redacted.

SAMIR KOTECHA.  POWER.  WAR.

[samirkotecha-archived]

JEONG KYUNG-SOON​:

She wonders if this is what normal feels like - if this is what the people of London experience everyday, carefree and unaware of the dark underbelly of the city: oblivious to the cisterns running red with blood beneath cobblestone and concrete. She wonders if this is what her normal might’ve been like, had she not gotten caught up in Famine, had they not twisted her arm and bent her will to theirs. The thought is brief but her smile falters ever so slightly until Samir speaks, and she tips her head back to look up at him, brows furrowed. “I think you’re not thinking about it enough.” But Ky’s smiling and she doesn’t really mind his gentle critique. 

Kyung-Soon is nothing if not analytical, observing and making sense of the world around her in an organized fashion. But his example has her arching a brow now, turning around in his arms, “okay see –– not that I’ve never heard. Are you sure you’re not more of a conspiracy theorist than you’re letting on?” She laughs at the mention of every episode and reaches up, brushing a stray strand of hair from his temple, “is this your way of telling me you’ve seen the entirety of Rugrats, Sammy?” said with a gentle teasing grin before turning to move back up in the queue as another pair walk away with their drinks. “I don’t think I’ve ever watched every episode of a single show,” Ky admits, her TV habits abysmal at best, save for the Korean dramas her mother liked to watch when she visited. 

The light brush of her fingertips to his temple catches Samir off-guard; he’s not used to being touched like this, not anymore, not the easy, idle affections that carry no ulterior motives and no base instinct to do harm. He’s positive he doesn’t deserve it, least of all thanks to the fact that he’s wrapped himself up in lies to get here -- or rather, unwrapped the lies he’s grown so used to wearing. The more time passed the more he couldn’t afford to get hung up on what was real and what wasn’t, least of all now, when the realest thing he had to focus on was the easy smile of the woman in front of him.

“Not every episode. You don’t have to see them all to know she isn’t in all of them. Besides, one of my foster families wouldn’t even let me watch it because they said it was harmful for my development. The whole show is about kids disobeying their parents with dangerous behavior and zero consequences.” Samir grinned as they reached the window, knowing better than to pull the so-called ‘gentlemanly’ move and letting Kyung-Soon pay for her own drink before he purchased his.

“You’ve never watched a show through to the end?” Samir couldn’t help an amused incredulity as they drew away from the stall and wove back into the crowd, keeping close to Ky with his free hand settled comfortably at her waist. Comfortable, effortless; he knew he didn’t deserve this. “Nothing’s ever grabbed you hard enough that you want to know what happens? Or is it that you get impatient and skip ahead?” A stupid, inane fact to know about someone, but Samir genuinely wanted to know. It was information he was gathering only for himself, only because he wanted to know the answer. No one else needed to, and there was a strange sort of freedom and selfishness in that for him.

[samirkotecha-archived]

LIAM GRIFFITHS​:

Liam picked at the crust of his pizza idly as he considered Samir’s question. There was really no delicate way to put the answer, no way to make it seem any less unpleasant than it was in actuality. “Well, they basically just told us to shoot up the front of the place like madmen without regard for who came out the doors. People from Pestilence or not,” he took a sip from his beer, “all, presumably, a distraction, for a plan that completely fell apart from more than one angle.” 

“’Reactive’ seems a bit right,” he said, thinking about the lives of the innocent that had been lost with uncaring judgment, all for nothing. It was a waste, really. And that wasn’t even counting the further worries he had. “Between you in me, I’m not sure it really was thought through. Success or failure, both results bore numerous consequences I don’t think were entirely considered or acknowledged.” Liam rarely took an active role in the execution of War’s wrath, more often entrenched in the aftermath, and quite honestly he rather hated that of all times he had been told to be involved, it was in a plan lacking the foundation to carry it through to fruition. 

Samir had to have a natural talent for schooling his expression and his reactions, and he was thankful for that now as a shock of rage burned neatly through his chest, manifesting only in the tightening of his jaw. He shouldn’t be surprised. He knew he shouldn’t, because he knew what he’d signed up for. But hearing it stated so plainly and the orders being given to someone who so obviously didn’t share the same bloodlust as a number of their contingent, well. It was a fucking bucket of ice water to the face. War had no sympathy for collateral damage, and apparently just as little sympathy for those they asked to cause it.

“That’s fucked up,” Samir stated plainly, not about to keep that opinion to himself just for the sake of playing War’s good little soldier. “That’s really fucked up, considering the fact it didn’t even work.” Maybe it worked in terms of besmirching PEST’s reputation, but Samir wondered if the PR turnaround would be swift and practiced. Maybe even sensationalized and capitalized on.

He really didn’t care to afford those details more thought than they were worth right now, focusing instead on his friend across the countertop. “Did you kill anyone?” he asked quietly, gingerly, then added: “Have you killed anyone?” Just because it was the stock initiation ritual for a number of Powers in their ranks didn’t mean it was the universal standard, and Samir figured due to the uniqueness of Liam’s work, there were other ways he could’ve been bound irreparably to War. It also meant Samir could recognize Liam as no stranger to death and the fallout it leaves behind, which meant one of two things: he was either uncommonly used to and comfortable with the idea of causing death, or he was more sensitive to it than most, with such an intimate relationship with what’s left behind. If Samir cared to wager, his bets would fall towards the latter.

