-The first thing you need to realize about Kaz and Inej is that they never have sex. It doesn’t matter how much time passes or how much progress they make on their respective traumas, it never happens. Period. This is partially because they both acknowledge that that would probably be pushing things, and partially because neither of them (Kaz especially) is particularly interested in that sort of thing.
-They do eventually get to a point where they can kiss, though that is the cumulation of years of patience. They don’t, however, ever surprise each other with kisses. They always ask something like, “Can I kiss you?” just to make sure the other person is ready for it/will be okay with it.
-All in all, they are never casual touchers. They aren’t the kind of couple that walks around holding hands and everything. Every touch is premeditated; when they touch it means something.
-They do eventually share a bed and sometimes cuddle, though they tend to just hold hands. They always make sure there’s enough room to pull apart in case someone gets overwhelmed.
-Kaz never completely abandons the gloves. Eventually, he no longer wears them when he’s not working, but when he goes out into the streets or deals with the Dregs he still wears them. This is partially for the extra protection from anything that might trigger a flashback and partially because the gloves are such a fundamental part of the Dirtyhands mythos that protects him.
-They do eventually get married, though it’s a considerable number of years after the duology (I’m thinking 10+). It’s also not the ridiculously romantic thing that most people think it is. Kaz just says one day, “You know we could get married.” And Inej is like, “Okay.” And then they just go and do it. The ceremony is presided over by the first Suli holy man they can find (they totally get married in a Suli religious ceremony; Inej is religious, she’d care), and literally no one they know sees it. This is partially just them being reckless, but mostly it’s a safety precaution, because they both have enemies who might use concrete evidence of their relationship against them.
-Jesper, Wylan, Nina and others don’t even know about the marriage for years. This is because while Inej obviously tells her family next time she goes back to Ravka, she figures she’ll let Kaz tell the Crows and relevant Dregs because he doesn’t have any living family of his own. Bad idea. Kaz just doesn’t ever mention it, and it takes Inej years to realize he never told them. (You can imagine how that conversation goes.)
-They do get wedding rings. Inej wears hers on a chain around her neck because she doesn’t want to be obviously married when doing her slaver hunting. Since Kaz wears the gloves when he’s working, he actually wears his ring. This of course means that he’s just as careful about no one seeing his bare hands as he was before, just for different reasons.
-Kaz plays with his wedding ring when he thinks by twisting it around and around his finger. How loose it is is one of the ways Inej judges his ever-fluctuating weight.
-The majority of Ketterdam does not realize they’re a couple. The Dregs close enough to them to notice learned that comments about Inej being “Brekker’s Girl” wouldn’t end well back when Per Haskell was still in charge, so they pretend nothing’s going on as well.
-Inej dedicates her life to bringing slavers to justice and rescuing people. She is often gone for long periods of time. Kaz keeps track of all the slavers he hears of and passes the information on to her. No one realizes that the Wraith is so dangerous on the seas because the Bastard of the Barrel is gathering information for her.
-They write long letters to each other in a ridiculously complicated code that they’re the only ones who really understand. This is important because (reoccurring theme) they’re paranoid and want to be sure they can talk freely without worrying about other people reading what they say. Like their entire relationship, these letters are not quite romantic and not quite conventional, but they display deep feeling and understanding which are pretty much the backbone of their entire relationship.
Teaser: …will probably come back and get you at some point. Or an AU where Philip and Barron are trying to protect Cassel not use him, because that’s all I wanted from this book. Written without reading Red Glove and Black Heart.
Rating: PG-13/T
Canon/Timeline: AU, probably set earlier than White Cat is in mainstream canon
Dominant Characters: Philip Sharpe, Barron Sharpe, Cassel Sharpe, Anton Zacharov, mentions of various other characters
Pairings: Philip/Maura, perhaps VERY subtle undertones of Cassel/Lila if you squint
Warnings: some violence; pretty much everyone is intentionally OOC because this AU wouldn’t work if they were all in character
Notes:
-Two questions: 1. Does anyone remember what the name of Philip and Maura’s son is? 2. What kind of worker is Anton?
Disclaimer: I don’t own White Cat by Holly Black or Advil.
--
“Excuse me,” the teenage boy said to the guard. “Is this the way to the bathroom?”
Philip Sharpe peaked around a corner to get a better look. His younger brother, Cassel, stood before the guard, his posture rumpled and anxious, his gloved hands picking at his sleeves. He was almost unrecognizable, and Philip couldn’t help but be impressed. Since Cassel wasn’t a worker, it was too easy to write him off as useless, but Cassel was one of the best con-artists Philip had ever met. It was almost terrifying.
“How did you get back here, kid?” the guard asked. “This is a restricted area.”
“He’s going to blow it,” Anton Zacharov grumbled from behind Philip. “We should have had Barron do this part. He’s the luck worker.”
“Cassel can do it just fine,” Barron spoke up from the back of the group.
“I’m looking for the bathroom,” Cassel was saying to the guard. There was a touch of a childish whine in his voice that didn’t sound anything like Philip’s brother. The kid was an amazing actor. “My stomach doesn’t feel good. I must have eaten something bad.” He wrapped his arms around his middle and hunched over, looking decidedly pathetic.
“Oh,” the guard said eyes darting around nervously. He cared more about not having to clean up vomit than the rules, just as Cassel had said he would. There was a reason they’d picked this particular guard. “Well, there’s a men’s room this way. Come on.” His arms twitched like he was considering put a hand on Cassel’s back to guide him and then stopped for fear that Cassel had the stomach flu or something.
The guard lead Cassel down the hall. Philip watched as they stepped into one of the poorly designed hall’s many security camera blind spots. The instant they were out of sight of the cameras, Cassel straightened up and lunged at the guard, slamming him into the door of a janitor’s closet and holding him in place with a forearm across the throat.
Philip was moving instantly. He darted down the hall, sticking to the blind spots and reached Cassel and the guard. The guard’s eyes got big when he saw Philip’s fake guard uniform. Philip grinned at him in a very specific, creepy “worker-ish” way he’d learned from Mom and pressed an index finger against the guard’s cheek. He felt skin through the slit he’d cut in the fingertips of his gloves and sent a pulse through the man’s nervous system that overloaded it and dropped him into instant unconsciousness.
Cassel stepped back and let the guard drop to the floor. “How long will he be out?” he asked.
“Two hours, maybe three,” Philip knelt down next to the guard and began removing his security clearance card, ID and keys from the various loops and pockets of the uniform. “Depends on a number of factors: age, health, family history. Plus, some people are just more resilient than others.”
Cassel shook his head. “Just asked for a number, Philip; didn’t need the lesson.”
Philip couldn’t keep from smiling. “Whatever.”
He and Cassel quickly tied the man up and stuffed him into the janitor’s closet. They made their way back to Anton and Barron by way of the blind spots. Then Cassel stripped off the hoodie and sweatpants he’d been wearing to reveal the guard’s uniform underneath. They stuffed his old clothes into the small backpack Barron was carrying. Now all three Sharpe brothers were in guard uniforms. Anton was in a suit.
“You actually didn’t mess that up,” Anton said, condescending. “Amazing.”
Cassel’s face turned red and he opened his mouth to retort, but Barron broke in, “We should get moving. We are on a schedule here.”
“Yes,” Philip agreed. “We don’t have time for this squabbling.”
“You’re not in charge here, Sharpe,” Anton growled, and Philip was once again left wondering why he’d bothered putting up with Anton all these years. His life would have considerably less condescension if he’d simply found a way to separate himself from Anton when they’d been ten.
“We should get moving,” Anton went on like Philip and Barron hadn’t just suggested that. “Turner won’t be here all night.”
Abraham Turner was a physicality worker who had recently tried to get out of his contract with the Zacharovs by appealing to the government for a full pardon in return for all the information he had on the Zacharovs. Tonight, was the night that Turner was supposed to meet with several members of the Licensed Minority Division to hand over the information. Obviously, that meeting couldn’t be allowed to happen so Philip, Barron, Cassel and Anton had been sent to make sure Turner wouldn’t be talking to anyone.
