DATE: June 3rd - June 15th
LOCATION: Various
TRIGGERS: Murder, death, drug mention, alcohol mention, dissociation
JUNE 3RD THE TWELFTH NIGHT
The air shivered between waxy sculptures, slinking its way around the museum like a slithering snake; it fidgeted around as if it knew it was being watched, whispering around the artwork. As it wound its way around the rooms, it eventually slipped itself into a room, where JULIET and VOLUMNIA sat quietly. These past weeks, the Capulets had been dealt smite after smite, and while they had met every assault with a splintery one of their own, the ground continued to tremble beneath them. A punch to the chest, a winding hit to the stomach, a blow to the jaw. They rose, but keeled over, Capulet bodies stung with defeat.
None of them had jumped ship, not yet. But something was in the air...
Cosimo Capulet had been a family man, once. Perhaps he still was. With an assuring grasp of each initiate’s shoulder, a look of brotherhood bobbing in his eyes, he might have turned to put the ink of his pen to some fresh deed or benefaction, sanctifying a new hospital wing with a hefty pouch of gold. Endowing it with his name. Then, he would say: “The strength of a family lies in its loyalty towards its members, sorella. Each and every member. Is it not the same in war?”
That had been an omen.
His honeyed words had drawn people in, seized them in his web. He had given them a home away from home, burying hearts with knives, assuming the role of a benevolent beast that swallows his children up and keeps them warm in his belly. It is a task in itself, then, to pinpoint where things started to go wrong.
The stench of doubt permeated the air. The ugly shape of Cosimo’s theatrics was still splayed out in the current like a ghostly outline. It bled with heresy. For some, its echo spread like a sickness, for others it seemed a resounding victory – but then, loss. Enormous, unforgivable loss, yawning fat and wide. The theft of their beloved Cathedral was a difficult pill to swallow, silks of icy blue stripped from its bricks, displaced by a deep red.
At the centre of all this?
Cosimo.
But this was not all, nor was it the reason for the two women’s meeting. Another tempest was turning, rolling into an uninviting billow of dust and glass. More secrets tucked away like a hanging thread at a sleeve. Two Capulets, and two Capulets alone, had been made aware of the lengths to which Cosimo had extended himself to achieve the death of Alvise Vernon. Pelting Verona into a war that tolerated no retreat, it seemed to stretch out for miles, like two bloody hands shifting forward to reach their weapons. The end of it all seemed to be curtained underneath a thick veil of mist.
Two Capulets, and two Capulets alone, had sat on this information, put their heads together over it like two beasts in an antlered rut, mulled their options over on what felt to them like a deathless loop. Two Capulets, who now sat opposite one another across a desk, the grim look of determination washing over their faces, pored over the intelligence once more.
Elegant as her companion, JULIET sat up straight in her chair, the semblance of constancy flowing over her, though she leaned her wrists into the oak. Exhaustion filled in her features where constancy ran thin. She yawned a sigh. Though she had only been a shadow of the Don all these years, her limbs moving with his like a puppet-master with marionette strings, the sensitivity of her task did not elude her.
Quite the opposite: it glared back at her, its eyes black and cold.
VOLUMNIA leaned back in her chair, the same semblance of exhaustion burying itself in her expression. A more clinical eye would easily peer past this, though, able to seize the truth. Behind the Underboss’ eyes lay not exhaustion, but fortitude.
“IMOGEN cannot be expected to sit on this information forever,” JULIET said at last, the journalist’s name turning sour in her mouth. The words sunk from her lips in fatigue, and it gave one the impression that this was not the first time they had slipped from her mouth.
HAMLET had done his best to assure them that he had choked back evidence of his involvement from IMOGEN, and that they, in turn, had vowed to wait in the shadows. While they appreciated this, the tenuousness of the situation sat ill with the two women.
“No. We must act. Soon.”
Hanging in the air between them were words held in their mouth that neither of them wanted to say. That neither of them needed to say.
We must act. You and I, not the Don.
Both knew that Cosimo wouldn’t hesitate to put out a hit on IMOGEN the moment that he learned just how much of the tale they had become privy to. In the same vein, both of them knew that Cosimo Capulet was not a man that much liked the feeling of being backed into a corner. Thus, heads bowed covertly, they buried their intel, tucked the secret away, and while the idea of an assassination had not been entirely ruled out by the two of them, they pushed it aside.
“So, what can we do?”
VOLUMNIA would not go on pasting over their problems with more bloodshed and thuggery. With a cold judder, she would forge a New Age by splicing through the old one, leaving it to be swept up like leaves in the wind. She would not have her pseudo-daughter follow in the ways of their kingpin, treading on the heels of footprints rinsed in blood—not if they hoped to crawl their way out of this sunken hole, and especially not if she hoped to ease JULIET into her birthright. Whether that was ten days from now or a matter of weeks, it didn’t matter.
She would cut out a space for the heiress in the stone.
A woman on a mission, VOLUMNIA forged ahead. There was no room to regret her past decisions now. Not if she wished for JULIET to succeed.
“Call in TYBALT,” she advised.
JULIET picked up her phone.
-
They weren’t left waiting for long. Twenty minutes, thirty, maybe, went silently by, but the time only seemed to distort itself out of shape for JULIET, swelling like an elastic balloon. A creeping sense of unease washed over her when she pondered quite how much there was at stake here; how much hung in the balance. Nevertheless, the thought of her cousin flocking to her side, as by way of nature, brought her some ease. As for VOLUMNIA, the Underboss barely noticed the silence between them, always watchful but busied by turnings of her own.
Something was piecing itself together in the couloirs of her mind.
The cogs only stopped to turn when the women were stirred by a rap at the door. In answer, TYBALT slinked into the room. As he settled into his seat, postured like a mortal blessed with divine favor, so followed PARIS tightly behind him.
