gun metal gray. the color of statues, the color of storms, the color of cool metal. inflexible, dangerous, caught in between.
assorted moments associated with the color, selected from the nightmares of one archer drake, participant in the trial of hearts.
i. half moon bay. she would know it blind and deaf, from the feel of the sand beneath her feet, from the smell of the breeze off the water. the fog was too thick to see through. a familiar voice sounded out over the water, soft and tremulous. ādonāt leave, arch. donāt leave me. i canāt lose you again.ā āi wonāt. you wonāt.ā she replies like a promise, but when she steps into the water she does not find the comfort of a pinkie wrapped with herās. there is only the cold and the dark and the crushing pressure, the hand she hoped to grab already out of her reach.
ii. the storm rages, high wind and drenching rain, but archer flees out into it anyway. she is something small, her claws digging into the dirt to keep herself steady, and what waits for her is larger, sharper, capable of eating her whole with one snap of her teeth. āi can help you.ā she insists, her eyes on the chain that binds, searching for a weakness in the links. lightning strikes close, and her clawing turns desperate, blood welling. āi can get you out of this.ā āno, you canāt.ā the words are gentle, warm. āi chose this. i choose this.ā she screams, every inch of her trembling. ābut itās the wrong choice!ā The wind rips the words out of her throat and casts them away, unheard.
iii. drake inc. headquarters. royalty stands with her as she surveys her empire, perfect envoys with soft voices and sharp eyes. āiām scared.ā says the little queen-to-be, reaching over to straighten archerās crown. were her fingers already bloodied, or had she cut herself on the crownās edges? the golden prince cradles his loveās hands and she realizes she canāt see where the blood starts or where it ends, only that they are all covered in it, warm and sticky and unavoidable. they wear it better than she does, with grace, with smiles. āwe know what it costs.ā he says with a voice like ice, moving to stand protectively between his partner and archer. āwhat it takes. what you are. stop pretending.ā when she looks for her reflection, she sees scales and slitted eyes and sharp teeth, can taste iron and ash on her tongue.
iv. she sits fiddling with a circuit board, all live wires and hot metal. she feels it wearing away at the skin of her fingers as she works, flaying away every protective layer. still, it was only pain; it needed to work. āitās pointless.ā came a voice near her ear, dry and logical. āthereās still time.ā she insisted in a whisper, voice hollow, shoulders hunching. āi can still fix it.ā āyou?ā a scoffing little laugh cut deeper than the edge of a thin blade, pressed close to her throat. āyouāre the one that broke it.ā The blade breaks skin, but she canāt take her eyes off the board, wonāt, not until she understands how it all connects.
v. she hears the gunshots, sees the blood spill, but no matter how hard she looks, she canāt be certain who shot first, who carries the deeper wound, whoās closer to dying, who needs to be saved. all she can see is the same dark hair, the same pale eyes, the same bloodstained smiles. āplease.ā she tries, but she canāt reach for both of them at the same time. ājust stop, you donāt have to ā ā she begs, but that just makes them go cold in the same way. they speak with one mouth, one heart, for once in agreement. āsai come finisce questa cosa, piccolo ipocrita.ā she turns her gaze to the bullet casings littering the ground, pretending not to understand.
vi. she stares down into an open grave, considering the depth of the darkness beneath her feet from where she sits on the edge, swirling a glass of champagne in her hand. it was garnished with an orange, but she knew what she would taste if she put it to her lips, bitter and medicinal. ājust drink it.ā he suggested, placid and calm. āi already have. it was always too late.ā he moves before she can find words to speak, jumping down into the grave. She tries to fight the filling of it, desperately shoveling handfuls of dirt out with her hands, but he merely lay down to await his own burial, crossing his arms over his chest. The look on his face never shifts as the rising earth slowly consumed them both: no fear, no pain, just an empty upturn of the lips.
vii. she struggles to keep balance on a high wire, legs shaking, arms outstretched. the costume she wears wasnāt made for her: tight, constricting, puffy sleeves and jingling bells. her audience is small but talkative, with eyes that never blink. āsheāll fall.ā whispers the fox with glee, licking at the blood crusted around her mouth, hungry for more. āmaybe, maybe not.ā says the cat with the wide smile from nearby, but when she looks to him he hooks his claw around one of the wires, poised to cut it loose. the sharp bark of a dog chases him off the wire, and the voice that speaks next is like honey, smooth and sweet, hard to distrust. āitās okay if you do. it wonāt hurt.ā the world slid, turned upside down, and the last thing she sees before impact is a dark-haired figure watching with a pleased smile, as if the fall is her favorite part of the show.
viii. archer looks at archer and the tech heiress doesnāt look back, instead frowning down at her phone even by her bedside, her designer clothes out of place against bareness of the hospital room, with its fluorescent lights and white walls. It was impossible to move, harder still to speak; she forces the words out anyway. āarenāt youā¦going toā¦apologize? arenāt you sorry?ā tears burn at the edges of archerās eyes; archerās brow furrows, confused at the sudden show of emotion. āwhat are you talking about? iām doing whatās best for both of us. like i always do.ā archer snaps her phone shut, then stands and plucks up a pillow, pressing it down firmly over her face. suffocating herself comes easily as breathing.
