LADY MACDUFF.

THE BASICS

full name: leona gwan meaning: leona derived from the latin leo for lion. nicknames: leo, dicaprio (both rarely, both not appreciated) alias: lady macduff date of birth: december 27, 1996 age: twenty-two gender (pronouns): non-binary (they/them) nationality: italian ethnicity: korean religion: aggressively atheist romantic orientation: panromantic sexual orientation: pansexual occupation: clinical toxicologist affiliation: montague role: meititrice (poisoner)

When she was younger, she would always be compared to her mother. They were the women of the Vernon household, made to support and charm their guests while Lawrence and Alvise worked behind the scenes to build up their legacy. Younger Odessa had found this unnamed frustration with being placed in the same category as her mother. She tried to talk to her mother about her curiosities, but her mother would always quiet her thoughts and direct her to smile. There was a distance between her and her mother. They were two women from the same family, yet there was a divide between them. For the longest time, she struggled with the fact that she was supposed to be her mother’s daughter.

It had only hit her recently that she wasn’t her mother’s daughter. She was her father’s daughter. He tried to pass that honor onto Lawrence, tried to morph her into her mother, but as she stood by Leona, she knew his attempts didn’t succeed. Her mother wouldn’t ask about the thought process behind creating a deadly poison. Her mother wouldn’t wait with a quiet hunger in her eyes for any bits of information that slipped past the reaper’s lips. No, she had inherited those traits from Alvise. 

“I’m sure the trial and error process must’ve been frustrating.” Odessa’s only experience with chemicals was in her chemistry class back in school, but she could only imagine how delicate and lengthy the process was. One small mix-up and the poison wouldn’t work the way it was supposed to. She was curious about how long the process took. How long did the Montagues work to have this in their back pocket? “But it seems to have been worth it, si? You’ve definitely gotten your name out there.”

You’ve definitely gotten your name out there. Leona almost chuckles at that – for isn’t that what it was all for? Isn’t that why they’d actively sought out the Montagues, what felt like a lifetime? Showing up at their doorstep with venomous words on their tongue and furious ambition in their eyes. They’d known that move would result only in one of two things – death or glory, and it had been a risk they were more than willing to take. Perhaps they’d weighed up the pros and cons carefully, decided to take a calculated risk – or perhaps they were more reckless than they cared to admit, for wasn’t the thrill of the unknown all part of the fun? They were searching for something to make them feel alive, and never had they felt more alive than when they’d been accepted into the Montagues’ fold, knowing their gamble had paid off exactly how they wanted it to.

They supposed they almost felt sorry for Odessa – everything she had must have come so easily to her. Yes, Leona had always had Alvise’s favour, but Odessa had his blood, she could rise through the ranks of the Montagues effortlessly, commanding attention simply through her surname. How positively boring, to feel as though one could command respect without ever earning it. Leona wanted people to respect them, of course, but they wanted to earn the looks of wonderment in the eyes of others, to be worth something in their own right – not just somebody’s daughter.

“Sì, Genevieve.” The confirmation is even - almost soft, in spite of the loudness that surrounded them - watching the pleased gleam that shone in their gaze when referencing hard work. It called to mind a time when the Zhang woman felt the same about her current promotion, though she was still able to discuss her position with pride the enthusiasm had waned over time; like new silver that had become duller and damaged overtime. “I can’t say that I’m as familiar with your gift as my predecessor but I look forward to learning more about it.” Leona, the name itself conjures memories of Alvise mentioning it over and over in discussing one thing or another. 

Her expression relaxes somewhat - sharp edges, carved from annoyance directed elsewhere than present company, softened - accepting the acknowledgement that Leona had not been obligated to give. Genevieve extends her free hand toward the other, “Piacere” spoken into the space between them. It wouldn’t have been fair to direct her discontent toward the newly promoted when her issue rested with the promoter, the thought would be put into a box pushed into the recesses of her mind until she was ready to file it away (or, the increasing likelier option, it would burst open, too full to stay closed, before she had a chance to).

“How are you finding the evening’s festivities?” The question conversational  with (surprisingly) no ulterior motive for posing it. Hands idle, rather than ready to pick apart each word, letter and breath in between, in an attempt to find some deeper meaning to it.

