a wretch like me.

Tell me what it is to be the thing rooted in shadow. penned by rook.

[zcphyras]

JUDAS —

Irina woke up and was out the door early that morning, slipping any tails that Isaac–or even Yelena–had told to follow her.  Good practice (paranoia) had her switch faces twice before she went in to a coffee shop to get two drinks, and once more before she made her way to the park.

When Masha first opened the underworld to Irina and inducted her into the Scarlet Angels, Irina had been an innocent.  She had looked up to Sofia, for her strength and determination.  They had been close, and Sofia had used that closeness and hurt her with the truth.  After three years, Irina grudgingly understood that she would never have known the truth if it weren’t for Sofia.  

“Maybe they originally wanted to just keep swans in this park.”  Irina looked around, “I wonder where the geese are.”

The park had a few determined joggers, teenagers loitering, and people striding purposefully about their day.  Irina passed Sofia one of the coffees, “Any little ducklings imprint on you, or do the fledglings still not suspect?”

She needed to know if it was safe enough to drop the borrowed face.

    “Probably flown to warmer waters,” she murmurs. “And who could blame them, really?” Sofia’s eyes trace along the edges of the ice. Perennially frozen, even in summer. It’s a shock that anyone charted this part of Revda, had braved the snows and storms, had set root in this unforgiving soil. What sick bastard had looked upon this iced-over hellscape, and thought home? “Wouldn’t you, if you could?”

    And that raises another question, one that’s much too early for her to want to consider right now. I told you the truth, so why haven’t you run? she wants to ask. Why haven’t you made a new life for yourself? Don’t you see there’s only a graveyard here?

    She turns, at last, to Irina - at least, to the face that Irina wears today. She knows. All those years spent together, how could she not know? Sofia nods her thanks for the warm cup. Through her gloves, she feels the hot liquid begin to thaw her fingertips, the sensation warring with the chill of the air around them. “They know better than to loiter where they do not belong,” Sofia answers by way of explanation. It’s too early for that, she knows. When the city is just waking up, in brittle light of the morning dusk, they have their privacy, however brief. A ghost of a smile lingers upon Sofia’s lips. “A lesson that we’ve both yet to learn, I’m afraid.”

[zcphyras]

ICARUS —

-

      The room is dark, so Mateo is sure his smirk would be lost to the night, or whatever time it actually is, but he still smirks at her words. Not a holy occasion, of course not, but it still feels like one, or Mateo forces himself to think of it that way, because that is the only reason this —whatever this is, happens. They are not friends, far from it actually, but there are other things ( holy things ), things most people wouldn’t understand binding them. ❝Lord let all my enemies be greatly troubled❞ Mateo recites, or tries his best to, his voice still so far from what it usually sounds like, ❝or something like that, I’m paraphrasing❞ he jokes. 

      Enemies, the word hungs heavy in the air, but Mateo knows he had to remind himself of what they are, no amount of peace be with you would ever change that.  I know, Mateo wants to say, because he does know, that this is different, that even if the reasonable reaction would be to call for help, to wonder what she could do to him, Mateo knows that’s not why she is here. A social call, she called it, so he just nods. If things were the other way around, would he try to see her? and he knows the answer even before considering that the only reason she is able to slip in, virtually undetected is because this is Angels territory, he would try anyways, because that’s what it means to be a part of a community. 

     There is a part of him that wants to turn, to see her face, to thank her for being there, but that is not what they do, they fight each other, they sit on opposite sides of the pew, and they let a few members of the congregation come between them in the communion queue. Mateo chuckles, ❝from what I’ve been able to gather it is a miracle I’m alive❞ he tries to shake his head, forgetting he is hooked to so many things, and has to rearrange whatever he managed to move, ❝I seem to always miss the doctors, but I did manage to hear one say we should’ve died out there❞ his tone cheerfully sarcastic, the oxygen tube making it almost impossible to snort, but Mateo knows Sofia would enjoy the humorous touch, ❝so of course I’ll be out by Sunday, but if not, you would bring me the hostia right? I do believe I’ll be excused on account of poor health…❞ 

.

    Sofia nods along at Mateo’s recitation, an unusual sense of both calm and unease washing over her at once. Calm - at the familiar words in that almost-familiar voice; a promise that some things truly never change. Unease - because she can hear his injury in his voice, because this is not where they should be, because this feels too familiar for what they truly are to one another. “Figured the line would be ‘Then I will hold my head high above my enemies who surround me’...” Sofia’s voice trails off for a moment, before she exhales like a ghost of laughter. “Too sanctimonious for us though, isn’t it? And too obvious.”

    She wants to turn her head, just an inch or two to the right - to take in the sight of him, to trace the wires from the machinery surrounding him to where they are connected to his flesh and body, to the one reminder that he is still very much so in the land of the living. That Death has not claimed him in its claws just yet. But she doesn’t, afraid to admit what this really is between them. Her eyes stray to the flowers instead, bathed in those sickly-saturated orange lights from the streetlamps outside. “Is it a miracle, if we’re just put on this Earth to suffer and hurt for the ones we love?” She knows that Mateo knows a thing or two about this - and perhaps she might not understand the intricacies of the relationships between the Reapers, but she understands enough to know that what Sofia is for Masha, that Mateo must be for the Reapers. “We, thankless and faithful. Born martyrs...” A note of bitterness creeps its way into her tone. “Do you ever tire of it?” A question that sounds like an accusation, but when the words fall from her lips, she sounds lost and unanchored. She sounds afraid. Tell me I’m not the only one feeling this way, she wants to scream.

    It’s easy to talk to him - easier than it has ever been to talk to any of the others in her own gang, easier now than talking even to Masha. Shared common ground, and Sofia recalls an old saying from her youth, one that had slipped through the cracks of her consciousness, only to now be pulled again to the forefront: that community is not a place, but the people within it. She swallows the lump in her throat, and tries to push the thought away. By Sunday, he says. “Just in time then,” she murmurs. Her smile is humorless as she says, “Of course I would. One of us is going to make it on St. Peter’s list, and we both know it’s not going to be me.” 

