SOLAR FLARE

All Knights must bleed. Blood is the seal of our devotion.

[solromero]

kashvis​:

They are not necessarily made for this. For finding bliss on a camping trip, surrounded by nature and a certain ease. If you erase all that surrounds them – war, beating its restless heart; a seraphim, missing still; the endless worry, for her loved ones – this could be awfully simple. Domestic, almost. 

Kashvi imagines taking Solomon to a trip, to her birth city, showing him the corners of her childhood. To stay in hotel rooms and waste days away, just two people on vacation — but that is not who they are. Still, she considers proposing it one day.

He centers her with his words and the reality they represent. Their crew no longer are a bunch of pawns in War’s games, but part of something bigger; a raging war that has already demanded blood. Evren Sadık is a lamb amidst wolves and lions, and she refuses to watch her die because she has somehow been dragged into the Warden’s clutches. “You’re right.” These are not words Kashvi speaks often, but when is Solomon not an exception to the rule?

“And besides ensuring their loyalty remains with us –” Does she mean War or herself and Solomon? She thinks the former, but it might as well be both, “– we have to ensure they’re prepared too, for this, make it out alive like you said. Plan a training moment with Evren, even if she’s not receptive to it? I’ll talk to her tonight, as we get ready for bed.” She will handle her with softer hands, remind Evren that there’s warmth to find amidst the cold, while Solomon can remind her of the reality of war and how to swallow it.

Kashvi feels a lack of control in the face of all this uncertainty and a lack of power, too. What she will do, then, is focus on her crew. Make those under her and Solomon’s command a unit that will stand the test of time, that will band together in the face of Juno’s absence. Her philosophy and vision lives and that’s where she applies it: onto her own ranks. There is a bitter growing taste in her mouth, though, a displeasure, a feeling of loss rather than the victory War supposedly stands for. Erebus still burns in her memory like something acidic. Her grudges grow.

Not towards Solomon, though. He is there, he is unwavering, and she knows now that he is on her side. Insecurities have ceased to live and now there’s only assurance in his presence, in all that lives between them. “It’s a date.” A date. Such a mundane term, that hardly seems to fit. Kashvi smiles, shakes her head, almost amused.

Her head turns, looking over her shoulder and meeting mostly trees. There are people in those woods, beyond them, who only know them as Virtue and Dominion and nothing more. Out of all of them, it is only Remus who knows her heart. “We’re quite alone here,” she says, returning her gaze to him and moving closer. “Don’t you get tired, of always being in control? I know your willpower is admirable.” Her hand takes his. Maybe she seeks some comfort in these trying times, too, after having extended it so much. “But I’d rather you dance with me than showcase your self control.”

training with evren... pretty much all of wars members had, at some point gone through the same.  even kashvi herself.  it’s just as much an exercise in finding out who they are, as honing their skills.  to see how they react to different stimuli - what those natural impulses tell them to do... to fight, to run... something other.  how much is instinct and how much is cerebral.  and so far, no two people have reacted the same way.  and he has no expectations for evren either - having worked with siblings before ( and well aware that his own sibling relationship is far from idyllic ) he doesn’t hold any preconceptions that she would mirror her sister in any way.

“use your clever words when you speak to her - see if you can’t pad the suggestion gently.  wouldn’t want to scare her away before she steps into the room.”

but quite probably during.  as was the way such things tended to go with solomon.

she asks if he tires of being in control. and he isn’t - not always.  perhaps she’s one of the few who has seen him without that steely veil...  more recently when she came to find him at the gym.  held his bloody knuckles with a gentleness he didn’t deserve.  spoke to him in soft tones like a tamer coaxing some beast down from rabid frenzy...  which isn’t too far off the truth.

but she asks - and it’s possibly not within him to deny her anything. while caution is probably the wisest action, it’s not always the right one to take in the moment.  here they have privacy - and while there are others around, they are all part of that larger whole.  the family they chose, the one they helped to build.

“my willpower is certainly not absolute.  especially when i’m being asked to dance.”

one arm curls around her waist, the other slides down - taking the shotgun and placing it to one side before his fingers entwine with hers.

“especially when my partner is athena herself - goddess of wisdom and war...  how could a mere mortal resist?”

the slightest shift to bring their bodies flush together.  feet beginning to move slowly, small steps in a one-two-three waltz, leading her gently but steadily into some kind of imagined rhythm.  and if there were any casual observers they may wonder at the bizarre sight, dancing in a field, with no music to be heard while the air in the near distance filled with the peppered snap of gunshot.

[solromero]

zachariaswinchester​:

–

He barely has enough time to register what’s said before he’s being steered toward the exit like a soul ferried by Charon across the River Styx; toward deliverance. The words stir a memory from the depths of his mind, like a sliver of sunlight that dissipates some of the fog that seemed to cloud his thoughts, spurring him toward speech that allowed him to fall into step beside the Dominion with little hesitation. “Forty, forty-eight, fifty-six, sixty-four…” picking up where the other drops off doesn’t warrant too much consideration, like a chant - or a prayer to an unnamed God - in the hope of retaining some semblance of composure until they get outside. 

The night air is like iced water, setting nerves alight that had dulled within the setting of the warehouse that had seemed stifling, the lungful of air he gulps in comes out in fragmented bursts acting as a prelude to the new wave of tears that trace fresh tracks down his cheeks. He had tried to deny it in there, until the lights came up and he saw the coffin, until he couldn’t, the feeling supplanted by an anger that simmered delicately beneath the surface. Zacharias hadn’t been able to recognise it for what it was until now, the lump of emotion balled in his throat could have been attributed to a number of things. 

“What the fuck was that?” It slips from him, enough sense to wait until they’d moved a small way away from the building. He isn’t sure whether he’s expecting an answer, whether the question was to ground him in the reality or to seek the opinion of Solomon. Palms press into his eyes, as though trying to plug the leaking tap from which his tears fell from, dropping to his side after a moment where fingers press crescent moon shapes into his palm. The gun in his pocket suddenly feels like a led weight, red hot as though freshly forged, any semblance of comfort - of protection - he’d started to feel in regard to the weapon now unsteady in light of what he’d seen. 

It’s taken out, held out in front of him while the blurred edges of his vision take it in, succumbing to the impulse that prompts him to fire; the bullet lodging into a nearby dumpster. He doesn’t necessarily feel better, but he feels something - surprise, shock, satisfaction - teeth catching on the inside of his cheek before the weapon is lowered, hanging lip in his hand for a beat as he rests against the nearest wall, back pressing into the brickwork with more force than strictly required. 