Cassel normally wouldn’t be helping on a job like this. Because he wasn’t a worker he couldn’t be a part of Zacharov’s gang in all real capacity, but Philip and Barron sometimes let him help on smaller jobs. The trick had always been keeping Zacharov’s daughter, Lila, from finding out, especially as it became increasingly difficult to convince Cassel not to tell her about it.
Still, Cassel was here tonight with Zacharov’s blessing. Because Turner had been a longtime member of the gang, he knew the faces of just about any agent who could be sent after him. That was where Cassel came in handy. Since Cassel wasn’t a worker and not a member, no one besides Anton, Lila, Zacharov and a few others had ever seen him. Most people weren’t even aware that Mom had three sons. Cassel’s face was unknown to Turner, but he was still close enough to the Zacharov family that his loyalty was ensured. He was the perfect person to lead Turner into the trap Anton was setting for him.
They walked quickly but not too quickly through the halls of the convention center. The LMD had set Turner up with a ticket to the evening gala being held here tonight. The Sharpe brothers and Anton didn’t have tickets at all, but the guard’s ID and security cards quickly got them through locked doors and into the part of the building where the gala was being held. They marched through the halls until they reached a small conference room without any observation windows that they’d picked as the perfect place for the job.
“Get on your part of the mission,” Anton told Cassel. “And if you mess up; I’ll have your hide.”
Cassel rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”
He walked away leaving Anton visibly fuming at the implication that he was worried. Barron snorted, and Anton whirled on him. “What are you laughing at?”
Barron held up his hands. “Nothing. Just clearing my throat.”
Anton looked like he wanted to strange Barron, but Philip stepped in. “Let’s get inside before someone starts wondering why we’re just standing out here,” he suggested.
Anton nodded sharply and pushed his way into the conference room. Philip and Barron followed. The room was had boring beige walls decorated with pristine whiteboards on three walls. A potted plant that came up to Philip’s shoulders stood next to the door and a modern table filled the room surrounded by chairs. Anton strode across the room and settled himself into the chair at the head of the table. He arranged himself in the chair in a way so much like a villain in a movie that it was somewhere between funny and pathetic. “Barron, stand in that corner,” he motioned to his left. “Philip, over there,” another gesture to the right corner.
It was infuriating to be bossed around by Anton like Philip and Barron were just hired muscle with no brains of their own, but there wasn’t a whole lot that could be done about it. Philip took his place in the corner and glanced across the room at Barron who rolled his eyes with a small smile on his face, all in all looking considerably more good-natured about the whole situation.
They waited for almost ten minutes for Cassel to return with Turner. Anton drummed his fingers on the tabletop, Philip fought to keep his foot from tapping. “That kid’s going to blow it,” Anton announced.
“He’ll be fine,” Barron soothed. “Just give him a few more minutes before you start panicking.”
Before Anton could get angry the doorknob rattled and they had half a second to pull themselves together before the door opened and Cassel ushered Turner inside.
Turner took two steps into the room before he caught sight of Anton. He jumped and turned towards the door to escape, but Cassel had already entered the room and closed the door. He stood against it with his hand on the handle, staring impassively at Turner.
“You-” Turner spat. “You-You-” he didn’t have time to come up with something to something to say because Anton cleared his throat.
“Well, Turner, it appears this is the end of the line,” Anton said. “You really should have realized the LMD couldn’t protect you from us.”
“I’m-” Turner stammered, Philip could see him struggling to find an out. “This is all for a job. I’m going to infiltrate the LMD and-”
Anton held up a hand. “Please,” he said. “Save your breath. No one’s going to believe that.”
Turner began to say something, but Anton spoke over him, “I really don’t feel like drawing this out. Abraham Turner, you’re found guilty of treason to the Zacharov family, your execution will happen immediately. Philip.”
Philip took a quiet breath and stepped forward. Turner’s eyes went wide. He tried to back away, but almost instantly Barron and Cassel where on either side of him holding his arms, careful not to touch any skin. Turner writhed trying to escape, but they held his fast as Philip crossed the room. He moved slowly; part of the punishment was in the waiting.
“Please…” Turner begged, a quiet, pathetic whimper from a man who had once been a worker for Zacharov.
Philip didn’t even bother responding. He wrapped his fingers around Turner’s neck, pressing down until their skin came into contact through the slits of his gloves. He didn’t wait to act; Turner could work Philip right now too, skin on skin contact didn’t only run one way. Philip reached out with his power; it only took a second to overload and burn out Turner’s nervous system until it couldn’t possibly recover. Turner slumped in Barron and Cassel’s arms. Dead.
Philip took a step backward, and Barron and Cassel let Turner’s body collapse to the floor. Anton rose to his feet and crossed the room. The four of them stood over Turner’s body looking down. “Are you sure he’s dead?” Anton asked.
“No one can survive their entire nervous system getting burnt out,” Philip said.
“Then we should get out of here,” Anton said heading towards the door. “We’ll leave the body here to send a message to the-” He trailed off because he’d opened the door and an unfamiliar man in a suit was standing outside.
Anton’s mouth dropped open. He started to step back and began raising his hands, but the newcomer produced a nightstick and swung before Anton had a chance to defend himself. He dropped like a stone, either unconscious or close enough.
The suited man nudged Anton’s body with his foot and looked up. “Well, I assume this is Anton Zacharov,” he said. “And you two are Philip and Barron Sharpe,” he eyes focused on Cassel. “But who are you?”
Cassel didn’t respond, he just lunged at the man fists clenched. His attack got nowhere, because the suited man was much bigger than he was. Within seconds the man had Cassel in a headlock.
“Alright, enough of that,” the man said. “This will go so much more smoothly if you all just hand yourselves in.”
“You’re the LMD agent Turner was supposed to meet,” Philip said.
“Correct,” the agent said. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him since he arrived, and I couldn’t just let someone walk off with him without following.”
“Sorry,” Cassel croaked. The bare skin of the agent’s wrist was digging into Cassel’s bare throat and cutting off his air supply.
“It’s a pity you already managed to finish him off,” the agent continued, ignoring Cassel. “He had information that would be valuable to the LMD.”
“People don’t betray the Zacharov family and get away with it,” Philip replied. His eyes kept darting to the doorway behind the agent. That was the only way out of the conference room. They had to get past him.
The agent must have noticed his frantic planning because he smiled. “There’s no way out. The four of you will pay for your c-” his voice broke out into a panicked shriek.
Philip followed the man’s gaze and gasped. Where the agent’s bare skin had been touching Cassel, his wrist had turned into melted wax. Cassel pulled away and darted towards Philip and Barron. The agent dropped to the ground screaming and cradling the melty stump of his left arm.
There was only one type of worker who could what had just happened, but transformation workers were so rare they practically didn’t exist. Besides, Cassel wasn’t a worker at all, how had he…
Cassel looked up at Philip, a look a petrified shock on his face. He looked almost as scared as the agent did. Philip and Cassel stared at each other for one moment that lasted an eternity then Cassel’s face contorted and he dropped to the ground with a shriek, fingers digging to his scalp.
“Cassel?” Philip dropped down next to him. “Cassel, what’s wrong?”
Barron knelt as well, “Must be the blowback.”
“Are you sure?” Philip looked at him.
“Do I look like an expert on transformation workers to you?” Barron snapped.
They both looked back to the writhing form of their baby brother on the ground. A transformation worker. Philip tried to wrap his mind around the knowledge. Cassel couldn’t be a transformation worker. He was too old to develop powers. They would have known. Philip felt a little like he was going to pass out.
Cassel twisted on the ground and let out a horrible, animal-sounding moan. Barron jabbed Philip with his elbow. “Philip, do something.”
