HAYAL ETMEK.

-

“Oh, right.” Duh, that should have occurred to him that her mask would get in the way. Samir gave her an apologetic smile and looked down at the now two drinks he was left over with. He’d set one down if he wasn’t in a room with about a hundred other people that might slip something into it. Maybe he could hand it off to someone, or drink the first drink faster and hope it didn’t all go to his head. Prompted by the thought, he raised the glass to his lips to take a drink. “Mmm, it’s not as good as the wine Rita gave me but it’s still fairly good.” He reached forward to pluck a small hair from her mesh covered shoulder. “Doesn’t taste like poison was added, so that is a promising addition.” Samir joked and took another quick sip. 

Samir’s brow wrinkled the closer attention he paid to his friend. She seemed like there was something more on her mind. Honestly, who didn’t have more on their mind? He couldn’t blame her. His mind was quite often wandering in several different directions. Sometimes he felt like he lived primarily in his head, the only place he was allowed to be himself. Still, he couldn’t help being a tiny bit concerned. “You are quite right about that. I cannot imagine it will last long.” Another sip and a scan of the room before he set his focus back on her. “You alright, Ev?” He had to ask the question at least once, to check in. 

A soft laugh escaped him. “If you say so.” His normal response for anytime fashion was brought into question. The only reason he knew anything about the topic was because of time spent with Evren and Jess. His cheeks turned a slight shade of pink. “You mean you did a good job with my outfit. I just picked out the shoes.” Samir laughed and waved off the comment. “The mask is a little warm though. Why do we have to wear masks? Don’t most people know each other already?” It was an ironic thing for him to mention, considering the constant mask he wore but still valid all the same. To him at least. The Power brushed a curl away at their mention and raised the glass for another sip.

“maybe we could go out for drinks tomorrow? preferably after work, or you could swing by my place and we could just watch a film and have a proper drink. you know i’m not a big fan of alcohol, but we’ll need it after all of this.” it’s not a tradition per se, but they’ve had their fair share of late-night talks that had turned into sleepovers. it’s no wonder even evren’s trusted feline’s grown to tolerate him, which is almost a rarity. “oh, she gave you wine? what brand?” she questions, averting her gaze back to the glass in his hands. “i’m sorry to inform you, sam, but these days you can’t really detect poison in your food or drinks. that’s what i’ve been told. people in pest sure do like to talk. so, at least you won’t know it until you faint.”

the relation between the three gangs of london has always been like a gossamer web, flimsy and frail and yet deadly too, but she wonders if it’s now uriel who takes on the mantel of a weaver, the one who constructs a demise for them all. the question is: who’s the spider and who’s the prey? “everything’s about power in this world, sam. that much i’ve learned. ” and gabrielle’s clearly losing hers. “ i  —   i’m just thinking ... about everything. ” you can do everything right and still be alone. sometimes it’s not your fault. silently she leans closer, pulling samir into an embrace as she rests her head on his chest, paying no heed to the drinks in his hands, needing a moment to hide from the rest of the world. she can’t tell him. can’t utter emil’s name even when memory ravages her. if only she could tell him, if only she could point with her finger at them, if only she could beckon them to come closer. if, if, if. she ought to never dwell on the ifs. just a moment later, evren retreats, abandoning the sense of security. “sorry about that. i just don’t want to face half of these people here.” even with a mask.

with a cup of black tea still steaming on the polished surface of her office desk, she seizes the moment to open a plethora of spreadsheets and data analytics on her macbook, each perfectly organized and highlighted so that not even a single letter is missing. last night she spent reviewing financial reports and analyzing the results, the same thing she’s been doing for the last month or so as one of the newer bellum nova interns. war’s a flawless machine, a forceful beast, and while she’s seen its brutality up close on the front lines far from the guarded seat of her trusted vehicle, it’s now that she faces war’s scintillating heart, its impetus, and source of momentum  — money. 