[zcphyras]

where: adelaide’s laboratory when: july 21st, at 10:17am who: @supvrnova​

    She’s an observer first, a participant second. Always watching the cards laid down before her, before revealing her own hand; always watching the pieces fall before doing everything in her power to stir them up again. And so, as the Scarlet Angels reel from the ambush at the docks, as their leaders make their plans and move their pieces around, Sofia stays hidden in the shadows, waiting and watching. She doubts that she’s missed; after all, when the fight is over, who asks for the soldier? She keeps herself entertained well enough, idle pleasures and petty distractions. Her presence in the mansion is out of obligation, not out of choice, but while she’s here, Sofia figures that she might as well snoop and scope, see what the other members have gotten up to in the meantime.

    She steers clear away from the infirmary; she should ask how Francesco is faring, but she knows that her presence would likely only prove counterproductive to his recovery. That leaves her with two choices, two individuals to curse with her presence, whom she feels a nagging obligation at the back of her mind to check in on: Ivan in his garage, or Adelaide in her laboratory. Her nose wrinkles at the prospect of the stench of fuel and the clatter of machinery, so she decides to visit their resident weaponmaster.

    She doesn’t bother knocking first; manners and courtesy are lost arts and lost causes wherever Sofia is concerned. In her usual behavior, Sofia enters silently, padded shoes making only a telltale patter against the polished floors. She runs a fingertip along the barrel of a rifle, the metal cool and smooth on her skin. “New toy then, is it?” she asks, her voice only just barely above a whisper, but still managing to pierce the air like an unpleasant racket. “Busy as always, aren’t you...”

[zcphyras]

MATA —

They fall again - not that it could really be termed as such. Sofia bowls into her with pure weight. These movements are scrappier; instinctual. They speak of the hungry girl she bumped into all those years ago, of her bite and.. lack of finesse. It’s no bad thing, she’s watched as Sofia has tried to install that same bite into some of their recruits - and failed. It’s an instinct that can’t be taught, only learnt. It made Zephyra one of their strongest fighters before she’d ever developed the abilities that earned her such a codename. And it’s these (untamed) moves Masha struggles to predict, even now. Her back hits the floor, head whacks and really - Sofia had never needed powers to knock the breath from someone’s lungs.

Her teeth grit with pain, but her sharp exhale of breath sounds almost amused - pleased -through the wince. She’d already anticipated tomorrow’s bruises, the glint in Sofia’s eyes as she’d stormed from their meeting promised as much. Now pinned under her weight, Masha can only meet the hard eyes staring down at her with a cool gaze of her own. The teeth above her are bloody now. They must be giving the recruits quite the show, but Masha’s forgotten about their presence. Merely watches Sofia’s breath, waits patiently for her to spit out the retort that she’s paying in bruises to lure out. And sure enough it comes. Would be more pleased alongside you. She cannot unpack the depth of that anger now, not pinned down - not two days before a complicated operation. “A necessary bust”, she corrects, tries to keep the frustrated sigh from her voice. “You can do it and do it well. I trust you with it - with them”. Them. An echo of Sofia’s words - Angels without the abilities that both Masha and Sofia can’t help but revere. Trust. A conditional version of it, a statement compromised by agenda. 

It’s her final question - mocking and bloody - that Masha has really been waiting for. It’s déjà vu when it comes to this. Oldest friend and oldest child, the oldest headache of her life. The question hangs in the few inches of air between them, and she lets it stagnate in pointed silence for a few moments before moving. Brings her arms swiftly to her side, bucks her hips upwards with a low snarl to knock the other forward, off balance. She needs only that moment to hook her foot around Sofia’s leg, shifts her weight so that their roles reverse. One arm raises to pin her down against her neck, though they likely both know she didn’t have the strength to keep Sofia down for long. “Keep your pettiness between you” she murmurs, and if there’s a slight look of exasperation to the way she studies her, it matches her weariness.  “It’s not Ryker who calls these shots, Sofia.” Not his wisdom she questions. She releases her press of her arm, tension leaves her tone and gaze as she does. Looks instead at Sofia - the same face she used to automatically place at her righthand side- with an unreadable expression. “Since when has my wisdom led you astray?”

.

    She looks down at Masha again when she hears the other woman’s words - words that sting as much as they soothe. A declaration of trust, like a balm to Sofia’s sad and sorry soul (how many would doubt that such a thing even exists inside her?), and for just a brief moment, her pride is temporarily satisfied. Then she remembers why her blood rushes through her veins, why she had all but stormed from that meeting, and she pushes away the warmth that she wants to embrace. “Is it about trust - or just keeping me busy and out of your hair?” 

    Her mind cannot conjure the words to make her understand - Why can’t you see? that childish part of her wants to scream in frustration, so unable to add eloquence to the barbed words that’ve fallen from her blood-stained lips. In that brief moment of hesitation, Masha takes the advantage again and reverses their positions; where Sofia had been all ugly brute force, Masha is refined elegance, the hooked leg bringing Sofia to the ground with smooth efficiency. In a true fight, this is when Sofia would call upon her abilities to knock everyone and everything to the ground - after all, if she’s already on her knees, then why not level the playing field? But not here. Held captive underneath Masha’s grasp, Sofia has no choice but to listen. She lays still, absorbing the words. Pettiness? Is that what she thought of Sofia, then - no better than a squabbling child, begging for attention? Is she wrong? a part of her asks. It’s worse that she confirms that it’s not Ryker who called this particular plan. At least Sofia had the luxury of pinning her frustration on him, but the revelation turns Sofia’s ire upon the woman keeping her pinned to the ground.