Musings from the mind of Jackson āMontyā Montgomery, long-time head of security for the Drake Family, on persons of interest related to Archer Drake, participant in the Trial of Hearts
mrs. elaine knight, Mr. Drakeās personal chef. The closest thing to a mother those girls had, I think. Sheās the one who made them snacks when they finished their homework, who celebrated their birthdays with cake, who memorized their allergies, knew their favorites. She worked herself to the bone for those girls, and no wonder ā even now, she can only afford to pay her husbandās medical bills thanks to Mr. Drakeās generosity. I heard she wanted to follow little Archie when she moved out of her fatherās place, but I guess Mr. Drake liked her cooking too much to let her go.
piper drake, a wildcat, through and through. She used to drive her father up the wall ā but he loved her. We all did. She was impossible to hate; she didnāt give you any other choice. When she was fifteen, she convinced Archie they should go and find Saoirse while she was touring the UK. They got all the way across the Atlantic before I caught up with them, and even then, she didnāt go quietly. She made Arch break my fucking nose. Cussed me out all the way back to Palo Alto. God, I miss that kid. Gone too young, too soon.
archer drake, a good kid. Tough kid. I taught her how to throw a punch, smoke a cigarette. I remember, the day we buried Piper, she snuck out halfway through the funeral. I found her crying on the curb, quiet as a ghost. I asked her what I could do for her; she asked if I could bring Piper back. When I said I couldnāt do that, she just nodded and asked me for a cigarette. Archerās still alive, still here ā but we buried two girls that day, not one. She's never been the same.
casimir drake, a titan of industry. The years have changed him. When he first hired me? Told me to call him Casimir, big smiles, big laughs. But the bigger Drake Inc. got, the higher he ascended. No more time for the small stuff ā he had bigger fears, was facing bigger threats. Heās got warrants for arrest out in three different countries. For breaches of data privacy law, skirting of international norms, flaunting of regulatory guidelines ā keeping Dante and his firm busy. Heās unprecedented. His tech drives revolutions and enables autocracies. Heās like a god in Silicon Valley ā but he doesnāt come down the mountain anymore. He doesnāt need to. He has Arch for interacting with everybody lower on the totem pole ā his eyes, his ears, his hands.
saoirse blake, the indie popstar better known by her stage name, Gaia. She and Mr. Drake are living proof opposites attract. She sells out arenas, he hates getting his picture taken. She was long gone before my time ā Anan says she left Mr. Drake when the girls were just infants, to keep touring. No contact for years, until Piperās accident. Then ā well, if Piper was a firecracker, her mother was a goddamn firework spectacular. Mr. Drake had to take out three different restraining orders against her. I donāt think sheās even allowed to step foot in the state of California, much less on any Drake properties.
jack meyer, the girlsā personal driver. I hate to say it, but he might have been more father to them than Mr. Drake ā he took them everywhere. Gymnastics, ballet, school plays, summer camp. Taught them to drive. Let them āborrowā his keys, every now and thenā¦ Mr. Drake was never going to let him keep his job, not after Piperās accident. But what he said about the brakes being tampered with, that crazy conspiracy theory shit ā I should have hit him harder. Drake was right to keep him away from Arch; who knows what she might have thought if sheād caught wind of his bullshit.
anan mcintyre, Mr. Drakeās left hand. She runs his entire life ā scheduling every minute of every day. She never misses a beat, never skips a step. In her own way, I think sheās tried to look out for the girls ā putting them on Mr. Drakeās schedule, pushing for Arch to get a P.A. of her own. Sheās talked Mr. Drake off some pretty high ledges. Sheās been with the company since the beginning ā she could retire anytime she wants. But the thing is, she believes in Drake Inc. She thinks we can kill Google, Samsung, all of them. She thinks weāll take over the world. Gods need disciples, I guess.
Archerās fingers tangled with Clementineās, little strawberries painted in perfect symmetry. āPlease play these games with me. You, more than anyone, deserve to live the life you want to live. You deserve it. You donāt have to apologize to anyone. For wanting. For existing. Play the games, and try to win. I will too."
arc iii. connections: archer + @lambentine
dulcinea clementine de cervantes saavedra. i am asking you to endure it. i am aware that this is request is fundamentally selfish. i can offer no justification for it, no argument in its favor. it is simply the outcome i desire to see the most. so i am asking you
then -
You overwhelmed me, right from the start. Your tears, your laughter, the bandaids you insisted on pressing to places I said didn't hurt. I lost so much when you left - an ear to whisper secrets into, a hand to hold when I was scared, a home where no voices echoed in anger.
now -
You're still you. Despite everything, you managed to hang onto what was important. And I wish, more than anything, that I could say the same.
( sources : pinterest, numero, pinterest, pinterest, pinterest, pinterest, pinterest, tiny things by tiny habits, pinterest )
His aura of irreverence, as if the chandelier hanging over them could drop and all heād do was smile and take another hit of his vape pen. Sheād missed him.
arc iii. connections: archer + @undecadent
cassiel leclair-park. you don't deserve death. i did. i do.
then -
I trailed you through the streets of London, your personal shadow, quiet and unobtrusive. I saw you, and I thought you saw me too. The version of me separate from the Drake name. Messy. Reckless. Happy.
now -
Well, maybe you were blind. That's okay. Cookies and champagne and a hotel room card. That's enough. Next time, will you dig the knife in deeper? Or spare me your edge? I'll trust you until I know the answer.
( sources: pinterest, pinterest, hilary mantel - bring up the bodies, Esteem, pinterest, pinterest, tumblr, strange sight by kt turnstall, a softer world, antigone by jean anouilh )
