious--? That I’m trying to deflect away from my own fuck up?”

[miranforpresident]

taintedvalentine​:

currently playing in the background of pomegran(ate): nocturnal waltz by johannes bornlof.

As her hand steadies, she holds her breath. It was never unusual for valentine to be covered in some sort of confection. In this case, it was flour. Her masterpiece began to take shape early in the morning after she gathered herself. Her works were usually dramatic in nature, but this was a homage to humanity’s suffering. Cleaning up red food coloring splattered on the emerald themed counter would be fairly easy. Yet, she stared out into the puddles of the tasteless liquid. A beautiful and imperfect disaster. She was to be presented in some hipster paper. She had only told Noelle ; her lucky charm.

For once this life would be hers. Convincingly.  From behind, a familiar voice can be heard. Shoot. She appears in front of the counter in a flash with a macabre look. Lifting her red stained hands she pauses for a moment. Something is not right. “Hey Miran…” She gently dusts herself off before slowly gracing her hands with some gloves. “I didn’t hear the door. Francesqua is off for today.” Gently lifting her hand out to grab a piece of Torrone her eyes fixate on Miran. “Oh yeah? Busy day ahead of you?” A gentle smile forms as she grabs a bottle of honey. 

.

For a moment Miran thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, until he realized the red staining Valentine’s hands and forearms was simply food coloring. The sight made him smile, and he felt a rush of fondness for the woman behind the counter. 

“Do I even want to know what you’re doing back there?” He mused, glancing to the kitchen. Miran smiled wider. “Y’know, I think I do want to know. It’s not every day you see your friendly neighborhood baker drenched in red.”

When she finished preparing the pastry, he took the to-go bag and rolled it closed tightly. Miran handed her his credit card and chuckled dryly. “A busy day is one way to call it. But with these pastries and a good attitude, I’m sure I’ll get through it. -- How have you been anyways? It’s been a hectic few weeks for the entire city.”

[miranforpresident]

seungseuls​:

✧･ﾟ*

Well, Iseul had never promised Miran that in her company he’d have a good time; that much was certain. Still, he was enough of a friend that Iseul would lend him her ears in earnest— she lost nothing by listening to his plight, “lets first see how it goes.”

In truth, she already knows the focus of his concern— in some sense, it’s highly important that she knew these things about the people in his line of work…her own work is always better off for it. When she had first learned of the whole thing, Iseul had felt some sympathy for Miran. Now, the sympathy was not misplaced in the sense that one would forgive his actions; Iseul would not be one of the people to assuage any guilt he may have towards the lies he had spread. But she did feel some pity for the man who made mistakes those ten years ago, if only she pitied his mindset at the time. 

So, she takes a deep breath and tries ( truly tries ) to keep her words from sounding as harsh as they should be. “I…” 

Another deep breath and she tries again, because he’s genuine as he speaks and she does value the sliver of friendship they have. “I want to preface this by saying that I don’t pretend to believe that there is such a thing as clean politics because you’re not the only one whose done something like this, Miran…you wont even be the last…even if your intentions were better than the others. That being said, it’s out there now, you can only face the criticism.”

In her mind, there was no erasing this. As someone who led the largest insurgence in the city, Iseul knew that those looking to strike the tipping point seldom forget these mistakes ( even if there were others out there doing worse things than he ).

“That’s probably not what you wanted to hear,” her words are softer now, “but I can’t think of any other advice to give you. If you’re sure that this is one mistake in a career that is otherwise free from them, then trust that the people who put you in power will forgive you…if you’re earnest. They can smell bullshit, you know?”

Of course, she didn’t expect him to follow her advise blindly…or at all…but Iseul does hope that he’s smart enough to keep from exacerbating the situation. “Or just let it die down if apologies aren’t your thing.” She shrugs and takes another sip of that bitter soft drink.

.

She was right. Clean politics? It was an oxymoron. For all of Miran’s idealistic tendencies, even he wasn’t so foolish as to be blind to the industry he was in. That being said, in those early years... after college, and his very first internship... he used to dream of being better, and of rising above. He never forgot the ills of his childhood. Of the way that the people in charge trampled over their employees, or their citizens. Miran wanted to change that, and he didn’t want to do it with the help of the people creating those problems in the first place. 

That didn’t last long. He never would have even had a shot of winning the seat he now held if it weren’t for the money and donations of those with special interests, and it had been a juggling show ever since. To keep his job, his influence, his ability to spark change... or to keep steadfast to his most deeply held morals. 

Noelle’s words from the night before turned over in his head. He didn’t dare mention to Iseul what they’d discussed, but the idea sat there like a tumor, waiting to be excised. 