    Against Masha, there are some lines that even Sofia will not cross. Perhaps Sofia cannot quickly calculate words and phrases and plans in her mind, but reading the language of a fight is her greatest skill - and she deduces that with Masha’s focus on keeping her pinned by her neck, that Sofia’s legs are free. She twitches her right leg to test the theory and, finding its movement unrestricted, worms her way down instead of up or forward, kicking her legs and bringing her knee dangerously close to Masha’s face, wriggling loose and free from Masha’s grasp. “You know I’d follow you to the ends of the earth,” she says, rising to kneel upon her knees. Old and familiar words, ones that she’s spoken before under a clearer and younger mind that still saw a bright future for them. She can’t say what she wants to, not in front of these recruits. She doesn’t even know if she’d be able to say the right words had they been alone. “If that’s what you want, then fine; I’ll go my way, you go yours. You’ll get your results.” Sofia lets a moment pass between them, spitting the blood that’s filled her mouth again. In her periphery, she sees some of the recruits flinch. “I won’t let you down.” A promise that she knows she’ll break someday. Perhaps it would be less cruel for her never to make this promise at all, when its intent is solely to bruise and ache later - but Sofia had lost kindness a long time ago.

[zcphyras]

CASANOVA —

doors and locks have lost their value on a man who can so easily cross walls. it doesn’t, however, surprise gabriel in the slightest to see the outline of sofia in what he could consider as a second home at this point. dark eyes indulge first in the woman’s curves to long, crossed legs, before finally resting upon a sharp gaze that is already fixated on him. 

a grin tugs on gabriel’s lips as a shot glass is pushed towards him. “a woman after my own heart, i see.” he teases, knowing full well that what they have overlooks matters of love in favor of something more desperate and dirty. it is but a recent revelation stacked on a foundation of friendship - years of that, until it wasn’t just that anymore. 

“darling?” he laughs, open and wholeheartedly. the sound rings within empty walls. he chooses to lounge on top of the table, looking down at sofia through lidded, wanting eyes. the liquor burns going down his throat, though it matches the heat already emanating from sofia’s beautiful eyes. gabriel sighs, placing the shot glass back down on the surface, cheekily patting his thigh as a suggestion of a seat for her. 

“tell me why it’s cute coming from you.” the lighthearted, gentle tone is effortless in sofia’s presence, even when the atmosphere precedes a more heavy-handed event.

    “Don’t like it when I call you ‘darling’?” she asks, rising to stand and have her eyes level with his. “Would you prefer something else?” She’s all long and languid limbs as she cocks her head to the side, standing ever closer to Gabriel to feel the heat of his breath across her face. Sofia hadn’t bothered to make sure the cameras inside the club were turned off first; any curious eyes could watch if they wanted to, and she’s more than prepared to give them a damn good show, after the day she’s had. “Like irritable, annoying thorn in my side?”

    When she sees him pat his thigh, she rolls her eyes. “Not the seat I had in mind, asshole,” she says, and it’s not lost on her how quickly she sheds the sweet vixen act. Insults and harsh words are her love language, after all. As if to emphasize her point, Sofia shoves at his shoulders, an image of him sprawled across the table rising to the forefront of her mind - an image that she wants to make a reality.

    “Mind your fucking tongue,” she grits out between clenched teeth, but there’s no malice in her tone as she leans closer. “I’m not cute.” She suspects that he likes getting a rise out of her, and God help her, but it just makes her want to straddle him, hold him down, make it so that he can’t teleport away like he does so very often when they spar. She thinks he does it just to get a rise out of her, to watch her cheeks flush with color from embarrassment - and something else, too. Sofia hopes that the heat in her eyes conveys what she’s really here for, and what she’s certain that they both want, because she certainly isn’t going to say it.

[zcphyras]

GF BELLADONNA—

Tanya smirked at her comment. For sure. After the festival and sabotage all she wanted was to either fight or retaliate. Sofia belonged to the Angels, so naturally she desired to punish her, among other things. “Don’t worry, I can help with that.” cocking one eyebrow up she tilted her head towards the door while listening to the grunts coming from within. Looking back towards Sofia, Tanya tries to not reveal too much, not more than a smirk, saccharine, almost innocent. “That’s good to hear. You know what we want, don’t you?” An alliance, a partner against Masha, Isaac and all other enemies in Rosnovy. Sofia seemed to be just what they needed. She began to pull her hair back into a ponytail only to secure it with a hair tie. Making deals with the enemy felt wrong, but also so right. The enemy of my enemy and all that – take one enemy down, then the next – and who knew? They might grow to become so much more than just enemies.

Following Sofia she stood side by side with the enemy, almost comfortably so. Their walk was synchronized in no time – anyone listening to their footsteps might’ve suspected only one woman would enter the pit. “We have to push them beyond exhaustion,” Tanya agreed with a melodic sigh. Sounded right to her – she wouldn’t mind a bit of chaos and destruction. “No campaigns, no open invitation,” she reminded, which seemed obvious as is, but Tanya had to make sure, “Come on, I want to see what you can do.” Entering the pit herself Tanya pressed her hand against one of the fighter’s shoulders, making them believe her touch was scalding hot. They broke contact in no time and, as they tried to leave, Tanya created another illusion, making them believe they were free-falling as they took the first step down, causing them to scream pathetically. “Come on, darling. I don’t bite,” she turned around towards Sofia.

    Sofia turns the younger woman’s words around in her mind. She’s not as quick-witted as some others, able to dissect and glean meaning from a sentence and snap a retort back just as quickly; words were never her weapons, after all. Does she know what the Reapers - what Tanya Orlova, specifically - want? That question gives her pause. She knows little of Reaper politics, of the power plays within their rivals; if it’s anything like with the Scarlet Angels, then perhaps Sofia wouldn’t be wrong to assume that discord and unrest lies within their ranks just like within hers. “Power,” she answers, keeping her voice steady even as the gears in her mind turn. “Isn’t that what this all boils down to, at the end of the day? The question that remains now is: yours, mine, or ours?”

    Their paralleled echo of footsteps sets Sofia at ease. When they enter the warehouse, she bends down to fetch the pair of gloves she’d left from the previous week, discarding her woolen ones for their leather counterpart, more suited to combat. The candidates before them - contenders, as Sofia likes to call them - stand at attention, only too ready to please their leaders. Watching Tanya in action is mesmerizing, her effect instantaneous on what Sofia had considered to be one of her best fighters. They gasp and heave upon the floor, pupils wide even in the dim light of the warehouse. Sofia turns her eyes to the others, who look at Sofia and Tanya in terror. “Guard your minds, and always be prepared,” she says, to their assembled pupils. “Because I can assure you - you don’t want to be on the other side of her bite.” To Tanya, she says, “Let’s show them how it’s done.” Sofia nods, stands with squared shoulders and a look of grim and heated determination on her face as she turned to fully face the other woman. “Do your worst.” I can take it.