Leona hums — they couldn’t lie and say they weren’t ( at the very least ) apprehensive about Genevieve. There was nothing the woman had done to earn the unease that Leona approached her with ( quite the opposite, in fact, Leona was quite certain they would respect Genevieve greatly had they met under different circumstances ), but simply by stepping into the shoes previously filled by Alvise, Genevieve had positioned herself as something foreign — other, an unknown variable in the equation of Leona’s life. It had taken some time, but Leona liked to think that, by the end, they’d come to understand Alvise quite well. They’d been apprehensive about him at first, too, spending nights awake, on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop after he’d not only let them live following their transgressions, but had offered them a job. It had taken time, yes, but they’d reached an understanding with the former underboss, they knew their skills were valued, and that they would be rewarded greatly.

With Genevieve, it seemed as though they were starting again from square one. It wasn’t fair to dislike Genevieve, and they didn’t, not really, but they couldn’t help but feel as though they were suddenly at a disadvantage among the Montagues, their benefactor gone and replaced with a woman who, until a couple of nights ago, would not have known Leona from any other new initiate. “I look forward to teaching you.” They say, their lips quirking slightly at the words. Despite the disadvantage they were currently at, Leona was never one to turn down a challenge — they had every confidence that, once they’d had the opportunity to show Genevieve all they were capable of, the woman would be well and truly inclined to show Leona the same respect that Alvise once had. The respect they undoubtably deserved.

Although they would be the first to admit they often quite enjoyed the company of others, Leona Gwan was not somebody who needed constantly to be surrounded by other people. In fact, there were times when they much preferred to be in solitude — the times when they were working perhaps being the most common of these. They preferred to be alone while they worked — free from the distractions that other people so often provided, accompanied only by the background noise of music through their headphones. It had always been this way, even back when they were in university, Leona had loathed group work, desperate to push the others out of the way and take the reigns ( they’d mostly resisted this urge, but when the people they were partnered with were particularly incompetent, they couldn’t help but grow impatient with them — it wasn’t their fault ). 

Their work with the Montagues functioned in the exact same way. They were fairly certain that, were they to ask for it, they could have others working with them, perhaps even have a larger distribution system set up for bacio del mietitore — but this, by no means, was something Leona wanted. Their workspace was small, yes — their project had been secret for so long, Alvise having them tucked away, hidden deep where no Montague would dare to look — but an expansion of their process would be very much unwelcome. Leona had no intention of spilling their secrets, of simply handing over the recipe for death and letting whosoever had access do with it what they would — they’d worked too hard on this to be made redundant now. No, as long as Leona was the sole proprietor of their recipe, they remained useful to the Montagues — actually, they liked to think, they remained vital.

The fact that they hadn’t had so much as a single visitor since Alvise’s death made it all the stranger when they heard someone descending the stairs to the lab over the music in their ears. They were in the middle of creating a new batch of their poison — waiting for some of the reagents to settle — when they heard the telltale sound of footsteps. It was enough to instantly set them on edge, a steady hand reaching out to grab a nearby scalpel and tuck it against their wrist before turning to see who it was that had joined them — greeted by a familiar face rather than the anticipated adversary. 

“Alexander.” They say by way of greeting — they’d been introduced not too long ago, he was, apparently, to be their new handler. Truth be told, Leona chafed at the thought of having to report every step they made to someone, but they had to admit that some of the other mietitori could perhaps use the guidance. They hadn’t expected him to actually check in while they were working ( honestly, Leona was beginning to suspect that none of the other Montagues knew where their lab was, and they were perfectly content with keeping it that way ), and they’re tense even as they speak, tugging one of their headphones from their ear. “I hadn’t been expecting any visitors.”

WHEN: MAY 23RD 2019 WHERE: HOTEL EMILIA, MONTAGUE PARTY WHO: @leonagw​

Genevieve failed to rid herself of the irritation that lingered in the wake of their meeting with Damiano, reminding her of its presence in the moments when her mind was not otherwise occupied. The man with the key was King, but what use was that when he had barricaded himself in his castle leaving her to bang, helpless, on the door? His decision was not something she could abide, the glaring issue of non-disclosure spoke more than words ever could, but how could she when the shroud of secrecy meant she was unable to see it clearly?

