↣ archer drake

i. half moon bay. she would know it blind and deaf, from the feel of the sand beneath her feet, from the smell of the breeze off the water. the fog was too thick to see through. a familiar voice sounded out over the water, soft and tremulous. “don’t leave, arch. don’t leave me. i can’t lose you again.” “i won’t. you won’t.” she replies like a promise, but when she steps into the water she does not find the comfort of a pinkie wrapped with her’s. there is only the cold and the dark and the crushing pressure, the hand she hoped to grab already out of her reach.

ii. the storm rages, high wind and drenching rain, but archer flees out into it anyway. she is something small, her claws digging into the dirt to keep herself steady, and what waits for her is larger, sharper, capable of eating her whole with one snap of her teeth. “i can help you.” she insists, her eyes on the chain that binds, searching for a weakness in the links. lightning strikes close, and her clawing turns desperate, blood welling. “i can get you out of this.” “no, you can’t.” the words are gentle, warm. “i chose this. i choose this.” she screams, every inch of her trembling. “but it’s the wrong choice!” The wind rips the words out of her throat and casts them away, unheard.

iii. drake inc. headquarters. royalty stands with her as she surveys her empire, perfect envoys with soft voices and sharp eyes. “i’m scared.” says the little queen-to-be, reaching over to straighten archer’s crown. were her fingers already bloodied, or had she cut herself on the crown’s edges? the golden prince cradles his love’s hands and she realizes she can’t see where the blood starts or where it ends, only that they are all covered in it, warm and sticky and unavoidable. they wear it better than she does, with grace, with smiles. “we know what it costs.” he says with a voice like ice, moving to stand protectively between his partner and archer. “what it takes. what you are. stop pretending.” when she looks for her reflection, she sees scales and slitted eyes and sharp teeth, can taste iron and ash on her tongue.

iv. she sits fiddling with a circuit board, all live wires and hot metal. she feels it wearing away at the skin of her fingers as she works, flaying away every protective layer. still, it was only pain; it needed to work. “it’s pointless.” came a voice near her ear, dry and logical. “there’s still time.” she insisted in a whisper, voice hollow, shoulders hunching. “i can still fix it.” “you?” a scoffing little laugh cut deeper than the edge of a thin blade, pressed close to her throat. “you’re the one that broke it.” The blade breaks skin, but she can’t take her eyes off the board, won’t, not until she understands how it all connects.

v. she hears the gunshots, sees the blood spill, but no matter how hard she looks, she can’t be certain who shot first, who carries the deeper wound, who’s closer to dying, who needs to be saved. all she can see is the same dark hair, the same pale eyes, the same bloodstained smiles. “please.” she tries, but she can’t reach for both of them at the same time. “just stop, you don’t have to — ” she begs, but that just makes them go cold in the same way. they speak with one mouth, one heart, for once in agreement. “sai come finisce questa cosa, piccolo ipocrita.” she turns her gaze to the bullet casings littering the ground, pretending not to understand.

vi. she stares down into an open grave, considering the depth of the darkness beneath her feet from where she sits on the edge, swirling a glass of champagne in her hand. it was garnished with an orange, but she knew what she would taste if she put it to her lips, bitter and medicinal. “just drink it.” he suggested, placid and calm. “i already have. it was always too late.” he moves before she can find words to speak, jumping down into the grave. She tries to fight the filling of it, desperately shoveling handfuls of dirt out with her hands, but he merely lay down to await his own burial, crossing his arms over his chest. The look on his face never shifts as the rising earth slowly consumed them both: no fear, no pain, just an empty upturn of the lips.

vii. she struggles to keep balance on a high wire, legs shaking, arms outstretched. the costume she wears wasn’t made for her: tight, constricting, puffy sleeves and jingling bells. her audience is small but talkative, with eyes that never blink. “she’ll fall.” whispers the fox with glee, licking at the blood crusted around her mouth, hungry for more. “maybe, maybe not.” says the cat with the wide smile from nearby, but when she looks to him he hooks his claw around one of the wires, poised to cut it loose. the sharp bark of a dog chases him off the wire, and the voice that speaks next is like honey, smooth and sweet, hard to distrust. “it’s okay if you do. it won’t hurt.” the world slid, turned upside down, and the last thing she sees before impact is a dark-haired figure watching with a pleased smile, as if the fall is her favorite part of the show.