“so, today we’re working on war’s payroll, aren’t we?” she questions without lifting her gaze, switching to a file containing the labels and names of each war member. she turns to her tea and then to rita, patiently awaiting to hear the woman speak as she leans back in her chair and offers her a smile. she traded her driver’s spot for an air-conditioned office, another salary, and a chance to work with rita. money laundering, bribery-and-corruption, secret and offshore accounts, perhaps this is only the beginning of her voyage into the night. each day offers something new. a frame of reference, modus operandi, a strategy. everything’s about money. “also, would you like some macarons? i picked them on my way to here just an hour ago.” she points to the ladurée box and takes one, opting for pistachio. 

Events like this struggle to hold her attention. Kashvi is a busy woman, after all, working herself inside out at her day job and juggling plenty for War too. More importantly, her mind has recently added a new activity onto its roster: spinning paranoid thoughts into fine thread. She watches Evren sing but hardly registers it, her head foggy with pain and heaviness and dark thoughts. It’s been three days since her home invasion and Kashvi is still stuck in a cycle of repeating the events over and over again, wondering how she could have improved on them. Her mother sits next to her, a dazzling sight who had expressed concern once more to her daughter. Kashvi had not even shown her the stitches that decorate her body, nor the bruises on her neck — all she had seen was her tiredness, the healing cut on her hand. Isha Singh had frowned and expressed concern and Kashvi had waved them away with a heavy feeling in her stomach. 

Afterwards Evren approaches and Kashvi smiles bright, ever the socialite, her mother’s spirit living forth in her. But there’s a tired edge to her lips that she hopes the other won’t notice. “Hi doll,” she says, placing a hand on the other’s shoulder and giving a quick peck. Kashvi herself wears a black, long-sleeved, turtle-necked gown, a polar opposite to what Evren has chosen tonight. She’d prefer something that reveals more skin and the slit in her skirt at least gives a little. “You were wonderful, Evren.” And she’s certain that’s true: the notes she’d consciously caught had been wonderful and her mother had whispered excitedly to her. The event is to raise money that will be added to the performing arts fund her mother manages, which starts up projects all around England. “She’s one of the best.” She beams, pride obvious on her face. She extends that feeling to Evren too. “How was it, to stand there? I do hope you enjoyed yourself.” 

kashvi calls her doll and it’s enough to make evren laugh as she returns the light kiss, swayed by the endearing moniker that the virtue has given to her. she likes this newfound closeness between them, the cordial affection that continues to strengthen. it’s a privilege, perhaps, this fondness that they extend to each other like a silver platter during supper. “thank you, kashvi. it means something when the compliment is coming from you. by the way, you look beautiful.” it’s the least she can say given kashvi’s current state. call it the medicine of words, evren’s subtle acknowledgment of the virtue’s absolute, unwavering strength. she is a dragon’s flame, the kiss of a bullet. “she is. how’s the fundraiser going? are you having fun? i  also can’t believe that we’ll be seeing each other so soon again. the flight’s all booked and ready for may 11th and anne has so many things planned, but it feels like we spoke about this just yesterday.” it’s been too long since her last visit to istanbul, but it’s the notion that she’ll be taking kashvi with her that only makes it even more bemusing. 

“oh it was like a dream. just being here, singing in front of all these people is wonderful. it’s freeing.” there was no stage fright, no apprehensiveness. this is what she was always meant to do. she belongs to dream pop, cinematic balladry, which is a stark difference from the bubble pop hits that she plays in her car and listens to when she dances around. her voice is hazy, soulful, lulling, laced with a timelessness that nina simone and billie holiday used to have. it’s sultry too, with timbre that is darker than the average soubrette, the famous soprano. it’s a cover for all her troubles, her lonely tune. lonely tune for a lonely heart, that’s how it always is. “oh and the bouquets that are waiting for me backstage are definitely making this even better. but really, if i could, i would sing every day. i’m thinking of signing with a record label because that would be a brilliant start.”

Astrid listens quietly as Evren answers, nodding along to show that she’s listening. Her face scrunches in confusion and amusement at Evren’s confession about not wanting to go into politics, despite being on track to earn an entire degree in the subject. “If you don’t want to go into politics, why are you spending all this time studying it?” Astrid asks. “Trust me, if I didn’t actually enjoy my job I would not have taken the time to get the degree and done all of the work. As you’ve probably already noticed, the courses are absolutely crawling with men who think politics are too complicated a subject for women to be able to understand.” She rolls her eyes. The pricks didn’t go away once you graduated and actually entered the field, either. 