The head, the hands, the heart. All poised around a desk made of oak.
“Tigrotto, there is something you should know,” VOLUMNIA began, drawing TYBALT in with a secret hidden under her tongue. “And I need you to listen carefully.”
Gravely, he nodded.
VOLUMNIA nodded to JULIET.
“It’s about Alvise Vernon,” JULIET decided upon, straightening her back. She had decided upon a great many things, really. She had decided to betray what they know, to seize the reins from the palms of her papa. She had decided to act, now, while the city lolls still. “Well, it’s about everything, really. It’s about my papa, too,” she hummed. Almost mechanically, she lifted one leg over the other, crossing them neatly into a set, as if positioning herself for a grand storytelling. “But, Alvise Vernon seems like a good place to start, doesn’t it?”
Because, at the beginning of all things, at the end of all things, throughout all its middling and its intermediaries, there stood the formless silhouette of Alvise Vernon, haunting them without definite shape.
She cleared her throat. “The night Alvise Vernon was murdered, my father found a Montague in one of our bars. He was drinking. Alone. He wasn’t—” the heiress paused; the words locked under her tongue. “He wasn’t in a good way. Even before they drugged him.” She opted for they, rather than we, casting a thick, bold line between them.
She swallowed a knot in her throat.
VOLUMNIA encouraged her to proceed.
“HAMLET killed Alvise Vernon.”
“What?” PARIS interrupted.
“He killed him. On my father’s orders. Well – with papa’s encouragement. He told us so himself.”
“Your father told you this?” PARIS punctuated in disbelief.
“No,” VOLUMNIA intervened. “HAMLET did.”
PARIS sunk into his seat, warring with a thousand thoughts at once. TYBALT, on the other hand, became his inversion. Leaning forward, his face twisted into an unforgiving blend of curiosity and incredulity, keen to have his spirit of enquiry sated.
JULIET continued: “It took him a while to come to, but he did. Papa made him susceptible to his manipulations – or, well, perhaps someone else did. The details are hazy. Papa gave him a file. Doctored, of course. It suggested that Alvise was responsible for the death of HAMLET’s father.”
She paused tactfully, testing for a response from the men.
Neither of them reacted quite in the way she had expected them to. How could they? How do you react to the news that your own Don facilitated this war, kept it tucked under his belt like a buried conquest? The silence between them is only riven by the sound of VOLUMNIA shuffling in her seat, eager for her understudy to draw the bloody narrative to a close.
“Papa drove him to Alvise’s home, gave him a gun. He made him go inside and confront him. When he came out – well, papa gave him a change of clothes. HAMLET doesn’t remember much else.”
“The details are hazy,” VOLUMNIA repeated in a murmur.
Something was at work behind PARIS’ dark eyes. TYBALT, a profane blend of fascination and scepticism, shifted in his seat. He lowered his gaze, the flutter of his heartbeat grazing at his ribcage. Their detachment did not go unnoticed by JULIET, who reached out a hand to each of them, took theirs in hers, smoothing her thumb over their skin.
“But I believe him.”
“You believe him?” TYBALT retorted incredulously, pulling his hand back.
“Yes, I believe him. Why would he implicate himself if it wasn’t true?”
VOLUMNIA leaned forwards in her chair, the movement steady and languid, as if a beast that has been lying in wait. She seized her moment. “Yes, HAMLET knows what he did. And so does IMOGEN.” A pause. “There’s evidence.”
“IMOGEN has evidence?” PARIS leaned forward. “How?”
“HAMLET told them. He handed over the evidence, with a condition. He is the reason why they haven’t gone public with the story yet. Why they haven’t tried to bring us down.” She paused once more, allowing for time for her words to sink in. “Because he asked them not to.”
“What evidence?” TYBALT asked, irritated. “Why would he tell them? What could he possibly have to gain?”
“Time,”JULIET answered, “He wants time.”
“There’s a gun. It has Cosimo’s prints on it. They’re only partial, but,” VOLUMNIA sighed, “it will be enough.” She left no trace of ambiguity to her words. They were stark as the moon raised into the dark sky.
“So, what? We steal it?”
JULIET leaned forward in her chair, folding the creases in her shirt. “Exactly.”
As the word slipped from her mouth, the shape of it curved up into a knowing smile.
Balanced at the side of her chair was a file, which VOLUMNIA pulled up to the desk, spreading the documents amongst the four abettors. “The two of you will retrieve it as a team. No need for our exploit to leave this room – it shouldn’t prove a difficult task. PARIS will play reconnaissance, and you, TYBALT, will steal the evidence.”
TYBALT rolled in his chair, his black hunger oked by the vantage. “Pencil in POMPEY, too, while you’re at it. We’ll need a look-out.”
VOLUMNIA nodded, gesturing her hand in agreement. “Very well. In and out, simple as that. Capisce?”
As they rose from their seats, they nodded. Stalking out of their room, they left behind their shadows and strolled into a great, yawning gorge. One does not make an enemy of the Capulets and live to tell the tale. Should they succeed, they would ensure that IMOGEN would not be making any enemy of them any time soon.
Not yet, anyway.
-
JUNE 4TH VARIOUS LOCATIONS
While the Capulets colluded and the Montagues drifted off in a ruinous scatter, a message arrived, bringing all of Verona’s moving pieces to a screeching halt. Like a bullet fired in the dead of night, with a sharp, north-pointed path and a bang that echoed with the toll of a clock striking twelve.
At midnight, it reached all Capulet affiliates, without a traceable number or a signature of any kind. Some opened it with furrowed brows and tight mouths, others opened it in an impatient hurry, eyes dulled with disinterest -- all of which faded into swift, sinking shock.