[zcphyras]

where: a park in central rosnovy when: july 22; 8:31am who: @irina-of-volkova​

    Good days in Rosnovy are far and few in between - and even then, a good day simply means a lack of a raging snow or sleet or hail storm. It’s overcast today, as close to a sunny day that Sofia’s ever seen, and the wind only bites at her exposed throat a little. They cleared the snow and salted the sidewalks again this morning, she notices. Sofia taps her foot against the exposed pavement, her eyes roving across the hills of snow. She’s seen so many pictures of the world beyond their nation’s borders - had even ventured out into that great unknown, once upon a time, to see paradises of golden sands and rolling green meadows. It all brought her right back here, cowering with her tail between her legs, right back to what she knows.

    She enjoys the quiet solitude of the morning, before the citizens of Rosnovy truly awaken for their Saturdays and fill their hours with distraction. She feels the presence, has an innate inkling of who it is without even looking - and with powers like Irina’s, looking is more deceiving anyway. Her hand gestures to the frozen pond before them as she leans back into the chipped paint of the park bench. When she speaks, her tone is casual and conversational, nonchalant in a way that practically insults the history between them. “Tell me - what’s the point of a duck pond, in a city with no ducks?”

[zcphyras]

CATALYST —

date: july 15th, 10:26pm.  location: outside rosnovy medical. back parking lot. availability: open to @zcphyras·.

“Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?” He says, speaking more to the air around him as he leaned against a mustang, not his, head rolling side to side in an attempt to stretch, and soothe, his neck from falling asleep in that incredibly uncomfortable hospital chair again. This was his first time in over twenty-four hours being outside the walls of that depressing as fuck hospital, and he had done it not to seek a reprieve but because he saw a flicker of a storm. He saw a whirlwind of a woman. He’d be damned if he let her get in that hospital again. It wasn’t happening twice in one day. She’d have to at least wait another hour and thirty minutes. Like, come on. She really didn’t know how to leave people alone. But, he was happy to teach her that lesson now. Though, he had a nasty habit of talking with his fist. 

Straightening, his fingers interweave as he stretches his arms out in front of him until the bones in his fingers crack and a content sigh escapes through his lips. “Alright,” he mutters, finally hitting that one crack in his neck. “Let’s go.” He motions for her to come at him with a dangerous grin. A grin that said it all for him: rough me up, i dare you. He’d been looking for an Angel to drag down to earth so he could shove their face in the dirt, hear their wails as he broke bones, and toss them to mountains with no hope of survival. Then he thinks: sofia was no angel… and she deserved a fate far worse. “I know you missed trying to get a taste of this.” Emphasis on the trying part. And by taste, he meant her fists connecting with his skin until she caught a glimpse of crimson. He meant until they were littered with discolorations, bruises, and huffing out ragged breaths before being blissfully knocked out like a light. He wanted it all, and more. He wanted her on the ground, him above her, straddling her, and landing a solid right hook. And his grin, that stupid fucking grin plastered on his face, was only there to egg her on. Oh yeah, he definitely wanted this, his fists and her face, after all the hell the Reapers have endured recently. 

.

    She should’ve known it was a mistake. She was lucky the first time, and fortune never favors the same bastard twice. But what is she now, except one fuck-up after another? She pauses in her steps as soon as she hears the voice behind her - familiar, as if they had formed some sort of acquaintanceship from fighting one another so many times before. Her mind categorizes the voice first - Reaper - before she assigns a name and a face to the voice: Antonio. A formidable opponent, not one she takes lightly but looks forward to seeing on the battlefield all the same. Call it the thrill of the challenge, or pure masochism - but one thing’s for sure: she did not expect to see him tonight, but perhaps she should have known better. After all, Rosnovy Medical Center is crawling with Reapers now that two of theirs lie convalescent in its halls. “I thought I smelled a stench when I turned onto the block,” she calls out as she turns her frame to face him. "Don't tell me they've wasted your talents on guard duty, now."

    He's leaning against a Mustang, so nonchalant, as if they’re meeting for coffee and small talk. He’s got style, she’ll admit that. She reads his posture, and sees that he looks ready for a fight, and after the shit week that she’s had, Sofia has to admit that she could use one. His bravado is comforting to her, in the same way that a fight with a familiar foe is. Enough talk of injured Angels and prickly emotions. “You’re right... I do miss seeing your face - covered in your own blood.” It’s easy for her to rely on practically-schoolyard taunts as she resumes this old role. Sofia prefers close-quarters combat anyway, and for the honor of fighting against one of the Reapers’ finest? Maybe fortune has smiled upon her after all - even if his voice does grate upon her ears, like nails on a chalkboard. Perhaps that was what had bothered her about the docks episode: that the Reapers there were nobodies. Surely, she deserved better opponents than that. As she pulls the scarf from her hair, feeling the locks loose once again in the summer wind, she yawns. “Missed you at the docks - don’t tell me that Faulkner grounded you.” She walks closer to him, letting the scarf fall to the gutter, a clear challenge in her eyes.

[zcphyras]

MATA —

So quickly does Sofia turn to unconcealed anger, gives into the raw emotion inside her. That’s never been Masha’s own style, such obvious emotions belittle a person. Turn human into wild animal, dangerous but careless.They must look polar opposites: one openly sticky with metallic blood, the other casually wiping away the stain on her fingers with a white handkerchief. She does not offer it to Sofia, knows very well that her appearance is deliberate, a violent disruption of the otherwise pristine. Such bitter words, such adolescent anger in her stance. Masha hardly bats an eye, doesn’t tense or step back as Sofia squares up to her. Really, for one Masha was meant to consider a sister, she acts now like a child. 