“Could we have done…” a pause, a consideration, “anything?” The use of the word ‘we’ was notable in context, the clear recognition that Zacharias knew he needed to be all in. He didn’t want to feel as useless as he did, knowing there was nothing that could have been done while simultaneously attempting to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that whispered What If? He finally looks at Solomon then, blinking against the lingering effects of his own emotion until the man comes into focus, sniffing lightly, unsure if an answer would be a help or hindrance.

-

zach asks what that was and solomon has no other answer than the one which comes immediately to mind.

“war.”

it’s spoken quietly, thoughtfully, a soft murmur of sound against the brittle breaths of the other.

“a declaration of.”

against each of the gangs.  against the very mettle of who and what they are.  a few other things fall into place easily when you know there is a new player on the board.  things unproven against other gangs, but now seeming stark with the realisation that three now moved against them.  solomon doesn’t stop him as the gun is drawn.  he knows that such acts of lashing out might seem pointless or trivial or uncontrolled...  but they aren’t.  expunging even the smallest fragment of frustration or anger is a way of keeping control...  like letting the steam valve vent from a pressure cooker - lest it become so intense it simply... e x p l o d e s.

“if we could have, we would have.”

the search for juno had proven fruitless.  all leads a dead end.  no rumour or whisper or hint.  there are some things that cannot be prevented...  however, it’s now more than clear that junos disappearance had been a purely malicious act.  something to capture - attention...  and they surely had it now.  

a purse of lips thoughtful even while he’s watchful.  the wardens weren’t particularly known for their restraint.  and right now solomon is wondering if there’ll be some foolhardy, knee jerk reaction to the murder of one of their own.  he couldn’t exactly blame them if there was...  there’s something deep within - buried - where he’s reminded of the child he watched grow up.  the hands he helped to make a fist in battle, the bullets she’d cut her teeth on...  as an adult she’d carved her own path in war...  he’d been there for her life... and now... her death...

“that doesn’t mean we won’t do anything.”

retaliation, revenge... they don’t seem like large enough words to encompass the likely devastation that would rain down.  a degree of rage - of wrath - of likely quite literal, biblical proportion.  and while solomon can somewhat set aside his own thoughts and emotions in this, he knows not everyone will be able to.  

“nothing will bring her back.  but her blood is on their hands.  not ours... not yours, zach.”

a beat of a pause, stepping toward zach again, but slightly to one side of the gun.

“don’t you dare shoulder any of this.  that anger - it’s the same as before...  you need to focus.  direct it.  not at yourself, but at them.  if you don’t you’ll fucking choke on it.” 

one hand gestures at the dumpster again.

“if you need to shoot, shoot... chaos isn’t a bad thing.  just make sure you control it - and that it doesn’t control you.”

[solromero]

cemilexsadik​:

She can’t imagine Sol doing something else. Something peaceful. War courses through his veins thick as blood, same as it does through hers, through so many in their ranks. It’s become an inseparable part of them to the point that she’s not sure they’d be direction without it. Peace only existed in the absence of War, but without War, is there peace to be had? She’s not so sure. She scoffs at the mention of a white picket fence and shrugs. “Well, I wasn’t going to suggest that, but you had that locked and loaded.” No pun intended, “so are you certain about that?” Sol might’ve been somewhat intimidating at the outset of her career in Gabrielle Warden’s gang, but as time moved on, her understanding of him grew. And so did her respect and desire to learn from him. There are no monsters here. Just men and women who do monstrous things. Once she realized that early on in her training, it made people more accessible – less removed. At least in her opinion. 

“I think it’s sufficient enough to keep all of us more than a little occupied right now.” She takes another sip of her drink, the sweetness offsetting the alcohol she’d consumed earlier than evening. She sets her mug down a moment later, pulling her feet more fully up on her chair and wrapping the blanket draped down its back around her. “She’s good.” Cemile offers, though he’s not really asking. She leans her head back, looking up at the tent, coming to a point above them as she speaks. “And she’s kind. She’s smart too.” But she’s not like them. She’s not hardened to violence. To what’s asked of them. To the outward eye, she’s taken her first kill under War, but Cemile knows the truth. That Evren’s hands were clean, pure as fresh snow. The guilt of what she’s done eats at her, especially in light of her sister’s words weeks ago. It corrodes her insides, it makes her stomach twist into knots if she thinks on it too much. There’s no forgiveness to be had anymore. And maybe it’s because Cem can’t say she’s sorry –– not the way Evren needs to hear. 

Because while she may be sorry that her sister is stuck in a life she does not want, she won’t apologize for keeping her safe. But everything has a cost, and their relationship has been the cost of her sister’s safety under War. Better to be in the belly of the beast than caught between its teeth. “Ev will learn fast. You’re a good teacher. And she likes Kash.” And maybe that would be enough. She nods at his words. A promise without saying as much. Sol’s words are never uttered lightly. “Thank you.” Cemile says a silent prayer that her sister’s footing grows steadier sooner rather than later but doesn’t say as much. She huffs a small laugh. “Well, we’re basically having a full on sleepover, Sol. All that’s missing are the fuzzy pajamas.” Said with a warm smile before shaking her head and letting out a puff of breath. “I don’t know. A bit of both? Things are shit right now, aren’t they? Sometimes people need to see that not everything’s falling apart.” And that War is still united, even in trying times. “But I do think there’ll be a fair few hangovers come morning.”

there’s a slight curve of brow at her question.  how can he be certain about a hypothetical question who’s answers lived in the past... about choices that could not be unmade or remade.  he only knows the person he was at the time - and can’t see the younger version of himself searching for anything other.

“no - i can’t be certain.  where i am now, be it fate, fortune or sheer dumb luck - it’s not something i’d want to change... even if presented with the unlikely opportunity to do so.”

the words are spoken matter of factly - this life seems to be the one he’s shaped for...  moulded, perhaps as a younger man - but those things shaped by war weren’t new to him.  they were curated, encouraged, directed...  they didn’t create a killer - he was one before he even knew of their existence.  they didn’t shove that violent tendency into him - rather teased it out to work in their favour...  