Miran let her finish, and when she did he smiled at her. “Thank you, Iseul. I really do appreciate your advice. I’ve never... been in a situation like this. I wanted to consider every option before going forward, and your voice is valued. Really.” He spoke like a true politician, sincere and earnest in each of his words. Of course, he could sound like that even if he didn’t mean it, but that moment he did. 

“I can’t say facing criticism is my strongest point, but I suppose we can all be better at something.” He glanced sideways and waved to the waiter, indicating that he wanted another iced tea. “Anyways, speaking of your voice. How are you doing? After Mr. Rossi’s death?” 

[evrimaksoy]

SPECIAL DELIVERY TO: miran yıldız.​​

LOCATIONS: miran’s office. 

DATE & TIME: monday, november 1st, 11:50pm.

In the last few weeks, the disorder circulating Serena has begun to rest on her hollowed features. With sleep being a rarity, anytime she found herself begin to drift into a slumber, a thought or a responsibility that fluttered to the top of her concious jolts her awake. It’s unfortunate about the lack of sleep she’s been getting, the work performance and the markings on her so-called ‘to-do list’ have minimized. However, those tasks were minuscule compared to the phone call she received from Zahra today. She even went as far as arguing with the other woman. In the end, out of respect for her boss, though irked at her friend, Serena went on her way. Being an errand girl wasn’t what she joined the House of Janus for. On top of that, having to cordially invite Miran Yildiz face-to-face was something she figured she would never have to accomplish, and was find it difficult doing so.

Not literally, of course. Sure, the politician had a decent amount of security, though Serena had learned all too well and all too quickly how to quiet her steps. Mentally, however, well that was a little more difficult to understand. They haven’t seen each other in over a year ; whether it was because Miran became busier and more important or because Serena simply didn’t respond to his texts anymore - that was neither here nor there. 

Not wanting to be seen at the location of Miran’s office, the woman has to rapidly improvise as she hurrying makes it past secuity in the direction toward Miran’s office. She may have been caught by a camera or two, though with a hood covering a decent amount of her features, no one would be able to tell that it’s her. A knuckle knocking against the hefty wooden door and a half-second of waiting out of common courtesy, she enters into space, quietly shutting the door behind her. ❝ Mr. Yildiz, you should be careful about the kind of security you have… ❞ jade-green hues flicker over the reminisce of familiar features of the man who sits behind the large oak desk. ❝ …  because I snuck by your whole security, and I was being lazy about it. ❞

[miranforpresident]

It was close to midnight, but Miran was still in his office. Nor was he the only one. All throughout the Palazzo Vecchio, workaholics remained in their office, neglecting their families and their personal lives. Luckily-- he didn’t have any family to worry about, and his personal life was at the bottom of his priorities. Anyways, he’d gone out to lunch with a friend earlier, so he was socially satisfied. Even so, hours as late as this were unusual for him. But there was work to be done. He’d still yet to make a statement to the press and the clock was running out for him to do so. 

He was settled against the couch along the wall of his office, having long moved away from desk. His laptop was in his lap and opened across the tabs were different news organizations, social media accounts, and his emails. He scrolled through each and felt his insides twist with every bad word said about him. 

When a knock sounded at the door, Miran startled, and nearly dropped his laptop to the floor. There shouldn’t be anyone on this floor at this hour, and security knew to ring his buzzer if they needed him. Who--? His unfinished question was answered a moment later, but that just left him confused even more. 

His stomach fluttered, and he couldn’t tell if the feeling was pleasant, or pained. Miran rose from his seat.

“Serena?” He said her name carefully. It didn’t surprise him that she got past his security. He spared no thought to that little detail. “What are you doing here?” He glanced at his watch. “It’s so late.”

[miranforpresident]

seungseuls​:

  ✧･ﾟ*

Iseul is not so naive as to think the people she operates around will live for the sake of simply living. One lunch begets a favor begets a debt-owed and then suddenly you’re stripped naked of all defenses, finding yourself at the mercy of the malefactor. And while this way of thinking has served her well through the years, every so often she thinks to test the theory. She’s proven wrong nine times out of ten— much to no one’s surprise.

It’s the reason she finds herself at the Trattoria D’Angelo, nursing a glass of some bitter Italian soda that she could never fool herself into enjoying. Life was too bitter to be consuming bitter spirits. And when Miran finally decides to do away with the veneer of ‘sharing a meal with a friend,’ Iseul adds another tally on an ever-growing list.

At the very least, he knows enough of her to end the request at advise. She sets the glass down, thinking to finish it later ( begrudgingly ), and raises a single brow, “Delicious as it is, the meal is only as good as the conversation…”

Iseul doesn’t think to voice that she appreciates the meal, or the company— he should know.

“There isn’t much that I can do…or that I would do, considering…” she makes some motion with her hands, trying to encompass the dichotomies between them, “but please, let me know what’s troubling you and I will try not to mention the fact that these ententes are not viable.”