“Is that what I said?” she asks sharply, though her voice doesn’t waver from calm. There’s only a minute change to expression, eyebrows raising just a fraction in response to the sudden change in atmosphere. Those who knew her would understand look to be a warning. She’s frustrated too, tired too, her patience is far thinner than usual. “Russo earned that bullet for his misinformation.” Masha’s eyes do not waver, only a slight shrug accompanies her words. It’s true - an ambush was an embarrassment, lessened only by its success as a distraction. Perhaps this would teach their spymaster to check the validity of his whispers. But angelic blood was still angelic blood, and Faulkner did not deserve the satisfaction of having a spilt even a single drop. “But it was his job to lead you there, your job to make sure bullets hit the right side”.

Her gaze is more searching than it is chastising. Part of her wonders if Sofia believes the accusations that she levels. That she would be fine if Sofia was sliced open and drained of life, that she’d choose her over another to play sacrificial lamb. It’s this thought, the thought that she’s self-pitying enough to possibly mean the words she throws about, that make Masha’s own anger begin to bubble. What does she want to hear from her? Platitudes of contradiction, lullabies of reassurance? Has she not already given that? Made it clear that she’d shed her own blood for the other and done so? “Were you expecting me to congratulate you?” she asks mildly instead, finally breaking eye-contact with the other woman as she steps back. Not because she cannot hold it, but because she’s busy, stretched in a way Sofia has never fathomed. “Say you’ll come with me next time? He was hit in the stomach, Zephyra - it’s Dupont I should be praising”. 

.

    Some of the most damning thoughts are the ones that remain unspoken, but they ring loud and clear in what we do. Words from the old matron at the orphanage, a lesson to the child she was once so very long ago - and Sofia wonders why she recalls these words now, when otherwise, memories of that empty childhood had all but faded away like winter snow into spring slush. She wants to throw these words - prideful and sanctimonious and hollow and meaningless - into Masha’s face, to make it clear to the other woman that she doesn’t have to say anything for Sofia to know where they stand now.

    But perhaps that’s the damning thing about them: they’ll tear each other to shreds, and keep silent all the while. Sofia knows if it’s too late to try talking things out now. She narrows her eyes. “The only people who left those docks alive were ours,” she says, almost like a reassurance to herself as much to Masha - she’d made sure to finish the damn job. She wants to spit an immature ‘You’re welcome’ to Masha. After all, she’d only helped bring Francesco back to safety simply for Masha’s sake, for the love and loyalty she once felt - still does, still does, an uncomfortable truth, one that she wishes she could kill inside of herself. “He pays for his mistakes today, and what about tomorrow? Two days from now, two months from now? What if it’s Devillers, or Leclair, or even y--”

    And she cuts herself off, then. The final word - you - would have been an admission of something too honest, too real. A word that could end this argument, to show how much she cares, but that’s not what she wants right now.  No - today, Sofia is not done fighting.  “I don’t want your congratulations, Masha. I want... I want --” How to put into words, what she can only admit to herself? “Is that such a crime, to want to fight by your side?” Her words barely escape through her gritted teeth, and her eyes meet Masha’s fearlessly. “Is it such a shame, to ask to stand by you again?” She knows what she wants to do - shove Masha away for emphasis, her fists already clenched at her sides to do it, but even she knows that there are simply some things that you cannot do. “None of this would have happened if you had been there with me.”

[zcphyras]

BELLADONNA —

date: July 17th 2020 location: secret fighting pit  closed starter for @zcphyras​

After the mission and success in fooling those naive Angels, Tanya had spent most of her time consulting with the enemy. That’s right – the enemy. Everyone was, in a way, an enemy of the Orlova’s. There were probably a handful of exceptions to that rule including Antonio and, surprisingly, Sofia. While her mother was the first to point out the other woman, it was Tanya who actively tried to reach out, again, with success. After finding out one or two things about the woman Tanya agreed to finally meet up for a project they’d been eager to set in motion. She was playing a dangerous game, of course, especially considering she had to take a leap of faith. Yet, not many other ideas had cemented in her mind quite like this one. Who was to say Tanya would remain loyal? Oh, she knew how to claw her way into other people’s lives and leave them hopeless. Alas, Sofia’s reputation did worry Tanya. Would she end up exposing them? Would she draw too much attention to their secret?

Adrenaline rushed through her, warm and exciting like a jolt of lightning. Tanya entered the lion’s den all on her own. She’d managed to leave no traces of her whereabouts and anyone who would manage to get her hands on her right now would be able to kidnap her like all the others without struggling at all. Dim lights were hanging high above her heads, illuminating the arena and the rest of the fighting pit. Some were already gathering around the pit, some already beaten up while others cheered on others currently fighting. Tanya saw Sofia from afar and, upon approaching her, she realized how fun their team-up might turn out to be – if she played her cards right. “You still look fine,” she teased; was she flirting or suggesting a fight? Tanya wasn’t so sure herself, “it’s surprisingly good to see you, Sofia. I see some are already eager to test themselves?”

.

    There is no room for doubt here. No room for half-measures, no room for second glances. Run, and don’t you dare look back. That’s the mantra that’s carried her through her life, the one that’s defined and refined all of her sharp edges. She thinks it’s the creed of a predator, but now she wonders - are they not more fitting words for the prey, for the hunted? Self-reflection has never done her a damn bit of good, so she buries, pushes, suffocates the thoughts until her mind is clear. She convinces herself that what she’s doing is helping them, unleashing them, showing them the way to the light.

    (Then, a nasty voice, one that sounds like her, as only we can be so hateful to our own selves: maybe you’re just sadistic, Sofia.)

    Here, she is in her element, and standing beside Tanya feels like the eye of the hurricane: calm, as chaos reigns all around them. Two like minds, a kindred supposed-enemy. “Could certainly use something to take the edge off,” she says, and inside, Sofia laughs at the irony of her own words, as if she is the injured party in this week’s events. Poor bastard, she thinks. At Tanya’s teasing words, Sofia stops and looks her in the eyes, calculating with her own. Disappointment at her lack of injuries? Amusement at how Sofia still seems so ruffled despite getting off scot-free? Pride at walking away with only a few strands of hair out of place, covered in another’s blood? “I’d never show up in anything less than my very best for an Orlova,” she says with a smirk. “If they’re ready, then let’s not keep them waiting.”