The Zhang woman had never been one to take something lying down, determined to get up time and time again if only to prove a point, bringing her champagne flute to her mouth in hope the sweet fizz might wash away the sour taste her consideration left in her mouth. Her attention drifted around the room, lingering on her colleagues as they conversed between one another, coagulating in small groups as they indulged in the merriment. It was a welcome respite, she supposed, to have something to celebrate rather than lament.

It is a brief moment, to climb from the hole that her reverie pulled her into, once a presence at her side roused her into the current situation. Lady Macduff appearing beside her, or perhaps Genevieve had drifted toward her unconsciously. Leona and her had been like ships in the night until now, passing each other with relative ease, leaving the Capo with little cause for concern when it came to the younger woman. Her name stirred a memory in her mind - a mention of her from Alvise - though she raises a glass, along with the edge of her mouth, to the other. “I believe congratulations are in order, buon compleanno.”

Leona startles at the sound of a voice beside them — they had become rather preoccupied with people watching. Under normal circumstances, Leona would not have hesitated to join in the celebrations, letting the alcohol to flow freely and the blissful detachment to follow — allowing themselves lose their inhibitions, thoughts occupied only by the way a seemingly innocuous liquid could have such a profound effect on the human body and mind. Tonight, however, they remained ( relatively ) sober, the only drink they’d consumed as part of the numerous toasts they’d been invited to partake in — this was Leona’s first real introduction to the majority of the Montagues, if they ever hoped to have the upper hand, they needed a clear head, they needed to be in the right frame of mind to figure out exactly the type of people they were dealing with.

“Grazie,” They say, a ghost of a smile settling over their lips at the woman’s words, drawing their eyes away from a group of young soldiers they’d been observing to settle on their new companion — greeted almost instantly with recognition. Alvise had taken it upon himself to ensure that Leona was familiar with most of the higher-ups in the Montague organisation — though Leona had found the whole thing frightfully boring, they couldn’t deny that it was starting to come in handy now ( though much of the information was frightfully out of date — Genevieve certainly hadn’t been in the position she was when Alvise had told Leona about her ).

“It’s nice to finally see my hard work paying off.” They admit, unable to stop the faint trace of pride from spilling into their words ( perhaps some would call it arrogance, though Leona would never say such a thing — arrogance only came when pride was unearned, which theirs most certainly was ). “Genevieve, yes?” They ask as means of introduction. They weren’t quite sure how to feel about the new underboss quite yet — they’d had a certain familiarity with Alvise, an understanding about how they worked and what they expected in return. Though Alvise’s fate wasn’t Genevieve’s doing ( they assumed ), it was difficult not to be slightly resentful of having to build up that understanding all over again with someone new — someone who might not have the same appreciation for Leona’s work.

Their voice rings different, and it soothes Bellamy’s mind. This encounter is a headache settling inside of his skull, throbbing as every shout becomes stronger, as every showcase of bliss becomes more sickening. Leona isn’t lost in this high ━ they keep afloat, unbothered, and the Santo Domingo can relate to this best. They are both quiet, filled with some sort of unknown calmness, and he isn’t sure there are many more Montague’s with such inclinations, especially not when alcohol is available. His lips find an honest curve upwards, for the first time in the night. At least, Leona is straightforward in their threats ━ Bellamy can respect that. ━━ You intrigue me, I admit. Although, I should warn you, it’s quite difficult to get me surprised. I’d like to see you try, however. ━━ his teasing is never heavy-handed, tone muddled with a softness that bubbles like champagne. He is the one that can often count on the element of confusion and disbelief, after all, for very little people seem to dig beyond the surface in the search for an omen. ━━ Bellamy, glad to be at your service. ━━ he responds, clear and polite, his smile a diplomatic act. He takes their hand with habitual delicacy, his grip carrying an aftertaste of iron. Maybe they will pick up on it. Maybe they won’t. It is a game, either way, and Bellamy doesn’t regret an ounce of fun. ━━ I am not, indeed. Should I do a toast in your honor? ━━ the question isn’t venomous in its essence, and the soldier makes a point to stop one waiter in order to serve himself with a glass, clinking it up against theirs. ━━Beviamo alla tua salute.