[samirkotecha-archived]

WREN LIGHTFOOT​:

While their questions about Zach and Nico had been more an excuse to sit down than a true interest in their well being, Wren is glad to hear that Nico is doing okay. “That’s enough.” And they suppose it is. They lost all right to know what was going on in his life when they broke up with him, and lost it again that night of the anniversary. “Thank you.” There’s a genuine relief that makes their shoulders less tense, a breath of air falling from their lips.

What changed, Samir asks. What has changed, of course, that the Power across from them seemed to be more than fun, clumsy and stumbling, but someone capable of torture. But that’s hardly an answer they’ll give.

“Well, for one … you’re not trespassing a few hours after the truce broke, tonight.” Wren gives a small smile, as if they’re recounting a fond memory, an inside joke of the pair. “I don’t know, my head was a fucking mess that night.” And Samir must have noticed, with those still-drying tears on their cheek, the way they had clung to those stolen cigarettes as if they were a lifeline. “But you had the chance to overpower me and get whatever you wanted out of me, and I had the chance to call the dogs on you and we both did neither of those things.” Because they both know that Samir is stronger, more experienced, quite capable of overpowering someone. Wren has seen his handiwork firsthand. “Counts for something, doesn’t it?” This isn’t a war between Powers and Angels, besides. Wren and Samir are both not tied to these crime families by blood or high ranks, but mere pawns in their war. They more than he, even. 

They push their glass back and forth, a nervous habit they don’t fight to suppress. “And you fucked up Ikki.” They mumble those words and look at the glass, as if they’re afraid to be treacherous. And these words would be treacherous, if Wren meant them completely, if this hadn’t been Ikki’s idea to start with. “I … he’s, well. You met him. Working for him isn’t a walk in the park, so him being forced to work from home … well, it’s a reprieve, I guess. And then, of course, what he did to Nico —” That Wren was truly angry about, and they hope it shows. “Can’t say shit about that, or feel shit about that, but it’s been … you know, this fucking thing that I can’t ignore. I don’t know. I guess …” Wren blows out a breath of confused air, frustrated with the incoherent way they speak. Their voice grows smaller again, “What I’m getting at is a … thank you?”

They take a long drink from their glass, placing it down and letting it rest. They pull back their hands, fold them under the table. “Sorry. I’m rambling. I mean, a lot has fucking changed and I feel like I’m still playing catch-up.” Wren shrugs. “I’m not saying I trust you. I don’t trust most people. But I also don’t think you’re out to hurt me. And you’re also the only one who knows, about Nico and I, as far as I know.”

Samir falls quiet and lets Wren say their piece, hand settled at the base of the pint glass they’d bought him but not yet taking another drink. He hadn’t managed to form too complete an impression of Wren, not between their brief but awkward meeting at the truce anniversary (made more awkward by Samir’s ostensible state of drunkenness) and the bits and pieces he’d learned filtered through the tightly-woven sieve of Nico’s reticence. He’s still not sure what to make of them now, except that he’s pretty sure they’re not usually so talkative. Nerves work through their fingertips to fidget on top of the table, reminiscent of the cigarette cloud hanging heavy in the air the night the truce broke. There is an odd hint of camaraderie there, the sort that brings victims together in the wake of a shared trauma. Maybe it does count for something.

‘And you fucked up Ikki.’ Samir’s eyebrows creep higher, but still he doesn’t interject. There’s a lot to parse and unpack in what follows; Famine is notoriously tight-knit, but maybe that’s a benefit reserved for those with the most comfortable seats of power. Considering his relationship with Rita, Samir can both understand and appreciate the sense of not getting along with your own Dominion. He just wouldn’t expect Wren to air that grievance to an enemy, except for the fact that, yeah: they’ve both got their fair share of residual fury for what Ikki did to Nico at the Thames. Samir just had more fury for it than he cared to admit, fury that’d spilled over well enough to be noticeable. He drew a small breath and knew he had to be more careful in the future -- always more careful, never less.

Wren comes to a self-aware rambling close, and Samir still hasn’t interrupted. He nods faintly when Wren points out they don’t trust him; an acknowledgement and a reciprocation. Mutual ties to Nico mean little here. Whatever illusion of camaraderie they formed not targeting each other that night on the Femenias Estate meant even less.

“Well, you’re right about a couple of things, most important ones being that yeah, you shouldn’t trust me, but yeah, I’m not out to hurt you.” Samir tipped back in his chair, an easy slouch that still allowed him to drum long fingertips on the tabletop.

“But I can’t lie, a thank-you for fucking up your boss is kind of hilarious to me,” Samir points out with a lopsided smile of amusement, only broken as he brings his glass up to take a sip. “I had permission to kill him, for the record.” Not a secret, Samir figures as he sets his glass back down, nor necessarily a surprise, but he’s curious how the statement will land anyway. Wren will be left to speculate as to the reasons why he didn’t kill Ikki, because ‘I didn’t want to fill out the governmental paperwork’ has to be kept to himself. “But I’m not exactly for hire, so if you want him out of your hair permanently, I guess you’ll have to wait a little longer.”