    Sofia nods her head to the side, gesturing to the abandoned warehouse doors that house their proving grounds. 1am, every Friday night, just as scheduled, just as planned. There’s a hush over the city tonight, and their combined footsteps unsettle Sofia. Her fingers itch, and her palm clenches into a fist of its own accord. “They’re getting soft, or complacent,” she says, before she even sees them. “We’ll push them harder. Faster results and if it’s too much…” She lets her words fizzle out in the night air between them. After all, they both know what happens then.

[zcphyras]

MATA —

As she feels her leg collide forcefully with her opponent’s torso, Masha knows they’re going down. It’s worth it, for getting in the first blow. The milliseconds it takes her to register the grip on her leg are milliseconds too long. She only has time to shoot the other woman a sharp grin before she lets herself get pulled to the floor; they tumble as if new recruits, pups, play-fighting. Technically they are play-fighting, but those boundaries can be.. blurred when it comes to Sofia. Too much is blurred when it comes to Sofia. It’s not the first time Masha’s wondered when the old clarity between them faded. 

“Dirty?” she repeats mildly as she feels Sofia’s weight on her lessen. She’s landed on her braced forearms, uses them to push herself back up at a deliberately slow, casual, pace. She shoots the other woman a look of open amusement, raised her brows as if to ask Oh really? One of them is a tempest incarnate, and it’s certainly not her. Masha is cool, calm, precise. She’s many things, but certainly not dirty. “A reaper won’t ask if you’re ready to start”, she echoes dryly with a slight shrug. Her words project out to their growing audience too, but her eyes remain solely locked on the soldier in front of her. 

As Sofia’s arms raise she mirrors them, pulls herself into a defensive stance with a grace only developed through years of practice. This type of close combat isn’t her strength - why would it be, when she make weaponry dance around her? - but she didn’t come to win this fight. She came to make sure they’d win at the docks.

“I thought you’d be pleased-” she murmurs, but cuts off when’s she forced to duck, quick, to her left to avoid a particularly powerful fist to the face. She’s not quite quick enough, there’s a hiss of sharp pain as Sofia’s swing clips her shoulder. Still, the momentum has some advantages. Masha follows her shoulder so she’s sideways on, throws one leg in the way of Sofia’s next step and gets the other round her hips so that’s she’s wrapped around her back. Really, she’s getting too old for such moves. Brings her arms up to cross around her neck and squeezes lightly, continues as if they’re having a conversation over coffee “- it’s an easy fight. And one you can be theatrical with it. ”

.

    She keeps their assembled and awed audience in her periphery, logging away every shift in posture, calculating every flutter of their darting eyes. After all, she is nothing if not a predator, and a predator must consider all the pieces of her surroundings, even as she dedicates her immediate attention to the ever-difficult task of anticipating Masha Vetrova’s next move - a skill that their enemies have not learned, a language they fail to comprehend, much to their detriment and doom.

    To the onlookers, the two women must look similar: cool and calm, almost nonchalant in their ferocity and their brutality. Perhaps the outward appearance matches the inside for Masha, but for Sofia, it merely masks the tempest raging within. Dirty, she’d called it. “You know I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

    It’s that same tempestuous rage that fuels every kick and every punch that she doles out. Masha’s fast, quick as a viper, and she manages to duck the force of the blow - but Sofia’s fist manages to clip her shoulder anyway. I hope she feels that tomorrow. She’s about to follow it with an undercut from below with her left fist, her body shifting easily to reverse her defensive stance from left to right, but Masha - well, Masha is fast. Sofia smiles even as she grunts, the thrill of a challenge spiking her blood as the air is knocked from her for just a moment. It’s a move that’s brought down many of their opponents before, and like clockwork, Sofia’s on the ground too.

    Without another word, Sofia launches herself forward, grabbing on to Masha’s arm around her neck to make sure that she goes down with her. When they both rise again, Sofia hurls herself at Masha’s torso, wrapping her arms around the other woman’s waist and throwing all of her weight in pushing her to the ground - even if that means Sofia’s back on the ground with her. There’s no finesse here - no fine-tuned movements, no graceful striking. It’s a move born from street-fighting, relying on brute strength instead of skill. . She bites her tongue by accident, and her mouth fills with blood. Sofia manages to grunt, but just barely, out her next response to Masha’s words. “Would be more pleased alongside you,” she spits, “not on some a low-level, bullshit bust with them.” And there it is: an admission of want and of wounded pride. Sofia turns to the side and spits the blood-stained saliva from her mouth. Her lips are tinged with red. “But who am I to question his wisdom and yours?”

[zcphyras]

MATA —

WHO: Masha Vetrova & Sofia Markova, @zcphyras·

WHERE: Vetrova Mansion foyer

WHEN: July 12th, 13:15.

When Mata arrives back the mansion is already buzzing with angelic activity. Their own successes - a silent infiltration, a warehouse now ash - don’t have time for celebration. She had received duel messages of information when she was still in the hideout - from Leclair: ‘Ambush. Shadow shot.’; from Sofia: ‘Tell Ryker he fucked up’. And that was on top of the information lying on Isaac’s desk. So they must look a dangerous sight as they pace up the steps to the mansion, Masha flanked by an underboss and consigliere who are both radiating concern. Or is it fury? She, however, radiates only calm, crosses the threshold with the same composure as ever. There are things to be done, people to hear from - neither concern nor fury will help debug their headquarters.

“You can go,” she tells her advisors quietly as soon as they’re inside the marble foyer of their home. Masha’s not the telepath, but it’s as obvious as day that they both have their thoughts on a wounded Francesco. She catches Ryker by the shoulder though, needs her own quiet worries placated first. “Reapers have been here, check on your sister,” she murmurs, both boss and mother, before raising her voice enough for the room to hear, “and we’ve been bugged. Make sure everyone knows to shut up.” 