Philip shook himself and touched Cassel’s neck, feeling his brother’s skin through the slits in his gloves. He pulsed Cassel’s nervous system the same way he had to the guard he’d taken down in the hall and his little brother went still.
Philip sat back on his heels, ignoring the needle-like pains that were starting to the shoot through his bones—the beginning of his own blowback. It wasn’t bad now—sort of like growing pains, maybe—but he knew it would get worse, especially if he had to do more working today. “We need to get out of here,” he said.
“My thoughts exactly,” Barron said. “I’ll carry Cassel, you take this.” He took off the backpack and handed it over. “We might need you to have your hands free to work someone else.”
Philip pulled the backpack on and stood up. Barron maneuvered Cassel over his shoulders and stood as well. “Let’s move,” he said.
They stepped of the agent’s moaning body and out into the hallway. There were footsteps coming towards them. Philip turned his head to see a squad of security guards heading towards them. “What happened?” the lead guard asked. “We heard screaming.”
Philip took a steadying breath and sized the men up. There were a lot of them, but they didn’t appear armed with anything but nightsticks and tasers. No lethal weapons, which put them at a distinct disadvantage to Philip who had carried a lethal weapon inside of himself since the day he was born.
“A couple meetings didn’t go as planned,” he said in a careful voice. He probably didn’t sound as calm as Cassel could have in this situation, but it would have to be enough. As he spoke, he slowly, carefully peeled off his gloves; he’d need more than a couple slits of bare skin for this. “I think it’s mostly taken care of now.”
“We heard screaming,” the lead guard said. “Is someone hurt?”
“Nothing life threatening,” Philip finished pulling off the gloves and moved to put them in his pants pocket. “You don’t need to worry.”
The sudden bending of Philip’s arm caught the guard’s attention. He looked down to see Philip’s bare hands and his eyes widened. He looked back up. “Please put the gloves back on, sir,” he said shakily. “There’s other ways to solve this.” The rest of the guards began drawing their tasers and nightsticks.
Philip glanced at Barron who was standing just off his right shoulder. “Stay right behind me,” he ordered in an undertone. “Don’t fall behind.”
Barron nodded.
“Put the gloves back on and get on your knees!” the lead guard ordered leveling his taser at them.
Philip gave his best “I’m an evil worker” grin and charged across the space between him and the guards. He brushed his fingers along the lead guard’s neck and dropped him with a surge of bone melting pain. Two more guards were behind, and Philip took them down as well. He plowed through their midst, hands outstretched, fingers reaching for skin. He didn’t try to kill; that would take too much focus. He just needed to slow them down.
He burst through the guards with Barron hot on his heels. They pounded down the hall and skidded around a corner. They retraced their steps to the quieter parts of the building with the poorly placed security cameras. Once there they tried to stay to the blind spots as much as possible. Philip wasn’t sure how long they had before even more security was sent after them. They needed to vanish before that could happen.
They skidded around a corner into a long hallway. Philip clung to the wall under the security cameras until they were halfway down the hall. Then he slid to a stop and bent down next to a specific floor tile. The tiles were a little wider than Philip’s shoulders and this one had a little ridge in it to make it easier to lift. It still took Philip several precious seconds to pry it up because his hands were shaking with a mixture of fear and adrenalin. He finally got it up to reveal and access hatch underneath. This hatch swung downwards to reveal a dimly lit passage; one of the building’s many maintenance hallways.
“You first,” he told Barron.
Barron nodded and set Cassel on the floor. He climbed partway down the ladder attached to the hatch, then grabbed Cassel again and dragged him down as well.
Philip looked back. He could hear sounds of pursuit now. They only had seconds to finish vanishing. He scrambled partway down the ladder and dragged the tile back over the hole, blocking out the light from above and leaving only the dull orange light of the maintenance hallway. He closed the hatch and dropped down the rest of the way to the floor.
The maintenance hallway stretched on in either direction. This was the way they’d gotten into the building. “Let’s move,” Philip panted to Barron.
Barron nodded and took off down the hall. Philip moved to follow, but he only got two steps before the blowback that had been threatening since he’d knocked out Cassel hit with full force. Philip’s bones turned to fire, his muscled went limp. He sagged against the wall gasping in airless breaths through clenched teeth. You don’t have time for this! Get up!
“Philip?” he heard Barron’s voice as if from very far away. “Philip, we need to go.”
“Go ahead without me,” Philip said around a thick tongue and numb lips. “I’ll catch up.”
“No way,” a hand grabbed his elbow and dragged him upright. “Come on, Phil. You can do it. Let’s go.”
Philip didn’t remember much of the rest of the escape, only that Barron’s white-knuckle grip on his arm was the only thing keeping him upright and moving. He didn’t remember transferring from the maintained hallways to the sewer system. He didn’t remember trekking through the sewer for blocks and then climbing out into the parking garage where the car they’d driven here was parked. He didn’t come back to himself until Barron practically poured him into the passenger seat of the car.
Philip leaned against the seat painting from pain and the nausea that came with it. He heard other doors opening and closing as Barron dumped Cassel’s limp body onto the back seat and got behind the wheel.
“Pull your feet in and close your door,” Barron ordered as the car hummed to life. “We need to get out of here.”
Philip hadn’t even realized that his legs were still hanging out of the car. He pulled them in and managed to close the door even though his arms felt like overheated lead. Something was digging into his back and he realized that it was the backpack. He worked the straps off and let it fall to the floor by his feet. He squinted blurrily up at his brother as Barron leaned over and began undoing the buttons on Philip’s guard uniform shirt. “Don’t want to draw attention to us,” Philip muttered. “We don’t want them to make the connection between this car and us.”
“I know,” Barron said. He worked Philip’s arms out of the shirt and tossed it onto the floor in the back. Philip was wearing a normal tee-shirt under it for precisely this eventuality. He realized that Barron had already removed his shirt and a quick glance back confirmed that he’d done the same for Cassel.
Barron buckled Philip in and patted his shoulder. “We’ll be fine, Phil.”
Philip didn’t quite believe him. After all, they had just attacked a member of the LMD and a bunch of security guards. Plus, Anton…
Philip’s aching, struggling heart nearly stopped when he realized what they’d overlooked. The mistake they’d made that would make any trouble they’d have from the police look like a picnic. A mistake that might spell their bloody, painful deaths.
“Barron,” he breathed. “We left Anton.”
~~~~
The highway stretched on before them. Barron tried to keep his hands steady on the wheel and his mind focused. There were not words to describe how badly this job had gone, and that was even without thinking about Cassel…
Philip shifted in the passenger seat. “Barron,” he grunted. “Pull over. I’m going to be sick.”
Barron glanced over. Philip had the back of one hand pressed to his mouth. He’d actually managed to turn green, which Barron hadn’t known was possible. “One second,” Barron pulled over on the side of the highway probably a bit more dangerously than he should have and slammed on the brakes.
Philip swung the passenger door open and leaned out, puking into the gravel. Barron winced and looked away trying to give his brother some privacy. Philip’s blowbacks normally made him nauseous, so it wasn’t like Barron wasn’t used to waiting for his older brother to get ahold of the contents of his stomach, but it was still awkward.
Philip continued emptying his stomach for what seemed like forever. Finally, he wiped his mouth on the back of a hand and leaned back into his seat with an audible moan. His face was completely bloodless and soaked with sweat that plastered his hair to his forehead. The hand that he brought up to pinch the bridge of his nose was shaking, his other arm was wrapped tightly around his stomach.
“Phil?” Barron ventured.
“I feel horrible,” Philip said, his voice rough and acidy from vomiting. “This might be the worst blowback I’ve ever had.”
Barron’s stomach sank. Philip’s blowbacks gave him the symptoms of a bad flu mixed with chronic pain and could last anywhere from a couple hours to days. While Barron knew he shouldn’t exactly be surprised that this blowback was bad—he had never seen a physicality worker work their way through as many people at once as Philip had with those guards—they were going to have to deal with the fallout of all this, and it was looking like Barron would be the only one capable of doing so.