What is dead has come back to haunt Verona, and you Capulets most of all. It’s your comrades, who perished beneath the heel of the enemy’s misplaced vengeance. It’s your territories, which were lost to a war incited by one of your own all along. And finally, it’s evidence of your crime, as it is theirs, and the heinous act it entails of drugging an unwitting Montague and corralling them into murdering Alvise Vernon.
The culprit is a Capulet whose name is written in pure silver. Look to your people for the snake that hides among the grass.
As the Capulets and their allies reeled from the impact of the long-buried truth as it was lurched to the surface, LAMPRIUS leaned back into his shadow-spun throne, and allowed his triumphant smile to shoot a spark through the dark.
-
JUNE 4TH IMOGEN’S APARTMENT BUILDING
PARIS decided to pay IMOGEN a visit. After all, a predator must size up its prey.
It was an easy enough task to shoulder your way into an apartment building you did not own when you wore the guise of dark capability as well as PARIS did. Starless and louring, a rare civility washed over him in a storm, and it was for this reason alone that he welshed his way into the complex unnoticed. Eluding all suspicion, he cupped a sea of intrigue in his greedy hands.
Once he met the door, he spun on his heel, checked around for cameras; sought out an escape route. He took a moment to forge a map in the recesses of his mind.
Three cameras, he thought to himself. He made a mental note. With their angles slightly adjusted, he generated enough blind spots for their thief to slip in and out undetected.
As seamlessly as the teeth of a switchblade in the gut. Such, after all, was TYBALT’s way.
PARIS concealed a bug at her door - for extra measure.
-
JUNE 7TH OUTSIDE IMOGEN’S APARTMENT BUILDING
PARIS pulled the car to a halt, turning it into the curb. Beside him sat TYBALT, while POMPEY languished in the backseat, tentatively entrusted with his sponsor’s good faith. A hand seldom extended, but extended, nevertheless.
While POMPEY was to skulk the parameters and act as the group’s third eye, TYBALT was to step into the building, slink up the stairs in much the same fashion as his brother-in-arms had done so the day prior, and retrieve the evidence their target holds against them. The bug at IMOGEN’s door has provided them with a golden window of opportunity: they would be out in the evening, delivering the infiltration team with the opportunity of invisibility.
TYBALT gained access to the building easily. He, too, blended consummately into its carpets, its walls, charm lingering in his mouth like a dagger suspended at the back of his throat.
He greeted IMOGEN’s door as if an old friend, slipping leather gloves over his fingers, and picked the lock with ease. Shouldering his way into the apartment, he was careful not to disturb the natural lay of things as he prowled toward the study.
He pawed through the room for a few minutes before he came across anything of note. Pages torn from a notepad, scrawled in black ink, and a file containing various media clippings. TYBALT snagged and stole entirely unaware of the intelligence he was burrowing into his satchel.
A scalping true to type.
Folded away in a draw, sleeping beneath a hidden partition, lay the gun. With all the precision that his warring body possessed, he slipped the gun into a plastic pouch, a vulgar grin unfurling over his features.
When TYBALT bellied out of the room, he double-checked that the rest of the apartment remained unperturbed before stealing away. It was only then that the subtle prattle was pervaded by something more serious.
“IMOGEN. They’re back early,” PARIS advised, his words cool yet immediate.
“POMPEY. Distract them.” TYBALT interrupted, concealing himself for escape.
POMPEY stepped forward as IMOGEN turned the corner, and with the mien of a boy struck dumb, a prince with his crown shaken from his brow, he stumbled into them, arms quavering rapidly in apology. However brief, the altercation provided TYBALT with the small window of opportunity to flee the premises and unfold into the shadows without detection. He bored his way towards the car, evaporating like a will-o-wisp in the wind.
PARIS did not need to break the speed limit on their way back, but he did so anyway, if only for some small satisfaction. They left the bug at IMOGEN’s door undisturbed – just in case.
-
JUNE 8TH BENEATH THE CASTELVECCHIO
Two Capulets had taken it upon themselves to bear the divine burden of legacy, and towards an uncertain fate, they now carried it forward, shoulders strained and necks taut as they dragged it at their heels. Yet although they ought to have been crawling, fingers ensnared in Verona’s ancient earth, knees scraped and feet scalded, they walked ahead with firm steps and fixed gazes -- one with a loose crown lying skewed against her brow, and the other with a general’s belt wound around her from shoulder to waist.
They moved forward, towards the future, towards the comet-like fall of longed-for dreams as they came within reach, towards two Montagues, who held it all in undeserving hands while they waited in the distance.
The capture of IMOGEN’s coveted evidence had set off a race against the clock, and as soon as it had fallen into their grasp, VOLUMNIA made swift contact with HAMLET, with a tentative yet unwavering request for a meeting. A sliver of truth peeking through plain, carefully plucked words, a beat of heavy, choking silence on the other end, and then finally, a time was set.
Quiet filled up the space between them in place of greeting when VOLUMNIA and JULIET’s steps finally came to a stop, unspoken words and disguised sentiments sinking between them like the blade of a guillotine as it cut its way through air and flesh. GERTRUDE met their arrival with her usual air of tranquillity, though it seemed to hum dangerously as she looked upon VOLUMNIA, the static current bouncing sharply off of steel as the Capulet met her gaze head-on. In a similar manner, HAMLET and JULIET took each other in; though the bridge of their gazes was barren of any hostility, it lulled and wavered with tension, and the flailing gust of all the things they wished to say to one another yet forcibly held at bay.
“We’ve taken action,” VOLUMNIA began, paving the way for the bargain JULIET aimed to offer. “In response to the scheme you revealed to us, HAMLET.”
JULIET seemed to blink away the urge to glance at the underboss, nodding as she looked between Montague mother and son. “Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her, voice softening as she continued on. “My father’s actions have soiled too many hearts, too many lives... “ She looked down. HAMLET crossed his arms against his chest. “I won’t let it go on any longer.”