A lazy shrug punctuates his statement, surveying Wren across the table. “Is that really it? You wanted to buy me a drink for injuring your boss and then ask how your friends are doing?” Samir didn’t know what else to expect, since running into Wren was so thoroughly unexpected to begin with.

[samirkotecha-archived]

text ➝ SK: [ reads text but doesn't respond ].

[lifeinpoetry]

“When has blood ever stopped men? Why would it?”

— — Airea D. Matthews, from “Letters to My Would-Be Lover on Geometry and Ponds,” Simulacra

[samirkotecha-archived]

text ➝ SK: Odd is kind of an understatement

text ➝ SK: Yeah, no worse for wear

text ➝ SK: Better than the last time we saw each other

text ➝ KJ: Okay. Good. Glad to hear it.

[ some time passes and it may be safe to assume he's ended the conversation, but eventually; ]

text ➝ KJ: Be careful out there. And if you need me, you can always reach out.

[samirkotecha-archived]

KASHVI SINGH​:

It’s sink or swim now, truly. As their underworld falls deeper and deeper into war, it will become clear who is cut out for the task and who is not — Kashvi has a feeling that Samir is. It’s good, to have people from different walks of life among the ranks, she reflects. People who haven’t grown up in the seat of luxury with silver spoons in their mouth, who know the nooks and crannies of London better than she might. 

“Nor is it mine. That’s what we pay construction workers for, hm?” Overseeing it all is right up her alley, of course, but Kashvi prefers to delegate most heavy lifting. She nods. “But good to know. I refuse to have a messy arsenal, so maybe I’ll pick your brain for organisation tips.” 

The gun is slipped in her coat pocket for now, and she leaves the storage unit, looking at Samir as he locks up. “Thanks, Samir. I appreciate it.” The words are sincere, as is the smile on her lips. “And the same goes for you, if there’s anything you need …” She mirrors his shrug, letting the rest of the sentence hang in the air. “We have to stick together, now more than ever.”

END.

[samirkotecha-archived]

zhangrita​:​

Having Samir as the latest addition to her security detail wasn’t all bad. For example, he came in very useful when she needed someone to hold her purse or push a shopping cart. Though she might have wanted Remus to pick someone whose conversation she enjoyed more, at the end of the day Rita knew this assignment wasn’t for her pleasure, but her ( and their future child’s ) protection. Their current mission was to obtain the necessary ingredients for dinner as Rita had not abandoned her culinary education, merely scaled if back after countless failures. 

Tonight’s menu included yet another French classic: Boeuf Bourguignon. She lingered at the butcher’s counter to get his tips on cooking method and red wine substitutes now that they were living in a sober household. Any commotion of the movie star went unnoticed by the woman so used to rubbing elbows with the rich and famous and who’d been tirelessly hounded by press these past months. Samir had moved on to do whatever it is he felt necessary to keep herself in the situation and when she’d finished her conversation, Rita moved through the aisles to find him. 

The sight that greeted was very much a surprise: Kyung-Soon and Samir standing close enough for what one might call an intimate conversation. His hand even holds onto her briefly, though in a move that appears he’s playing knight in shining armor. “Kyung-Soon, fancy seeing you here,” she greets as she places the cubed steak into the cart, newly returned wedding ring gleaming on her finger. Eyes slide between the two of them as continues. Samir should have enough sense in him to not draw his weapon at the sight of a mere Angel, though the expression on his face seems less lethal and more concerned. Aww how sweet, he was worried about Rita running into a gang member in her condition. Or maybe what her husband would say. 

@kyungxsoon​

She blinks at Samir for a beat, his words causing brows to knit together in question, as if asking Rita? But she expertly schools her features a fraction of a second later, collected disposition in place once more as she takes a half a step back. Ky’s just put some distance between them when she hears another familiar voice and glances at Rita with a friendly smile. “Rita, hi.” Eyes catch on the ring adorning her finger and she figures the rumors must be true them. Happiness in paradise once more. She’s never put much stock in tabloid or gossip and figured the truth would out one way or another, either with a finalized divorce or this. “I see congratulations are in order,” said sincerely, glad that her friend and her husband have seemingly reconciled. 

If she’s hyper aware of Samir’s presence less than a meter away, she doesn’t say, instead focusing on her friend. Whatever questions Kyung-Soon has about his presence there, with Rita Zhang of all people, are tucked away for another time as she moves aside briefly for a passing individual. “And a thanks, actually. Your gift was a lovely surprise, and incredibly unnecessary.” The emerald necklace was still in its velvet box on her bureau, yet to be worn but added to her growing collection of fine jewelry. 

Ky tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear before adding, “I was sorry to hear about Juno,” she offers by way of condolences, the news cycle focusing on the disappearance of the Warden heir for days now.  She and Juno may not have been best friends, but they helped each other out years ago, both getting ahead with the assistance of the other, so it only makes sense to offer her sympathies, even in the middle of a Notting Hill market. It’s unlikely she’d have another opportunity with how severely lines were drawn now, the attacks a few days ago setting everyone on edge.