Barron dug around on the floor of the backseat and found a half empty water bottle. “Here,” he said offering it to Philip. “Rinse out your mouth.”
He waited while Philip swished the water around in his mouth and spat it onto the gravel outside. When he pulled back into the car and closed the door, Barron asked, “Are you okay to keep going?”
Philip sunk lower in his seat and his eyes closed. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely.
“Okay,” Barron turned off the hazards and put the car back into drive. “If you need to throw up again let me know.”
He drove for twenty or thirty minutes before he saw signs for a rest stop. He turned onto the ramp and slowed down. Philip—who Barron had hoped had dozed off—shifted and opened his eyes, squinting at the gas pumps and convenience store. “Why are we stopping?” he asked.
“We need some supplies,” Barron said. “We’ll get some Z-Up for your stomach and some Advil.”
Philip smiled vaguely. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “That sounds good.”
Barron pulled up into a parking spot a little way from everyone else and turned off the car. “I’ll go in,” he said. “You can wait here.”
“No, I’ll come in,” Philip said swallowing heavily. “I need to use the bathroom. Besides we need to decide what to do about-” he jerked his head at Cassel’s still, unconscious form in the backseat.
Barron looked back at his little brother. “How long is he going to be out?” he asked.
“Maybe another hour or so,” Philip said. “We’ll need to have a plan of action when he wakes up.”
Barron nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
Before they left the car, they had to change pants and shoes because they couldn’t just walk into a convenience store in the pants and shoes of a security guard when their descriptions were probably going to be all over the news in the next couple hours. After changing into jeans and tennis shoes they got out of the car and headed into the convenience store. Barron gathered up Z-Up, Gatorade, granola bars, sandwiches, water and Advil while Philip used the bathroom. Barron had just finished paying (in cash, obviously) when Philip staggered back paler and shakier than before.
“You okay, bro?” Barron asked, and Philip gave him a look that told him to drop it.
They stepped outside and commandeered a picnic table within sight of the car. Barron sat on the tabletop facing the car with his boots on the table’s bench seat. Philip also faced the car, only he sat on the seat and draped his upper body across the tabletop.
They sat in silence for several minutes then Philip spoke, his voice muffled by the cocoon of his arms, “So, Cassel’s a transformation worker.”
“Yeah,” Barron said tightly.
“I didn’t know that,” Philip said. “He must have used his powers before now; why don’t I remember it?” He lifted his head and gave Barron a look that didn’t make sense for a couple seconds before he made the connection.
“Oh,” he said. “I didn’t work you.”
Officially, Barron was a luck worker; only Philip, Grandad and Mom knew that he was actually a memory worker. If Barron had told the Zacharovs he could have gotten more work than just being the insurance to Philip’s jobs, but the blowback made that a bad idea. Every time Barron used his powers he was trading away some of his own memories. If he wasn’t careful, he would work himself into premature Alzheimer’s.
“Are you sure you didn’t and then forgot?” Philip asked.
“Yes,” Barron said. “That’s something I would have written down in my journals.”
Philip accepted that with a nod. “Still,” he said. “He’s seventeen. This can’t be the first time he’s displayed powers. It would have started when he was younger, which means…”
“Someone did work us to make us forgot,” Barron finished. “All three of us.”
“You’re sure he didn’t know?” Philip asked.
“You saw his face,” Barron replied. “He didn’t have a clue.”
There was a long pause. “Do you think the Zacharovs knew?” Barron asked, cursing the unsteadiness in his tone.
“No,” Philip said. “If they knew Cassel’s a worker this powerful, we’d never have had to work so hard to convince Anton he wasn’t a deadweight. Mom and Grandad on the other hand…”
Barron’s stomach clenched. “They can’t know. They would have told us.”
“They must know,” Philip used his elbows to lever his body into a mostly upright position. “Someone decided we’d be best off not knowing and had us worked; probably multiple times. They’re the only options; they’re the only ones close enough to us.”
“But why?” Barron asked.
“I don’t know,” Philip said, then looked up at Barron, face serious. “But until we understand it, we can’t trust them.”
“We can’t go home either,” Barron said. “Even if we could trust Mom and Grandad either the LMD or the Zacharovs are going to be after us. We’re going to need to go under the radar. Especially if we’re going to protect Cassel,” he paused and realized the assumption he’d made. “We are going to protect Cassel, right?”
“Of course, we are,” Philip said in a tone of voice that suggested that he couldn’t believe Barron had asked. “He’s our baby brother, just because he’s suddenly one of the rarest workers in the world doesn’t change anything.”
“Good,” Barron heaved a sigh of relief. “Then we probably should get moving. We need to put as much distance between us and that conference center as possible before the police have time to really mobilize against us. Even more once Anton inevitably gets bailed out of prison.”
“Yeah,” Philip agreed and began to try to heave himself to his feet. “Might be a good idea to make sure Cassel doesn’t have the option to run before hearing us out when he wakes up too.”
Barron ended up needing to help Philip to the car, but they were still back on the highway within minutes. Philip shifted in the seat then leaned forward to rummage through the pockets of the backpack. “What are you looking for?” Barron asked.
“We have a burner phone in here, don’t we?”
“Yes,” Barron said. “Why do you need it?”
“I’m going to call Maura and tell her to get out,” he said. “The house is under her name, so someone’s bound to show up there eventually.”
“Should we call Grandad?” Barron asked.
“You can if you want,” Philip said. “I’m not.”
Barron knew he wouldn’t either. If they involved Grandad in this, it would be too difficult to keep their new knowledge about Cassel secret. “I’m not calling him either,” Barron said.
Philip straightened up and nodded in something that was either approval or simple acknowledgment. He was holding one of the cheap, prepaid burner flip phones they’d bought for the job. Barron watched out of the corner of his eye as Philip dialed Maura’s number from memory and raised the phone to his ear.
“Maura?” he asked after a minute. “Are you alone?”
There was a pause as Maura answered, then Philip went on, “The job went bad. Catastrophically bad. You need to leave. Chances are either the police or the Zacharovs will be showing up at the house in the next couple hours and I don’t think it’s a good idea if you’re there when that happens.”
Another pause. “I’m fine, just a bad blowback. Barron and Cassel are fine too, but we let Anton get arrested which is why the Zacharovs might be after us soon.”
Pause. “I don’t think Zacharov will have much trouble there,” Philip answered. “Regardless of what the politicians say about cracking down on the crime families, there isn’t a prison in the country that will hold Anton Zacharov for more than a couple days. So, it’s not like this is much of a setback for Zacharov; it’s more that we left Anton to get arrested in favor of saving our nonworker little brother.”
Maura responded, then Philip said, “That’s why you need to get all the essentials into the car and get out of the state. Remember to change the plates before you leave and whatever you do don’t tell Grandad or Mom that you’re leaving.”
Philip listened to Maura’s question, then said, “I can’t explain over the phone. I’ll tell you when we meet in person. Speaking of which, there’s a burner phone in my sock drawer; take it with you, and I’ll call you on it in a couple days so we can find a place to meet.”
Maura spoke some more. “We’re all fine,” Philip said. “No sign of pursuit thus far, but we aren’t going to take any chances. I’ll talk to you in a couple days?” A pause. “I love you too. Stay safe. Goodbye.”
Philip hung up and leaned back in the seat. Barron looked over at his brother’s pale, sweaty face, lax mouth and drooping eyes. “There’s Z-Up and Advil,” he said. “Then you should try to sleep.”
“Yeah,” Philip agreed tiredly. “That’s probably a good idea.”
~~~~
They drove and drove and drove. Barron kept his hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel, his eyes glued on the road, ears tuned to the radio which was playing news, listening for every mention of the incident. So far, their names and descriptions had not been released, but it was only a matter of time. Barron considered where they could go that would be safe and what they would need to do to foil the police descriptions of them. They couldn’t go anywhere Mom and Grandad knew about or anywhere Zacharov, Anton or even Lila knew about. It had to be somewhere entirely knew, and Barron was grasping at straws.