“You’ve taken needless action, principessa,” came GERTRUDE’s simple objection. “We can have justice by our own hands.”
VOLUMNIA pursed her lips, swallowing down her razor-edged rebuttal to test how JULIET would regain control of the conversation.
“Well, we can’t afford to allow that.”
GERTRUDE hiked a brow, patiently awaiting the heiress’s elaboration. JULIET swallowed, then set out to offer it to her.
“You were honest with me,” she said, eyes on HAMLET. “So, I will pay you the same respect.”
This time, she glanced at VOLUMNIA, who encouraged her with nothing more than the simple act of meeting her solemn gaze.
“Things won’t be the same for the Capulets now that my father’s actions have come to light. Not with the decisions we’ll be making as we move forward, not with the threat of its reveal to our affiliates, and certainly not with the risk of your vengeance.” It was no greater than the risk of laying their volatile circumstances so plainly before the enemy’s scrutiny, yet it would soon prove to be a wise move on JULIET’s part. It was precisely what would coax the teardrop’s worth of trust needed for the Montagues to agree to their bargain. “It’s why we asked for this meeting; to offer you a deal that would give you the justice you’ve earned -- while sparing us any further threat, loss or bloodshed.”
HAMLET straightened; his focus now sharper. GERTRUDE sank into contemplative silence for a long moment, then muttered, “Quite a heavy promise you’re making, JULIET, and one that I imagine would be difficult to keep.” With a nod, she continued on to ask, “What is your offer?”
“Don’t confirm Capulet involvement in Alvise Vernon’s murder, and don’t retaliate for it. In return, my father will be deposed in the coming months.” A pause. “I think we would all agree that losing his empire is the worst punishment he could possibly have -- and the greatest vengeance you could possibly earn.”
“What guarantee do we have that you’ll keep your end of the bargain?” HAMLET quietly asked. It was the first time he had spoken since his arrival to the meeting.
JULIET subtly tipped her chin up, growing more confident as she turned towards him.
“Plans are already underway, so the outcome on our end is inevitable. And if my word means anything to you, you have it; I will see to it that my father is stripped of his throne, no matter what.” She glanced at GERTRUDE, looking between her adversaries once again. A slim hint of harshness permeated her following words. “If anything, it’s your end that’s unreliable.”
VOLUMNIA’s eyes glimmered with curbed pride as she looked upon her heiress, though the spark was snuffed out in time for her to turn towards the enemy, curt and impatient as she asked, “So what’ll it be, Montagues?”
HAMLET sloughed out a sigh, a clipped sound drenched in weariness and worry. He turned towards his mother, who silently met his gaze.
Not a word was exchanged between them, yet they seemed to come to an agreement, nonetheless.
A moment later, GERTRUDE offered a decisive nod. “You have your deal.”
-
JUNE 9TH A CAPULET WAREHOUSE
It was along the echo of those words that JULIET and VOLUMNIA were carried into the gaping maw of the following day and thrown amongst the warbled plans and chewed-up aspirations that it held in store for them.
And it was there that they now lay, accompanied by TYBALT, digging through the half-devoured scraps and biding their time in fervent anticipation of the jaws that were slowly, slowly closing in on them.
If they had been racing against the clock before, their bargain with the Montagues ensured that they were now effectively losing to it. Every second that passed while barren and empty of action pulled them back by countless precious steps -- ones that they aimed to retrieve by ruinous leaps and ruthless bounds.
Their means of achieving that was rather simple: instead of lurching Don Capulet out of his throne, they were going to crumble it underneath him; bone shard by bone shard and stone by stone.
It was for that purpose that they had gathered, huddling together within the pitch-black shadow of one final scheme that they had concocted -- one that was meant to seal everything in place. Violence and confrontation alike had been cast aside as futile, unwanted options, and so they had settled on the only one that remained.
Planting doubt and fostering rebellion.
After all, to strike down a king, there was no need to steal his crown or shatter his throne.
One need only strip him of his worth.
Such was precisely what JULIET and VOLUMNIA aimed to achieve, by means of assigning their unoccupied ranks to a series of doomed missions, built around nothing more than the simple notion of projecting Cosimo Capulet’s growing incompetence and failing judgement -- and cementing it beyond all doubt.
They had already conceptualised the missions and their predetermined outcomes. All that was left was assigning them.
Sat in a Capulet warehouse far beyond the peering walls and prying doorways of the Twelfth Night, JULIET and VOLUMNIA spent hours upon hours poring over what seemed like an endless heap of files and documents; selecting Capulets, revising mission outlines, scrutinising details and technicalities -- until finally, everything was set.
TYBALT, privy to the information out of necessity without ever having come close to engineering it, sat with them uncertainly - perhaps for the first time. It was important that he was on their side; it was important to VOLUMNIA that she knew his sword belonged to JULIET.
In spite of loyalties, or perhaps because of them, he would not stand in their way. A throne was easier to take when nobody sat in it.
But before it could be emptied, it would have to be taken apart.
And it was with that goal in mind that the three heads of the divine Capulet beast began to arrange their pieces across the crumbling board.
There could be no beginning for any dastardly story without the startling presence of their BIANCA, who would go on to be told that she would be escorting KATHERINE on a stakeout mission. Yet upon her arrival at the designated location, BIANCA would find herself tied to REGAN for an assassination, instead. Deliberately, the three planted seeds of doubt, that Don Capulet wasn’t distributing his soldiers properly; and that he, in his rush to combat against the Montagues’ attacks and efforts, was leaving his ranks in an utter scatter. As for REGAN, they would be deliberately given a wrong description of their target, leading them to assassinate someone else entirely, all while believing it was their intended target all along.