If he had come to her, willing to divulge his worries and ask her for some form of guidance, Iseul hoped that he had come to her expecting honesty. She was never one to be nice for the sake of it— she’d never delude herself into thinking that there was an ounce of diplomacy in her bones. Whatever it was, she would chastise him if need be. That is the only way that a woman like her could show a man like him that she cared.

.

"Ha, well, this conversation will probably be better for you than it is for me. Lucky day.” He reached across the table for his glass of iced tea, washing away the lunch he’d just eaten. 

While sipping, Miran contemplated his words. Iseul was, by all measures, an odd choice to go to for advice, which was precisely the reason that he was here. He wondered sometimes: were they more alike than they were different? Or was it the other way around? Sure, they resided in different houses. Warring houses... he thought idly, setting his glass back on the tablecloth. But that never seemed to matter too much. Miran cleared his throat. 

“I don’t know if you’ve seen the news. About, er, me.” His voice was unusually stiff. 

In general, Miran prided himself on his charisma. He navigated a conversation with an ease that only a shipwright might feel on the clearest, windiest day. It was one facet of everything that made him the perfect face for the public. “Lying. Ten years ago.” He was clearly uncomfortable, loathe to admit to his own mistakes. 

“It was for a good cause.” Now came the rush to defend himself. “My opponent wasn’t sufficiently... forward thinking, to phrase it that way. I was young. New. I had bigger, better ideas. And so I made up lies about them. And now the press knows, and my name is all over the news, and... yeah.” 

Miran rubbed at his face, and sniffed. “So, uh, I wanted to ask your advice. About what I should do. I trust your judgement, Iseul.” Mostly, anyways. They did live in a commune, after all. “How do I fix this?”

[miranforpresident]

noellepersaud​:

Burning the midnight oil is as second nature to Noelle as the act of breathing. A work ethic that draws not from passion, but blinding ambition. The prime real estate beneath her feet may have been coined an inheritance, but it’s as much a curse. Leave it to the estranged family to weigh her down with their bleeding ledgers, and call her a leech unlike any other. The grand desk is piled high with scattered papers, two large monitors, and a litter of cups of coffee. Organized chaos, just as she likes it.

But tonight, she is not the one caught in the eye of a storm. That privilege is reserved for her white knight, whose armor of kindness is tarnished by the break of a scandal. With Mercury as the word of unabashed truth - news of his scandal reaches her ears first. It’s a hell of a story - Florence’s own version of AOC falling from grace on the heels of a scandal. Only more humorous, when his climb is paved by the gold from Noelle’s deep pockets.

Even if the irony is humorous to her, there’s a moment of sympathy that crosses her face. Like it or not, Miran is forged of the branch as herself. Everything he has is earned by the skin of his teeth. To almost lose it? Well. Even Noelle is not so transactional, that she would not meet his eye from behind the monitor with a nod of acknowledgement. “We make the news. So yes, I did.” She pauses for a moment, then adds; “Sorry to hear it.”

She nods mindlessly to the bar cart, lined with everything from scotch to vodka. “Fix me one, too.” Noelle leans back against her office chair, tilting the monitor to face him - The People’s Prick. “I spent at least a quarter of a million Euros on your election campaign. Now, far be it for me to throw our agreement in your face… But I think I explicitly said - don’t fuck it up.” She extends her hand for the drink, expectant eyes of harsh disapproval.

“And then you went and fucked it up.”

.

The headline rankles. Burns, even. Festers and blisters and chafes against his pride. Miran busied himself with pouring their drinks. To Noelle’s credit -- she had good alcohol. He surveyed his options, deciding in the end on a bottle of Arbelour. According to the bottle is was fifteen years old. Perfect, he thought bitter. Perhaps too aggressively in his movements, Miran poured a glass for himself and for Noelle. He dropped two cubes of ice in each, rough enough that one might think he had a personal vendetta against the ice cubes themselves. 

The chair on the other side of her desk was plush and inviting. He sat and leaned over to set her tumbler of scotch in front of her. 

“The People’s Prick...” He muttered under his breath. The scotch burned on the way down, but it was of a pleasant sort. He worried for years that something like this might happen. But as one year slipped into two slipped into five, and then ten... well, he thought it was forgotten. 

“Oh cut the shit, Noelle. You helped me fuck it up.” Miran snapped, reaching up to rub his face. The gesture was tired and weary. He paused a moment, taking a breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have cursed. But my point stands. You helped me turn those lies into truth. It was your money that bankrolled the television ads about them.” 

Another sip of scotch down. “I didn’t come here to talk about that, anyways. What’s done is done.” And though he knew there was no use dwelling about the past, he knew that he would anyways. “What should I do about it? Give a speech? Ignore it? I want your help to...” He trailed off, picking his words. “Unfuck it up.”