In the passenger seat, Philip slipped in and out of fitful sleep. He shifted restlessly and grunted whenever he was jarred by a bump in the road. Barron wanted desperately to get them a hotel room so Philip could rest in an actual bed, but doing that would be like asking to be found and arrested. Since they’d abandoned Anton, Zacharov wouldn’t bail them out and the Sharpe family didn’t have the money or connections. They needed to stay free or everything was over.
The sun was beginning to rise when Cassel finally stirred in the backseat. Barron’s stomach twisted into knots as he listened to his little brother work his way back to consciousness.
“Wha’ happen’?” Cassel muttered thickly. “Wh’ ‘re we…” Barron gritted his teeth and waited for the explosion.
He didn’t have to wait long. Cassel jerked upright in the backseat. “Wait! I-I-” He sat up straight and Barron saw his angry glare in the rearview mirror. “You lied to me!”
“Cassel?” Philip shifted awake and turned to look at their little brother. “Good, you’re awake.”
“You’re a liar!” Cassel snarled. “You’re both liars! You told me I didn’t have any powers, but I do! What happened to that agent; I did that!”
“We didn’t lie to you,” Philip said, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of strain, either from stress or from the blowback. “We didn’t know. We thought you weren’t a worker too. We would never keep something like that from you.”
“I don’t believe you,” Cassel snapped.
“I’m not lying,” Philip said. “I didn’t know you were a worker. I swear it on my life.”
“I swear it too,” Barron said. “We’re on your side, Cassel.”
“If you two didn’t know anything,” Cassel said. “Why is this the first time it’s ever happened? That’s not how working works.”
“We might have all been worked by a memory worker,” Barron said. A quick glance at Philip confirmed that they were going to keep Barron’s true identity as a memory worker quiet for the time being. “Someone must have decided that we were better off not knowing you were a worker.”
There was a pause while Cassel thought that over. “Mom and Grandad,” he said.
The kid was even quicker to that assumption than they had been, Barron wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or worried. “We’re not sure,” he said. “But it’s a definite possibility.”
He watched in the rearview mirror as Cassel thought it all over. “I’ll trust you two for now,” Cassel finally said, “but if I discover even one little thing that could imply you’re lying to me, well…” he lifted a hand and his eyes narrowed. “I’m know that I’m not defenseless now.”
“A logical strategy,” Philip agreed.
They lapsed back into silence, the radio droning commercials in the background, until Cassel spoke again, “Where are we?”
“On the fast track to the middle of nowhere,” Barron said. “Things only went farther south after Philip knocked you out. We ended up attacking a number of security guards and then running to evade arrest. We’re kind of hot news right now, and we’ll need to go underground until this all blows over.”
“Okay…” Cassel said slowly, thinking it over. “Where’s Anton?”
“Arrested,” Philip said. “We…may have panicked and forgotten about him.”
Cassel snorted. “Bet he’s happy about that.”
“It’s going to be a real problem,” Philip said. “He won’t be happy when he gets out, and the whole Zacharov family will be after us.” He finished by shifting in his seat and moaning out loud.
Barron freed one hand from the steering wheel and patted Philip’s shoulder. “You’ve got about forty-five minutes before you can take more Advil,” he said. “Just hang in there.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Cassel asked, sounding just a little scared.
“Blowback,” Philip grunted. “I’ll be fine.”
Cassel frowned, deep in thought. “We’re in deep trouble,” he said, then his voice became quiet and a little scared. “What happens if the Zacharovs figure out I’m a worker? What happens if the people who worked our memories figure out we know?”
Barron and Philip looked at each other, each trying to come up with something soothing and reassuring to say. In truth, neither of them knew what would happen in either of those situations. “Nothing bad will happen to you,” Philip finally promised, perhaps a bit rashly.
“We’re your brothers,” Barron agreed anyway. “It’s our job to keep you safe.”
--
That’s probably not the best ending in the world, but I’m running on four hours of sleep, so you’ll have to forgive my lack of creative brain cells. I suppose this could be the start of a bigger story, but I’m nearly 100% positive I’m not going to continue, so I suggest you don’t hold your breath.
I’m almost done with part three of the Angsty Kaz FanfictionTM, so hopefully you’ll get that soon. I have a couple other ideas too, so we’ll see what happens. The one thing I will say is that I’m sort of in the process of shifting fandoms, so expect a lot of variety, but probably not a lot of Star Wars.
Anyway, if you’ve read this, thank you! I’m honestly not sure if anyone will see this.
One nice thing about writing science fiction and fantasy is that you have active, verbal people reading you who are likely to write you a letter, telling you what they think about what you said.
In genre fiction, people aren't afraid to do it. We who write in these genres are not set apart in people's minds by academic barriers. There is a real community of people who love fantasy and science fiction. They write each other, and they also write their authors.
Ursula K. Le Guin, in the article “10 secrets to writing fantasy” by Philip Martin
A Couple Emjen Headcanons: Nine and Twelve (Zankyou no Terror)
-The names Kokonoe Arata and Hisami Touji mean absolutely nothing to Nine and Twelve; they’re just fake names and they’ve had a dozens of those. When she first starts living with them, Lisa slips up and calls them by those names all the time. Nine gets snappy whenever she does. Twelve is so infatuated he’d probably let her call him anything, but she quickly realizes that for all intents and purposes their names are Nine and Twelve and starts to call them that.
-Nine did not always need glasses, in fact he only started wearing them in the last couple years. His eyesight is rapidly deteriorating as a result of the Project Athena side effects. He is capable of going without the glasses (as is shown in a number of episodes), but the resulting eyestrain makes his headaches more prevalent, so he tries to wear the glasses whenever possible.
-There is no big brother in Nine and Twelve’s relationship. Though at first glance it seems like Nine is the one who is always taking care of Twelve, Nine is as hopelessly dependent on Twelve as Twelve is on him.
-The kernel of the idea that becomes the Sphinx bombings is Twelve’s, but Nine is the one who brings it to fruition.
-Nine is the more moral and idealistic of the two. He’s the one who emphasized that there couldn’t be causalities in the bombings. Twelve doesn’t necessarily want to kill people, but he’d be more willing to accept it than Nine would.
-Nine is a pessimist and Twelve is an optimist. That said, both boys are woefully optimistic about the chances of their plan working out. Even if they’d both survived the last episode, the chances that their story wouldn’t have just gotten swept under the rug are high. The best chance their plan had would have been if Nine actually got to have his press conference.
-Twelve came to the Settlement after Nine and underwent less treatment before they escaped. That’s why he doesn’t appear to have any of the symptoms Nine and Five do. He could probably have lived another couple of years, while Nine had a matter of months.
-Neither Nine nor Twelve really expected to survive the aftermath of the Sphinx bombings. Nine had a greater grasp of his own mortality than Twelve, but still counted on Twelve outliving him.
-Nine dies of either a heart attack or an aneurysm. Given his other symptoms (headaches, ringing in ears, etc.), I think the aneurysm is more likely.
If You’re Gone, Maybe It’s Time to Come Home Part Two [a SoC Fanfic]
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
(15)
Even though that raid was a disaster, Kaz is able to overcome it in the next few weeks. He and the spiders do not discuss it, and if Espen treats everyone with a bit more vitriol than usual, no one mentions it.
Kaz is still tired, though. He’s having an increasingly hard time focusing on his responsibilities. He knows that he is general of the Dregs and his work is important, but it’s starting to seem so pointless. What does it matter if someone makes that con artist pay up or tells that gang to back off? In the long run Ketterdam will go on just as it always has. Kaz is just too tired to deal with any of it. It’s getting harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning.