In the realm of emissaries, DIANA and TITANIA would be tasked with negotiating with a Capulet affiliate from Amsterdam, chosen specifically for their prior rejection of allyship with the Capulets, in addition to their notorious violent inclinations. This information would be kept from DIANA and TITANIA alike, casting the oblivious emissaries into the awaiting dangers of a doomed bargain. They would certainly be injured as they escaped, and although it was an unpleasant outcome, it was necessary to nourish the image of Don Capulet’s lack of care towards his soldiers’ lives -- an image that had been all but set in stone by the spectacle he had arranged for Viola.
Next, EDGAR and KATHERINE would be sent to a Montague warehouse that was said to harbour information on the mob’s mysterious new product, Reaper’s Kiss. The warehouse was, in fact, a high-security Montague establishment, heavily guarded and brimming with soldiers. Yet the information would be kept out of the mission outline in order to further project Don Capulet’s carelessness and miscalculation. Regardless of what sort of action EDGAR and KATHERINE would end up taking, whether it be engaging the enemy or retreating into reconnaissance, their defeat was certain, due to the prevailing enemy numbers and the level of security surrounding the location -- though reinforcements would be sent to guarantee their safe escape, regardless.
Always in search of new business opportunities, HIPPOLYTA and LADY MACBETH would be sent to procure a local, family-owned business that was said to offer the Capulets a new and lucrative money-making opportunity. The owner of the business had been as yet unforthcoming, but armed with alarming evidence against the family’s eldest son, they were to offer the owner an ultimatum: either the Capulets go public with this scathing information, or they enter a disadvantageous business partnership. Of all the assignments the women laid out, this was the only task destined to succeed, but the success of it would be as futile as the rest of them. The business was utterly useless and the whole exchange a waste of HIPPOLYTA and LADY MACBETH’s time, leading the soldiers to doubt Cosimo’s decision to send them there in the first place. Just as the women had designed it.
Finally, CORDELIA and EDMUND would be sent to Phoenix and the Turtle incognito, in order to survey the new layout of the territory and scan it for weaknesses in preparation for a retrieval mission. Yet once they signalled their arrival to the Capulet HQ, an anonymous message would be sent to the Montague captain overseeing the location, informing them of the presence of Capulets. This would force the duo to reveal themselves and fight the enemy head-on; outnumbered and outgunned as they would be, they were certain to be defeated and forced out of the territory, just as intended.
In the end, the missions weren’t simple, and the risks were heavy.
Yet it all weighed nothing against the goal they were setting out to achieve, especially when it was perhaps the one and only noble thing that they could do for the Capulet famiglia, and for Verona as a whole.
It was worth it.
It had to be.
-
JUNE 10TH THE CATHEDRAL
Damiano Montague’s silhouette painted itself against the window in broad, fearsome strokes of shadow; a foreboding sight that none were damned enough to witness except for GERTRUDE, who stood before his desk as she patiently awaited his command; both a watchful guardian and a rogue with blade drawn behind her back. He could almost feel her looming betrayal spearing through the crackling air around him, though he did not turn around to meet it. Devoted or not, she remained a woman with honor. Even with his gaze clouded by scorn, he could still see her for who she was. Her reasons for accepting to take part in his son’s rebellious operation were the same reasons why she would look him right in the eye once her blade struck true.
Or perhaps he would come to find it in ROMEO’s grasp instead.
The thought drew a mild furrow along his brows, but he refused to allow it to detract his sight from what lay before him.
The greatest victory to ever tie itself to his name; such was what the Cathedral symbolized. Yet even with his feet planted upon its ancient marble in firm ownership, even with his form eating up what little remained of Cosimo Capulet’s memory as he took up his rightful place beyond the broadest window, Damiano did not feel triumphant. In fact, he felt robbed.
He had harnessed the full power of their troops, led them down a searing path that left half the city aflame with the embers of Montague ambition, and emerged with the Capulet crown bent beneath his foot. Meanwhile, all his son had done was scrape together what was left of their soldiers and scramble to grab hold of the pitiful scraps that he knew lay too low to fall within Damiano’s soaring sight. Yet somehow, he had been the one to gain glory and renown; now revered by their allies and adored by their people. And Damiano was left with his heel poised upon the broken bones of the Capulet empire, only he could not even relish the sound of them as they splintered and fell apart; ears drowned out by the ceaseless, accursed chants of his son’s name.
His son’s name was his own.
But the Montague name was Damanio’s.
And he aimed to cut it across the skies and pummel it into the earth until all of Verona knew that.
For now, he would start with his people.
“Genevieve,” He called, turning his head to glance sideways at her, clasped hands clenching as he watched her stiffen attentively, sharp eyes trained on him as though she aimed to latch onto every word of command -- as though she was truly unaware of the fissure in her facade. He sniffed, then twisted around in one sharp motion to stand behind his desk once again, fingers splayed as the outline of his orders mapped itself out before him. “I have certain missions in mind that I wish to see fulfilled with the utmost urgency. Assign them to our ranks, and report to me with the results.”
Whoever failed was doomed for a punishment not unlike the one the mark of which GERTRUDE now carried, but he didn’t wish to entrust her with that information. It was all too likely that she would act on her whims, especially where her son was involved.
Damiano would allow for no more insubordination, and these missions ensured it. They were set to snuff out every bit of it that continued to fester within his soldiers.
He cleared his throat.
“Pair up ANTONY and BENVOLIO and set them on the trail of a mark who’s been legally interfering with our business. It’s the eldest Rallis son, but you are not allowed to divulge that information to either of them, at any cost. If ANTONY kills him, he cements his loyalty beyond all doubt, and if BENVOLIO does, it proves that he might just be willing to do whatever it takes, after all, and if it’s a shared effort, then all the better -- but failure is not an option. Neither is favouring any outcome except for death.”