As she says it, her eyes move off of her underboss and sweep the room around her. Sofia is a smear of red against the usually pristine white interior. If the sight makes Masha’s stomach tighten, she does not show it. Really. She’s seen Sofia, she’s seen all of her angels, injured enough times to have built up a better resilience than this. And yet. She walks to Sofia - steps around the streaks of blood on the floor - with deliberate steps. Reaches out, tilts the other woman’s head chin towards her as her eyes scan for signs of hurt. It’s automatic, reminiscent of their younger days when Masha played protector. “Any of this yours?” is all she asks with narrowed eyes, her thumb wiping a steak of blood from Sofia’s cheek as she does. She releases her grip, inspects the blood on her hand with neutral eyes, “or just Russo’s?”

.

    They walk in formation, while Sofia stands alone. Her eyes narrow at the sight before her. The arm on the shoulder, the murmured words - oh, to be a fly on the wall, to hear what goes on in that room where it all happens. But those doors remain closed to her now, forevermore. (In her few moments of clarity, she wonders who had closed the door on whom.) This is how she must make herself known, now: smearing another’s blood on the white painted wall and on the polished marble floor, like a child tracking mud through the house just to vex their mother.

    When Masha turns her attention to Sofia, when she feels the other woman’s hand upon her, Sofia holds herself as still as a statue. There was a time when she felt the warmth of her almost-sister’s fingertips - a ghost, a whisper, a suggestion of care that Sofia, in all her naivety, had taken for granted. Then the fall-out: her return, and what Sofia had been so quick and so stubborn in deeming a betrayal, and from that moment on, any touch from Masha had felt like ice piercing into her armor. But now it’s worse, so much worse than it’s ever been. Because she does not feel warmth, and she does not feel cold, either.

    She feels nothing.

    “They couldn’t hurt me even if they tried,” she says, shaking her head. Sofia holds still, lets Masha inspect her skin, sallow as she comes down from her adrenaline high. “And they tried.” Her voice is filled with pride. Even now, she seeks approval like a starving dog seeks scraps. Like a sudden tidal wave, anger washes over her - at the ambush, at herself, at Masha, she doesn’t quite know anymore. All she knows to do is to fight. “Though I suppose it would have been better if this were my blood, right?” Her eyes flash and she pushes her frame off the wall, closer to Masha. She hopes the metallic tang that’s pierced her nostrils ever since she carried Francesco back overwhelms Masha. Sofia lowers her voice. “Can’t lose our precious spymaster, but I could've taken that bullet or twenty?”

[zcphyras]

ICARUS —

     Words, all too familiar, reach Mateo, and he struggles to wake up, they are calling to him, a beacon in the night. He has been in and out of consciousness since the ambulance ride, he has no way of knowing how long it’s been, all he knows is that he hasn’t had a chance to talk to anyone, doesn’t know if he’s able to and part of him is not sure he even wants to. He still doesn’t know what was it they saw back there, or if Anastasia even saw it too, Ana -his thoughts drift back to her, he placed her in danger, how could he live with himself if something happened to her. The few times he has managed to wake up he has frantically try to ask for her, someone reassured him she was fine, he still doesn’t know if it was the doctors or a fellow reaper. This time he knows the voice belongs to neither.

     The words are comforting in a way not many would understand, if anyone would to enter the room the scene would be beyond their comprehension, and yet as Mateo’s eyes flutter open, he feels at peace, finally finding his way to the voice, he tries to talk but the words won’t come out, there’s a soreness to his throat that makes him wonder if he’s been intubated, his hand reaches out to try and find the tube, nothing, he is too dazed from the drugs coursing through him to focus on what that actually means, he tries again ❝is it Sunday?❞ Mateo manages to get out, he doesn’t recognize his voice, what happened to him? he tries to focus a bit more and now he can feel the oxygen hooked to him, the extent of his injuries he’s not even sure anyone has told him about, the cold, the darkness, the hospital, there’s not much he remembers. 

    He doesn’t try to find her face, that has never been them, not when they are praying, it has always been enough to know the other was there, to feel their presence, to hear the same words being spoken by both, sometimes in unison, so instead he focuses on the machine rewarming his blood, on the IV hooked to his arm, the drip of what he has no doubt is keeping him from crying out in pain, Mateo smirks, psalm 6, how fitting, but then again if there’s anyone who would know what to say it would be her, ❝a prayer of faith in a time of distress…❞ Mateo struggles to say, ❝you do remember what that one says about the enemies, right?❞ he tries to laugh but coughs instead. 

.

    His voice - the cadence, the clarity - is different, but that’s to be expected. Sofia wonders how much of it can be attributed to the ungodly hour that she’s decided to visit him, and how much of it is from something far more serious. As savage as the blood feud between their respective clans, the relentless Revdan snow always strikes to remind them of who their real threat is - of what they should truly be afraid of. The relentless cruelty of nature, as only one divine being can will it. “Wouldn’t call today a holy occasion,” she remarks, her voice sardonic. She’s got no illusions or delusions about the reputation that follows her like a haunted shadow. Her eyes want to stray over to meet his, to assess the extent of his injuries - to assess what a future threat he’ll be when they must inevitably face each other again - but that would force her to acknowledge the truth of their relationship: that she’s found a kindred soul in who she’s been told should be her enemy.

    And speaking of enemies -

    “I do recall that it says a lot about enemies, so you’ll have to be more specific,” she murmurs, a humorless smile growing upon her lips as she leans back into the chair as if she owns the place - as if she belongs here. “You’ve nothing to worry about. Not today. Not right now. Consider this… a social call.” Enemies. That’s what they are. That’s the path that’s been chosen for them, ordained for them. Was there any choice to this? Was there ever any choice for either of them - to love who they love, to protect who they must, to carry forth their assigned purpose? She should ask him how he fares, how he feels, if he is well. Perhaps, in another life - where she is kind and bright and gentle and good - she might have. She might have pulled a blanket and draped it over him for warmth, might have tended to him, so that the flowers she’s left in his room wouldn’t feel so damn hollow. Perhaps in another life, but not in this one. In this one, she only knows how to question and press and prod and wreck until there’s nothing left but ruin. “You’d best hope that you’re well enough to attend come Sunday again.” A well-wish that rings like a threat. She cocks her head to the side then, and lets a moment pass before she speaks once more. “If not, I’ll come back here, and I’ll bring the service to you.” And that is certainly a threat. “Wouldn’t want your soul forsaken or tarnished by poor attendance, right?”