then -

I had to convince my father it made sense; maybe it didn’t, but I was curious. Your name rings through history, and I wanted to see what made it worth so much more than mine to everyone who matters. …You’re not exactly living a fairytale, though, are you?

now -

I should start calling you Charming, with the number of times you’ve come to my rescue. You’ve got motive, I’ve got opportunity. But that’s not the full story, is it? Let’s write a different one.

then -

It would be easier, if you were like the rest. If you just let your head turn, your attention falter. But every time I make a move, there you are, watching. Should I stumble more? Or maybe less? What are you even looking for?

now -

You're the only one who always sees me. Who always asks the right questions. I should hate you for that, and instead...I think I understand, what Vincent saw in you.

Archer tilted her head a little, studying the mask she'd received. It was beautiful on the outside, but on the inside - in the place of the usual soft fabric used to pad the inner lining of such ceramic masks, fragments of newspaper were carefully inserted. Only one was recent, but all were familiar. The headline il fuoco fa strage. A fragment about a small company forced into bankruptcy shortly after IPO'ing after it was found that many of its most promising projects were based on intellectual property already owned by Drake Inc. A byline describing over a billion dollars awarded in damages to Drake Inc. after it was found that a rival company infringed on several of its patents. A clipping of an article regarding an overwhelmingly successful merger that came suddenly after months of bitter negotiation with CEO Ansel Janssen. A disparate smattering of stories with one connecting factor. Archer sighed again, more deeply, hunching her shoulders, her gaze skittering away from the accusations set in ink.

Just under the curve of the right eye on the interior of the mask, five tally marks were etched out in dark crimson, four long lines crossed with one diagonally, stark as spilled blood against the faded white of the newspaper clippings. Archer squinted down at the lines, frowning. "Two break-ins interrupted, one arson, one stolen car...one stolen phone." She counted out loud, frowning. "I get it. Cat, nine lives, five strikes, four more." She tossed the mask to the side, then hopped back up on the footstool she was using as an improvised ladder, resuming her careful inspection of the walls of her dorm. "This shouldn't count as a strike, by the way." She'd already ripped apart her smoke detector, unscrewed her lightbulbs. "Every move you make is seen. There's no rule against looking for eyes." A smile flickered across her face, there and then gone. "I can cover the damages."

"What did Vincent write? Never explain the rules in full. Explanation creates expectation. Expectation breeds control. Except, he was never really in control, was he?" She fell silent a few moments, knocking gently at the walls, listening for hollow spaces. "Dealers give the players their cards, ensure fair play, and know the rules of the game...but nobody says the dealer always wins." She gave up abruptly with a sigh, dropping down to sit crosslegged on her footstool. "Yeah, I know who always wins. The fuck am I doing?" She closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyelids. "Talking to myself. Talking to whoever's listening. Great." A knock sounded at her door, precisely on time: Nicolai, come to take her dress shopping for the ball. Archer threw one last glance to the mask sitting on her living room table before she went to meet him, etching the mask's design into her mind.

A roll of thunder sounded in the distance just as a text arrived; her train of thought broken, Archer glanced down to see the alert: ‘New Message From: Daddy Dearest’.  She straightened up, exhaling softly, and tapped the edge of the phone against the table for a few moments before finally flipping it open.  Casimir’s message was simple, two words in all caps:

CALL ME.

As the first few drops of rain began to fall, Archer typed carefully in response:

I’ve got bad reception here.  Give me time to find a better signal.