@samirkotecha​

Some of the tension between Samir’s shoulder blades unspools as Kyung-Soon and Rita address each other and, thank god, seem to be on congenial terms. He was hardly expecting to have to throw down in a crowded, upscale grocery store, but the fact that the two of them are not only civil but apparently friendly is still a relief. Samir allows himself the briefest of moments to scan Ky’s features -- calm and collected, as always -- before turning his attention outwards again and allowing himself to fade to the periphery of their conversation.

Pleasantries are exchanged and Samir files his new understanding of their relationship neatly away, even as he splits his interest between listening in and focusing on the people milling around the three of them. Kyung-Soon mentions Juno and his eyes flicker back to Rita’s face, looking for any sort of reaction. If there was one thing his newly minted appointment as Rita Zhang’s personal escort afforded him, it was a seemingly direct line to news about the missing Warden Seraphim. The trouble was, that information seemed as scant (or nonexistent) as any leads on who carried out the bombings to begin with.

@zhangrita​

[samirkotecha-archived]

REMUS WARDEN​:

Putting himself in the other man’s shoes, Remus can understand the clear hesitancy Samir holds, confusion twisting his face even as he attempts to hide it under subordination. It’s important to offer only slow crumbs of information about the task at hand at first, keeping the quiet word of another Warden child on the way protected from the gang at large. Remus has his own reservations about looping another person in; if this were any other couple’s first pregnancy, he and Rita would be waiting weeks longer to tell anyone but each other. Gang war turns terroristic, sister is abducted, and lines of succession fall into play, making it more important than ever to protect his family, however small their size.

The answer is lackluster, leaving something to be desired from the Power. “Good?” Remus furrows his brows. “I hope you’re being modest, Kotecha.” The last thing Remus wants is to go higher up in chain of command, forcing a Virute or Dominion’s hand, busying them with simple security detail ( however high priority Rita’s protection is, War will suffer if one of their highest ranking members is pulled off to another direction ). Knuckles tap against table, weighing out the options at hand before Remus decides to continue on. “It’s about Rita.” he starts, Samir’s own Dominion, a clear reason for picking him as her personal guard, “with Juno being fucking abducted, leaving us sat here with no witnesses or leads, I’ve decided I want someone at my wife’s side twenty-four-fucking-seven.” A brief pause. “For you, it’ll be more like, twelve-five, as you’d be taking the lead on security measures anywhere she needs to go during the day. When she’s at home, our private team will take over.”

At first it might seem like overkill, Remus painted as little more than a paranoid husband irrationally worrying over the destruction of London ( which is definitely reason enough for concern ), but Samir needs to understand the severity of their changing situation. “When you’re with her, protecting her life will be your top priority.” Hands fold together, resting on top of his desk. “Her life and our child’s.” Remus’ eyes meet Samir’s, steady and searching for any small reaction. “She’s pregnant. That’s the part that I need you to keep your mouth fucking shut about.” And now that Remus has spilled the news there’s no refusing the part. “As a personal thank you, I’ll be glad to up your pay to the maximum salary for a Power and will happily recommend you for a promotion, should a Virtue position open up again.”

Samir is, of course, an exceptional actor -- but none of the assumptions he’d made or boxes he’d filled in of his own volition on the way to War HQ had come anywhere close to the truth Remus now tells him.

“Oh,” he blurts out, mouth briefly ajar before he shuts it again with a nearly-audible click of his teeth. Already Samir’s mind is reeling with this new knowledge, the implications, the potential; it settles in his gut like a stone, much like he imagines it’s settled in Remus’, if he’s going through the trouble of recruiting a Power to look after Rita all day, every day. The ask is simultaneously a boon and a burden: Samir doesn’t relish the loss of the majority of his freedom, not with MI5 breathing down his neck for updates, but if he can work on getting closer to Rita -- something he’s patently avoided up until now -- it may give him a different sort of edge.

That is, of course, to say nothing of the subsequent offer: a Virtue position. Samir’s conversation with Rita before the docks operation comes to mind, considering that was the exact position he’d claimed to have ambition for. Granted, with only Virtue and Dominion directly overhead, it was a fifty-fifty split between the options -- but Samir has to wonder if the newly renewed husband and wife had discussed that particular aspect and knew it’d be the offer with the best motivation.

That being said, it doesn’t really matter: Samir knows he can’t refuse, for a multitude of reasons. This is a direct order from Seraphim to Power, for starters, the first Samir has received. In no world could he politely decline and expect to walk out of Remus’ office with the knowledge he now holds. For a moment he genuinely wonders if this means they think he can be trusted, or if circumstances with Juno have truly forced their hands and Samir is the most benign of all options. But again, it doesn’t matter. Whatever their reasoning is, he may never know and he doesn’t dare ask. All he can do is accept.

And maybe some of the rationalizing is to cover for himself the simple fact that, yeah: ultimately, a Virtue position is what he wants. A step upwards and a step further into the belly of the beast. For better or worse.

“No, absolutely. I can handle this.” Samir knows he can’t backtrack and hype up his capabilities now that he’d already tried to underplay them, so he settles for a change of tack. “She’s my Dominion. Would’ve taken a bullet for her even before this.” He wouldn’t die for her, but that’s an elaboration to skirt around. “Whatever you or she needs, I’m there.” Samir nods resolutely. Nothing in his eyes betrays any measure of the reeling thoughts as he continues to chew on the implications of this assignment.