[zcphyras]

where: the deadly seven when: july 12th; 5:40pm who: @gabriel-devillers

    Before she’d learned to use her hands as weapons - before she was carved with divine purpose under the willful hands of the Scarlet Angels - she was little more than a street rat. Orphaned and abandoned, a vagabond who turned to petty theft and breaking-and-entering to put something in her stomach at night. It’s been a long time that Sofia has had to resort to such old tricks, such base instincts - but that’s what this occasion calls for, doesn’t it? One primal instinct feeds another. That’s how she sneaks into the Deadly Seven today, those skillful fingers recalling an old song-and-dance that feels like a lifetime ago.

    Once she’s inside, she swipes a bottle of vodka and two glasses off the shelf - so meticulously organized, not a speck of dust in sight, and Gabriel’s really outdone himself, hasn’t he? The thought of that brings a smile to her face. He’s never been one to half-ass anything. She knows that from experience. Sofia’s eyes peruse the establishment - this playground of debauchery for a city already so deeply-entrenched in sin - and she ultimately settles in the booth that offers a prime view of both the front entrance and the back entry. Useless, she knows, when he could simply surprise her and appear before her very eyes. She pours two shots, and congratulates herself for such thoughtful generosity.

    When she finally does see him - finally, at last, what the hell took you so long - her voice is sardonic and sarcastic. She pushes one glass towards him. “Welcome home, darling.”

[zcphyras]

[zephyra] ↦ [casanova]

gabriel [on 07/12/20, sent at 1702]: damn girl chill; my day off at the club. it's sunday. only a couple hours apart and you really missed me that much?

gabriel [on 07/12/20, sent at 1703]: you gonna tell me why you're so prickly today or are we just skipping the talking

Sofia [on 7/12/20, sent at 1705]: Don't flatter yourself.

Sofia [on 7/12/20, sent at 1705]: Doesn't matter, and besides - talking isn't exactly what I had in mind, love. Meet me at the club in 30.

[zcphyras]

SHADOW —

He didn’t like being just a distraction or clearly visible on the streets of Rosnovy. As per usual Francesco preferred the comfort of his shadows, to just passively hear and not tell anything. To see and understand, not act. Yet, he was forced to act, with no other than humans like him – and Sofia. He’d prepared by picking one of the less common pistols, at least my law enforcement standards, to remain as close to the Angels as possible. He’d adapted to other types of pistols once entering Rosnovy – a common practice to keep one’s cover, even better now after he’d fully established himself within Masha’s ranks. He’s become wary of the situation as nothing happened – at first at least – then, suddenly, he heard gunshots all around. Not a Glock 19, not a P320, but a Ruger-57, new and the one he’d used most often on the shooting range. 

With his finger tight around the trigger, he aimed at the nearest person, shot once, then twice to make sure the enemy would not end up shooting as well. The damn noise made him lose his cool for just a moment. All the training helped in dealing with the noise and the emotional damage wasn’t worth mentioning – but, as he moved his head to the side for just one moment, Francesco lost focus – and instead of shooting the one in the far back taking out a shotgun, he shoots the nearest enemy with a precise headshot. He heard Sofia first, then yet another shot, this time more violent, louder – he couldn’t just ignore the sound. Francesco simply stood there for a while facing her before clutching his side, the burn getting almost too much to handle. Looking down Francesco inspected the wound and, upon removing his hand from it, stared at his bloodstained hand. With his legs slowly giving up and his blood pressure sinking due to shock, Francesco tried to grab Sofia from afar. “Fuck – no, yeah,” he breathed through gritted teeth. The last shots were fired towards the enemy, killing his next target with surprising ease. 

The finger around his pistol began to relax, forcing Francesco to let go of it completely. “We gotta get to Knight” He began, again clutching his side “Zephyra, we need to leave, now.”

.

    “No? Yeah?” And what the hell was that supposed to mean? Sofia reloads her revolver, pulls back the hammer, and lays down cover fire for Leclair and Sokolov. Sokolov’s hurt, she sees, but from the fact that he’s not twisting in agony, she prays that it’s just a bullet graze. She looks over to Russo when he speaks - when he’s seen, he’s striking, to say the least, but it’s not his features that draw her eyes this time. It’s the blossoming red growth upon his clothes, it’s the growing pallor of his skin, and it’s the look in his eyes that something is very, very wrong - shit.

    Shit.

    She’s not a medic; her hands inflict the wounds, not heal them. A gunshot to the abdomen - can’t tourniquet that to stop the bleeding, not that she’d even want to because on the list of ways that today could possibly get worse, losing a God-damn limb was pretty high up there. She looks up, and yeah - yeah, Leclair and Sokolov can finish the job. Sofia tears the red scarf from around her neck, the never-ending chill of Rosnovy biting her exposed flesh immediately, and presses it to where the blossoming red originates. She wraps the tail ends around his waist as best as she can, feeling for an exit wound and coming back empty. Her fingertips are slick. “You don’t get to die, not here,” she hisses. “Not from these rats.” She presses her hands against him harder, and her attempt to staunch the blood-flow reads more like an attempt to bruise more than anything else. Sofia glances at the other two Angels once more, and then at the last pack of Reapers holed up in the back, hunkered down under cover. They have to finish the job. There's no way she can help him out of here if they don't. She prays that they can do it on their own as her eyes meet Francesco’s. “Hey - look at me. Stay awake. Stay awake.”

[zcphyras]

[zephyra] ↦ [casanova]

gabriel [on 07/12/20, sent at 1700]: lucky you to find me on my day off. what's up?

Sofia [on 7/12/20, sent at 1700]: Day off? Are you fucking kidding me?

Sofia [on 7/12/20, sent at 1701]: Where are you?