Things come to a head the day that he falls asleep at the desk in his—formerly Per Haskell’s—office. He’s been feeling hopeless with the situation with the Black Tips and worrying about Inej. She’s been gone a long time, and while he knows from her letters that she’s alright she hasn’t said anything about when she’ll next be back. After so long, he can’t quite choke the fear that she isn’t going to come back. That she’s finally realized that she doesn’t need him in her life.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep and is woken by a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Panic surges, and lashes out at the person who dares to touch him.
Anika leaps back, her hands raised, fear on her face. “Sorry, Boss,” she says. “I just…That mercher is here to see you. The one we’re working for that grain scam.”
“Oh,” Kaz says, his panic fading. He kicks himself for the faint, half-aware tone of his voice. He glances at the clock on the wall next to the door and wonders how long he’s been asleep. He rubs a gloved hand over his face, trying to pull himself into some semblance of wakefulness. “Give me five minutes, then send him in.”
“Okay, Boss,” Anika says, but she doesn’t leave.
“What?” he asks, giving her a look.
“Nothing…” she says, then rubs the back of her neck. “It’s just that…I’ve never seen you sleep before.”
Kaz growls and ignores the unspoken question. Anika does not have the right to wonder if he’s alright. No one has that right, he is Dirtyhands. He doesn’t need people’s sympathy. “Go do your job, Anika.”
(16)
When Inej next comes back it’s all he can do to keep from dropping everything and running to the docks to meet her. He wants to see her so badly; he’s so sure that everything will be alright now that she’s back.
Still, he forces himself to tie everything up neatly and walks to the docks. Inej is helping unload the boat. Her hair is tied back in a long braid and she looks well. He stands on the edge of the berth, watching. He can barely wrap his mind around how lucky he is that this perfect being came back here to him.
But what if she wasn’t here for him? The uncertainty takes him off-guard. Kaz has never worried about whether or not someone wants to see him. In fact, he normally operates under the assumption that everyone he knows and interacts with would be happier if he just vanished from the universe. Inej is the only person he’s always thought genuinely liked him being around.
Now he thinks of that letter in his drawer and wonders if he completely misjudged her. What if she is just like everyone else? What if she just puts up with him because it’s easier than telling him how she really feels? What if she sees him waiting for her and wishes she’d stayed at sea so she wouldn’t have to deal with him?
He feels shaky, and he’s having a hard time breathing. That doesn’t make any sense because he’s wearing his gloves. He stretches his fingers so he can feel the leather pulling. That normally helps, but right now it doesn’t. He promised Inej that he’d remove his armor for her and he’s failing. He used to be able to take his gloves off and do his office work, maybe deal a card game if he took a couple shots of whiskey to fortify himself first. Now the thought of taking the gloves off to wash his face has started giving him cold sweats. He’s not getting better, he’s getting worse by the day. How is he supposed to convince Inej to keep coming back if he has nothing to offer her?
He’s so wrapped up in this anxiety, that he doesn’t approach Inej. He stands in the shadows at the end of the berth and watches while the crew filters away to enjoy being on land. At last, Inej locks up and wanders down the berth. Kaz wonders were she’s planning to go. The Slat maybe? To see him?
Presumptuous. He scolds himself. Why would she want to go see him right after landing? There are a million other people in this city who are far, far better company than he’ll ever be.
Inej almost walks right by the place where he’s standing before she stops and turns to him. Her eyes narrowing in an expression that he knows is probably confusion but a loud part of his mind suggests is really disgust or disappointment. “Kaz?” she asks. “How long have you been standing there?”
Kaz shrugs in an attempt to seem casual. His heart is pounding so loudly he can hear it, and his palms are slick with sweat inside his gloves. “Not long,” he says in what he hopes is a level voice.
“You could have come down to the ship,” Inej says. “You didn’t have to stand here in the dark. Is everything okay?”
He’s surprised by how much he wants to say that everything’s not okay, but if he did Inej would ask him to explain what’s wrong and he’s not sure he can. Besides even if he could find the words he’s deathly afraid that outright telling Inej that he thinks she doesn’t really care about him would just drive her away even faster. “Everything’s fine,” he says instead and feels like he’s trying to swallow sawdust.
“Okay,” Inej says. Then her eyes drop significantly to his gloved hands. What he wants is obvious.
His lungs tighten until he can barely breathe. He knows that he needs to take the gloves off to show Inej that he cares about her and that he’s trying for her, but he’s nearly positive that if he tries to take the gloves off now, he’ll simply collapse and lose his grip on himself completely. The gloves help, he knows they do and he needs them. They’re the only thing that helps him keep a grip on his own humanity.
He looks away and pretends he didn’t see Inej’s look.
(17)
He and Inej spend a couple days going about things like old times. They creep on rich merchers and eat fried potatoes while walking through the streets. Kaz feels better, not quite right, per se, but he can push aside the little voice that says Inej doesn’t really want anything to do with him and enjoy just being near her.
He should have known it was too good to last.
Inej has been back for about two days when things fall apart. They’re sitting on the roof outside of one of Kaz’s safehouses, going through the details of the information they’ve just learned about a group of slavers. Suddenly, Inej grows quiet. Kaz is just about to ask her what’s wrong when she reaches out and lays a hand on top of one of his gloved ones. He can’t help it, he tenses.
“You know, I haven’t seen you take these off once since I’ve been back,” she says slowly, carefully.
Kaz inwardly curses himself. A year ago, she probably wouldn’t have said anything, but this new Inej is braver. She’s no longer afraid to speak; the Ice Court only made her stronger while he’s pretty sure it did the exact opposite for him.
He doesn’t know what to say, so he just shrugs.
Inej heaves a sigh. “Listen, Kaz,” she says. “We had a deal. ‘I will have you without your armor, or I will not have you at all,’ remember? You need to put in the effort, Kaz. I can’t do everything in this relationship; you have to meet me halfway.”
He should say something, but he doesn’t.
“Kaz,” Inej says sounding a little bit sharper than before. “If things are too close to the surface right now and you need time, that’s okay. But you need to tell me. You can’t just keep expecting me to let you get away with things. You need to communicate with me Kaz.”
He looks at her out of the corner of his eyes. He imagines telling her what has been going on. He imagines saying, “Inej, I think something’s wrong with me; I don’t feel like myself anymore.” He can feel the shape of the words on his tongue and opens his mouth in the hope that they’ll just come out, but they don’t. The silence drags on and on.
“Kaz,” Inej says sharply. “I’m not going to put up with this anymore. You can’t just treat me like your timid little Wraith. I’m not that girl anymore. You can’t expect me to just put up with you without you doing anything in return. This isn’t a business partnership, this is a relationship, and if you want this to go anywhere you need to step up and do your part.”
Each of her words feels like a knife buried deep in his stomach. She’s going to leave. He was right, he really is a horrible, wrong person who no one can stand to be around. Inej really does deserve better than him. He can’t even take off a pair of gloves for her.
All he has to do is take the gloves off. If he took the gloves off he could possibly appease her and she could be convinced to stay, but he can’t. His chest is a vice and he can feel the water around his legs. He needs to take the gloves off, but he can’t. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t, and he’ll never be able to. He has failed.
He says nothing and does nothing. He simply keeps staring out at the roofs of Ketterdam. Inej makes a soft, disgusted sound and gets up. She takes a couple steps away then stops and he hears her turn back to him. “When you finally learn to swallow your pride, Kaz, we’ll talk,” she says and starts to walk away again.
He wants to call her back, to say something—anything—to make her stay, but the words catch in her throat. She’s right about every. He is not worthy of anything even remotely concerned with her. So, he says nothing and she leaves him sitting on the rooftop all alone.
They don’t speak again before she leaves Ketterdam.
(18)
A year ago, the argument (if it can even be called that since he didn’t say a word) wouldn’t have caused Kaz any substantial pause. A year ago, Kaz was secure in the knowledge that Inej would come back eventually because she had nowhere else to go. Now he no longer has that luxury. Inej has the whole world laid out before with nothing to tie her to Ketterdam but a bunch of bad memories and a boy who can’t be the person she deserves.