“Next, pair up GONERIL and BEATRICE to set up a trap for CORDELIA, one that she has no way of escaping alive. She’s been an unstoppable force, ensuring victory for the Capulets time and time again. I’ve also heard that GONERIL wasn’t all too pleased with our operation at the Cathedral, which gives me the impression that she might be clinging to her past attachments. Setting her after her sister is certain to cut her loose once and for all, and if she fails, BEATRICE is meant to ensure that the target is eliminated, regardless. It would land a heavy blow to the enemy and prove their ultimate loyalty to our cause.”
“PERDITA is proving to be quite a valuable addition to our ranks, but there is more to a soldier than wiles and trickery. I need to know that force is not beyond her; that she can be both weapon and reaper under my command, malleable enough to shape herself into whatever I need her to be. Send her to one of the bars that solicit our protection, with orders to demand our payment and strike enough fear in the owner’s heart that they would never think to keep us waiting ever again. Have BRUTUS accompany her, though he is not to interfere unless PERDITA needs his help; his role in this mission is to offer support, and nothing more. After all, loyalty to one’s comrades is just as crucial as loyalty to one’s cause, and if anyone must learn that lesson, it’s BRUTUS.”
“As you may or may not know, we’ve recently captured a prisoner who proved to be a lot more interesting than I’d originally thought. Not only were they one of Faron Vasiliev’s soldiers, but also the bullet that set their liege’s demise in stone. It was through their treacherous confession that Laertes had discovered the identity of the one who had ordered his imprisonment in Russia, and it was through that confession that Faron’s corpse had met its early grave at the foot of my desk. I’m curious to see what sort of action they would rouse from CLEOPATRA. Command her to orchestrate a trap for them where they believe they have found their chance to escape our capture, only to find themselves caught in her grasp. CELIA is to offer her aid with the trap, but the torture that follows is CLEOPATRA’s and hers alone to execute.”
“In this time of war, there is no greater danger than treachery. I’ve been presented with proof that one of our soldiers aims to abandon our ranks and flee the city. It’s unforgivable, but I fully intend on leaving them begging for forgiveness in their worthless final moments. Pair up ROSALIND and OPHELIA for this task. OPHELIA is to come up with a way for them to be executed quietly and away from prying eyes, while ROSALIND is to seal their dreadful fate when the time is right.”
“There have been whispers on the streets of a strange message sent out across the city a few days ago. Apparently, it pertains to your crime, Genevieve, though unfortunately, I don’t know much beyond that. I’d like HAMLET to investigate the matter, and report to me directly with his findings. Curious choice, hm? Well, since you seem reluctant to ask me outright, I’ll do you a favor and be direct about it. I’m interested to know if someone else knows about what you’ve done aside from the two of us -- if there’s a chance it could be your son and that he’s been covering for you all along. I’ve always wondered where his true loyalties lie; with the Montagues, or with his mother. And this mission is certain to give me the answer.”
“A blessing to all, that the infallible VOLUMNIA is as weak as she currently is. We would be foolish to not take advantage of it. Send MALCOLM on her trail, and have MERCUTIO accompany him to ensure that the mission proceeds as it should. It’s not of the utmost importance that he kills her as we currently have far grander goals to aspire to, but I get the impression that MALCOLM is reluctant to needless torment, and that can no longer be allowed now that he is a captain. MERCUTIO is only to interfere if their help is needed, but aside from that, their task is simply to ensure that their partner torments the Capulet viper like she deserves.”
“I’ve assigned one of our captains to a reconnaissance mission in the Roman Baths; to survey the location and scan it for weaknesses. I believe that it would be beneficial for us to seize it in case the rumours surrounding the Witches’ return are proven to be true. The problem is… I have every reason to believe that the captain is a traitor, and I have a plan in mind to dispose of them. I would like RICHARD III and SEBASTIAN to take up this mission. They are to pair up with the captain and use the mission as an opportunity to execute them. Even if their comrades turn away from them because of it, they will have proven their loyalty to our cause, and that is where the priority lies.”
“I have a feeling TROILUS is going to be a problem. I don’t appreciate his rebelliousness or how fiercely he clings to his meaningless neutrality. When tied to the Montague name, one has no choice but to carry it, and it seems that despite our numerous attempts to instil that in him, TROILUS continues to resist. So, a change in approach is in order, and I believe no one would be more fitting for it than his own darling wife, CRESSIDA. As soon as she receives her orders, she is to set out to coax him towards joining the Montagues. I don’t care how long it takes or what means she uses, so long as the mission ends in success. Assign LADY MACDUFF to the task of monitoring CRESSIDA’s progress and reminding her of just how much is at stake for both her and her husband. Should CRESSIDA fail, you are to order LADY MACDUFF to employ their skills as a reaper and covertly dispose of her. I’m ushering in a new era for the Montagues, and there is going to be no room in it for disloyalty.”
Damiano stood up, acknowledging GERTRUDE with a single nod before crossing his arms against his chest and turning back towards the window. “That’ll be all, Genevieve.”
He looked down upon Verona from his tarnished throne and mulled over the test of loyalty that he was saving up for his son -- a trial to be held for none other than damned, darling ROMEO.
-
JUNE 15TH THE TWELFTH NIGHT
Heavy with unrest, the Twelfth Night felt something like a judicial chamber. In its stomach gathered a collection of bodies, variously disillusioned, called covertly by their Underboss. Some were wounded, while others had only sustained bruises to their pride, but all were equally mortified at what had become of their ordeal. Every single one of them had suffered in some shape at Cosimo’s charge, some more grievously than others, and VOLUMNIA recognised that.
She had come here to pass judgement.