There is one long sip, although Bellamy is quick to ignore the remaining alcohol in the name of sobriety. He has nothing to cheer for, and no fancy pretense can be enough for him to forget this. ━━ There are no parties around here, I am afraid. It is just a pretty package to wrap up something else entirely, is it not? ━━ the words weigh heavier in his tongue, although his smile still shines. Peers. Bellamy chuckles at the word ━ it is as unusual as it is refreshing, for someone to be so unaware of his reputation (or lack thereof) inside the Montague ranks. Leona seems smart enough to figure it out on their own, and he has no interest in speeding up the process. Bellamy doesn’t need to recall the crude jokes or loud snickers, for they are still present in this party ━ eyes follow him, no matter how well hidden he is amidst the crowd, and he knows most of their remarks by heart, at this point. It hasn’t changed much from his youth. He is weak, unworthy of his family name, and a liability to all his dear colleagues, no matter how foolish they manage to act on their own. The vitriol is tireless, but so is Bellamy ━ he won’t break anytime soon, any strength pressed against his lungs a bearable burden. ━━ Most of them think of recklessness as an enviable trait. ━━ his eyes scan over the room, only to fall onto Leona’s figure once again, a teasing, knowing smile dancing across his features. ━━ I, however, do not. ━━ he bows his head to them for the split of a second, finding an entertainment in wordplay ━ in a clever discussion most could not hold, for inebriation is a much more attractive possibility.

Leona’s brows draw upwards, a ghostly smile quirking at their lips — those who came to know them well enough knew that to invite them to a challenge was a dangerous thing. Leona wouldn’t consider themselves to be reckless — but they had never been one to refute a call to action, refusing to allow the word cannot to be associated with them. In Leona’s mind, a challenge was a chance to prove someone else wrong, and they were such a spiteful creature, that no matter how insignificant it may seem, they tended to refuse to allow anyone else the smug superiority that came with being proven right. That was feeling was reserved solely for Leona. “Is that a challenge?” They ask, “You might come to regret that.” They say, though there’s humour in their words — they have no reason to wish this man ( Bellamy ) harm, not yet, anyway.

“Bellamy,” Leona repeats slowly, “It’s a pleasure.” They say habitually, taking his hand ( a firm grip, they note, something they’d always been taught to respect ). “It would be in-keeping with the theme of tonight, wouldn’t it?” They say as he proposes a toast, not the first of which Leona has been invited to tonight, but they choose not to mention this, instead eyeing Bellamy as he takes a long sip from his glass while Leona does the same, before discarding it in the next instant, the remainder of the liquid going untouched. He was already proving to be quite an anomaly among the Montague crowd, sober and calm while the others around him allowed their emotions to be fuelled by alcohol, spurring on the flames and letting it consume them ( not that Leona wasn’t familiar with this tactic, in fact, they were intimately so, but they chose to keep their wits about them this evening, aware of the eyes on them, waiting for their first slip up and refusing to let it happen ).

“No parties.” Leona repeats again, with a sigh, “They didn’t mention that when I signed on.” The attempt at humour may be half-hearted at best, but it flows naturally. They follow Bellamy’s gaze out one again to the sea of revellers — Leona could have been fooled into thinking this was a party, but they recognise the truth in Bellamy’s words, it was something they were starting to understand about this world — everything was something else. There was no such thing as simple or straightforward, and, to be frank, that’s what had drawn Leona in like a moth to a flame — it took a special kind of person to stay afloat in a world like this, and Leona had experience in learning to swim where they might have otherwise drowned.

“Of course I would have complained you don’t text enough, but it’s your job to tolerate that.”

Alva can’t help but wonder what exactly Leona’s completed for the mafia. They’re smart and resourceful. Alve doesn’t know their trade because although there have been plenty of times for it to come up, Alva has correctly assumed that it was better they didn’t know. Whatever it is though, Alva hopes that it isn’t responsible for untold misery. They’ve learned to accept that a lot of people in Verona lead a double life; that reciprocal violence and mob industry are just as entrenched in Verona as Catholicism. Besides, how can they take a moral high ground? They did what they had to do to survive; they know Leona was the same at one point. 

They aren’t the same now, but Alva and Leona are two different people; one far more ambitious and reckless than the other. Where Alva wants to settle, Leona wants to soar. Maybe it’s a good thing, then, that they are used to periods of silence from them; it would make suddenly losing them– no losing Leona would hurt just as much as losing Lillian, they know that. Whether or not they intended it, Leona occupies their heart just as Lillian had. 

