kinslayer.

           “and you’re quite boring. we all have our niche, it would seem.” 

           “you warlocks,” spit like a curse, like the word is oily and holds weight, the longer it’s held on the tongue, “are all the same, aren’t you?”

           “interesting, i was just thinking i could say the same for you circle members. is that what you’re calling yourselves again? ah, wait, perhaps that question is a little above your pay grade. you’re a toddler - in circle terms, of course. you know what you’re meant to know and nothing else. hand fed from higher ups, rarely from any big man himself.” 

            roman’s jaw clenches and the warlock barely conceals a grin. bait. a test that roman counters.

           “i thought so.” 

           “you’re comfortable in your power. some would say even complacent and unguarded in your boredom, bane.”

           “perhaps, but is that a call you’re confident in making?” 

           they study one another. a long drawn out silence where roman’s left, barely tethered power bristling beneath his skin, begging to be let out in any capacity, but the rune hidden at his neck prevents it. prevents anything. he snarls and the air is electric and alive. the high warlock isn’t to be underestimated, anyone who’s heard the whispers knows. 

           but roman remains, undeterred. 

           “what are you to him?” 

           no answer.

           no answer, just a further pull on that silence. their eyes meet again and there’s a flash of something in the warlock’s eyes. a flash of amber. a flash of something other. roman’s grin is sharp, cutting quick and true.

           and still, he’s quiet.

           “i don’t like to be kept waiting.”

          “sounds like a personal problem.” 

          “yes, usually, but see - by extension, it’s now yours as well.” 

         roman sees the flicker of red, his only warning, before he’s thrown. the tentative air of civility leaves, shrinking the size of the room down to these two beings. magnus is quick, lethal, but roman’s not a shadowhunter fresh from the academy. he’s barely shadowhunter at all anymore.

     “wh— jesus. no, no, roman —” instinct to pull his own blade rises like a cresting wave, but his hands go up instead, both of them, palms out. “roman,” he says again. “just — just listen to me, alright? that’s not what this is. i don’t — i don’t wanna use you for anything, man, i don’t need to. hey, you wanna go back to rais and tell him everything i just told you, be my guest. i’m gonna kill that motherfucker with my bare hands either way, because that’s what he fuckin’ deserves.”

     and i think you know that, he wants to say and doesn’t. another bitten back instinct. what’s behind the thundercloud darkness of roman’s eyes is damn near feral, the closest thing he’s ever seen to a viral in somebody free from infection. 

     and still, crane’s eyes stay focused there. not on the weapon. not anywhere else. his eyes stay on roman’s. 

     “i wanted you to hear the damn truth, even if it’s from me. whatever you do or don’t do with it is entirely on you. that’s it, man. that is all this is.”

       it sounds simple. it should be simple. crane doesn’t owe roman any truth, any semblance of decency, and that’s where roman’s head is stuck. it can’t wrap around the empathy, the show of good faith while expecting nothing in return. roman can’t grasp it, can’t even begin to understand it, and it manifests in rage. because that’s always been easy. rage and violence. he doesn’t lower the blade, but he doesn’t swing it either, doesn’t make a move for crane.

      “go,” he says, half surprised when the word leaves his mouth. another snarl, another wave of barely checked emotion. rais is set to meet him here within the hour. one wrong move and crane’s going to end up meeting him sooner rather than later. the pieces have already been set in motion and a checkmate isn’t far off in the future. this will end in blood. games like this usually do. roman could keep crane here talking, but that would involve having himself in check.

      alice could achieve this. alice could do what needed to be done.

     alice is gone.

     roman’s head jerks in the direction crane had initially come from.

     “i don’t know where she is, but — i can find out.” because if it were his family, he’d want to know. it’s that simple. it’s the only part of all this that’s simple. 

     a beat of hesitation follows but doesn’t last; this isn’t a quid pro quo. roman has every reason to call his bluff, to think he’s as full of shit as the man who’s been stringing him along for months. roman has every reason not to believe him. so he weighs his next words. he offers another truth. another risk.

     a personal risk.

     “they’re not my friends. they hired me. i came to harran on their dime, i’m sure you already figured that out for yourself. rais — suleiman … he has somethin’ they need. he thinks it’s a bargaining chip, but it’s really just a one - way ticket to fuckin’ genocide. he killed your sister, and now he’s in line to kill thousands more, maybe millions — that’s the kind of man you’re backin’. his file’s one hell of a read. only thing it’s missing is the goddamn machiavelli.“

      there’s a catch. there has to be a catch because there’s always one. an angle to work. something to gain, something to lose. he hates it. every inch of him tenses like a wounded dog backed into a corner. the hand that offers the food now is no more a friend than the man he’d tethered himself to and yet what choice is he left with but to take his word for truth? roman had worked out the pieces of the mystery conversation. he had suspicions and now those are confirmed. 

      a bargaining chip.

      there’s always something.

