Good boys don't get caught.

cw: medical procedure, eye injury mentioned. Set during the Siren's Specter Campaign

characters: Latika'a, Sloane, mentions of Erlanis

The amount of slowly escalated fighting, genuine to the point of nearly reaching physical blows, that had gone into getting the consent he needed was intense. Careful suggestions, pointed comments, and genuine concern had all soured with time; each word said turning spiteful and angry with the hurt pride and fear coming from every side. Even a brief period of screaming when Latika’a had snapped, pushed too far from their situation and Sloane’s stubborn nature striking words like the bullets he shot against every one of Latika’as attempts to convince the man to let him aid. Had it not been for the terse snapped words Erlanis gave then, it would have drawn even more Voidsent to them than was already being sporadically fought off. 

“Fine. Just get it over with, but know if you fuck up…” The words he’d been *needing*, been *waiting* so impatiently for, that Lati would have given up on if this weren’t such a drastic situation. When Sloane finally gave in after another fitful attempt at rest for the three, the bells of moving and scavenging what they could with less and less results wore them down hard… Lati nearly dropped the makeshift bag of lichen and seaweed he’d been trying to clean. The few measly fish they’d managed to gather had already been cleaned and ready to cook as much as possible- the skins stripped down to act as bandaging under the strips of cloth already gathered. “Yes, I get it, you-” Deep breaths were taken, teeth audibly grinding. 

“I get it, I do. I won’t mess this up, now lay down and let me work.” The tension does not dissipate, while Lati turns their hiding spot into an emergency operation zone. Strain and stress fill both Sloane and Lati’s faces as the ultimate creativity and supply use has to come into play. One does not have the tools of the trade needed, and the other struggling past deep rooted fears and thoughts that while Lati does not know… he can empathize with. It’s why he’s let the man go so long without either forcing the procedure or leaving Sloane to die.

He gets it, so much more than Sloane thinks he does. He understands the glimpses of someone else that come in the moments of giving silent company when another nightmare of past traumas lurk up from Lati’s mind, when rough words come out in demands for Lati to take care of himself, when Erlanis is showing his insane amount of skills in fights and there is finally a working balance between them all. Sloane is an asshole, and sometimes so unpleasant when their conversations aren’t superficial flirtations… yet Latika’a grasps what understanding he can.

So he works with precision, with what speed he can- shaping tools from the very earth around them and turning them sterile with his ingenuity and precise spellwork. He cycles the work of slicing mangled flesh out with continuous waves of healing to keep the agony at bay. The wrapped leather torn from his own clothing can only do so much to cushion Sloane’s gritted teeth when the pain flows, the lichen being used as a sponge only holds so much blood that flows from the eye cavity being emptied. It is not an easy procedure in comparison to many- but he takes the route where as much as possible *can* be saved. 

He takes the route of a future prosthetic being possible, even if it means having to fashion a grotesque and slapdash version of the clean dressings he’d normally use. Fingers stained and slick with the eye’s fluid and the body’s blood work through the disgusting sensations. It’s draining, both on his mind for how it screams at the many risks taken and the lack of what he desperately wants in hand compared to the pale imitations he uses despite how his heart screams that he cannot let crew fall. He cannot let the stubborn ass of a man succumb to the infection that awaits, when a future of painful but necessary adjustments and *living* is in sight. 

The moment he’s done, when he can be grudgingly satisfied that the burn of tense muscles have signaled a job well done… what water they have will be split between himself, and the panting Sloane that he eases into sitting. 

Contents: for an ongoing plot, references to how creepy the Renaz can be.

Characters: Latika'a and various unnamed Renaz family members, references to Poki'to

It wasn’t a simple matter, what Poki had requested. Though his people traveled alone and separated when away from the settlements- that didn’t mean there wasn’t a way to communicate with them. It was discouraged of course, counteracting the general purpose for their seeding into the populous at large- communications between Family were supposed to be conducted in a specific manner. 