So, Kaz knows that his relationship with Inej is over. She will not return to Ketterdam again. He will never see her again. He has ruined the one relationship he still had left.
He tries to take this reality in stride and go on with his life, but he can’t. He feels empty and so completely alone, even more so than he did after Jordie. When Jordie died, Kaz had his thirst for revenge to keep him company. Now he is on the top with his revenge and nothing but the seemingly bottomless hole of sadness opening up inside him.
He realizes that most people will see this as exactly what he deserves. He spent almost half his life chasing money and revenge and now that he has them he discovers how empty and broken his life really is. In fact, even he’ll admit that’s probably exactly what he deserves.
That doesn’t make getting on with things any easier. It’s become near impossible to get out of bed in the morning. Waking up at ten bells is now early for him and it takes him even longer to work up the energy to drag himself out of bed. Once he’s actually up, he has a hard time focusing. All he wants to do is go back to bed and sleep for the rest of his life.
(19)
Time passes in an incomprehensible blur. Inej still sends him information about her movements so he figures their business arrangement isn’t over yet and keeps sending her information on slavers.
One afternoon, he’s attempting to focus on the Crow Club’s profits when Anika comes in with an envelope. He doesn’t look up, he just keeps on scribbling another calculation on a spare bit of paper (he used to be able to do all these calculations in his head but he’s just too tired to try these days). He expects Anika to just set the envelope on his desk and leave, but she doesn’t. She sets it right on top of his hand then steps back and crosses her arms.
Kaz looks from the envelope to her and raises his eyebrows.
“I’m going to watch you read it,” she says.
“You know I am capable of reading my own correspondence without someone looking over my shoulder,” he snaps.
“Sure,” Anika shoots back. “Just not in any semblance of timeliness.”
They both look to the stack of unopened mail on the edge of Kaz’s desk. He used to open every piece of mail he got, even the useless stuff. Now he the mere thought of opening the important stuff exhausts him.
He also doesn’t have anywhere near enough energy to continue arguing with Anika, so he just opens the envelope and pulls out a small invitation. It’s from Wylan. Inej is returning to Ketterdam soon, and Wylan and Jesper are planning a party to celebrate all the success she’s had so far.
“You’ll go, won’t you?” Anika asks, sounding more like an anxious schoolgirl than a lieutenant of the most powerful gang in Ketterdam.
“Why does it matter if I go or not?” he asks, turning the invitation over and over in his gloved fingers. He knows that he won’t go. He doesn’t want to force people to interact with him because they’re scared of what he’ll do (that’s what drives everyone’s interactions with him, he can see that now), and he doesn’t think he could handle seeing Inej.
There’s a long pause, then Anika says, “What’s wrong, Brekker?” she sounds a little fed-up but mostly surprisingly worried.
Kaz finds it in himself to raise an eyebrow at her. “What do you mean?”
“You haven’t been acting right for months,” she says, “and it’s getting worse. We’re worried about you.”
Her words form a block of ice in Kaz’s stomach. “Define ‘we,’” he says slowly.
“Everyone,” Anika says. “Me, Keeg, Pim, Roeder, Dirix, Rotty, Mina. Even Teapot’s worried, and that’s saying something.”
Kaz’s fists clench. He thought he’d been doing a decent enough job at pretending to be okay. If he’s failing that means that those close to him know how shamefully weak he’s become. That means that someone in the Dregs is probably plotting his downfall right now. He’s going to lose the Dregs if he doesn’t get his act together fast.
“Thank you for your concern,” he tells Anika flatly. “But that’s really not any of your business.”
(20)
A couple days before Jesper and Wylan’s party he’s going with the spiders to do some reconnaissance for a big job they’re planning. Kaz finishes the last of his meetings with time to spare and makes his way up to his rooms to eat supper in peace.
It’s only seven bells in the evening, but he’s already flagging. He’s tired, sad and inexplicably hopeless about the job as a whole. On top of it all, he has absolutely no appetite and hasn’t in weeks. He stirs his stew listlessly while trying to talk himself into actually eating. He hasn’t had anything today but coffee. He’s going to need his strength for tonight, but he’s just doesn’t want to eat…
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he knows he must have because the next thing he knows he’s blinking awake to a significantly darker room and Espen in his face.
“You’re just taking a nap?” Espen snarls leaning in close. “What is wrong with you? Roeder, Mina and I have been waiting for over an hour!”
Kaz blinks at him. He feels groggy and can’t quite get his thoughts to line up. He wants to go back to sleep.
“Are you listening to me?” Espen literally lunges forward and shoves Kaz out of his chair and onto the floor. “This is ridiculous! You’re supposed to be leading this gang not taking a nap whenever you feel like it!”
Espen’s bare hands are twisted into Kaz’s shirt and pressing against his neck sickeningly. Kaz has been caught half asleep and in a poor state of mind. In another time, he might have just been able to throw Espen off and go on with things, but tonight he can’t. His chest seizes up and the water surges around him. He struggles fruitlessly against Espen.
“Get a’ me!” he shrieks. His voice sounds strange. It takes him a moment to realize that not only does he sound as hysterical as he feels, his accent has changed. He’s spent years training himself to speak like a Ketterdam native, and now his natural Southern Kerch farmer’s accent sounds wrong.
The change is accent must surprise Espen too because the boy jerks back. Kaz shoves him off and scoots away until his back hits the wall near the fireplace. He knows it looks pathetic, but he’s shaking so hard he knows Espen can see. The room feels to small and bright, and it swirls around him. His stomach churns, and his heart pounds like it’s trying to escape his chest. He can’t breathe, he can barely think.
Espen steps closer. “Boss?” he sounds scared, like he can’t figure out why Kaz is so disgustingly weak. “What’s wrong? Do you need a medik?”
Kaz swallows back nausea and manages to get in a decent breath that enables him to speak. “Get away from me,” he says.
Espen jerks back in surprise. “What?”
“Get out of here,” Kaz tries for his Dirtyhands snarl, but he still can’t breathe and his voice comes out audibly shaky. A small part of him is thankful that at least his Ketterdam accent is back. “Go downstairs and tell Anika and Pim that you’ve been demoted. Have them put you cleaning chamber pots in one of the smaller gambling halls, or they can just kick you out, I don’t care which. Just never, ever come near me again. If you do, I swear I’ll find some very painful and humiliating way to kill you.”
He’s vaguely aware that he probably shouldn’t be saying stuff like that to Espen. Kaz and Espen are just a little too much alike and there’s a part of Kaz that is terrified of the kid finding reason to focus his anger on Kaz. Kaz does not want to become Espen’s Pekka Rollins. Still his panic is all-consuming. He just wants Espen gone. He doesn’t care what he has to deal with later as long as the kid is gone now.
Espen backs away. He looks terrified, like he’s not sure what to do next. “Ummm...I…”
“Get out,” Kaz orders around a breath that sounds just a little too much like a sob.
Espen turns and flees.
(21)
The instant the door swings closed behind Espen, Kaz drags himself to his feet and stumbles across the room. He’s still having trouble breathing and he’s shaking so badly that he can barely stand. He nearly falls against the door and fumbles at the dozen or so locks he’s put on his door for security. The locks don’t make his room unbreachable, but it definitely makes it difficult. When all the locks are in place he does the same for the windows, pulling dark curtains over them. He even locks the window he habitually leaves unlocked for Inej, after all, it’s not like she’ll be coming back to visit anytime soon.
When his rooms are locked up as tightly as he can make it. He staggers over to his safe and opens it with shaking fingers. Inside amongst the ledgers and kruge and jewelry and other valuables is a bottle of extremely expensive whiskey that was lifted from a mercher a couple months before the Ice Court job. It’s opened because he and Inej each had a glass the night they took it, but they saved the rest because it’s not the kind of thing you drink wastefully.