She almost slipped the flip phone into her pocket, then tilted her head a little and looked up at the sky, thinking.  The video feed of her kneeling on the floor of her room, copper dress pooled around her, bent under the weight of her own mortality.  The curve of Red’s smile, the hint of sharp teeth between pink lips, the slight tilt of his head.  So calm, so knowing.  Her grip tightened on her own flip phone for a moment as her vision flickered white, rage a molten heat in her chest.  A fantasy of destruction played in her mind's eye: the flip phone smashed to pieces under her hands, cracked open and ruined, the collar snapped. Then she exhaled hard, shaking her head and tossing the phone back onto the table.  It would be easier to explain water damage than blunt force trauma.  

Archer set off for the garage, the plan forming in her mind.  Calling a car would have been easy, but there was something satisfying in moving unseen and unknown; she would return what she stole before it was missed, anyway.  Motion-activated lights flickered on as she slipped into the garage; she let her gaze sweep over the fleet of waiting cars critically, looking for a car she liked.  Her grandfather was a mechanic and her father loved cars, but she hadn’t inherited their passion.  Building a self-driving car had long been an obsession of Casimir’s, a pet project she was occasionally expected to consult on, familiarize herself with.  The reality was that stealing most cars was no longer a matter of key bumps and wires; no, thanks to the advent of key fobs and Bluetooth, stealing a car from a garage like this was just as easy as turning her tablet into a signal relay, tricking the car into thinking her tablet was the expected key.

Just before she touched her tablet to the door of a slick black Bentley, she heard a door slam open behind her.  “Hey!”  Archer spun at the sound of footsteps pounding towards her, her eyes widening then narrowing at the sight of a man in a butler's uniform wind his way through the rows of cars towards her.  “Hey, Miss!  You dropped this!”  In his waving fist was her flip phone; she grimaced, tucking her tablet away just as he came jogging up to her.  “Be pretty bad for you if you lost it, right?”  He was slightly out of breath, but there was something friendly about the way his lips turned up in an easy smile.

“I don’t know.”  She said softly, but reached out to take it anyway, frowning.  She studied him a moment, taking in his pale face, his bright eyes, the raindrops winding their way from his pale hair to the nape of his neck to soak into his suit jacket, then looked away, as if there was something worth studying in the polished black mirror of the car door.  Memories occurred to her in rapid succession: this butler had been someone she’d avoided shoulder-checking as she followed Nicolai to Red’s room earlier that day.  She had no idea what his name was, whether he was a member of the Society or if he was simply a contract worker.  

“Sorry, I – ”  He leaned to the side, trying to enter her field of vision, his gaze seeking her’s.  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss…Drake.”  He said the name like he was trying to place something about her too; Archer tilted her head a little, a puzzle piece clicking into place as she let him meet her eyes, unconsciously following his adjustment of posture so that they mirrored one another in straightening up as she understood what made him seem familiar.  He was an American.  “I just wanted to get you your phone back…”  His gaze wandered to the car, and he smiled again suddenly, showing teeth.  “And I got kinda worried, seeing you go in here by yourself.  Did they tell you we had a break-in earlier this week?”

Archer dug her hands into her pockets, frowning, examining her options.  “No.”  She said softly, flatly. “I just want to get into town.  Do you know where they keep the keys in here?”

“Well, sure.”  He looked amused, digging around in his pocket and coming up with a key fob.  He pressed the button, and a cheerful chirp sounded from a car parked further down the line.  “If that’s all you need, I can drive you.”  Archer blinked, her brow furrowing slightly as she folded her arms.  As her silence dragged on, the butler's expression fell a little.  “Look, it’s not that easy to get out of here, this time of night.  I might even get in trouble for helping you out.”  His grin had an edge to it, rueful, resigned.  The butler ran a hand through his hair, tossing his wet bangs out of his eyes, then made a dismissive gesture.  “Doesn’t matter, really.  Where are you trying to go?”

Archer stepped closer, her mouth frowning, her brow furrowed.  He was an open book written in a language she didn’t understand, easy to read but incomprehensible.  “You could just…give me the key.  Find somewhere to get dry.  Put this out of your mind.”  It wasn’t a threat; it was more like a question.  Why do anything but that?

