Izuru still isn’t entirely sure how exactly this had happened. Here he had been, minding his own business as he got his daily frappe on his way to work, only to now end up with this strange man insisting on buying him another. He’s sure that part of it has to do with the fact that the stranger had bumped into him by accident and made him spill his coffee, but even so...
It really wouldn’t have been a big deal to just get his replacement himself and go on with his day, or even skip the frappe entirely. It isn’t like he needs it to stay awake, after all. He just drinks them because he likes the taste. But no, the stranger was insistent on replacing the coffee.
He’s intimidating, with his greater height, broad shoulders, and those tattoos. Izuru tries very hard not to show his fright, even as he follows after him back to the coffee shop to get his new coffee. It’s a good thing he always leaves for work early, otherwise he’d be running late.
"My god... you look terrible. What did they do?" For Darrus?
“My god… you look terrible. What did they do?”
Cyrus barely moved fast enough to catch Darren as he stumbled, his trembling legs barely supporting the rest of him. The blond coughed and winced, his bloodied hand pressing to his chest. Flinching back. Curling into a fist.
Cursing, Cyrus managed to get Darren to a nearby chair. He all but collapsed into it, the wooden legs grating slightly across the floor. Dropping into a crouch, Cyrus pushed Darren’s hair from his face, pale eyes searching his for that tell-tale fog of a head injury. But… no. No, there was a sharpness to Darren’s gaze. A edge honed by pain.
“Didn’t like… hearing no…” Darren coughed once and groaned, curling forward, his head falling against Cyrus’ shoulder. On instinct, Cyrus wrapped his arms around the man and held him, panic and fury welling in his chest. He had no idea what to do. What was he supposed to do? When they’d received the letter requesting to negotiate purchase of the Miller farm, they had assumed it was simply an offer. One that could be refused as easily as accepted.
Clearly, the buyer was not of the same mind.
“Fuck, Darren…” He could feel the blond shaking in his arms. Shit, it was like being back with the Inquisition again. Bloody fights and nights spent starting from sleep, hands reaching for an imaginary blade. Your own. Your enemy’s, pressed to your throat. It didn’t matter which.
A fight was a fucking fight. After each one, your mind - your body - tried to teach you never to lose.
“They’ll come back.” Darren’s voice was muffled against Cyrus’ coat. “S-Sent me back here to ‘think it over again’. You… you need to go. Get Ma, Pa and Claire out of here, Cyrus. Please...”
Cyrus felt his hands curl into fists against Darren’s back. “Those bastards aren’t chasing anyone out of here. No fucking way.”
“Cyrus…”
“No. Look, if you want your family to leave, fine. We’ll set them up in Glendess for a few days. But I’m not going with them.”
Darren pulled away. The look on his face broke Cyrus’ heart.
He looked so… defeated.
“You don’t understand,” Darren said softly, eyes cast low. “These people… they’ll get what they want. One way or another, they…”
Cyrus reached out, cupping Darren’s face in his hands. “They’re not getting your home, Darren. Not a fucking chance. Got it? I’ll kick their asses out of here myself. I’ll—”
His mind raced ahead of him and Cyrus stood, turning towards the hallway. Towards the unassuming door that held what was left of their time in the Dawn Squad. Swords. Armour…
A hand grabbing his wrist stopped him. Turning, Cyrus felt his priorities shift so suddenly it was like being hit by a mace.
“… I’ll get some water, okay?”
Breathing shallowly, Darren nodded. His grip loosened slowly. Reluctantly. Cyrus waited for Darren to let go first before moving to the kitchen. A cup, bowl, and cloth later, Cyrus returned. Setting them down on the table, he did what he should have done from the second Darren walked in.
He took care of him.
And whoever the bastards were who hurt him?
Cyrus would take care of them too.
“Our home,” Darren said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm. Stronger than before. Cyrus, concentrating on cleaning the blood and dirt off Darren’s cheek, frowned.
“What?”
Darren reached up. Caught his wrist again. Gentler, this time.