“I mean, I’m not saying you wouldn’t do great in the course. Obviously you would, and anybody would be lucky to have you on their staff after you graduated.” And it was obvious. Evren was incredibly smart and clearly prided herself on her achievements. She definitely didn’t need any tutoring from Astrid to do well on her coursework. Astrid doesn’t doubt that Evren could do literally anything she set her mind to. It was a common trait amongst the members of War; you had to want to make it in their ranks to even think about surviving. “But if you’re going to devote so much time to something, why not have it be something you actually want to do? If you enjoyed psychology, go finish that degree. Or do something else entirely.”

She shifts in her seat to face Evren fully, just in time to see her light up as she mentions singing. Astrid mirrors Evren’s smile. “See, like singing. You’ve already got gigs booked and everything!” she says. Astrid gets up and strolls over to the small liquor cabinet sitting underneath the window in her office. A staple in most every MP’s office that Astrid rarely used herself, but it did come in handy on occasion. “Listen, I’m all for an educated woman, but the degree will always be there. If you want to put time and effort into singing, then do it,” she says as she pours two glasses of wine - nothing too strong, Evren did still have a paper to write. “Besides, War has enough economists and politicians already, and I’d like a few more years in office before you come for my job.” Astrid brings the glasses of wine back to the desk. Handing one to Evren, Astrid clinks her glass against the other as she sits back down. “To your singing career,” she says before taking a sip.

“ —  because i can’t alter the given module? we don’t always get to learn the things we like. besides, it’s not exactly a degree in politics. it features economy too, my primary focus. i like numbers. it’s easy for me to memorize a lot of things that other people find challenging.” it’s a talent, one that she didn’t work for but was rather born with. “oh, i’m well aware of that, but it’s not just politics. everywhere you go, you meet people who want to diminish your work. but believe it or not, i don’t find the disapproval of arrogant men or women discouraging.” unequivocally, she loves to play the harlequin, counting on the notion that she’ll be belittled, underestimated, overlooked. “but now i’m curious, what exactly made you want to get into politics? did you dream about it when you were younger?”

“thank you, astrid.” receiving plaudits for her work doesn’t mean all that much these days with the myriad of falsehood in their lives and yet when it’s from someone as triumphant as her, it’s hard to disregard it. “and if i go back to psychology, what exactly can i offer to the wardens?” other than my hands? and moral compass? “do you think that they want a psychologist in their ranks?” the tasks that seem to get assigned to her have recently only become more complicated, pulling her deeper into the silver and silky war web.

set: june 25th, evening location: york road station availability: closed | @evrensadik​

His hand extended to her, handing over the drink he’d picked up at the bar. Samir took a small sip from his wine glass, letting the flavors of the shiraz he’d ordered. The ball made him nervous, which was why he opted to stick close to those he cared about. Not that he was typically the mingling type to start with, he couldn’t help but avoid it more after their history with the other gangs. Luckily Evren always seemed to be willing to humor his company and he enjoyed hers more than most in return.

“Does this all feel strange to you?” He asked, voice hushed and eyes darting around the room. “I mean last time they got us together we watched…” he let the sentence trail off there. There was no need to say aloud what they witnessed the night of Mortem. It had been months and the images of the three tied up on screen while they met their fate was still burned into his brain. Who was to say a similar trap wouldn’t be set at the ball? All of them masked, with only some being able to be identified through their shroud. He searched the room for the Wardens, checking to see if they were still in tact. Then Domenico, who was thankfully easy to spot among the crowd. 