...which is why, when cemile mentions the word ‘good’ he wonders by what standard she’s measuring it?  good from a moral standpoint?  by those socially accepted norms?  is good simply someone who doesn’t slip into the realm of sin - as defined by those who consider themselves righteous and virtuous.  a theological debate then - if the sinner considers themselves righteous and virtuous does that make them ‘good’...  their terrible actions somehow - moral... probably not.  but they’re all ephemeral concepts - it really depends on... perspective.

“i’m sure she’ll make it her own - in whatever way suits her best.”

“we just need to remember that she will never be another you, or me, or kashvi...  she’ll find her own way - she’ll hone her own skills - she’ll discover how to shine.”

perhaps a gentle reminder - and a reassurance... just as war had honed the best from him, he hopes that he’d done similar for cemile... and would again for her sister.  just because someone is not like you - doesn’t mean they can’t be spectacular as themselves.

“who said i didn’t bring fuzzy pyjamas?” 

he does refrain from mentioning that he has a tendency to sleep naked with a gun beneath his pillow... probably not the kind of information cemile needs to know - and on this occasion he’s had the foresight to bring a tshirt and some sweatpants to spare any blushes ( hers, rather than his ).  but it’s an amusing thought.

“things are a bit shit...  they’ve been better - they’ve been worse.  but we have made it through those times before and there’s no reason why we can’t again...  not just surviving, but thriving.  this is war... and war is who we are and what we do.”

a glance around the other tents - some voices hushed in quiet conversation, some raised a little more as alcohol encouraged a lean toward rowdiness.   and a couple of sore heads would surely be present come sunrise.

“they probably wouldn’t appreciate a few shotgun blasts at say... around 6am then?  just saying... maybe you should make sure to wear earplugs tonight.” 

[solromero]

kashvis​:

Her eyes are rolled in the playful way she often rolls them, but she does not press the issue. Solomon is effective, that much is true, and good at sharpening people in the knives they had to be. Under her sister’s and Domenico’s guidance, Evren may have found a certain ease, but perhaps on their crew she could flourish.

Or she could drive her car, transport the people ( alive or not ) that they asked her to transport. 

The proximity of his body does not do much to sharpen her focus on the gun, but Kashvi does not mind it much, “You’re very correct,” she hums, looking over her shoulder at Solomon with a gaze that appreciates all that he does not say but must think. 

There is a keen awareness between them, she thinks, of both their strengths and weaknesses. And if laid next to each other, a perfect balance could be made up. Well-matched, a deadly combination — she longs to stand next to Solomon again in the midst of warfare again. The smell of gunfire in their hair. And victory theirs, this time.

But for now, play would do. “Hm, Sol, I don’t know if confronting people with their weaknesses will contribute to the teambuilding we’re trying to achieve here,” she says, more amused than serious, “But don’t worry, I won’t ever be blamed for something that’s not my fault.” Chances were high, though, that her poor aim was the main thing that would keep their team from winning. A loss she’d take. 

Another thing where they differ, then, is the way they use words — Kashvi speaks as if she likes to hear her own voice ( and that is very true, often ) whereas Solomon picks out his words with a care. Gentle, almost, poetic in the way he seems to reach into his vocabulary and chooses the right things to say. And as the timbre of his voice reaches her ears, the words work their way into her, she smiles.

With him, she finds herself quieter, and there are not many who have that effect. 

The right partner, he says, and Kashvi finds she agrees, albeit it quietly. She is not poetic, though surely an appreciator of poems; she thinks it may be the things he speaks that she likes most of all. If he’d let her, she’d listen to him all evening.

She adjust at his observation, and once she has finished she turns to him fully. “Maybe our chances are looking up,” she says, tracing the shotgun with the tip of her finger. “After that lesson.”

The gun is considered, and then Solomon. “Let me cook for you, tomorrow,” she says. The simplicity of sitting the other down in her kitchen as she moves past pots and pans is a warm one. “Once we are back in London. We can dance, then.” 

the air between them feels warm for their proximity.  but there’s more to it than that simple space.  he’s never felt the need to say much but when he does he hopes the words are worthy of her attention.  besides, she seems to know from something almost instinctive that there’s always a conversation between them, even when nothing is spoken at all.

but there is time and space here to share a few thoughts - not quite the privacy that they’re used to together, but still enough to make it - personal.

“maybe not, but it might keep them alive one day.”

a pause - those cogs turning again, trying to find the lyrics to a song he doesn’t know how to sing, to play a tune he has never heard before.  

“if people don’t recognise their weaknesses, then they’ll never face them.  and will always be vulnerable - a victim to the moment when that weakness might just be laid bare.”

he truly believes that strength or power or any of those things that others seem to consistently clamour for isn’t something that can be achieved ( or if it is, then not held for long ) when people deny the truth of themselves in whole, rather than just celebrating the parts they find... acceptable.

she says she won’t be held to blame for something that isn’t her fault, and he nods - hopes that it’s true.  and for all of his loyalty to ‘war’ - and gabrielle - he had to admit that he’s had doubts about the wisdom in some of the decisions - the orders they have been given as of late.  seeming reckless and reactionary - nothing close to a clear plan, no thoughts beyond the moment - more like a ‘spat’ with the gangs playing each other tit-for-tat.  and where those plans seem fallible - he has no doubt that the success or failure or aftermath resulting from them won’t be taken on by those upper echelons of their ranks...   claiming the flaw to be in the execution, rather than something poorly conceived.

...after all... shit rolls downhill.

“how could i possibly refuse?  you know i adore your cooking.”

not flattery - just honesty.  

“we can dance whenever you like.”

probably not altogether appropriate at a time like this - but if she asked, he would.  but there’s something about keeping that privacy about their relationship - not just for safety, but the fact that it is, just theirs - which makes it all the more intimate when they do get to spend those sweet hours solely in each others company.

“perhaps though - i may just have enough willpower to wait until tomorrow.  maybe...  some things are very hard to resist...”

[quotemadness]

You are most powerful when you are most silent. People never expect silence. They expect words, motion, defense, offense, back and forth. They expect to leap into the fray. They are ready, fists up, words hanging leaping from their mouths. Silence? No.

Alison McGhee (via quotemadness)

[solromero]

cemilexsadik​:

“I don’t know, might have to dock presentation points.” She jests and takes a sip anyway, glancing around at their tent as he speaks. Cemile considering his words on War and the war at hand. This is different than before. It’s no longer the three gangs at each other’s throat but something else entirely lingers beneath the surface. For so long, they’d thought they were the most dangerous thing out there but the attacks on the warehouses, Juno’s disappearance… she supposes London is big enough for more than a few monsters. 