Leona is like a sibling, they don’t need to be in constant contact to care about them, worry for them and hope for the best for them. Although, the best for Leona seems to be a life much more entrenched in illegal activities. Alva thinks with their smarts they could get a legitimate job, but would it be what Leona wants? Probably not. They don’t seem to be the type to be happy in one place doing one thing, even if it’s the thing they signed up for initially. 

“Your presence is a gift, but I was hoping to maybe spend some actual quality time with you. I’m guessing your schedule’s a lot more open now, huh?” 

Leona chuckles, shrugging, “You know my general level of tolerance is quite low. That wouldn’t have ended well for either of us.” It’s strange, really, there’s part of Leona that wants to share their success with Alva ( a rather large part, admittedly ), the part that wants to see their own pride reflected back in Alva’s eyes, to show Alva that their distance had culminated in something extraordinary – that being absent for months at a time had been worth it, in the end.

Of course, a greater, far more rational part of their mind knows that this isn’t a good idea. They know well enough the dangers of spilling their secrets to just anybody – and though Alva knew just about every crack and crevice of them better than most, this was one part of themselves that Leona had to keep private. Not only was Alva not affiliated with the Montagues ( they’d been warned on many occasions not to share the nature of their work with anyone outside of approved circles ), but they ( to the best of Leona’s knowledge ) were unaffiliated, period. 

They supposed they respected this about Alva – their ability to remain neutral in the face of war, though they didn’t understand this notion themselves. History was written by the victors, after all, and if they knew anything about war, it was that civilians were never victorious. Nevertheless, they respect Alva enough not to want to drag them down the hole into which Leona had dove – they knew that Alva knew what it meant to dirty their hands, and if they chose to now keep them clean, Leona wouldn’t be the one to stand in their way.

Besides, there was a part of them that liked the fact that Alva stayed out of the bloody mess between the Montagues and the Capulets – it meant one less person to worry about. 

Curiosity drew her to Leona’s side. This is a person that had went from the shadows to a position designed specifically for them. They went from a face in the crowd to one being praised by their peers. Perhaps a bit of jealousy lingered on Odessa’s tongue as she watched others climb up the ladder of success. Her role as an emissary was an honor, but it was a honor that was gifted to her with the help of her father. She never got that recognition of her success in the way that each of the Reapers received tonight, and it carved a hunger that she wasn’t used to. She started her career content with negotiations, and although she still finds a certain thrill in negotiating a deal, there was that echo in her mind that wanted more.

She took a sip of her champagne as she allowed herself to contemplate her approach. Odessa wanted one of the open roles, wanted to feel that beam of pride of achieving something in her own right, but she knew this played out much like a game of politics. Her emissary training taught her how to use her tongue to sooth and charm, but it was her political degree that pointed towards the individuals she needed to charm the most. Much like a game of politics, the right connections made all the difference in the end.

“I can’t imagine keeping such a thing a secret for that long. You must’ve been dying to talk about your work.” Her eyebrows rose as she looked over the poisoner. Her words were innocent in nature, but there was a test hidden behind her musings. She wanted to see if the reaper would share their secrets, or if they were tight lipped. She wanted to see if there was a potential in with the poisoner, or if she had her work cut out for her.

“I have been.” Leona admits, speaking over the rim of their glass before lowering it from their lips – it had been strange, really, to be working on something that they knew to be so monumental, and being deprived of the ability to share it with others – to have to play the part of any other initiate, boring and unremarkable, while they knew themselves to be so much more. Sure, they’d had Alvise to talk to about their passion project, but after he’d ( rather rudely ) gone and died, they’d been alone in their laboratory, blindly surging forward in the hopes they’d manage to grasp success anyway, and be rewarded for their efforts in the manner which they deserved. 

Of course, even now, Leona was no idiot. Yes, they’d been dying to talk about their work, and, yes, they would do so to anyone who would lend an ear ( even Odessa Vernon, someone who leaves a bitter taste on their tongue for reasons Leona both can and can’t place ), but they’re not foolish enough to divulge all of their secrets. Even Alvise had been kept in the dark about some aspects of what they’d been working on, and the method to create their poison was stored in full only in Leona’s mind – they knew full well that if they no longer had their expertise to offer, the Montagues would have little use for them, and they intended to ensure that wouldn’t happen.