“Lati? We’ve got a problem-”

To go against the set rules would need a reason that would hold up to scrutiny. Not even dire danger was a sure fire excuse for such an action, but Latika’a doesn’t care in the moment. This is a problem they’ve been requested for by an ally, by someone he claimed as the brother of his heart. It would not have been enough if not for that, and for the promises he makes of a fair payment to be made.

It brings those hands that are close and willing to his dwelling with an unnervingly quick time. The various Renaz that linger through each ilm and crack of society shed their guises for the night, stepping through the doorway of Lati’s home with sharp teeth on full display to match Lati’s own in greeting. 

“-and you’re gonna need to mobilize your freakhouse of a family to track them down.” 

The pictures that had been sent to him were motivation to some. (“Oh, what artistic quality! Such beautiful work was done, how could I not encourage the birth of more art to come- you must promise me that there will be more when we find them all.” Chirps one cousin, golden hair falling as the hyur lovingly gazes at the scenes of death on Lati’s tomephone. A lover of beauty in all it’s twisted forms, determined to capture it all on whatever medium possible. )

 The promise of a wonderful chase alluring enough to others. (Another cousin lounges on the cushions Lati has pulled out for this meeting, giving a rough snort for such a petite body- the au’ra with a face shrouded by veils sitting with their similarly dressed mi’qote hunting partner standing above. “So these people think themselves to have stealth, beyond Us? We will enjoy finding and breaking such arrogance down.” Hunters by trade and choice, feeling completion when in the pursuit of anything that was deemed to be prey.)

The idea of justice being done cinched the deal for another. (Another Mi’qote this time, tail lashing to and fro with fury. “What wretches, to commit such heinous actions and think to be allowed to roam free? Nay, this cannot be allowed- I will not allow it now that I know.” Always a hot headed one, the owner of the maelstrom coat that hung on the coat rack would be glaringly obvious. )

His cousins that had gathered in the dead of the night to answer the ringing call to action shared one thing despite the varied reasons to aid Latika’a’s request. The loyalty to an ally of the Family, as was only right by their laws. The crowd gathered in the room shared a cruel and savage smile between them, knowing what was to come.

It was not a position to be taken lightly- the one that Lati’s cousin dearest held. Yivu was a determined individual though, undergoing some of the harshest training that they clan held. Even as her well dressed petite figure wove through the crowd of the loud bodies with a disarming smile, Lati knew she had traveled quite a dangerous path to get to him. He didn’t know which sect or compound she had come from this time, only that it would be imperative to listen to the words she carried. 

It was the highest of honors to be in the place to listen to each Matron’s words directly, to be an authority under the Grand Matron herself. To be tasked with the brutal but necessary work of slipping through every crack of society itself no matter the danger to call home the wayward souls and brethren at task. 

Indeed, Yivu was someone that Lati would shoo away their latest mark to give his sole attention to instead. It hadn’t been hard to distract this one, just a few teasing touches given with a sole look of heated promise was enough to distract from catching true sight of who his eyes followed. A whisper into an ear of where to meet next had the poor fool scurrying through doors, scent filled with lust and greed for what was assumed to be a prize caught. 

“Cousin, how long it’s been since I saw you last… what could have happened for you to come find sweet little me?” They purr, folding a fishnet covered leg over the knee. Though Lati had directed his prey elsewhere, the idea of getting off his cozy spot sitting atop a table was out of the question. Give up a chance to present as a delectable treat on display, when so much effort had gone into the night’s outfit? Not even Yivu could have expected such a humble gesture. 

The laugh that comes from the woman is fond but sharp, forest green eyes staring her most annoying stop of the night down despite the drastic difference in heights. “You haven’t been sweet since we were children, sitting at our mother’s knees.” Comes the reproach, head shaking even as Lati’s snickers fill their small bubble of privacy. “I do apologize for interrupting your hobby time, yet I do come with a missive. Matriarch Rime has requested you for a task since you’re ever on the move in the area.”

There’s an understanding noise from Latika’a as their posture changes now, from casually posing to best show off his figure in the tight fitting dress to a more stern and contemplative stiffening of the spine. “Her words will be heard, as it is my honor to receive them.” The formalities are easy to weave through as they ever are, since they accompany the only set of rules that Latika’a has ever held dear. The tilt and nod of flowing long blue hair is the only response given as Yivu raises a hand to her mouth to cover the smile she wears. 