“Mmm, okay, “silver”” Cemile grins anyway. She’s always found Sol’s no-nonsense disposition refreshing. The Sadık had had something to prove upon joining War, and had done so under his watchful eye, rising in rank before taking her position as Virtue with pride. “What would you be doing if not this?” If not War. Companionable silence had fallen between them, that she felt it okay to ask, curious about what his answer might be. No longer mentor but respected peer. Dominion and Virtue going hand-in-hand despite being in different crews. He’s never been easy to read, and it was easy to assume that War was all he thought about, all that consumed him. But people were more than one thing, one goal or purpose. Or she liked to think so, if only for her own sake.

The mention of crews gives her pause and she shrugs, leaning back in her seat as she shifts a sock-glad foot beneath one leg. “I think it’ll be good for Evren.” She clearly couldn’t be the sister or Virtue her younger sister needed and they’d hardly talked since Evren all but cast her from her life. She thinks it’ll pass, but doesn’t know when. And she knows that an attempt she might make at reconciliation will be thrown back in her face. It’s too soon and emotions are too raw, even after a few weeks. “And I think you and Kash are up for the task.” She loves her sister but isn’t sure she’s good for her anymore. Maybe she’d poisoned the well when she brought Evren into War, even if it was for her protection, and now she was forced to drink the water. Forced to live with the consequences of such devoted love to a sister who’d never quite understand what she’s done for her sake. Evren is stubborn in her own way but she can only hope that with a new Dominion and Virtue over her, she might be more receptive to guidance and instruction on how to navigate this world than she’d been with Cemile.

he takes another sip of the cocoa - licking cream from his top lip before it left a comedic impression.  something of a distant gaze as he considers the question.  what would he be doing if not this...

“i’m not sure i’m cut out for the ‘white picket fence’ kind of life if that’s what you’re asking.”

a shrug.  there have been times when he has wondered how his life might have played out without the intervention of war.  and even then, he can see it varying very little from the now.  after all, solomon had been - i n v i t e d.  not everyone within the embrace of war - or even the gangs as a whole - had been given such an offer.

“perhaps i would have just kept fighting.  within war, or without it - i’d probably still have been looking for the next battle.”

war hadn’t tamed the beast in so much as it had corralled it somewhat and pointed it in the right direction, taught it a few lessons along the way.  made an assassin from the brawler and given him the knowledge to survive his own brand of brutality.  war hadn’t made him vicious, it has simply recognised the power already there and turned something wild into a weapon.

the truth of it was - he’d most likely have been pushing daisies by this point.  chaos all consuming.  

“i tend not to think about the ‘what ifs’ of the past... the present is - sufficient - to keep me more than occupied.”

there’s something of a curious glance - considering for a moment whether to ask her  reciprocal question.  but solomon wasn’t one to ever dwell on the past, he’s more about celebrating the now - and the fact that his once student was now running her own crew was certainly a point of pride.  even if it was mostly unspoken.  he claims no credit for her rise... any step taken in war was due to the grit and determination of the individual - making the most of their individual talents - but not everyone was cut out for this kind of life.  whether they made war with bullets, or words, or politics, or otherwise... it took a certain kind of person to survive in this world.

was cemiles sister that kind of person? sometimes it was hard to tell.  only time pulled the truth of things into the light.   if she was of the same ilk as her sister then, yes... but he’s well aware that shared blood doesn’t always cast siblings in the same mould.  and - for someone not used to introspection, solomon does wonder what it may have been like if his sister had stepped into wars embrace, instead of falling foul of the fickle promises of their opposition.

he gives a small nod at the notion that cemile will trust them with evren.  but there’s always a lingering danger for those new to war, especially when times were as vile and vitriolic as now, that they set foot in the wrong place, or loose tongue to the wrong ear and end up in deeper water than they can tread.  and for all he’s a mentor... a guide... he’s not a babysitter.  

but then cemile is more than aware of that. aware of the benefits... and the risks...

“i’ll do what i can to keep her safe until she’s steadier on her own feet.”

“what about you - your crew... do you think this little... bonding session has made a difference?  or just a few impending hangovers?”

[solromero]

kashvis​:

Sometimes it frustrates her, the way Solomon’s feelings seem to be buried so deeply that even she can’t get to them. ( Some might question whether he even has emotions, but that isn’t something Kashvi does: if you ask her, everyone’s heart beats for something and Solomon’s beats passionately for a small handful of things. Just because it’s not obvious, does not mean it is not there. ) But right now, in the face of a disappeared heiress and Seraphim, as well as perfectly timed bombs going off, there is something to be said in favour of it.

If Kashvi is a fire in a hearth that spreads warmth, then Solomon might be the rocks of the fireplace to keep it at bay. Hard and solid and unwavering. It is something to rely on

The crews are reshuffled but she and Solomon remain as they are, leaders of their crew. And even with their newest addition, Kashvi does not anticipate any change in these dynamics. Clear heads, looking forward. Anticipating a win, not just in friendly competition but the grand scheme of things, too. 

“Don’t scare the boots off her, will you?” A small smirk as she glances at him fully. “Or maybe just a little.” 

She cannot help but smile a little at the pet name, finds herself wishing she could reach out to Solomon as she would when it’s just the two of them. His words only inflame her more, these sentiments dangerous when spoken by him but in no way instilling her with fear. No, it’s inspirational in a way. 

A reminder of why she was pulled towards him in the first place. To love Solomon is to love a weapon. And Kashvi has always known how to handle those.

“Hm, if you say so, though don’t come blaming our loss on me if it comes to that,” she says, though she knows he would not. Saint, however, would and Kashvi wishes to roll her eyes at the prospect of it already. “Besides, no one can say I don’t know how to be deadly with a gun if I intend to be.” The civilians had dropped all the same, as had the dock worker, as had all the previous victims that had fallen at her hands. 

Still, Kashvi does not like to lose. What she does like, is when Solomon stands behind her and guides her body, showing how to adjust herself to be most deadly. She is prideful, yes, and won’t accept tips and advice from anyone — but she and Solomon are a team, and where she might give him pointers on the more … social parts of the job, and where they are more equally matched in hand-to-hand combat, this is where he excels. 

She moves her feet, finding balance in her body. Even if she knows some of the things he tells her, she does not complain — his hand is on her waist, so it is hard to. No, Kashvi will gladly play a little dumber if it means he’ll show her more.