They’re not quite sure what interest Odessa would have in their work. From the way Alvise had always described his daughter, she seemed as though she would be better suited to the finer things in life, rather than getting her hands dirty with the affairs of the working class Montagues. Leona had always been rather quick to pass judgement on others, and, despite barely knowing Odessa, they liked to think they’d gathered enough information to pass judgement on her – and they’re not quite sure that she’s someone worth knowing ( at least, not professionally ). 

The truth was a sorry thing in her throat. It was a speck of sand in your eye, or the corner of a cloud in front of the full moon. She wanted to pluck it out and enjoy something purely, without this twinge of regret and shame. No longer an initiate on trial, Paola had been welcomed into the fray. She belonged — not just to the Montagues, but to its elite squad, i Mietitori. She had always imagined family to be a sacred thing. In the end, it was something you purchased. You bought it with obedience, you bought it with coin, you bought it with blood. It didn’t matter if it was your own or that of a shared enemy. It was sacrifice that made a family a family. Jesus died for this. Mothers screamed and writhed for this. Paola bared her neck for the tiger and lived to tell the tale for this.

Wobbling on her crutches, Paola felt sharp clarity that this was not so different from starving and begging on the streets. Just like being alone made you weak, forming alliances kept you chained. Friendship, love, brotherhood… it was all a different word for threat. She would never be safe. She felt silly for not realizing it sooner. She resolved to remember, and to become comforted by the tip of a knife pressing into her skin.

She was slower than the others, and they did not wait for her or stop to chat with her. Perhaps they sensed that this body — injured, still recovering, slender and breakable like that of a bird — knew enormous loss. This promotion was only something to lose, later. It would come when it came, and Paola would be ready for it. Now, she merely let herself out. The crutches made it difficult to move with any feeling, but squint a little harder; you will see the stooped posture of the humbled, the heavy neck of those who would rather be forgotten.

Lady Macduff, Paola recalled when stopped. Leona, she reminded herself a few beats later. She must remember the name, now that they bear the same brand. “I did little,” Paola corrected Leona, a gracious smile tugging halfheartedly at her lips. “You were the one who created something entirely new. I quite liked the name you gave it. Bacio del mietitore. Fitting, that something deadly goes well with a lovely thing like a kiss.”

Leona tries in vain to suppress the look of pride that washes across their face at the words, basking in the warm glow of admiration like a snake in the sun. Yes, of course everyone who had been selected for i Mietitori had to have done something remarkable ( or, at least, Leona hoped this to be the case — otherwise, who were they working with? ), but Paola was right, and Leona wasn’t humble enough to deny it. Their creation, their poison, was practically a work of art, something that nobody had done before — and as long as it stayed that way, Leona remained useful to the Montagues.

They intended to make sure it stayed that way.

“Thank you.” They say, smiling softly ( not baring their fangs, not yet ), “I’ve never been one for poetry, but I thought it was... fitting.” They chuckle, taking Paola’s wording and fitting it in with their own. Truthfully, they’re not sure exactly when the poison became bacio del mietitore — they know it was some time before the final product was completed, they’d watched the destruction such a liquid was capable of wreaking, all without leaving a trace — some of the cruelest things in this world were intangible, and so they suppose that’s where the idea had emerged ( one of the working names had been Kuzco’s poison, so they suppose it’s better than that ).

“It wasn’t easy.” They continue, unprompted, “I wasn’t even sure it could be done at first, but...” They shrug, “Guess I’ve even surprised myself.” They pause, looking Paola up and down. Truth be told, they didn’t quite understand Paola’s role, but they were intrigued by it nonetheless. The lure, they’d heard her be called — Leona supposed, looking at her now, that Paola certainly met the brief for appearing unassuming — hobbling around on crutches and looking almost pitiful ( though Leona liked to think they knew better than to underestimate people based on appearances ). 

This is Brielle’s table. Not officially, of course, but it’s been hers for the past few months, ever since she staked her claim with countless medical texts, pouring over them with her nose practically pressed against the pages. She’s got a lot of strange vocabulary in Italian these days; while she can’t always use past-perfect tenses or remember where her grammar went, she can name every muscle in the human body and retains where they all are meant to be at any given point. 

She’s learning. Always, in Verona, Brielle will learn.

There are always a million things to do. Worry this, focus on that, until it all gets caught in her mind and spills through the sieve. She’s heard about the new team, the Reapers, as if the Montagues weren’t morbid enough. She’s even heard that there’s someone she might like to talk to on that particular set, one who deals in poisons and thus might be privy to their antidotes. Brielle would really love to talk to them, but that would require making time, and between her day job, her night job, and her side hustle teaching herself field medicine, she simply can’t carve any to spare.