“Are you having fun at least?” It seemed to be something more up her alley than his. Which was why he’d gone to her for help picking out an outfit. If he’d been left to his own devices, he would have been in trousers and a t-shirt with a cheap plain black mask found at some party store. Thanks to Evren, he blended in with the other partygoers and didn’t end up embarrassing himself, or misrepresenting War. Sam lifted the glass to his lips for another sip. “Also why do they always insist on making everything so dark and ominous?” He asked, squinting through the dim candle light. “It’s kind of depressing.” A far contrast to the bright lights of Four Quarters, where they brought Liam out earlier in the month. He wished they were back there. Playing games. laughing, and knocking back pints. 

it echoes. it buzzes, like a hornet trapped in delicate honey, the remnants of yesterday's phone conversation with emil becker and the thought that he’s somewhere close. they are friends. they were friends. the changing of the tense is what makes it painful. sometimes the best thing you can be for someone that you love is a stranger. “oh —  thank you, sam, but i can’t drink it. this crystal mesh over my face is connected to my sleeves. so i can’t take it off.” apologetically she hands him back the glass of the burgundy wine, showcasing only gratitude for the company that he provides. “is the wine at least good?”

the question is posed as a distraction, something to help waste time as she attempts to silence the myriad of thoughts that ring inside of her head. she can’t know for sure, can’t place a bet, but emil surely has other things to ruminate about, unlike her. evren thinks, as she looks at samir, that it must be strange, must be agonizing for them, to live a double life and lie. “i don’t know what to tell you. it’s certainly an astonishing twist,” the angel muses, feeling as though she’s having two separate conversations, one with the war power and one with herself, inside of her head. what she wants is to remain three steps ahead. what she desires is to never be outsmarted like that again. but don’t we, even in our most brilliant moments, always reach for our own ruin?

“fun? ha, i wouldn’t exactly say that, but it’s an excuse to wear haute couture.” bringing a hand close to his face, she adjusts his mask and slightly pulls one of his wayward curls, somewhat amused by the current state of his hair. “i think we did a good job with your outfit. i’m glad you got to keep parts of your usual style while mixing it with the formal attire. but the prince charming curls really do make you recognizable,”  the comment is offered with a laugh, but there’s truth to it, a truth that arrives hand in hand with danger. “it’s a part of their brand.”

---

EMIL: i'm not joking, ev.

they suck in a slow breath. if left unregulated, emil would scream. so painfully aware of how this truce is taking and taking, reducing him to a person he vowed never to be. if they struggled to look their mothers in the eyes before, it's near impossible now.

EMIL: of course they want the truth, i do too. but i don't have any power here—

irritation rises up, and emil strokes the head of that beast until it falls back to sleep.

EMIL: you're making it sound like i want this.

they can hear the voice of their mother as if she was in the room with them, telling her child to always be open and honest with those he calls friends.

EMIL: i know you didn't mean it, but it's hurtful, you know? i didn't ask for this to happen.

her words are heavy, and emil feels like he could sink through the floor. maybe that would be easier than this conversation.

EMIL: i know... it's shit. it's really fucking shit. sometimes i think i shouldn't have said anything about... any of it. that we'd be happier if you still didn't know. but i'm glad you didn't hear it from someone else.

EVREN: i guess i just... even after everything...

EVREN: i guess i wanted to believe in heroes. in justice.

EVREN: i really thought that you'd be able to put a stop to their reign of terror. you and your crew... i don't know if it's even suitable to call them a crew and, [ she pauses, abandoning her bed for a window seat instead. what she needs at this moment is someone to hold her, but despite the spaciousness of her home, she knows that there's no one there. no one she could run to. ]

EVREN: it's not about me, emil. it's never been about me. it's about other people. people who will continue to lose their friends, family, the ones that they love the most so that the vermin of london can keep their pockets full.

EVREN: and i feel so guilty because ... because i should do something and yet... i'm guilty... i'm guilty.

EVREN: i'm sorry, emil. i'm sorry for hurting you.

