“Consider that a promise.”
Although it was somewhat reluctant, he took the hand with his gloved own and shook it. Fair and square. Seemingly so, at least. He could not guarantee that Roman was due to uphold to some flawless standard of loyalty (in fact, he expected something between a grey area and a silver one on that front) but for the time being they were at least on a similar page.
Not that their goals were too closely aligned. All in all, this was not a strict and rigid plan but neither was it far too loose that it meant nothing at all. Adam released Roman’s grip and returned his gaze to the city beyond.
“Lose the names.” Ever cold, his tone was as sharp as the blade he then lacked. “Unless you want to make a fast habit out of dying.” He omitted the part where he wanted to say ‘–for stupid reasons.’
Roman seemed to have ideas already rolling around within the circus of his imagination, but there was plenty of time to ask about that later. He had no intention to babysit, let alone handle Roman’s supposed expertise, but ensuring their separate paths led to greater and better ends, he was inclined to find out something at least a little later.
“I will handle things here.” Whatever did that mean? He did not divulge too much. As he spoke, however, his hand revealed far too much of what truly run through his mind. The gloved fist tightened, straining the muscle beneath the black fabric as he clenched it far harder than he realised. Force of habit. Anger was the only vice he knew.
“Another city, but the mistakes are always repeated.” So much felt still at stake, though the world of Remnant was but a dream away now… Was that really the truth? But even in a new world, the shadow of others lingers like a haunting curse. He felt it here, as if it flowed beneath the earth itself. Winding through like a vicious river. There was so much left to do, so much left to say. And Blake. Blake… Blake...
From behind the mask Adam eyed Roman with a narrowed, golden stare. “Find out what you can about this island. Who’s in charge. Who else we can expect to see here, if any.” There were certainly some he could do living without ever meeting again. “Then report to me. In person.” There were no chances to be taken using those free communication devices. He was smarter than that at least.
“I’ll ensure we have enough information to act in due time. The White Fang is far from abandoned. Not while its leader remains alive.”
“And lo, the ruthless leader of the White Fang doth show his head,” said Torchwick, stifling back a laugh. “And here I thought you’d stick to the brooding while staring off into the distance as though we’re trying our absolute damnedest to have a horde of fangirls frothing at the mouth by the time we’re through.”
Hnh. Or was that leaning on being savvy a little too well?
“Lucky for you, I’ve already done some digging and I’m de-lighted to report to you that nobody here has the bloody faintest clue as to what we’re dealing with in terms of head honchos. Guess we shouldn’t be that surprised, multidimensional hole in the wall and all. Oh, and our best buddy James--yes, that one--is apparently the headmaster of the city university, so you can expect that I’ll be hitting him up to reminisce very soon.”
In earnest, Torchwick wasn’t about to break into a dance routine about how he was so overjoyed to be back--under less, shall we say, tenuous circumstances, he would have considered it. But as far as he was concerned, he had leapt from frying pan into the fire and had nothing to show for it except a voice in his head that casually brought to light that he was a fictional...
...character of which died so the writers could have a giggle about him dying mid-monologue.
Torchwick was rolling his eyes.
“I’m gonna be honest with you Adam, I am seriously sick of dealing with beings who throw around their fancy Aura and spells and whatever about just so they get that moment of feeling bigger than,” he said, a hand pointing to his face, “than, well, people like me. The underdog. The little guy. Yeah, sure, I’ve come back from the dead. But this place? Can’t be purgatory but it sure as shit feels as though it’s gonna look like it.”
And there was nothing a voice that narrated his every move could do about that. (So Torchwick believed.)
Shaking his head, Torchwick stacked his hands on his cane, knowing that looking to Adam for any commiseration on the subject was asking a fish to bolt up a tree. Or a bull to cool it with the young adult edge every once in a while. Wasn’t going to happen, wasn’t going to ever happen, wouldn’t shouldn’t couldn’t.
God. He’s going to hit up the nearest bar for every flask of brandy it had after this.
“What I’m getting at here is that you can trust me on this, Adam, if that’s, you know, a thing you do on occasion. Whatever game these guys are playing, this city is going to be ours. I’m going to show these punks that it doesn’t need to take magic tricks or being gods or whatever to cap what we’ve got. Understand?”
Despite it all, Torchwick felt as though he were getting through to him.
“So, please. Don’t scowl like that every time you have to look at me.”