“Oh, and, uh. Congratulations?” he adds, with all appropriate measures of awkwardness.

[samirkotecha-archived]

text ➝ SK: Seems odd but idk I'm no detective

text ➝ SK: [unsent] Are you asking if I'm safe?

text ➝ SK: Yeah, fine. Guess other places were more visible targets

text ➝ SK: But just wanted to check in I guess.

text ➝ SK: I'll let you get back to...whatever it is you do.

text ➝ KJ: No, it's pretty damn odd. Everything about this is odd.

text ➝ KJ: Yeah -- thank you. For checking. You okay? Ribs, hand?

[samirkotecha-archived]

JEONG KYUNG-SOON​:

MARCH FOURTH || FOOD MARKET, NOTTING HILL @samirkotecha​ & @zhangrita​​

It’s 2021 and nowhere in London has mastered the art of hot air to cold weather attire ratio. Kyung-Soon figures she’ll grab a few items to drop at home before heading to work but regrets her decision to wear a scarf with the hot air blasting through the vents. It’s March but London weather still bites with the chill of winter. Still, she unfurls her scarf, stuffing it into her bag as she continues down the aisles. With how busy things have been, she’s rarely at her flat anyway but the past mornings, she’s lamented the lack of fresh fruit or good tea. It’s the only reason she’s decided to brave the late afternoon rush at a local high-end food market. 

It seems to be made even worse by the fact that some celebrity filming nearby has decided to do their daily shop at the same exact time. She isn’t quite sure who it is, her media consumption abysmal by most standards, but she thinks she hears the name Jake thrown around, some girl sobbing on the phone to her mum about how he winked at her before security shuffled her and her crying away. Jake Hallsomething? 

No, that’s not it, she thinks, as she puts a bag of pasta in her basket. Jake Ginglesomething? She wonders if Wren would know and pulls out her phone to text them before hesitating. Their last conversation somewhat tense due to recent developments. Kyung-Soon decides to just ask them when she sees them next and stuffs her phone back into her coat pocket. She’s turning the corner to the aisle full of sauces ( though she’s not sure why they wouldn’t have pasta and pasta sauces near each other ) and nearly knocks into someone coming from the opposite direction. Stopping short, she takes a half step back, apology dying on her lips when she sees who it is. 

“Sam…” she blinks, surprised to see him here. It’s been two weeks since he helped her and…well, since that night, there have been more than a few questions on her mind. But beyond a short text to see if he was okay ( against her better judgement ), there hasn’t been time to talk. Especially not with her recent promotion to Power. “Hi?” Small smile on her lips indicate a less hostile reception to seeing him than the past few times they’ve crossed paths but the slight furrow of her brow asks the question she’s not, what are you doing here? Sure, a food market is a public place, but last she knew, Samir didn’t live in the area. Maybe he’d happened upon this specific market once and found he really liked their homemade bread or something. And Ky has to admit, it is good bread. 

It hasn’t even been 24 hours and already Samir’s patience is wearing thin with this assignment. The last few days had been largely but unsurprisingly fruitless in turning up information on the attacks, mostly because no one seemed to fucking know anything. The pressure Dhruvi was putting on him no doubt came from higher up the food chain, but it left Samir no less frustrated with her calls and messages. It was even more difficult now glued to Rita Zhang’s side as her de facto bodyguard, a task he was powerless to refuse but had yet to turn into anything useful.

Now, they’re crammed into a Notting Hill market that feels oddly familiar, but Samir doesn’t have the wherewithal to dig deeper into that deja vu when apparently there’s some celebrity on the premises as well. The aisles are littered with people trying to sneak a peek, and despite Samir’s every gentle attempt to suggest otherwise, Rita is still intent and insistent on traversing the shelves. Jaw clenched and teeth close to grinding, there isn’t much Samir can do except obey.

They’re in the supplement aisle now, and the basket hooked at Samir’s elbow is getting heavier by the minute. A man lurks nearby with his cellphone out to snap surreptitious pictures, and Samir breaks away for a moment to encourage him to find another space to do so with a meaningful glare and a hand planted firmly against his chest. Adjusting his coat in an attempt to keep the holster nestling his firearm just behind his ribs well enough concealed, Samir is half-distracted when he starts to round the corner and nearly collides with a familiar face.

“Ky,” he blurts out, likewise defaulting to nickname in his surprise. His hand had automatically found her arm to steady her, a touch he instinctively lets linger with a brief squeeze before being mindful enough to drop his hand. “I’m-- here with Rita,” Samir adds quickly. An explanation and a warning.

@zhangrita​

[samirkotecha-archived]

REMUS WARDEN​:

WAR HQ, REMUS’ OFFICE / THE THIRD OF MARCH / @samirkotecha​

If they’d all thought the truce breaking meant an unstable world, how naive they’d been, protected by a blanket of past ignorance. All of War are truly unprepared for the onslaught of chaos that results from the wreckage of their warehouse being bombed, some hidden culprit now made into yet unnamed nemesis. Are he and Rita cruel for thinking they could still somehow raise a child amongst all this? Worst of all, in the panic of the explosion, Juno is missing — between fucking rage and grief over the loss Remus fears that the news of a Warden baby breaking will do nothing but paint a large target on Rita’s back, too. The news is kept close, clutched tight to their chests, told only to family and the closest of inner circles to the couple, as it’s much too early to spread word further than that. But now with the bombing, Remus falters on the original plan. What fucking good is any position of power if he can’t use it to protect who he loves most?