And while the shotgun is far from a preferred weapon ( as aim is more crucial with these ), it feels right at home against her body. She glances over the barrel to the sky ahead, “Dancing?”, she looks away from the shotgun, towards Solomon. “How much do you know about dancing?” 

She returns her attention to the raised barrel, eyes squinting. That’s where the problem lies, in fact: not in her body, or her ability to handle the kickback.  Her cheek is against the gun, her finger pulling the trigger and hearing a soft click, the satisfaction of shooting lost at the lack of gunpowder and a bullet piercing the sky. But she’s quick to fire a second empty shot too, another click definitive.

“Dance with me and compare it to shooting a gun sometime.” He can be awfully poetic, if he wants to be, for someone who speaks so little. Kashvi lowers her shotgun, cracks it open as if she were to reload it. “How did I do?”

she tells him not to scare their newest addition and there’s only a deadpan expression in return along with the words.

“who, me?”

innocence does not go hand in hand with solomon romero, so even those tongue in cheek words, a mild attempt at humour, manage to seem like some kind of dark threat - even as a joke.  fear was important... fear was something you had to learn how to deal with.  to overcome natural instinct so that in the moment, there was no freezing or fleeing - only fight.  and a controlled one at that.  not the snapping of a rabid cornered animal, but the calculated ferocity of war.

and he was very, very good - at teaching people about fear...

“your true victories are won beyond the barrel of a gun.”

a gentle reminder that she’s not just a vessel for hurling bullets.   that there’s more to war than wielding a weapon.  and that she has successfully done that beyond the most recent whim of the wardens.  the lesson, he knows, is less of a teaching moment and more of an excuse to pretend.  that she’s a novice in the art.  a hand on her waist, her hair touching his face in the breeze.  

“and if anyone blames you for their loss, remind them that you didn’t pick the game.  play your strengths.  show their weakness.”

of course he’s talking about more than just the little competition in front of them.  well aware of how loss any choked the wardens more amply than a steel garrotte - how blame rolled downhill like snow on a mountain.  and even solomon had to admit, there were more ways to win a war than with guns and bullets.  words as weapons were more kashvi’s arena than his own.  

“every step is a dance, if you’re with the right partner.”

he says little, but the words that are voiced are always poignant.  all with meaning - nothing that simply fills the silence.  there tend to be no hollow conversation fillers.  but the quiet between them does chime with click of a hammer onto an empty barrel.  

he watches her technique, lips pursed slightly - a critical observation.  game or not, these were not toys.  and for them to be a valid weapon they should be wielded with some degree of skill. 

“face away from the barrel - if there’s a backfire you don’t want to remove a chunk of skull - and it would be a tragedy to destroy such beauty.”

small comment as she takes her ‘aim’ - pointing the gun at the sky.  somehow he imagines angels fleeing from the intent, the malice of the weapon and the brilliance of the woman who threatened the very heavens themselves.  then she asks his opinion - not bad... but pointing and aiming at blank sky were easy enough.  

“remember to track just in front of your target before you pull the trigger.”

“and anytime you wish to dance... i’ll be here.”

[zachariaswinchester]

MORTEM / @solromero​ / 30TH MARCH

Heart beats in his throat, so far up he wonders if that might be the weight a top his chest as opposed to the imagery reflected in steel blue eyes as he stares upward. Breathing growing shallow, fingers press crescent moon shapes into palms, a (failed) attempt is made to swallow against the lump that settled in his throat. It’s worse when the lights come on - blinking against the newfound brightness - there’s a reminder that it was real; three coffins.

He had to leave. It’s the dominant thought, crossing the finish line before the other mangled considerations can even take off from the starting line, glancing around for the nearest exit. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. Zach manages, for a mere moment, to let fingers graze against a moment of forced calm before it slips through his fingers; deep breath turning shallow, mind working over time to formulate an exit plan - something, anything - before the acknowledgement hits like the train he knew it would.

Juno was gone. 

Hands clasp together in front of him, teeth catching the inside of his cheek as he thinks. The gun in the jacket pocket feels, once again, like a lead block rather than a reassurance it had started to become. Gang members surrounded them, each attempting to process what had unfolded too, the thought comes to him that to leave might be seen as a sign of weakness.  It didn’t matter whether or not the thought was right, or wrong, in that moment, grounding him as he glances around one more time and is surprised to find Solomon looking back at him before looking away quickly.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, facing forward, hands pushed into pockets which come in contact with gun and knife respectively. Gaze roams over the room again before meeting the floor, feeling the saltwater tang of tears that met his upper lip and is soon wiped away. Attention settles on the nearest door, an internal debate raging as to whether or not he should take anyone but himself into consideration in the moment. 

[solromero]

solomon is no stranger to the sight of death. in all of it’s brutality and viciousness.  no stranger to introducing others to that silent embrace - but there’s one thing he never did. -- gloat. death was never glamorous.  and ( to solomon at least ) it was personal... but it seemed as though these shaded figures wished to adorn it in diamonds and blog about it, like a selfish child let loose with their parents credit card.  to glamourise the macabre.  shock value.  the ultimate clickbait.

and there is shock. heard by the myriad of breaths drawn.  the tremulous sounds of grief that seep into the air like shards of glass.  there’s a gun in his hand.  drawn and readied - but his targets have vanished like the spectres they proclaim to be.  fleeing from the war they surely know is coming.  

solomon himself stands steady and silent - with their newest enemy absent, there could be sudden and unstable backlash from anyone at any moment.   anger, grief, or just a sudden opportunity to settle old scores could fill space with bullets, blades, blood and bile at any moment.

eyes sweep the mass of other gangs before turning to his own.  watching to see what reaction may well break the tentative moment - plunge them into battle in the span of a breath.  wardens emotional and violent all... jumping to act at the loss of their seraphim... their blood.  the other members all capable to varying degrees of enacting their own delicate flavour of war onto others...

...that glance is drawn to the unlikeliest of warmongers. a familiar tension seeming to grip zachs wiry frame ( something solomon had experienced himself after the battle at london bridge ) - zach retaining something of a fractured composure in the face of this loss...

...but at what cost?

destruction outward was a beautiful thing, but turned inward could be just as lethal.  a build up of tension, rage and revenge behind a calm facade.  steel cables knot the kids shoulders... the faintest reflection of light from the moisture on his face the only true betrayal.  it’s a split second decision by the dominion, turning on one heel, gun lowered to his side, he makes a quick beeline for the winchester.

solomon may not be able to help with many things on that emotional spectrum.  but this?  this is something he knows intimately.  not just anger.  not simply grief...