      “you want to use me against him.” because why else tell him? why else let him know the man he trusted for years upon years is just like every other person in his life? the air shifts around him as he leans forward.

     this time, roman raises his weapon, eyes wild, but not unsteady. he doesn’t break eye contact. alice is dead. he hears crane saying it again on repeat and for a second, has to decipher if he’s imagining it or he’s really repeating it. the former proves to be true.

     "no games.” to stay passive in the face of such tangible, visceral tension is its own risk, but it’s a tactical one. a time crunch that pulls him back to that rail car with rahim and a trio of armed explosives: he doesn’t have time to defuse the bomb. he just has to make sure that it detonates where it’s supposed to.

     “i know about south africa,” he says, all composure at the outset, all charged adrenaline beneath his skin. “the orphanage that wasn’t an orphanage. i know you and your sister alice were taken in by a former soldier and trained as part of a terrorist organization. and i know that before suleiman grabbed you up, your sister disappeared. she was gone a long time, but you never stopped wondering about her, right? now, i don’t know exactly what he told you. i don’t know what kind of ass - backwards spin he put on it to keep you under his thumb, but i know my intel is good.” 

     steadily, carefully, he holds eye contact. 

     “— she’s dead, roman. he killed her five months ago, and he’s been bullshitting you ever since. i’m sorry.”

       she’s dead. alice sits across from him at a table and slides a colored stone along the mancala board. she smiles because she beats him again. he killed her. she’s stronger than him, smarter than him. five months ago. she told him she’d find him again, that they can start over. that briggs won’t have a hold on him. she’s dead. dead. alice is dead. his tie to the boy he never had the chance to be is dead. crane says it and it plays on loop in roman’s head. and he wants to react. he wants to rail against the truth and drive his machete in crane’s skull. he wants to do a lot of things, but he doesn’t move. can’t move. because he knows it’s true. he knows she’s dead. alice’s bracelet on suleiman’s wrist. the run around where her location was concerned. the lies. all the lies, each as pretty and promising as the next.

      he was supposed to be different. 

     roman remains still, barely even breathes.

    “your friend on the SAT phone told you,” another statement, not a question. alice is dead. she’s dead. she’s dead and crane’s sorry. roman’s jaw twitches, the tension riding through his body electric and violent. “where is she?”

       raw animal impulse bristles. 

     “not our fault you never learned the language, bud,” crane tosses at the guard. idle, but restrained: the impulse to respond in turkish was strong. what stops him is the threat. empty or not, he hasn’t had a visit cut short so far and he doesn’t plan to start now. 

     roman’s amusement looks genuine. feels genuine, and that spreads a visceral sort of solidarity through him. a warmth. 

     it’s strange. completely outlandish, really, that they’d end up here from where they’d started. 

     “there you go,” he says, with a nod of approval. “translator’s a lucrative gig. you’d get to travel, too. then again, uh — maybe we’ve all seen enough overseas to last a couple lifetimes, huh?” 

         today’s a good day. if he had to put an arbitrary label on it. a day that keeps his head above the abyss below. a day that makes it easier to remember exactly where on the week he’s fallen because they all blur together otherwise and time has ceased to be real. it isn’t much, but the hook of a smile catches and holds at the corner of roman’s mouth. something less sharp than his grin, but real.

        “i don’t know. italy’s nice this time of year. i recommend venice before she’s swallowed by the sea entirely.” his chains rattle, cuffs pulling at his wrists as he adjusts himself in his seat. he’s less rigid than other times they’ve met. “i did some traveling up there for business,” and he uses the term loosely, not that crane hasn’t already picked up on that. “before harran. russia’s cold. the people colder. england’s alright.”

     “— you never struck me as much of a people - pleaser, anyway.” they’re toeing dangerous territory again. the guard at the door shifts. he’s listening closely; doesn’t need to keep eyes on them to make that obvious. crane glances at him, then at roman. “see what i mean? bootlicking’s not a good look.” 

        “you’re right, it’s not,” he throws a look that same guard’s way. they’re always watching, always listening, always waiting for him to slip up. he’s fully aware of this and still can’t quite find what knocks loose the ability to care. “kıç yalayan kimse,” he says, in easy turkish, not making an effort to speak it under his breath. 

       “english only or this visit’s over,” the guard barks, not even looking.

       roman grins, centering his gaze back on crane again.

     “there was. turned out my niche didn’t carry over so well into the real world. imagine the résumé.”

     “that’s kind of in the job description. only difference now is i don’t get paid for it.” 

     “of course. how’d i miss that?” his turn to snort. “that would be our fuckin’ luck. survive the zombies just in time for the gadoid invasion.” 

     “weirdly, you’re not wrong. you know there was a meteor crash site in old town, down by the culverts — ? so i meet this local, david, who — very earnestly — told me all about a race of shapeshifting lizards he called gadoids. claimed they’d sent the meteor down, spread the virus through it. he even gave me a special gun to fight ‘em off when the alien war started. three guesses how useful that gun turned out to be.”