It’s easy enough to circle in on Samir on his mental list of candidates, a practised and proven member of Rita’s own crew. Impressive performance in their latest operation catches Remus’ eye above others within War, considering his run in with Ikki, how he takes down Dominion single-handedly, abandoning him on rooftop to be pecked at by birds and eventually, fellow Famine scum ( it’s presumed, since the fucker makes it out alive to be captured on news cameras covering the bombing). Sat across from the Power in question, Remus clicks off of computer and slides glasses off face, attention peeled away from whatever else he’d been working on before Samir makes his appearance — “Thanks for coming on such short notice.” Pleasantries first, though business with Remus moves fast; once he makes his mind up on something, he has trouble focusing on anything else before the task is complete. 

Hand motions for Samir to sit down. “I’ll cut to the chase. I have an urgent security concern that’s been brought to my attention, and I need someone to help me take care of it,” he starts, keen to watch reaction unfold before the severity of the issue is revealed. Before he willingly trusts Samir Kotecha with the explicit protection of his wife, he has a few questions he wants to ask. “I think you might be the man for the job, but I want to make sure you’re prepared for the task at hand.” Remus furrows his eyebrows. “How’s your aim? Don’t bullshit me, either. I need to know you’ll be able to handle any potential threats long before they’re within striking range.” Perhaps more importantly, he asks, “are you able to use discretion when protecting confidential information?”

For all his years of battle-readiness, there’s still an inevitable twist of nerves in Samir’s gut to be summoned largely out of the blue by a Seraphim. He’s purposefully danced around Juno and Remus for years, not difficult as a low-ranked Angel and still fairly doable as an early-tenure Power, even as he worked to get closer to Saint. Logic, at least, dictates that they probably have more to worry about right now than rooting out a dissembler in their ranks. Still: there’s a faint, clawing sense of ‘what if’ in the back of Samir’s skull as he makes his way through the largely inhospitable corridors of War’s headquarters to Remus’ office.

The perfunctory greeting is returned with a quick nod, and Samir doesn’t bother to hide the shades of confusion and curiosity as he takes a seat where gestured. Remus gets right down to it, which Samir appreciates, but the details are still left vague, which he doesn’t. Security concerns, fucking obviously, but Samir’s already been working overtime correcting the running routes to prevent any from being traced back to their storehouses that are less on the up-and-up.

“My aim?” Samir starts in confusion, not difficult to feign because it’s not feigned at all. “It’s good, yeah.” An understatement, and one some in his crew might not necessarily agree with. They’d seen him miss kill shots to incapacitate instead, passed off as a reluctant trigger finger. Remus didn’t need to know those details.

‘Are you able to use discretion when protecting confidential information?’

The corner of Samir’s mouth barely twitches.

“Yeah, I-- yes, sir.” He nods dutifully. “Absolutely. Whatever this is about, or, um. Yeah.” Purposefully stumbling over his words, making a show of nerves and eagerness to please what could be the last Seraphim standing. “You can count on me.”

[samirkotecha-archived]

GREER REED​:

Greer walked with him, trying to see what he saw. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She had no idea what his side of the plan was, but she could at least act like she was in the know. It was how she got through her boring electives at school after all.

“Foster kid? I grew up with a lot of them, from the reservation.” She looked over the edge with him, down at the crew that would claim she was shirking her duties, but Samir was totally worth getting reprimanded by the supervisor. Then again, she didn’t want to be coerced into doing overtime….

Greer shifted on her feet, and stepped back towards the door. “It wasn’t really a conscious choice. You know how people say you put your wishes into the universe, and the universe will respond? Or something like that anyway,” she shrugged. “I think I just have that vibe where I attract stuff like… hm. High end, VIP, somewhat untoward organizations offering me a spot on the roster. Or something to that effect.” She laughed loudly at the idea that she, Greer Reed, was apart of a VIP experience into organized crime.

She personally didn’t think it was that much of a leap from documentary to recruit, but then again, she didn’t think along normal lines. Film crews were little gangs themselves sometimes, and that was why it could be hard to break into a group that worked together often. Also, she liked to think she would be seeing the same amount of guns and contraband while shooting, as she did in War’s ranks. “Filmmaking is fun, and I still wanna do it, but… we’ll see. Priorities shifting.” She didn’t want to open herself up that much to Samir - she still couldn’t read him that well. 

“Hey, I gotta get back to work,” she said, resting her hand on the handle to the door back down. “I’ll pass off the keycard early tomorrow, ok? Hopefully this was helpful!” She smiled widely and started down the stairs, glancing over to make sure Samir was following.

.

‘It wasn’t really a conscious choice,’ and for a moment Samir started to frown before he realized she didn’t mean… coercion, just fate. So Samir couldn’t help but let slip a brief laugh instead, because what a strange fucking way of looking at it. He doubted those like Liam or Eden looked so fondly on the universe’s designs to get them entangled in the Wardens’ business, but. He tried not to let that be a reflection on Greer. She obviously only made choices for herself, and there was a lot in that he could respect.