                               this is wrath.

something in the back of his mind is impressed that zach was holding it in as well as he was in the moment.  but perhaps that moment had too little a span left.

his free hand catches zach by the elbow - a gentle grip - nothing forceful, but firm enough to be a guide ( just incase the world was blurred behind those silent tears ).

“come with me.”

just quiet words spoken low - no eye contact, a simple instruction.  there’s no chiding, no snarling, no threat in solomon ( not like the last time they were face to face ). that guiding hand angling them toward the closest exit.  

“eight,  sixteen,  twenty four,  thirty two...”

words from before, hopefully enough to pull enough focus to get him out of the door before the impending, inevitable explosion...

[quotespile]

I’ve got death inside me. It’s just a question of whether or not I can outlive it.

Don DeLillo, White Noise (via quotespile)

[solromero]

cemilexsadik​:

The camping trip is a welcome distraction from the uncertainty surrounding them all. The uncertainty that circles like sharks in the water. It’s a moment of reprieve from  worry over Evren, able to see her sister is alright in person, after weeks of the younger Sadık avoiding Cemile like the plague. It’s a moment of reprieve from worry over Saint, overjoyed at her best friend’s promotion back to Seraphim, where he should’ve been all along. The day is filled with competition, food and wine.  For a moment, they can pretend like there isn’t a war raging around them. Juno’s still missing, and each day that bleeds into another, stretching out into weeks before them seems to diminish any hope of finding her. Still, even in light of that, there’s hope. The reassurance that War, despite the attacks on their warehouse, and the abduction of their Seraphim, was as strong as ever. They are united by holy a rage that courses beneath their skin, through sinew and blood, deep into the marrow of who they are.

She finds herself then, at the end of the night, retiring in a tent shared with Sol. He’s someone whose presence has been constant in the years since she joined War, training under him formally in her early years before rising in rank, proving herself time and again. She pulls a wool jumper over her head as Sol speaks the damp chill of March making itself known as what little sun there was bids the day farewell. “As much as anything is these days.” It’s like each day they waited with baited breaths for news of a body washed up somewhere, for news of another attack on their facilities, for the other shoe to drop. 

Cemile draws hair from the collar of her jumper, pulling it back into a hair tie before accepting his offering with a small smile. “I think you’re just missing the hundreds and thousands.” She takes a small sip before expertly balancing the mug as she pulls legs to her chest, settling more into the chair opposite Sol. “You make it sound like I was quaking in my boots.” Said with a gentle roll of the eyes, lips still turned at the corner though. Some might have joined War without knowledge of the going ons, the inner workings or without truly understanding what it took. But not Cemile. She’d gone in with both eyes open and sleeps with only one closed now. She’d had something to prove, coming in with determination and direction. And it had paid off.

“I’ll take that as a compliment though.” She winks, taking another sip of the hot chocolate, listening to the wind gently blow through the camp, the crackle of fire dying down, animals rustling in the brush, everyone settling in for the night. “And I wouldn’t say long in the tooth,” a genuine grin pulls across her lips and she gestures at her hair line, “so much as just a bit grey.” 

there’s a small nod at her round about agreement.  tense probably wasn’t the right word for it.  more like a mix of anticipation and dread... knowing there would be more to come.  that this clash of factions wouldn’t go quietly... the most recent - explosive - events something of a testament to that in a very literal sense.

“amid the copious flowing of wine, i think the fact marshmallows were present is something of a bonus.  hundreds and thousands might be pushing it...”

“...but i’ll be sure to remember next time.”

he replies to her comment about shaking in her boots with a shrug.  her days so far may have been aligned with war... but not immersed in a fully fledged one.  there had always been those things that crossed the general lines of morality in their business... but the majority of those present here - tonight - had a relative trickle of blood on their hands.  most of their battles thus far fought with politics... words... the shift of goods and money... pretty words and thin promises.  clever battles... yes.  but he does wonder how many of them have the stomach for true terror...  not just the mild inconvenience of an unbalanced account sheet...

does he doubt cemiles resolve? no.  she is more than capable.

“there will be times to come when others may need to rely on you being steadfast. they don’t know war as we do.”

or more accurately - even cemile doesn’t quite know war as solomon does.  but she is still more experienced than most.  but if she took it as a compliment, then it would be received in the way it was intended.  so many fell at the first hurdle.  didn’t have the drive or the conviction to climb those razor rungs into the more lofty heights of wars ranks.  by sheer virtue of their own accomplishments.  which makes that title all the more deserved.

“let’s say silver.”  a quip in retort to the mention of grey... but it’s a rather undeniable fact.  he is getting older... and the other members seemed younger every day.  there had been others before them of course... faces that whispered from the doors of the past in his mind.  people who had lived... and died... in the sweet embrace of war.

kind words and compliments were something of a cushion to the question he truly wishes to pose.  perhaps it’s his own tainted relationship that pulls it to his lips... he couldn’t truly say.  but there is a curiosity around the presence of a blood relative so close that might be best resolved now...

“the new crews.  how do you feel about that arrangement?”

she had trusted him enough to be her guide in the beginning. did she feel the same about her sister?

[solromero]

🧲 favourite trait you find attractive in others

honesty.

not only when there are pretty words to be shared, but when someone has the courage to tell those brutal truths. no tiptoeing around delicacies for the sake of sparing precious sensibilities.

truth is something to be avoided by most... fearful of being blamed for being the bearer, of witnessing the damage it's cutting edge could cause.  or avoidance by the recipient - preferring to live in the couched comfort of a blurred veil of falsehood.

not many can say they live their lives in full honesty - either with others, or to themselves.  those little white lies woven into the simplest of things.  the self-deception an almost constant should the weight of reality be too much to bear...

being honest - in every word.  every action.  every thought...

...harder to do than you might think.

[solromero]

💌 last person you said I love you to

“that’s... cute.”

he’s only spoken that word to one person.   ever. and so long ago as to be almost a myth within solomons own mind. his beloved, cherished sister.  the doting brother - obsessed with this beautiful innocent creature that was - his.  his to nurture.  to protect.  to love with every ounce of his being.

whispered in gentle tones when tending to a scraped knee or consoling over the loss of a favoured toy.  

not his mother.   not his father. not even kashvi had ever heard the word uttered from his lips.   he detests the word for what it is.   an affective token which was all but meaningless.  fickle and manipulative.    ...or perhaps the word has just become so singularly associated with bella for so long that it has taken on such a meaning to him now.    other things have risen in value in the ranks of solomons limited emotional spectrum since then.                                   dedication, truth, devotion, loyalty...

but not love. never that.