Right now, Kaz doesn’t care how expensive it is. He grabs the bottle and slams the safe door behind him as he heads towards his bedroom. He pulls the horrible letter he wrote to Inej months ago out of his drawer and sinks onto his bed. He uncorks the bottle and pours a generous portion down his throat while he begins to read.
(22)
He reads the letter over and over and over as the bottle gets emptier and emptier. He doesn’t feel any less empty, though. He sits on the bed with his knees drawn up. He rests his forehead against the letter and the bottle and just sits.
He can’t deal with an angry eleven-year-old. Can’t eat his supper and go do his job the way he’s supposed to. He can’t even take off a pair of gloves without freaking out. He is pathetic, no wonder Inej left him. He deserves it.
There’s a knock on the locked door. “Boss?” Anika. “What’s going on? Espen told Pim and I that you said—Well, I just want to hear it from you first. Is Espen overreacting?”
Kaz chokes back a snort. He wonders how he managed to convince Anika he couldn’t possibly have given that order. He wonders if Espen had mentioned that the Dregs’ fearsome general had been having a panic attack when he gave that order. Normally, Kaz would never use those words to describe what had happened, but he’s feeling pathetic enough right now to stop lying to himself.
Anika knocks on the door again. “Brekker? Boss! Are you in there?”
Kaz says nothing. Even if he wanted Anika to know he’s holed up in his rooms like a coward, he doesn’t think he’s sober enough to speak without slurring.
“Kaz, you better actually be in there,” Anika says. “I’d feel really stupid if I was just standing out here talking to an empty room.”
He doesn’t say anything. Eventually Anika leaves and something snaps inside him.
He looks down at the letter then hurls it across the room. It falls on the floor in a flutter of pages. He’s on his feet almost before they settle. He crosses to his dresser and sweeps the clutter on top it onto the floor with an arm. He does the same with the small table that his washbasin sits on. He throws the pitcher at a wall where is shatters and rains to the floor in a shower of glass and water.
He knows he’s being ridiculous. He’s always hated people who get drunk and do stuff like this, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He knows that busting up his room isn’t getting him anywhere, and it’s not making him feel better, but he needs to do something.
He stumbles to his bed and collapses onto it. The mostly empty bottle of whiskey rolls out of his fingers and onto the floor. He buries his face in his pillow, wraps his arms around it, and tries to hang on.
(23)
He’s thinking about the farm. He hasn’t done that in years. Even when he bought the place as Johannus Rietveld he barely let himself think about it. The farm is like a distant dream so faded by time it’s not worth giving mental energy to.
But he’s thinking about it tonight. He thinks about the rolling hills and the dark earth of the fields. The apple trees where he learned to climb and the barn where he’d race Jordie up and down from the loft.
Slowly, floating on a haze of drunken sadness, Kaz allows his mind wander away from the farm itself and onto the people who lived there. He thinks about Jordie all the time, but he hasn’t thought about Buck—the huge black-and-tan dog they’d had—in years, not since he learned that the dog died around the same time Jordie. Now, he thinks about how Buck was fierce to strangers, but would lay by the fire and let Kaz lean against him when it was just the family.
He hasn’t thought about his mother in even longer than Buck. She died when he was about five so he probably shouldn’t actually remember her, but Kaz has always had an impeccable memory. He remembers clinging her long skirts, and her humming while she worked. The memory of her feels like a punch to the gut.
Then there’s his father. Thinking of him brings back recollections of a big, tired man with rough, gentle hands. He was the same kind of fool that Jordie had been, in crushing debt because he had horrible luck and was too trusting. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from trying to give his sons the best of everything and promising that everything would work out right until the moment that he’d been run over by his own plow.
Thinking that brings back the memory of that horrible day. Kaz remembers standing ankle-deep in the tilled soil of the field staring at the carnage and screaming like the soft farm kid he’d been. That’s all he remembers of his father’s death: blood, gore and his own voice screaming and screaming and screaming.
He wraps his arms tighter around the pillow and clenches his teeth. Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it.
It’s too late. His head is full of memories of people he’s been trying to forget about for years. Memories swirl around them, that old grief mixing with his new grief about Inej. He’s sad. So very, very sad.
He misses them.
He misses everyone. Inej and Jordie and Buck and his mother and father. He misses the farm. He misses Kaz Rietveld: the stupid, naïve kid who believed that people were good and that he was good and that things would someday work out.
He wishes he could go back to that, but he knows he couldn’t. He’s done too much. Even if his parents and Jordie were still alive like Inej’s were, he couldn’t go back. He’s not like Inej—bruised but still herself—he has become something else, something his parents and Jordie would hate and revile. There will be no salvation for the boy who had once been Kaz Rietveld, he’d burned and destroyed every path that might lead anywhere but his own damnation.
His shoulders hitch and a sob rips out of his mouth. His cheeks are wet, and the sensation is so strange it takes him a couple minutes to realize he’s crying for the first time in going on a decade. He presses his face into the pillow to try to stop it, but he can’t. He just sobs and sobs and sobs.
He wishes someone would come and comfort him the way his father used to back on the farm, but he knows it won’t happen. He is Dirtyhands and no one comforts Dirtyhands. Besides, he’s to broken to even allow anyone to touch him. Who would even want to bother trying to deal with all that?
So, he stays curled up on the bed, wrapped around his pillow and cries alone until the Slat begins to wake up around him and he finally passes out from exhaustion.
(24)
When he wakes up next, it must be late in the day, though he’s not a hundred percent sure because the curtains block out most of the light. His head aches from a combination of crying and a hangover, and he feels washed-out and hopeless.
He shifts slightly and curls tighter around his pillow. He feels so alone, like he could vanish into the atmosphere right now and no one would ever notice. He wishes Anika would come back. He’s not sure if he would let her in, but he would like to hear her voice. He thinks that would help.
She doesn’t come. He clings to the pillow because it feels like it’s the only thing holding him together. He doesn’t want to let go.
He should get up and go deal with the mess he made of both his room and his relations with his spiders, but he can’t find it in him to move. Does it really matter what he does? Maybe the world would really just keep spinning and he could just lie here until he feels like he’s in control of his life again.
Somehow, he manages to get his boots, coat, vest and tie off without letting go of his pillow. He slides under the blankets and curls up again. He closes his eyes and simply lets go.
(25)
Time passes. Kaz floats in and out of dull, heavy sleep. Sometimes he’s vaguely aware of people knocking on his door, but they don’t come in (can’t come in because of all the locks) and he doesn’t respond. It doesn’t matter. They’re just trying to figure out why he isn’t doing his job because as much as they’re afraid of him, they’re afraid of the Dregs seeming weak even more.
He is so alone and so sad and he wants someone to come comfort him, but he doesn’t know how to ask for help anymore and doesn’t trust anyone enough anyway. Well, he trusts Inej, but she deserves so much better than being wrapped up in his issues.
He hugs the pillow to his chest even more tightly. It’s the closest thing to a hug he’s likely to ever get and he tries to tell himself its good enough. It’s not. It will never be, but he has to make do.
After all, who would ever want to do anything for the terrifying Dirtyhands?
Sorry that this part's a little shorter. I was going to keep going, but I realized this was a good place to end this section. There's maybe two parts left, which hopefully will be up promptly.
Hopefully this part worked out. Have you ever planned a certain part of a story hundreds of times only to actually get to writing it to find that you can't remember how you wanted to do it? That's what happened to me at the end of the this part. Not the first time, that's happened to me, actually. It happened with an original thing I was working on this summer too.
I've become fascinated with Kaz's relationship with Anika. I'm not sure what to define them as, because I wouldn't say they're friends, but they're definitely not strangers (causal acquaintances, maybe? Colleagues?). No matter which way you look at it, I feel like the Dregs (especially the younger members) probably care for Kaz way more than he thinks they do.
So, I'll try to get the next part to you as soon as possible. Look forward to some Inej POV!