The room was all spider’s silk. It weaved between old murals and ancient sculpture like an elegantly presented crime scene. Thin red yarn pointing to a blood-splatter here and a murder weapon there; a spillage, a fingerprint, a strand of hair fibre left carelessly behind.
Secrets and whispers tangled themselves in the web.
Once, the protection of Cosimo Capulet had meant invincibility. An initiate was a brother, a sister, a child, a lover. Arms outstretched, he had welcomed each and every soldier who now stood in this belly of revolt with outstretched arms, the promise of longevity buried in his eyes. Once, power had flowed from his fingertips like dark-red wine. To be one of Don Capulet’s own was to be part of a great, thunderous throng, each one protected by the cruel hand of God. A single glance gutted hearts clean.
But that protection was thinning. The shield wasn’t working the way it used to.
The room seemed to speak in murmurs. Don Capulet seems bent on sending us all to an early grave. The sour thought arranged itself on the web, turning the spider silk into black dust.
JULIET stood at the centre of the room; her presence seemed to bring her fellow Capulets some assurance. VOLUMNIA and TYBALT stood at her side. The former continued to weave her web, and one could not ignore the knife fastened to the latter’s side.
The heart, the head, the hands.
JULIET took TYBALT’s hand in hers. Both of them knew what was to come, and neither knew how their fellow soldiers were likely to react. TYBALT smoothed his thumb over JULIET’s knuckles, sporting a rare, tender smile.
VOLUMNIA cleared her throat, and by way of nature the room stilled itself into silence. Each pair of eyes fastened themselves on her and her alone. “I don’t need to tell you why we’ve gathered here tonight. You’re concerned, all of you… and you have a right to be.” She paused, testing for a reaction. “As am I. Since VIOLA’s execution, the decisions made by Don Capulet have become more and more difficult to grasp. He ignored the advice offered to him, and on his orders we lost the Cathedral. He sent many of you on fool’s errands. Mismanaged his soldiers. Your latest assignments were fated to fail from the start.”
When a ruler loses the faith of his subjects, his subjects disgorge the throne.
VOLUMNIA and JULIET surveyed the scene in front of them. Still chafing from their botched mission, CORDELIA and EDMUND had resolved to wear their failings like badges of honour, but the sting of it was felt keenly under the skin. Swelled by bruises and flinching at fractured bone, DIANA and TITANIA presented their misadventure more keenly than the others. They became a single organism, failure seeping from a shared wound. Forced to endure the unexpected, BIANCA resented her misemployment, while the blood of an innocent lay on REGAN’s hands. EDGAR and KATHERINE, on the other hand, merely hung their heads in a sort of reluctant shame. As the only soldiers to emerge from their assignment victorious, HIPPOLYTA and LADY MACBETH thumbed their pyrrhic triumph with bitterness.
PARIS and POMPEY, of course, had been more successful. But they had not been under Cosimo’s charge. Crucially, they had been under JULIET and VOLUMNIA’s.
The scene presented itself like an oil painting. Exactly as the women had designed it.
JULIET stepped forwards. Like an armed shadow, TYBALT stepped forwards with her. From now on the two would be indivisible, and he wanted it known. “As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, my father isn’t well. He hasn’t been for a while now. He’s become paranoid, none of his decisions make any sense, and he ignores his counsel. Losing the Cathedral hit us all hard, but, well… I think it hit him hardest of all. His health and well-being need to be our highest priority right now. My father deserves the greatest possible care.” She paused, delicately, the soft touch of lips to the throat before she bared the first sign of teeth. “As do we.”
As if an executioner, VOLUMNIA swung her toothed blade, severing the cord. “What’s clear, however, is that he no longer has what it takes to lead us,” she finished her pseudo-daughter’s trail of thought. “He no longer has what it takes to be our Don.”
Some murmured in agreement, others stood frozen, refusing to betray their true feelings. All, however, knew what was to come next. That, after all, was why they had all gathered here, no?
“So, I will relieve him of the burden.” JULIET declared. “With one hand guided by history and all that we have overcome. and the other looking ahead to what awaits us, to build and to conquer” — VOLUMNIA’s eyes flashed and the corner of TYBALT’s mouth quirked wickedly — “I will begin a new era. We stand strong.”
She clasped fingers once more with the anchors that stood at her side, each offering what she still lacked: cunning and experience, a stomach for what it took to seize and retain a throne.
“Above all, we stand together.”
-
As JULIET’s battle-cry rang through The Twelfth Night, clanging in the air like a song of swords in battle, Cosimo Capulet sat in the backseat of an armoured car. Vanquished and betrayed, it tugged his body through the streets of Verona. That, after all, is how it feels to sit in the shadow of your own child; how it feels when all your love is thrown out with you, left in the alleyways to rot. He was equal parts fury and resignation, the pang of defeat weighing just as heavy as the venomous sting of betrayal.
Silently, his eyes took in what may well have been his last look at Verona. The gaze fixated on all the things Cosimo Capulet had once owned: a local business here, a police station there, a bar, a museum, an ancestral home, Verona itself. The car wheeled away from the impressive empire he’d created with his bare, bloodied hands.
Emperor that he is, Cosimo had built his kingdom to be inherited after him, but his heiress had stolen it from him earlier than anticipated.
First, the women had told them what they had done. What was already behind his control. Behind his back, they had negotiated with their enemy, sent his people on embarrassingly futile assignments, mismanaged his soldiers, and thrown them into Hell blind. All, they assured him, to undermine him, to cast a shadow of doubt over the great Cosimo Capulet. Already a blasphemous brute, splaying the crucified body of a dead girl for all to see, what more was it for him to be an incompetent fool, too?
Next, they had laid out how things were going to be: by their design, JULIET would take Cosimo’s place like a shadow growing into itself, and he would be removed to live out his days in their Padua villa. There, he would be surrounded by all things rich and extravagant: golds and amethysts circling his dinner plates, and the finest selections of wine, cheese and mutton at his disposal. There, he would remain under guard, any tangible image of power stripped from him.