When the object of her musings reaches her first, it feels like tossing a coin into a fountain and wishing only to spot what you desire right at the corner of your eye. She doesn’t know who they are yet, of course. Yet being the operative word.

❝ No, ❞ she says without looking up, only to be almost talked over in thanks. It’s the rudeness that makes Brielle’s gaze flick upward, texts tossed half-read between them like spoils of war. Her mouth quirks at the edges. She’s not one to get mad over a stolen seat, but the asking and taking indicate more about them than simply sitting down would have. ❝ It is obvious, then ? ❞ She catches them out on their behavior with a kindly sort of amusement, turning the page and squinting at a diagram as she half-returns to her studies. 

An amused smile catches on Leona’s lips at the question — perhaps it had been rude of them to sit down without waiting for the answer to their own question, but, in their defence, it had been entirely obvious that they weren’t intruding into someone else’s seat, and that, in fact, this young woman was quite alone. Not in a way which needed to be pitied ( no, not at all ) Leona could tell that this young woman was deep in the thralls of study, if the textbooks strewn about the table were anything to go off. 

They crane their neck ever so slightly to catch a better look at what the young woman is studying ( whatever it is recapturing her attention as soon as Leona has sat down — they pointedly refuse to be offended by this ), immediately recognising a number of diagrams of the human body, recollections of their own university days immediately resurfacing. They’d assume it not too far-fetched to guess that she was studying anatomy of some description, if the textbook’s meticulously labelled diagrams were anything to go off. Leona themselves was quite familiar with the subject matter — more so for the understanding of how particular toxins could act upon different body systems than anything else.

The cherry essence dripping from the edge of his lips comes not from a sweet brand of wine he so adores, but from the dandelion honey weaved in his core. He is out of place like a bone ━ eyes fall on him as if he is gruesome wound, and Bellamy aches in search for an exit. He had done all in his power to avoid attending this party, but his father’s words were final, an anvil mercilessly attached to his spine. There was still a disconnect inside of Bellamy’s brain, and he could never quite accept he was no longer a living being. His baptismal name carried no weight, and he was no one, if not for the family ties bounded to his wrists. It was a cage, and Bellamy had willingly clipped his own wings ━ now, it was a question of dealing with the consequences he brought upon himself, whether he liked them or not.·

Which was to say, the time wasted in this event could be described with a polite smile perched on his mouth (forced, but only noticeable to those that both care  &  know Bellamy well, and it seems there are no such people anymore), ceramic pleasantries and meaningless wishes ━ Bellamy can’t help but notice the cunning grins thrown in his direction, the whispers that run wild once he turns his back, and solitude becomes one more burden he must bear. It is all quite pathetic, fueling the exhaustion that runs high on his veins, but he can’t go home yet and he doesn’t feel safe enough to indulge in an alcoholic beverage of any kind. While his companions seem to be long gone into the pleasures of the flesh, Bellamy remains attentive  &  sober, an austere figure with a·pansophical eye. He navigates the corners of the luxurious room, occasionally bringing his phone out so he can read a few pages of a book he has started not too long ago ━ he knows most of this people by heart since a young age, and change is a foreign concept to them. Why would Bellamy pay them any attention, when he is well aware of the preponderant opinions that linger above his own head? Instead, he plays the part ━ and no one cares enough to ask much more of him.

The person who offers him a good night, however, is new. Bellamy isn’t quite sure he has ever interacted with them before, and being approached with gentle wording is a surprise on its own merits. The courteous curve of his lips is well-trained, although warmth easily spills from him ━ it is enough to fool most. ━━ Buona sera. ━━ his smile never falters, a fortress risen high against his face. The small chuckle that falls in between them is another tame expression the Santo Domingo has perfected, and it is as charming as it is aloof. ━━ You would be quite impressed with what people on the same team can do to one another. ━━ there is a light lull on his voice, one only ever present when he speaks in Italian, words slithering out of his tongue with intoxicating allure. ━━ Besides, ━━ he adds, one eyebrow raised. ━━ I am no longer afraid of a stab or two. Do worse, if you must, but do not bore me. ━━ and his eyes twinkle with mischief, although only for a second.