Archer couldn’t tell if he heard the question she was trying to ask; he just shook his head, stepping back and away from her, leading her over to the Bentley he’d unlocked.  As they walked, he gestured above them, to the rain that drummed against the roof of the garage in ceaseless time.  “It’s raining cats and dogs out there!  Too dangerous to drive by yourself on a night like this.  Just.  Come on.”  The butler opened up the backdoor and gestured her in with one loose movement.  

Archer looked at the leather interior and tallied up the odds in the space of a blink.  He was most likely either a part of the Society or sent by them to keep an eye on her, summoned by her attempt to abandon her phone.  That made him a pawn, like Masha, who had held a knife to Nicolai’s skin but hadn’t pressed her edge.  Maybe he was just a gig worker, trying to do something nice in hopes of a generous tip.  What was the worst case scenario?  That he had something to do with Renata’s murder?  That he was hoping to get a young woman alone, vulnerable, in his car?   But then why give her her phone back?  “You don’t have to go it alone, you know.”  His voice interrupted her line of thinking; Archer glanced at the time on her flip phone and sighed, then slid into the backseat, watching him shut the door after her.

“Okay — ”  The butler announced as he slid into the front seat and buckled up, his gaze meeting her’s in the rearview mirror.  She settled forward, elbows on her knees, and let the weight of her gaze speak for her: she only wanted to hear one question out of his mouth.    “Where to, Miss…?”   

“Just drive into town.”  Archer told him.  “I’ll tell you when to stop.”  She settled back, turning her gaze to the window as he started the engine.  They passed through the Italian countryside in silence; manicured trees turned to vineyards turned to well-lit streets.  The small town seemed abandoned, at this time of night; the storm seemed to have driven most inside.  Archer kept her peace until they turned onto a street she recognized from her outing with Bella, sitting up suddenly.  “Here’s fine.”  She said quickly.

“Here?  Miss…”  The butler’s gaze snapped to her; he started to slow down as she unbuckled her seatbelt, but slammed on the brakes when she opened the door and made to jump out, the squeal loud over the sound of the rain on the deserted street.  “Hey!!”  She paused, looking over at him from where she’d braced herself; there was something a little endearing about how worried he looked, his eyes wide, sweat dotting his brow.

She settled back into her seat and pulled out her wallet, withdrawing a few hundred-Euro bills and handing them to him.  “Thanks.  Find somewhere to park near here.”  He took the money, looking more confused by the second.  “If you have somewhere else to be…I’ll find my own way back.”  Archer couldn’t find anything else worth saying aloud, so she slipped out of the car.  Behind her, she could hear him struggling with his seatbelt, saying something that sounded like wait; then she slammed the door closed and stood in the street a moment, alone with the sound of wind and rain against stone.

She took off at a sprint, her footfalls creating small waves as she wove through alleyways, relying on her memory to guide her back to the little street she and Bella had glanced down while on the hunt for gelato.  She only paused to duck into a laundromat, exchanging a 50-Euro note for five rolls of coins from an aging machine before she took off again into the storm.  

Archer breathed out a short sigh of relief when she finally turned down a small side street and saw what she was searching for: an old phone booth, a shadowed little structure in the middle of an empty lot.  She stumbled into the booth, breathing hard, legs burning; morning jogs with Nicolai and Karuna were not enough to counter an adult life spent mostly staring at a screen, smoking.  For a few long moments, she simply leaned against the door and listened to herself breathe, felt the raindrops roll off her and onto the floor.  Once the pace of her breath had steadied enough, she straightened up and reached for the phone.

Archer slotted coins into the machine one after another, listening to each soft cha-chink of metal against metal.  She hesitated one more moment, running a hand through her hair before she punched in a phone number only she knew.  It rang just once before she heard Casimir’s voice on the other end of the line.  “Archer.”  The tone was familiar: relaxed, imperious; she straightened, her grip on the phone tightening.  “You’re in a good place to talk.”  It wasn’t a question; it was an expectation.  You wouldn’t make the mistake of calling me from one of their phones, in the earshot of one of them.