“I’m afraid that I don’t particularly see the point in any of this. Keeping me functional, that is. Or at the very least, keeping me within the Third. By all accounts, I should be dead.”
This had been bothering Izuru for some time, and he finally decided to bring it up at one of the physical therapy sessions that Akon had insisted upon, to keep up on the maintenance of his arm. Well, the arm and... Everything else, really.
“I can understand why I was revived during the war, as the Seireitei needed every able-bodied fighter they could get, but... The war is over. There is no more need for me, and I’m hardly suitable for performing my old duties anymore.” More like he can’t bring himself to care enough to do them anymore. “So why continue this charade? Why not let me fade away in peace?”
“Oh, sorry am I interrupting your chat?” for Hanavira <3
Intensive Interrogation Starters
Quite an innocuous quote, really, but given the spirit of the prompt list…
Of course, Avira Lavellan belongs to @lavellanlove!
“Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting your chat?”
Hanin froze at the sound of a familiar voice, his breath sticking in his chest. The chair, tipped back onto two legs, creaked beneath him, held in place by two Venatori agents. Under typical circumstances, Hanin’s eyes would have widened in shock at Avira’s voice ringing through the dark.
But as it currently stood, his eyes were preoccupied with the blurry point of a needle, held a hair’s breadth away by one of the Venatori.
The man had a steady hand. Just as well.
“Wha–” began the Venatori on Hanin’s left. The pair released the chair, whirling to face the doorway, leaving Hanin balanced precariously for a few stomach-sinking moments.
It could have only gone one of two ways.
Naturally, it tipped backwards.
Hanin’s back struck the ground, his cry drowned out by those of the Venatori and the sound of frantic footsteps scrabbling across stone. Something behind Hanin broke on impact, and for a horrified moment he thought it might have been his spine. But, fortunately, as he struggled with the ropes binding his wrists to the armrests, it was the back of the chair that had given out.
He tried to keep an eye on the fight, but with one eye swollen shut and the other straining against the dark, there was little he could truly see. Occasionally flames would light the dark, but rather than illuminate the scene they sent him flinching back as though blinded. How long had he been down there? Too long, he supposed. Long enough for Avira to wring screams from the Venatori as though they had earned every single one.
A flash of brightness. Hanin closed his eyes against the burn.
A scream. Male. Pained.
A thud.
More footsteps.
Others arrived, the sound of voices calling out to Avira familiarly putting to rest Hanin’s fear of Venatori reinforcements. The Inquisition forces were fashionably late, as usual. Hanin had a feeling there wasn’t much left for them to do.
His straying thoughts were brought back to the present by the gentle press of gloved fingers to his cheek. Swallowing back a groan, Hanin found himself leaning into her touch, the final thread of tension that had kept him together unraveling with the motion. “You’re… late…”
Avira let out a soft huff, more worried than amused. “You were difficult to find, ma’lath.”
Humming, Hanin let his head tip back against the stone floor. Avira made short work of the rope around his wrists and he rolled off the chair, wincing as his stiff muscles protested the movement. She braced him without a pause, holding him steady as he caught his breath. Another voice, uncertain and male, broke the silence.
“How much did they find out? I need to report back to Commander C—”
Twin glares silenced the soldier, who took a half-step back. It was nothing more than pure instinct. It would serve him well, if his words didn’t undo him first.
“Tell Cullen,” Hanin hissed through gritted teeth, “nothing was lost.”
The soldier saluted shakily and fled the room, leaving Hanin and Avira huddled on the stone floor. “Are you alright?” she asked, reaching out to brush his hair back from his face. “Did they…?”
“I’m fine.” Hanin did his best to sound reassuring. He had endured worse. That needle, though…
He shivered and pushed the thought of it from his mind.
“Hanin?”
“Your timing was… good, vhenan.”
Avira’s gaze flicked over to the thin piece of metal, a silent understanding passing between them. She didn’t need words to bring him comfort. Not in that moment. Instead, she just drew him close, holding him against her chest. Her hand stroked soothing lines down the back of his neck, and for a time they just sat there in the dark, companions of a broken chair and a corpse.