“Priorities shifting, sure.” Some deeply buried part of Samir could agree with that, as much as he liked to tell himself he couldn’t, or wouldn’t. He and Greer were so obviously not cut from the same cloth; not the real him, anyway, quiet and calculating and basing none of his choices on what the universe put in front of him. Samir wondered how his life might be different if that changed. Then he wondered if he should be thinking that at all.

But Greer was smiling widely at him and Samir found himself smiling easily back, nodding. “Yeah. Super helpful, thanks. You’ve been nothing but helpful for this operation.” Thinking he had all the information he needed to succeed against Famine and against Ikki, Samir was content to follow Greer back into the building. “I appreciate it. War appreciates it.” An ominous admission, but one he assumed Greer would still like to hear.

End.

[samirkotecha-archived]

KASHVI SINGH​:

The rest of the handguns are considered, as are those in the crate next to it. She takes a gunmetal black 9mm handgun, lifting it in the air, weighing it, inspecting it as if it is a piece of jewellery she is considering for a grand event. Kashvi is not a good shot, that much is true, but she knows firearms through and through. There is something almost holy about these tools of destruction, such small things that could do such irreparable damage. “Can I take this one?” She cocks the gun with empty chamber, muzzle pointed at Samir for a moment, the movement swift and fluid. A harmless gesture, really — it would be harmless even with bullets in the chamber. Kashvi has no interest in harming Samir. She’d even go quite far to make sure he was safe, if she had to.

She lays the weapon down, closes the cases with a certain gentleness and care. Kashvi may outrank Samir, but she has no interest in leaving him with more work than he started the day with. “Lots of it is just adapting, isn’t it?” There is only forward, no looking back and getting lost what the past was. Kashvi, with her determined spirit and ever growing ambition, finds herself adapting with fuelled quickness. “Ah, shit, sounds like a headache, but a doable one. You know London well, right?”

His interest in the Ritz leaves Kashvi with a bit of a smile, endeared by his interest. This is what she wants for War: an interest in each other, looking over each other’s shoulders regardless of rank. “I started pushing the renovations the moment the Truce broke. A miracle what a million pounds can do when you want people to hurry.” The idea of throwing a million towards a project just to speed it up is nothing big in Kashvi’s world, and so she says it with a casualness. “Remus and I did consider posting some Powers as extra guards, but went with private security. Figured you guys have plenty to deal with as is. So I think you’re set, unless you’re fond of construction work? Once we’re ready to move in though, I’ll let you know. You’re quite good at organising,” She gestures around the space. “That much is clear.”

Samir arches an eyebrow and lets a slow grin spread, nodding in response to her question even as something inevitably visceral tightens in his chest as he looks down the barrel of Kashvi’s newest acquisition. They can joke about it now, but Samir wonders if -- or maybe more accurately, when -- he’ll be staring down the wrong end of War’s armaments for real. Today, at least, it isn’t that day. But the sentiment still feels like a ticking time bomb.

“Yeah. I know London well, and I know adapting.” That’s true no matter which aspect of Samir’s background you’re looking at, purposefully flexible and versatile. As much a tool to War as any weapon in this storehouse.

Straightening up where he sits as Kashvi elaborates on the state of the Ritz, Samir takes catalogue not only of the gun she’s chosen but the information she’s giving. He holds one hand up palm-out and nods, catching the keys with only the slightest fumble when she tosses them back. “Mm, construction’s not really my style, but I guess keeping shit in order is.”

Samir slides off the crate as Kashvi brushes past, crouching to grab the handle of the light-duty roll up door and gesturing for her to take the lead before he slides it securely shut again behind them. “So, whatever you need there. Happy to help out.” Samir straightens up with a casual shrug, walking a dutiful line between helpful and over-eager.

[samirkotecha-archived]

JEONG KYUNG-SOON​:

The moment feels distant. Memories of two nights before, of the flashes of light and dissonance of violence around her come back in bits and pieces while she steadies herself on his shoulder. She stares distantly at the photographs hung up on the wall behind him, a wheat field with a lone house, a river flowing freely alongside green riverbanks, a forest at twilight, the green of trees turned almost black by shadow. They look like lonely scenes, ones of isolation, but to Ky –– they’ve always looked peaceful. Quiet. She’s used to being alone and finding peace in it.

She’s not used to relying on someone for support as she is on Samir.  If she’s acutely aware of the way his hand steadies her now, the warmth of his palm at home on her waist, she doesn’t say so. The push and pull of the past and the way things might’ve been are shoved away as she does her best to breathe easy despite the sharp stinging that shoots up her side. Her fractured rib protests as he helps peel away her sweatshirt to better inspect the seeping wounds beneath. Nodding, she takes the hem of her camisole, glancing away from him and back to the photos, back to the wall, back to anywhere else as he begins to gingerly unwind the gauze wrapped around her abdomen. 

Kyung-Soon doesn’t know what to say and, perhaps any other time, in any other circumstance, she might’ve called out the irony of this moment. This dark facsimile of what could’ve been lingering over and around them as seemingly expert hands move carefully, providing medical attention with care, rather than eagerly grasping at her for pleasure. As it is, she’s still not sure why he’s helping her when there’s more to risk than to gain by doing so. She’s no one who matters in Famine, just an Angel who almost died not forty-eight hours ago. There’s nothing for Samir to gain by being there.  