Archer cracked open the door to the phonebooth and stuck her head out, taking a look around.  The parking lot was deserted; she couldn’t hear the rumble of any approaching cars, nor see any shadows moving in the darkness.  She leaned back in, shutting the door firmly.  “Yes.”  She said quietly.  For a few beats, they stood there in silence.  The knowledge of her failures twisted in her stomach; she couldn’t resist opening her mouth to speak, to offer explanation, to seek absolution.  “I…I know that I — ”

“More than anything…”  Casimir started as if she’d never begun to speak, his voice low, warning.  “I really am…”  Archer was familiar with this, the nature of his pauses, the little games he played with his silences.  Every conversation was a test.  How long could she sit quietly?  How many times could she stand to be talked over?  Would she stay calm or crack?  Normally, she pretended not to didn’t mind, could wait him out, but with rain soaking her clothes, the click of a trigger ringing in her ears, and the dead haunting her steps, each hesitation was like the scrape of a match against a striker, slowly catching.  What was it about her that still needed to be tested?  Hadn’t she done enough?

“...what’s the right word?”  Casimir continued, thoughtful, as she clenched her jaw.  “Ah, I know.  Disappointed.  They say you cried.”  The casual derision of his tone made her redden, her grip tightening on the receiver.  God, had she?  

Her mind flicked back to that night, the press of her fingers against ash, the – tears.  Yes.  Not sweat from the heat of the flame, rolling down her face.  Tears for an old man who had put a hand on her shoulder and said I can help you.  You’re not the only one who wants to do the right thing.  Tears for the wreckage that was all that was left of him and his dangerous words.  Tears, like she was some little girl, not Archer fucking Drake.  Shame was a hot ember lodged deep in her chest, burning and branding.  “No.”  The lie came easily, almost indignant.  “Of course not.  It’s just been – we built a model, and we prepared, but nothing has gone the way we expected – ”

Casimir made a derisive noise, breaking in easily.  “All models are wrong.”  The words were casual, stolen syllables spoken with complete confidence.  She understood in a flash, the difference between them.  Casimir was seated behind his desk at headquarters in Palo Alto, California; she was standing in a graffitied phonebooth somewhere in Italy.  She didn’t even know the name of the town; no one had told them.  Casimir would hang up this call and Anan would step through, remind him what was next on his schedule.  Archer would hang up this call and be left alone in a storm, with no idea what was coming next.  Casimir would go to sleep in his own bed that night.  Archer would go to bed, but she wouldn’t sleep because when she did she dreamed of Vincent with his golden hair and blue eyes and the blood, the blood, the blood –

The ember exploded into white-hot flame.  She slammed a fist into the glass of the door; a crack spiderwebbed out under the weight of her hit.  “Dante isn’t here!”  The words clawed up from deep in her chest, nearly a shriek.  “Vincent is fucking dead!”  She could feel rainwater against the side of her hand, dripping through the breaks in the glass, and bowed her head.  She threw her voice low to keep it from trembling, each word heavy with pronouncement.  “We were wrong.”  The nature of the silence that followed was different.  Casimir loathed few things more than being interrupted.  “I…”  She spoke into it, trying to find a way to soften her words, to defuse the explosion she could hear building in Casimir’s quiet movements, the snap of the guillotine cutter that would take off the end of his cigar.  

She was thirteen, standing by the doorway as Piper wandered around Casimir’s office.  She watched as Piper plucked up the cutter and squeezed it, her dark eyes brightening at the snap of its blade.  “I bet we could use this on our nails!  Archie, let me see your hand!”

She blinked, forcing herself to speak past the memory.  “I can still – I remember the deal. But I can’t – I have to focus.  This needs my focus.  No more souvenirs.”  The soot staining her hands as she searched through rubble.  “No more postcards.”  The newspaper clipping folded into an envelope.  “No more umbrellas.”  The gun, a weighted promise in her hands, turned against her and then confiscated.  “When it rains, I’ll get wet.”   

Archer could hear it through the static of the telephone line, the rush of breath as he inhaled nicotine and exhaled smoke.  “...Less than a month out of my sight, and you’ve already forgotten so much of yourself.  The disrespect, the lies, all this fucking talking – I can do this, I can’t do that.  Do you understand how embarrassing it is that – ”  The static over the line seemed to swell, swallowing what came after.  