“Atisha…” Hanin mumbled. Avira needed no further prompting.
“Safe. With us. Katsuro found it when he cleared the north tower with your squad.”
“Katsuro…?”
“I may have called in a favour.”
Hanin huffed softly, amused. Grateful. He knew he didn’t need to say thank you, but it fell from his lips regardless, the relief of the words palpable. He was a soldier, yes. A captain, to be sure.
But that didn’t mean he was ready to die. Not alone in some dark place. Not without a blade in his hand.
Avira clearly sensed he needed to leave that place, because she chided him softly for thanking her and helped him stand, sliding beneath his arm for support before he even had a chance to sway. Slowly, they made their way towards the door.
Something hard found its way beneath Hanin’s bare foot. The needle, thin and cold.
❝ Yes. ❞ Shameless, but still jovial was the young man as he almost jokingly hides the knife behind his back, bloodied face and stained jeans splattered with red as he stands there, very clearly aware of what he did ( to be fair, it was something he couldn't control; but it's very... useful, in the Maw ), Eleven does not move from his position, simply tilting his head, ❝ It was self-defense, I just hit a vital point an accident. ❞ He spoke, a little charming grin on his face ( being afraid will do no good for him, he supposed-- so he must deal ).
❝ --I'll clean it up if you need me to, I was just trying to protect myself. ❞ Head dips down then, eyes closing in apology-- he knows that he did something bad, but his itch was something he could not stop ( but he'll eventually come to control it, either way ), he looks back up to her then, mismatched eyes focused, ❝ May I ask why you wanted to know? ❞
He won’t tell her about a lot of things. He had told her, briefly, about what had happened in the Betrayal. But he had glazed over many of the details of that and the war that followed, as he felt as though she didn’t really need to know. He didn’t tell her about before then... Not really, at least.
He’d prefer to keep it that way, too. He was a different man then, in so many ways. He had done terrible things, many of which he’d never want her to know about, although he knows that she knows.
Her words made Tseng stop and turn around, very slowly. His eyes were locked on her and the mistress felt as if she was the last specimen of a particular interesting bloodline under a mad scientist’s gaze, such was the intensity of his stare.
“I’m listening…”
Nodding, Melissa gestured towards the chair right in front of her desk which Tseng had just vacated. Meanwhile, she produced a small, ornate key from the pockets of her robes and opened a drawer, pulling a manila folder from inside and then sliding it over the desk for the Turk.
“I know he was scouting the slums for Avalanche intel,” she said, and only smiled when Tseng raised an eyebrow at her, “I have my own sources, director. You know I make sure all my bees report back to me on a daily basis.”
After all, that was how she obtained leverage to keep the inn safe – information. The girls had a safe space to work and a healthy commission of what they made from their clients in exchange for detailed descriptions and elaborate reports of every whisper they caught, off-duty or not. And most clients completely forgot that even the honeygirls had eyes and ears after a few bottles.
“I am not privy to the details of that arrangement, sure, but I doubt that extended as far as supplying him with Shinra patented weaponry?” she added when Tseng opened the folder, his fingers then spreading the pictures over the desk. They were all shots of the Don’s stashes hidden mostly around other sectors – he had too big of an ego to forgo his own ridiculous personal seal on the gates of these places.
The Shinra logo on the boxes locked up inside was also very visible in the shots, as well as some non-active sentry guns and slug rays. The amount of boxes, however, suggested either a relevant stock of these automated weapons or components of much bigger equipment.
…Not unlike the beasts he had in the colosseum, often played with in order to become even more deadly.
When Tseng raised his head to look at her, Melissa knew she had his undivided attention now. Smile still in place, she wrapped the robes she currently wore around her body and then rounded the desk, electing to sit on top of it and returning the Turk’s gaze with a look of her own.
“I could point you to the exact location of these stashes, if you’d be interested in conducting a more in-depth investigation?”