Shoulders slump as she wobbles, eyes now tracking with his hands as stained gauze is discarded onto marble countertops, joining the collection of used bandages she’d built up in the past day. When the last of it is removed, Ky looks down, sucking in air between teeth at the mess she’d created trying to fix herself up. Several stitches are pulled and none seem like they’ll stop bleeding. Her focus shifts back from herself to him, to dark eyes looking at her with such concern and does her best to fix her expression, to put back the mask she’s worked so hard to maintain. Even in this state, she’s grasping at the shattered visage, trying to piece it back together but she’s quite literally an open wound and nothing makes sense. The fact that, in the midst of everything, she feels comforted by his presence, by his touch…the gentle sweep of his fingers over skin – it makes her wants to recoil and go back to being a lone fox, unbothered and unaffected by kindness.  

Ky gestures languidly at the wounds, trying to anchor herself to them rather than to him, to the sensation of being on fire and submerged in ice water at once. “I didn’t mean to…” she glances at the countertop, “to make a mess.” But she had. Famine had. Pestilence had. War had. This mess didn’t begin or end in this flat, with her or Samir.  She’s quiet for a moment, eyes bouncing around her home before settling on him again. Ky nods. “Can you –” but she doesn’t need to say more before he’s standing beside her, letting her lean on him for support as she moves towards her bedroom, the space opposite the bookshelf lining her living room. 

Once she’s laying down, a damp towel is pressed to her torso as he retrieves the medical kit from the kitchen. When he returns with said kit and a chair in tow, Ky finds herself watching his movements, mouth full of cotton and eyes heavy as her head thrums atop plush pillows and sheets that could swallow her whole, already soiled with blood. But when he begins to clean the wounds, she focuses on her ceiling, chewing on her lesser lip with a type of obvious uncertainty that’s so unlike her until she can’t stop the words before they leave her mouth in a whisper. “Why are you helping me?” Maybe he won’t hear her amidst his intense concentration, or maybe he hears and doesn’t care to answer. She’s not sure which she’d prefer.

‘I didn’t mean to make a mess.’

Me neither, Samir wants to say; he’s been unknowingly making a mess of this for months, all thanks to the simple fact that he was starting to get tired of playing a role. A simple but dangerous fact that now has the very real possibility of putting both of them in the line of fire, something Samir’s been painfully aware of considering his proximity to Saint. Whether or not he and Kyung-Soon had known they were on opposite sides from the beginning seemed irrelevant. They were still here together, now, and despite the very real danger it was liable to put the both of them in, Samir had zero inclination or intention of leaving.

Me neither, he wants to say, but instead his lips press together to keep the words at bay and he briefly shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, arm looping effortlessly but carefully around Kyung-Soon to steady as he leads her back towards the bedroom. Samir takes a cursory look around the interior and continues tamping down the thoughts of what could’ve been, focusing instead on making sure she settles carefully and has something to cover the wound and loosen the drying blood.

Barely leaving her side for a minute -- which prompts the semi-invasive thought that surely it’s been more than five by now, and she hasn’t asked him to leave -- Samir pulls a chair close to Ky’s bedside and sets the med kit next to the lamp on her end table. His hand settles over hers that holds the towel, squeezing reassuringly, before it removes the cloth with care. The edges of her wounds are carefully avoided as he swipes away what blood has oozed between the stitches, and as he goes about cleaning closer to the cuts with dampened gauze, Samir frowns faintly at some of the popped stitches. “You’ll need to get some of these redone,” he says quietly and absently, still distracted by the task at hand. Distracted enough that he almost misses her next question.

‘Why are you helping me?’ Samir’s hand rests gently at her hip for a moment, turning to look with a faint frown. He doesn’t have any reason to lie and he doesn’t want to, anyway, when the whole basis of their aborted relationship was based on the fact that he didn’t have to lie around Kyung-Soon.

“Because I want to. Because you need it. And…” He glances over her pale face, reaching up with his clean hand to press cool palm and fingers to her forehead. “Because I still care.” Cards laid on the table, because he owes her that much. His thumb brushes the space between her brows to try and get them to relax, then Samir returns dutifully to his work. Quiet settles for a moment, and as much as he’d like to think it’s less tense than before, he doesn’t know what Ky is thinking. “I think we’re past the five-minute mark,” he brings up casually enough, glancing again to her face as he pauses to rip open a packet of gauze pads, gently laying one over the wounds he’s just finished cleaning. “And you haven’t asked me to leave yet. Or are you just waiting ‘til I’m done?”

[samirkotecha-archived]

text ➝ SK: Ah, right. That's good. Was anyone hurt?

text ➝ SK: Yeah, fine. Was working. Late hours and all, you know.

text ➝ SK: Have you been watching the news?

text ➝ KJ: Weirdly? No, I don't think so.

text ➝ KJ: Nonstop, yeah. Don't know what to make of it. Is the Hippodrome safe?

[samirkotecha-archived]

text ➝ SK: are you alright? you weren't there?

text ➝ SK: [unsent] you're safe?

text ➝ KJ: Yeah, I'm okay. I was home when I found out.

text ➝ KJ: Kind of a rude awakening. You?