( @labellemadone​ )

[quotespile]

Everyone was fucked up in their own way; as before, it was a mark of one’s individuality.

Colson Whitehead, Zone One (via quotespile)

[solromero]

kashvis​:

with. – @solromero​​ where. – hertfordshire countryside. when. – march 24.

Trading London for the countryside is always something of a reprieve, Kashvi finds. While she is fond of the city, born and bred in places bustling with people, never feeling at home where there’s not a siren to be heard at least once every two hours, there is something to be said for the fresh air.

With Gabrielle Warden’s announcements in the back of her mind, she moves away from the group with Solomon next to her. Over her shoulder, she carries a shotgun, her free hand turning over a glistening bullet as her features twist into something like affection. The way the sun falls through spring leaves onto the red of the shotgun shell — there is beauty to be found in these things, to her. Bullet empire heiress. A bullet herself, if she wants to be.

Attention is turned to her Dominion, the sight of him with a shotgun over his own shoulder a sight for sore eyes. The more destructive Solomon Romero is, the more Kashvi feels herself pulled towards him. And he is hers. This thought is repeated time and time again in her head, much like the bullet is in her hand. Another mantra that simply lives in her head now. A war awaits them and even if Kashvi still wishes the Truce could return, there is confidence to be found that the person she stands next to is him. Together, they form something vicious, something ruthless.

“So, Evren —” The newest addition to their crew has come as a surprise, though a pleasant one. Evren seems to like her, after all, and Kashvi is always glad to have more people under her command. “I don’t know how good a shot she is, but she’s a diligent follower. Cemile will want to know that we will look after her, which should go without saying.” 

Kashvi watches over her shoulder at the scattered members of War, before returning her focus. “Saint is a perfect shot, as are you. Astrid has told me she is a good shot, and she seemed decent enough at PEST and will probably better now that we’re not aiming at live targets –” There’s a small pause, a snort of disapproval. “– Liam is good. I’m not, so I’m thinking I could focus on reloading. I’m fast at that. If we rotate my gun around rather than letting me shoot, we’ll have more chance at hitting our targets. And Evren can prove herself.” 

She takes the shotgun of her shoulder, admires the fine machinery. “Though we could warm up together, see if maybe it’s a good day for me.” She hates admitting her shortcomings, but she’d rather face them than pretend they are not there. Kashvi brings plenty to the table: being a terrible shot has not kept her from rising the ranks the way she has. “Teach me a trick, or two?” 

the warden children seem to bounce up and down the ranks depending upon whether their mother feels like showing an open hand or a closed fist.  but with juno still absent from their ranks, it feels - to solomon at least - as though saints most recent bump to seraphim is a band aid over a mortal wound...  at least for gabrielle.  surely saint had earned it.  sol has no quarrel with that.  but the loud words of the announcement and strained smiles all around feels like a celebration with a haunting space among them... it all feels forced.

...but sometimes force is needed. a gentle hand to make things sway and bend is all well and good.  but at times like this, it makes sense to apply pressure to see who remains standing strong and who... breaks.

there’s a quiet ‘hmm’ from solomon as kashvi breaks those idle thoughts.  amused at the timing of it - of course it probably wouldn’t do to ‘break’ the newest member of their crew ( at least, not this early in the game ).

siblings. always problematic - not withstanding his own... somewhat - tumultuous relationship.  

which is probably why evren has been placed in their crew.   for all solomon has confidence and trust in cemile - and is -- p r o u d -- of what she’s achieved within the ranks of war, he knows the pull that true blood ties can have.  how they have the potential to - sway a decision or action in the moment.   it’s probably best that she at least begins that journey with at least a fraction of separation.

“we will.  until she learns to look after herself.”

and thereafter.  as much as blood shared made a family - the same could be said of blood spilled.

as usual - sol listens silently as kash fills the silence.  listening to her analysis of their chances.  he knows what most of war is capable of and there’s even a small thrill at the competitive tone in her voice.  even now - wanting to -- w i n.  he places his own gun on a nearby table then closes the distance between them just a little more.  a quiet intimacy to it even now.

“take your shots солнышко.  hit or miss, it matters not.  today, we will show them the others that there is never a challenge that we will not rise to.  never a weapon that we are afeared to use.”

“be it a fist or a blade -- or... a shotgun.”        “....but maybe a little practice couldn’t hurt.”

a small sidestep so he’s standing just behind her - 

“feet shoulder width apart - and one foot about half a pace in front of the other for balance - you want your front foot pointing towards the kill zone.”

a small pressure of his hands upon her waist to guide her into turning slightly.

“the gun is going to be snug into your shoulder - leaning forward just a little.  it will kick, so having it against your shoulder tight will help absorb the impact.   point the gun to the flight zone before you call ‘pull’ - lifting it after makes you slower to track the target.”

all the while he’s talking he moves his hands to help guide hers - cracks the barrel closed ( empty for now ) brings her arms up to the right position - pulls the stock in tight to her shoulder and raises the barrel.

“then you just need a smooth turn from first shot to second...  just like dancing.  the shot is the beat and you determine the rhythm...”

“ready?”

[solromero]

where: war bonding party campsite when: wednesday 24th march with: @cemilexsadik​

it’s been a day filled with the ringing ricochet of gunfire.  the heady boom of shotguns, the crack of a barrel, the scent of cordite in the air from innumerable spent shells - the air filled with dust and powder from exploded clays...  a gentle grey-white haze that would dissipate in the morning mists.  in the near distance a matching crack and ring of small munitions ringing against metal targets.

purpose in both. a shotgun spread to a moving feast.  training the eye, timing, that fraction of a second decision to pull the trigger. and practice to pierce a target with unfaltering precision, unflinching in the moment, amid noise and chaos to make the kill.

by comparison - it’s almost silence now.  just a few murmured conversations slipping between the tents, a laugh here or there followed by a soft tread of feet to fetch more wine or whiskey.  