[miranforpresident]

WHO: Miran Yildiz and Sunghee Iseul @seungseuls​ WHEN: Monday, November 1st, 2021. 1:45PM WHERE: Trattoria D'Angelo

Lunch was delicious. He’d ordered the lunch special: a juicy lamb shank. It’d been slow-cooked for eight hours according to the server, and was infused with fresh rosemary and sage. Served beside it  were smooth mashed potatoes and char-grilled, crispy asparagus, topped with a tangy golden-brown glaze. It was a meal he would not soon forget. 

Miran pushed back his plate and set his fork down, looking across the table at Iseul. He’d offered to take her to lunch under the guise of friendship, but there were ulterior motives at play. Miran was in a bit of a crisis. Eight years ago... or was is ten...? At any point, a long time ago, during his second campaign for local office, he’d told a lie (a few of them, actually) about an opponent. He had gone so far even as to enlist a financial backer to help him with his charade. “Witnesses” were bought off, negative ads were ran... etc. 

He wasn’t proud of it. But it’d got him to where he was today. Truly making a difference. 

Unfortunately, the news of his past digressions had come to light. He was being blasted daily by the opposing political party, and with his reelection approaching, he couldn’t afford it. 

“Delicious lunch, right?” He said happily, maintaining the same happy mood he had for the earlier portion of their meal. “I appreciate you letting me take you out.” He took a sip of his water. “But as nice as this has been, I brought you here because I wanted to ask for your advice.”

[miranforpresident]

WHO: Miran Yildiz and Valentine Garcia  WHEN: Monday, November 1st. 7:24am. (Before invitations are sent out) WHERE: Pomegran(ate) Bakery

For as sweet as Valentine could be, the bakery she kept was surprisingly… shifty -- for lack of a better word. The building itself was beautiful, and the treats within were some of his favorites, but he was not a stranger to the whispers and rumors that shrouded the small business. He didn’t like to think that Valentine could be wrapped up in such a venture, but he knew better than anyone how easy it could be to find yourself in an unsavory situation. 

It was early that Monday morning. Miran would be headed to the office soon. Another busy day of dealing with the sour headlines that followed him over most of the weekend. Corrupt. Liar. Untrustworthy. He usually stopped by most mornings to grab one treat or another. As a child he never could indulge his sweet tooth, but he’d more than made up for that in adulthood. Not to mention it gave him a chance to see Valentine, a mutual friend of himself and Noelle. Though he held a grudging sort of respect for Noelle, he was the first to admit that he enjoyed Valentine’s company much more. 

“Good morning...” He drawled, voice as chipper and bright as the morning sun outside. There was no hint of stress on his face as he stepped up to counter to meet Valentine. “Fancy seeing you here. -- Can I get a... Torrone? With honey drizzled over the top? Maybe two, actually. I’ll need the extra sugar today.”

[miranforpresident]

WHO: Miran Yildiz and Noelle Persaud @noellepersaud​ WHEN: Sunday, October 31st, 2021. (A day before the event. Also Halloween.) WHERE: The Grand Cavour Hotel, Noelle’s penthouse suite.

“We need to talk. Can I come in?” He said, once the door opened.

The penthouse was opulent in its splendor. Years and years ago, such luxury would startle him, generate envy and awe -- but he’d grown used to it by now. Miran glanced down at the Breitling watch that decorated his left wrist. “Sorry. I know it’s late. But it’s important. Have you seen the news?”

For much of the last few days, Miran had toiled in regret over his life choices, the good and the bad that led him to the life he had now. By all measurable factors, he had achieved success. He was a winning politician with devoted followers and proven victories to his name. He was able to help more people now than he ever could before. How many lives were improved by his work? Hundreds? Thousands? It was hard to say. There was so much good to be done, and if he’d helped ten thousand then he knew that there were ten thousand more waiting for a hand to lift them up. That was what he was here for, and the people loved him for it. 

Until that damn reporter broke the story, anyways. And was it truly all that bad? Sure, he’d lied, but didn’t people expect that from their politicians -- even the good ones? He’d done more for the people than the opponent he’d slandered. Miran wasn’t typically a proponent of the ends justifying the means, but there were exceptions for everything.

Take Noelle, for example. She was his greatest exception. Noelle was a series of bad choices with the potential to spoil all the good he’d done. Miran hoped that the news of Ervig and Lorelei’s would cast a shadow of his own scandal, but it was clear that wasn’t the case. 

“Additionally--” He ran a hand through his hair, which was more mussed than usual, “may I trouble you for a drink?”

[kourtwrites]

[quotemadness]

Something had caught fire within me, a purpose had revealed itself.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky (via quotemadness)

[kourtwrites]