EVREN: and i'm glad you told me. you're my lesson, emil becker. i've learned it well. [ she won't let her guard down again. and yet, no matter what they do, or say, or turn into, her love will remain. ]

she’s been running for months now, perhaps even longer than that, but there’s no point in delving into the subject in great detail. what she knows is that she’s gotten better, faster, that she’s capable of running 12 kilometers in one session and yet she seldom tests her limits. running for evren has turned into more than just a preferred method of exercising. it’s become a hobby, a habit, and the best way to catch up with her friend. when she’s out here, stretching her muscles and trying to win in an imaginary contest, she doesn’t have to think, analyze, or conceal anything because soon enough, emil becker’ll say something witty, amusing, and she’ll laugh and she’ll get to be normal again. she’ll live like ordinary people do.

lost in thought, she cants her head to one side and realizes that the person running beside her isn’t emil, but domenico chambers. she instantly loses momentum, feeling her lungs constrict in her chest with urgency ⁠— and the only thing that reaches her ears is the echo of her heartbeat. she doesn’t try to stop domenico, doesn’t attempt to make a sound, continuing to stand in one place. she doesn’t know if he’ll turn around. if he’ll notice that she’s no longer there to keep him company on their route. it’s her fault. her misstep for telling him to come with her days prior to this one. her gaffe for trying to so abruptly replace the vacant place that emil had left behind. evren holds the fondness for them close to her chest, like freshly picked marigolds in june, watering them even when they’re cut. so even with the whole world watching, she begins to cry, ready to face london's great audience. 

with — @evrensadik​​ where — astrid’s office in parliament when — sunday, april 11th

“So what are we working on?” Astrid asks as she settles into her chair, which she’s pulled around to the other side of her desk so she can sit beside Evren. There was another perfectly usable chair already occupying the space on the other side of Ev, but if Astrid was being honest, her office chair was ten times more comfortable than the standard issue chairs she reserved for her visitors. A power move, Juno had called it, something about making people feel intimidated by also making them uncomfortable. Astrid just didn’t want to have to visit a chiropractor all the time because she’d fucked up her back by sitting in a shitty chair.

The Palace of Westminster was closed on Sundays, but with War’s offices taking up a chunk of the building and Astrid quite literally working there, getting in was no issue. Honestly, Astrid kind of preferred the quiet of the Houses of Parliament after hours, and the lack of potential intrusions made it an ideal place to meet with Evren and help her with her studies. Astrid still wasn’t quite sure why Ev being back in uni was so cloaked in secrecy, but it was a secret she had no business spilling. Besides, she quite enjoyed the study sessions she’d found herself roped into after she caught Evren talking to some other MPs for an assignment. It felt good to be helpful, like maybe she actually was the bright-eyed politician bent on doing good that all of her peers seemed to think she was.

She glances over Ev’s shoulder at the assignment pulled up on the latter’s laptop, scanning through to pretend like she’s actually contributing. Sure, Astrid has actual experience with the field, but she’s not exactly an academic source that can be cited in a paper, and she finished school nearly eight years prior. She’s mostly there to keep Evren company. “Exams are coming up soon, aren’t they?” Astrid asks, turning from the screen to Evren. “Have you thought more about what you want to do? You know, after all the studying?“ Her eyes watch Evren’s, genuinely curious for the answer. 

“what features of the current political structure in the united kingdom promote peace? that’s the title of the essay.” it’s not one that she’s particularly glad to be working on, as politics are hardly an interest of hers, but her dedication, stronger than iron, and previous academic achievements only seem to make her work harder. besides, it's a compulsory subject and she won’t let herself get anything below 92 percent on any of her exams or works, as she aims to graduate with the first-class honours. drafting the first two pages, she takes a moment to look away from the screen of her laptop and smile at the other, silently thanking astrid for her presence. the truth is that she doesn’t need astrid’s help, not in the way that she may assume that evren needs it, but rather, she likes to keep someone around when she studies, be it just for the sake of discourse.

or maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t like to be alone. not after everything that she’s seen. not after everything that’s happened. she hopes that astrid too may appreciate that sentiment. “um yes and no. some are. the rest are in may.” there are days when she can’t keep up, days when she’s forced to miss out on lectures and stay awake for most of the night, devouring page after page of endless text. it’s a good thing that she rarely ever sleeps. “that’s an interesting question, i um... i have ideas. being a politician is definitely not one of them despite the subject at hand.”