“it’s a... tense merriment - don’t you think?”

the question posed quietly, thoughtfully, to his current companion, solomon holding out an offering of his own.  wine and whiskey might be well and good, but there was something spectacularly and simply indulgent about the drink steaming in the mug... hot chocolate... cream topping... with a sprinkling of pink and white fluffy marshmallows ( tell no one about the marshmallows or he’ll shoot you, okay? ).

for all this was something of an opportunity to forge those bonds, there was no escaping the fact that it was a necessary act... that they would need to rely on each other - their skills, their wits, in the coming days more than ever.  especially for those who had no memory of the first true war... 

“i see a lot of baby faces trying to hide their fear behind bullets and booze.”

a chuckle and a shake of his head as he settles in a chair next to cemile - humming as he takes a warming sip of his own drink..

“or perhaps i’m just getting too long in the tooth.  but... i do remember when you had the same look about you.  not anymore though...”  

[solromero]

kashvis​:

Love has been a staple in Kashvi’s life since before she was even born. It’s been fed to her from a silver spoon, taught to her, said to her —— love is what makes her world spin, what she lives and breathes. She knows, however, that this is not the case for all. Take the Wardens, and their icy dispositions, the way love seems to not exactly fit right, like a sweater you’ve grown out of.

And then there is Solomon, who so often seems more weapon than person. Who is jagged edges and sharp corners, who sometimes seems to smell like the blood he’s spilled, who keeps himself wrapped up and silent. A secret she is slowly unfolding, slowly unravelling with her slender fingers. Careful. Passionate. Burning.

Kashvi has made a habit out of loving hard-to-love people, however, and has never backed down from a challenge. She loves him — that much has been true for quite some time now. What she has learned, however, is that her heart is a fragile thing, even if it is a trained muscle that beats harder than most. Kashvi loves her human heart, thinks it a strength of hers — but she has felt it break before, over and over and over again. 

So to hand it over to Solomon, who speaks with action rather than words, leaves her uncharacteristically scared.

But then he says that he is hers already. Is it a confession of love, made at the altar she has made of herself? Is this how he tells her, without spelling it out? Has he not told her before, in all those gestures, small and large? Is, all of this, not him offering himself? 

Perhaps she asks for too much, without even saying it. Perhaps she has been blind, tied a blindfold over her own eyes with insecure hands. Love makes fools of us all.

“I love you.” His hand is in hers, her hand in his. Their souls may not made of the same stuff, but they are intertwined all the same. She hooks her boot around one of the legs of her chairs, pulling it around the table to close the distance. 

Her free hand finds his neck, his jawline, and rests. Lips brush over his and its electric, the confession that has left her lips setting her aflame. Love has always been warm, to the likes of Kashvi Singh. It’s a fire she intends to share especially with those that have seemed deprived. Say it back, she thinks, or show me, at least. Her lips trail over cheekbone, to his ear, breath tickling him. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.” A promise. A pledge. A vow. She does not need a ring. She does not need a Valentine’s dinner, even if the gesture warms her. She does not need much — but she needs him. “Show me.”

just three little words. ‘i love you’, she says.  there’s a space in the air.  a lingering void.  where he does not say it back.  an expectation for reciprocation perhaps... because that’s what people do, isn’t it?  ‘i love you’, ‘i love you too’.  but they aren’t just ‘people’.

he doesn’t understand.  the pressing need to elevate that word ‘love’ to such lofty heights.  as though that is the epitome of two individuals together.  that it somehow supersedes everything else.  that it is the single thing to strive for - the culmination of emotion.... ...but... ...it isn’t.  not to solomon.  it’s just another word.  another label.  something else that fails miserably to encompass those infinite complexities...

it’s an implication that to give a heart is somehow more valuable than anything else - that to give a mind - when thoughts linger on the other, to give them space to occupy in your thoughts, to think of them often or even constantly is redundant. that to give a body - to trust another with flesh, the housing of the infinite in it’s most vulnerable state is somehow lesser because it’s physical. that to share a soul - the innermost truth of who and what you are is a fickle offering compared to the gushing sentimentalities of ‘love’.

perhaps kashvis version of ‘love’ encompasses all of those things. perhaps none of them.   is she in love with the version of solomon who would say i love you in return. is she in love with the idea of love.

of course - he could just say it. could placate the need.  or want.  or gaping chasm where words could be meaningful. but why would he?  he’s never lied to her before - his truth is his loyalty.  his devotion. so he can’t.... or... won’t.

however... it does not mean that - by whatever definition  - he does not feel that thing others may label as ‘love’.  just that he doesn’t see it as being ‘love’.  it’s greater than a word.  more vast than sentiment or emotion.  more than just - heart.

so she can say ‘i love you’ to him.  and he is happy that she would do so.   but he can never reciprocate in those terms.  only the ones he understands.

then she places it in different terms. there are just certain words he can’t say. but there is always something he can do.

show me.

now - that - sits in a place that solomon comprehends. perhaps then, she understands him perfectly after all.  she doesn’t ask for words.  doesn’t demand declarations.  suggests things in the simplest way that connects precisely with who and what he is.  where he has no words - she is far more skilled with them - choosing them carefully, cleverly.  she frames it in a way only she could, with understanding and no small amount of kindness toward his incapacity to verbalise.  opens a door where others may have slammed it in his face for not saying the ‘right’ thing at the ‘right’ moment.

it’s conceivable that this - is how he says ‘i love you too’.  not just a kiss...  trailing back to catch the champagne sweet of her breath against his lips.

the kiss then - is everything he can’t-won’t say.  a promise of loyalty, devotion, and...  ...love? it’s hungry in a way - perhaps if he can swallow the words from her tongue and make them a part of himself, she’ll understand...  she already knows that this is the language he speaks.  he is hers... for as long as she wishes.  for as long as there’s still breath and light and war to fuel those darker desires that mesh so intimately...

“together... ...forever.”

[solromero]

solomon romero - character parallels

commander vaako - if you're here to test my loyalty, you succeed only in testing my patience.

o-ren ishii -  [ o-ren ishii: ] silly rabbit... [ the bride: ] tricks are for... [ o-ren ishii: ] kids.

agent 47 - do you know why you are still alive? because i chose not to kill you.

snake plissken -  [ brain: ] swear to god, snake, i thought you were dead...  [ snake: ] yeah, you and everybody else.

lloyd henreid - If black powder were brains, that guy couldn't blow his nose.

havelock vetinari - i believe you find life such a problem because you think there are good people and bad people. you're wrong, of course. there are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides.

ra’s al ghul - to manipulate the fear in others you must first master your own.

clu - [ runaway: ] you won, OK? this is just a *game!  [ clu: ] not any more.