You would be quite impressed with what people on the same team can do to one another. Leona’s lips quirk at that, ever so slightly — yes, they’re familiar with the concept of betrayal, the way that a knife from someone you once trusted can sting even worse than one from an enemy ( the image of their father flashes through their mind briefly, before being shoved haphazardly aside, leaving only a lingering taste of bitterness on their tongue ). Their gaze has slipped away from their new companion again, once more trailing over the party, observing the ( now, rather drunken ) interactions of their new colleagues ( not new to Leona, but they supposed, Leona was new to them ). They were of the firm belief that you could tell far more about a person when they were under the influence than could be understood when they were sober. Sober people lied, they hid truths — drunk people didn’t bother to do such things.

Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but it had served Leona well enough thus far — perhaps one day they’d create a truth serum ( the idea had crossed their mind a couple of times, each time dismissed with a laugh and a shake of their head ).

They bring their eyes slowly back to their new companion, looking him up and down once again. They don’t recognise him — leading Leona to conclude they mustn’t be particularly high in the Montague ranks ( Alvise had described many of the key players of the organisation to them when they’d first joined the ranks themselves, insisting that one day the information would be of critical importance — Leona had found it all rather boring, always itching to get back to work on why they’d really been there, though they had to admit, at least some of the information was coming in handy now, though it was all outrageously outdated ), but their interest is piqued nonetheless. 

Events had been spiraling, recently, in a way that makes Alva feel like their reality is being sucked into a drain of chaos. Nothing feels real enough, almost like when they first arrived to Verona; a staggering shell of a person convinced their days were numbered. As they sit at their booth, they fail to register Leona’s arrival, their gaze fixed at a distant point, their hand limply grasping the handle of their cup. The disconnect, the sense of observing themself suffer from afar is abruptly dispelled by Leona’s arrival.

They blink at Leona, and a tired smile spreads across their face. 

“The hermit crawls out of their cave. I trust the sun has not blinded and burned you,” they tease. 

Alva normally goes for a run at this time, and they aren’t seen out and about eating here and there until at least noon. It’s their swirling thoughts keeping them from flying across the pavement, faster than the wind. 

“Seeing as you lock your phone in a cage until you have some kind of fit of genius, let me catch you up to speed.” 

Leona is a friend that Alva hasn’t been in touch with recently. They’d said something about being unavailable for a special project, then everything happened, and true to their word, Leona was unreachable. All the better, really. Alva didn’t want Leona to look at them and see the wretch they used to be. Ever since the anniversary, it’s felt like a return to barely surviving. 

“I’m working at Hotel Emelia now, you know, after getting injured at a family event.” They point at their shoulder, where the offending graze is now a shiny scar.

They lose a bit of steam, and their eyes go watery, their lips turn down and they say quietly, “…lost a friend, found out another one was part of the mob… It’s been a bad few months.” 

Alva raises their cup to their lips and take a sip of their coffee, which settles them. No crying in front of Leona. They eye Leona, and all at once they realize that they appreciate Leona’s presence more than anything right now. 

“I’m really glad to see you.” They swat Leona’s arm. “You can’t text?” Alva knows facetiming is off the table; Leona’s employment is no secret between them. 

It hadn’t been anything personal, not really. They’d known they were close to a breakthrough with bacio del mietitore some months ago, and when it came to their work, it was hardly a secret that Leona could become somewhat... single-minded. They’d spent most of their time in the lab, working until the early hours of the morning before getting up the next day and repeating the process -- tinkering with their quantities, refining their methods, and ensuring that their creation was perfect ( not as good as, but unequivocally perfect ) before presenting the finished product to the Montagues. Their work, naturally, required precision, and it required focus, and perhaps it had been selfish of them to devote their entirety to the project, but Leona knew that anything less than perfect wouldn’t be acceptable ( not by them, and not by the Montagues ).

They listen to Alva’s recollection of the past few months, eyes tracking to the scar now decorating their shoulder and back to their face as they speak, eyeing them carefully. They sit quietly for a long moment before speaking, “I’m sorry.” They say ( the placation has always seemed strange to them -- none of what has happened to Alva has been in any way Leona’s fault, and yet a tug of guilt eats at them for not having known about any of this sooner, masked only partially by the discomfort that often comes from finding themselves out of the loop ).