Doreen has made one of her regular visits to grace Priarch, continuing her daily routine of delivering Very Important Missives for her silly person. Even despite how he's been off and about for a very long time now! 

Maybe? She's not quite sure, as the concept of time has been veeeerry difficult to keep no matter how many times the silly people she delivers to try to impress the importance of "Not arriving before dawn"? Very silly of them, don't they know how that's the *best* time possible to get the juiciest worms? It's so hard being such a smart bird! Which makes her current conundrum with the Pretty I’pad even more sillysillysilly!  When Doreen had come into the Priarch to deliver her missive (today it was a pretty flower and a very lovely beetle with a shiny shell! What? Letter? Hm, maybe she had one of those earlier.... but isn’t this better?) she had noticed quite the joyous treat meant for her upon the desk! A BASKET, already so full of little bedding goodies! 

Of course she had to nestle right into it, trilling her thanks to Pretty I’pad for the nap spot as she is a very polite bird who remembers these things. How could she have known it was for other purposes, as Pretty I’pad had to explain when gently pulling her out of the basket? Sounds pretty dumb to Doreen to have a basket and simply NOT sleep in it if you ask her...

Her Papa is always busy, the Call is always Loud. (The spectacles that happen downstairs aren’t for her, the noise and yelling and rowdy drunkards that accidentally step far too close for comfort… but she cherishes the way many will laugh and crouch to gently set her out of the way, flicking fondly at her perfectly set working hat.)

Her Papa is often away, the Call is where she is left to play. (Though she would say she’s doing quite the important job! A job that even the scary red miqo’te can’t deny her entry, always pushing her back out windows and doors as if she was not also meant for the cozy indoors.)

Doreen never minds the loneliness that creeps up, instead venturing inside to savor the warmth of the patrons that pat her head as she waddles by while entreating tasty nibbles and snacks from the staff that filter through the busy halls. They are not her Papa, who curls himself around her many nights with a soft song on his tongue and fingers carefully adjusting her many fluffy feathers. Yet… she thinks she likes them all just fine.

The ones who she rarely sees, the ones that filter through every day… the green one with the scary snarl but warm laugh. The tall dark one that cuts her Papa down with sharp words and a sharper stare. The being of bone and silence, whom she admires from afar. Oh, there are so many to see!

There are many many faces, many many names (that she cannot remember), and many many many noises that ruffle her feathers until she even rounder than any ball. She does not mind this at all, letting each and everyone blend together through the day as she waits.  

Inside the call, under the bar where the quiet man slips her spare nuts while serving his sticky glasses of forbidden juice. Outside, in the nest that was built just for her to always have a warm place to sleep.

Crux – day 1

 It’s worse, on the nights where the air in his apartment lays still and heavy. Where the darkness of his small room becomes as suffocating as the memory of hands grasping at his skin to pull his flesh apart slowly. The nights where he has neither the companionship in his bed to fill his every sense with distracting heady pleasure, nor the safety and comfort of the animals that he’s taken in. His skin crawls as if thousands of angry insects have burrowed their way into his very bones, a hive of angry pests made of the years of  his own resentment and despairs.

It’s so much worse, on the nights after his father manages to pry his way back into Latika’a’s life. Every time he thinks he’s gotten to a point of healing… the man’s slimy ways ruin it, and send him back to being the frightened slip of a man he once was. Reduced to the shivering form on his worn mattress, pulling the threadbare blanket around himself when his fresher linens and comforts felt like too heavy of a burden to bear. Who is he, to deserve such extravagances? Not when just a brief encounter with the dark eyes laying everything about Lati bare… hit him this deeply.

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? How can he feel healed or worthy of all that he knows he’s earned, when it all comes crumbling down in a scant bell of stolen time? How can he be better with the man still living? He knows… he knows so well that he’ll always be haunted by the decade spent as the man’s toy, that he has so many hands to take when he’s ready to be rid of the bastard.