She put her back to the wall and slid down until she was sitting on the cold metal floor of the booth.  She couldn’t get dry; rain blew in from the crack she’d put in the glass above her.  She was thirteen, she was eighteen, she was twenty-seven and still all she could do in the face of his anger was let herself fade into some in-between place, somewhere she couldn’t be reached.  Somewhere she couldn’t be touched.  Archer could barely hear herself, the whispered words repeated over and over — I’m sorry.  I know.  I’m sorry.

The line went dead eventually, but Archer kept it pressed to her ear as water pooled around the floor of the phone booth, slowly flooding.  She looked down at herself as if from a great height, couldn’t find a way back into her own body, that trembling thing left out in a storm.  Archer floated for a while, out of time and out of mind, until the phone booth door slammed open.  It was the butler, umbrella in hand, backlit in gold by the headlights of his Bentley.

“Hey, you really — ”  She watched as the butler’s expression transformed from triumph to horror; he let the umbrella fall from his hands, kneeling by her side.  “Are you alright?!  Archer?  Hey!  Archer!” He was touching her, checking her for injuries — and it was her.  Archer.  Archer.  He slipped his hand into her’s, pulling her to her feet.  His fingers were cold, wet from the rain; the chill was grounding, a reminder.  His hands, her hands.  His hands were cold, her hands were cold.  He was a person.  She was a person.

“I didn’t know the rain was supposed to last this long.”  Archer muttered, loosing her hand from his grip as she leaned over to scoop up the fallen umbrella, trying not to look like she was settling back into her own skin.  “But it’s not all bad.”  She looked at him as she stepped out of the phonebooth, read the worry in his wide eyes, his tight frown.  “I’ve heard rainwater is good for, um…detoxification.”  She abruptly thrust the umbrella towards him, turning her face up towards the falling rain as if to demonstrate its benefits.

He wrapped his hand around the handle, but immediately stepped closer, tilting it so that the rain couldn’t reach her.  “Oh yeah?”  There were layers to the two syllables that Archer didn’t know him well enough to read: disbelief or amusement or concern or…sadness?  

She shifted on her feet, suddenly uncomfortable.  “Yeah.  I work in acquisitions, sometimes, for Drake Inc., and sometimes we get some really.  Unique pitches.”  Archer puffed out her chest, launching into her best impression of a fast-talking business major.  “Rainwater has proven health benefits, and for just fifty million dollars we’re ready to partner with Drake Inc. to bring our vision to life.   …We shot them down, but I’ve always wondered what it would be like.  Rainwater shower.”  She looked back at the phonebooth, the water pooled on the floor.  “Rainwater bath.  Turns out: they’re cold.  Uncomfortable.  I prefer saunas.”

“You should!”  The butler exclaimed, running a hand through his hair, then turned, gesturing with an open hand towards the car.  “Let’s just, uh – let’s get you back, Miss Drake.”

then - I was prepared for anything, when I went to see you the morning after. Extortion, threats, even violence - a language I know how to speak well. And instead, you offered...compassion. Withheld your suspicion. Provided an alibi. Why?

now -

I'm not used to holding debts, and what I owe you now could ruin me. You have seen my hands, soaked in blood, and yet - you still reach for me. Why? Why - when you have none on your own?

then -

You overwhelmed me, right from the start. Your tears, your laughter, the bandaids you insisted on pressing to places I said didn't hurt. I lost so much when you left - an ear to whisper secrets into, a hand to hold when I was scared, a home where no voices echoed in anger.

now -

You're still you. Despite everything, you managed to hang onto what was important. And I wish, more than anything, that I could say the same.

then -

I thought you were like me. Here by choice. Unlike the rest. Your smile, your calm, your knowing. I should have been more cautious, but instead I relaxed, thinking: here's someone I can play a different game with.

now -

I was wrong, in more ways than one. You got in my way - and why? Was I too vulnerable? Too obvious? You've taught me a lot already. Let's see what more we can learn from one another.