There is no use in fighting, they had warned him. We have already won.
Perhaps for the first time in Cosimo’s life, he did not fight. He did not scratch, did not scrape, did not howl perfidy – the yowl of a wild dog, after all, had never much been his style. He could see his loss, stretched out in front of him crystal-clear, but that did not stop the cruel slashings of his dagger-like tongue. He wanted them to feel the sting of their betrayal, as he did.
Perhaps they did. It changed nothing.
They would not have him bound like a common criminal – his daughter had spared him that humiliation, at least.
To think that the great Cosimo Capulet should fall at the hand of his daughter, his lily-white, Eve-spun daughter, like a flower that grows in the dark – his lip almost vibrated with amusement. He wanted her to feel the shame of her betrayal, the principessa to whom he gave everything, even blood, but as he sat here, his eye trained on a city that now recedes from his touch, he was almost impressed. To think that a man as powerful as himself should fall at the feet of his own child – it is his shame to bear, but it is also his pride.
The man has done some dastardly things in his time: started a war, forced a child to bloody their hands instead of his own, crucified an informant in the shape of Christ, forced his only daughter to wield the knife. He had been right to, no?
Had she not pulled the steel from Viola’s chest and pushed it into his own?
The daughter grows into the shape of her father in the dark. JULIET had betrayed her father and become him – at last, Cosimo recognised that he’d been underestimating her. Unforgivingly, he wondered how long she would last. Cosimo wondered how long she could stand the contortions before they twisted her out of shape.
She would return to him. Wouldn’t she?
As the wheels of the car rolled past the bridge, past the impossible breach that had split Verona down the Adige, Cosimo thought he recognised the shape of something familiar. Someone familiar. He looked closer.
LAMPRIUS tore a writhing fissure through the dark as he emerged. Yet he did not step forth to heed the call of a king’s gaze, but to seek the sight of the victory that lay before him, crumpled among the ruins of what Verona had once been -- and what it has yet to become.
It was quite fitting, that a symbol of collapsed peace would be the mark of his ascension.
It carried a sense of revival. Renewal. Righteous retrieval of everything that had once been stolen by Montague and Capulet alike.
The sight stirred a rare gleam in his eyes, one that remained untouched and unvanquished, even as a dozen soldiers slithered out of his shadow and marched towards the torn-up Castelvecchio.
Rogues, guns-for-hire, and henchmen bought out of the ranks of contacts stolen from RICHARD III; now crowned with the honour of being his pieces across the board, pawns to nothing but the resurrected will of the Witches. They settled on both ends of the bridge and along its broad centre, armed and armoured as they sealed his claim over the long-forgotten, ever-abandoned hallmark.
Yet even with his force anchored to this location, his influence stretched far beyond it, at the tail of one final message sent out to the damned people of Verona -- this time, with a number left behind.
Unlike the one that had come before it, it was not a slip of bait dangled before gnashing teeth -- but an invitation, obligingly placed within open, beseeching palms.
ARIEL, HERMIONE, OLIVIA, HERO, IMOGEN and TROILUS were those chosen to receive it.
Upon speaking of the dead, one must remember to honour the living. And the only honour Verona knows is in the bargain of power; its ebb and flow, its offer and gain. Yet you don’t abide by that law, and you don’t bow before those who do. For that, you have been deemed nameless and defenceless. So this is how we choose to honour you: not by leashing you to the power we offer, but by helping you grow into your own. Not by tying you to a false cause or bending you to our will, but giving you a name and standing beside you when no one else will.
We don’t aim to liberate you; you are already free. You always have been, but it’s easy to forget that in a city as vicious as Verona.
The Witches offer you a reminder, and more. So much more beyond what the Montagues and Capulets have dared to steal from you, so much more beyond what Verona has led you to forget.
Come and find us, if you choose.
No matter what you decide, the Witches have returned to stand with you.
As the neutrals reeled from the message, LAMPRIUS and his forces held their vigilant claim on the Castelvecchio bridge, lying in wait for the rising sun to seal their dominion in place and drape Verona in the dawn of its new era.
Change was finally coming to the ancient city.
And it carried the promise of a reckoning.
-
OVERVIEW: Well, Veronesi, it’s been a long, long time coming, but at last, the moment you’ve all been waiting for has finally arrived! The head of Cosimo Capulet has been cut off (metaphorically speaking), and in its stead three more have grown back. Juliana has assumed her father’s position, guided by the nurturing hand of her Underboss and new advisor, Tiberius. For now, Cosimo sits under guard in a Capulet-owned villa in Padua, the result of Juliana and Vivianne’s string-pulling. There, he continues to live in luxury, but all his power has been stripped from him. With Henry’s gun retrieved from the hands of Isabella and a deal stuck in the shadows, the Capulets seem to be safe for now. The Montagues, on the other hand, have been less fortunate. Each of them have been demanded to make their loyalty clear to Damiano, who continues to try and consolidate his power over his son. For many, what he asks are impossible tasks, and we highly encourage you to explore these in your threads!
But wait, that’s not all. The Witch (singular, for now) has snuck in and taken advantage of the surrounding chaos to claim Castelvecchio Bridge as his own, in one fell swoop. An offer has been made to each neutral in the city who has been pulled into the war. It is their choice to make, and their burden. Neutrals, please message the main with your character's decision to join Lucien or not OCTOBER 29TH. Please keep this decision private for now!
The game is afoot! Thank you for bearing with us this time around. We recognise that this is a very long, very complicated plot drop with several moving parts, so if you have any questions, please let us know! You may date your interactions from JUNE 3RD to JUNE 25TH.