x   

what better way to say goodbye to the old flat than to tear it down completely? ravi still remembers choosing this place, a handful of years ago when he and marcus were already serious enough to take that step. he’d never picked out a home with a partner like that before. this flat might’ve been the actual first home he ever had to call his own since he was a kid. emotions in a turmoil in his chest, he hates that he has to leave, but he hates it more that the building has left a bitter taste in his mouth now. sweet memories all stained by the thought that a pink version of sid from toy story managed to make his home unsafe. it makes his blood boil. he figures destroying the furniture before they officially go might give him some of the cathartic closure he craves.

it’s working, he thinks, as he drives sledgehammer into a kitchen cabinet and watches the debris fly around. his blows not as precise as evren’s, but probably more forceful. “i did not forget. though i’ll only be having a sip,” he promises her, stepping back from the destruction, wiping sweat from his hairline with the back of a hand. when he thought demolition to be too depressing of an activity to perform alone, evren was the first name on his mind. no one else lacks a space to lash out as much as this girl, and no one else needs it this much. he’s right to call her. it’s easier to keep the demons of grief at bay when she’s around, at least for today. when he goes back to marcus, he can feel the real weight of losing their first home. “feels good, right?” he smiles to her laughter, leans his sledgehammer on the ground and lets a sigh deflate his chest and take some of the tension with it. “i figured you’d like it. you’re stronger than i thought, i’m delighted to see.” he’s not even sure he can keep up anymore, with the twists and turns of evren’s life, but he knows she grows more and more into something sharper every day. something a bit too cold and a bit too harsh. something war-bound. war isn’t using her qualities to her advantage, they’re throwing her into the shark tank and forcing her to shape up, and it’s dumb, but he knows he can’t convince her to leave them by just pointing that out. he helps where he can – like calling her to help destroy his flat. 

“he’s good, recovering,” ravi responds, too fast, but not completely a lie. some days are harder than others. he knows he might get a cold shoulder when he returns to his husband today. he can handle that. “i am… surely hanging in there,” he laughs, finding the lack of confidence in his own words humorous. he trusts evren enough to give her a peek into how he feels, though, so he knows he doesn’t have to hide behind the mask for long. she’s been a dear, with her concern for marcus, too. “a lot of things fucking suck. and this might be… the shittiest moment of my life to date.” it’s a realisation that only hits him now. he’s had realistically worse moments, his teenage years being the centrepiece of the shitty moments gallery, but watching the love of his life suffer is ranking higher. now, he has things to lose, and he’s gotten really close to losing them. it’s a different sort of pain. “but, y'know, it’s alright. it’s not that deep, it was just really scary at first, now we’re picking ourselves back up. good again in no time. thank you for joining me today, by the way.”

the only way out is through. the only way out of war is to win, defect or turn into a migratory bird and grow another pair of wings. that’s what she’s always been, hasn’t she? a songbird, a fledgling, a canary. she treasures the hands that hold her and chirps, preens before large mirrors and warbles before stranges, waiting to take wing. but perhaps she’s something else entirely, a nimble doe, hunted for sport in the lush woodland near london. she’s always something small, innocent, born to be adored, but she’s yet to find her true form. she could rise like smoke, be the spider in the enemy’s drawer. but alas, they are far too minuscule, mutilated by a single swipe of the hand. she’ll shed her tears and her skin, disregard the feathers, twine herself around the hands that wish to dominate, and bid her time. evren, with a name that belongs to myths. evren —  she — the dragon.

“of course— and after we’re done drinking, we’ll smash the glasses too.” she continues to swing the sledgehammer, each swing more forceful than the other as she manages to detach the cabinet from the wall. what’s left of it she breaks to pieces on the tile floor, anger visibly gushing out of her. “better than good. this is all i needed.” the song of destruction has a beautiful tune. “thank you, i’ve been hitting the gym quite frequently. it’s good to be in shape. in these times, we all need to be.” her preferred method of exercising is running, mostly during warmer months when she doesn’t have to wear multiple layers of clothing, but on the battlefield it proves to be of no use.