TEN STEPS AHEAD

               “The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man.” 

         — Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

basics

name: nikhil narendra virani

age: twenty seven, dob august 31st, 1994

gender & pronouns: cis man & he him

birthplace: mumbai, india

links

full application & biography 

dynamics 

misc

philosophy major, verdamme chess champion, and reluctant businessman

incapable of doing literally anything without planning five steps ahead. makes contingency plans for everything, more out of habit than anything else half the time

born and raised in india, but spent his teens and most of his adult life in the uk. speaks with a posh received pronunciation accent

something of a polyglot, learns languages for fun and profit

he’s just a huge fucking nerd who spends all his time thinking about vengeance

verdamme crew are the closest thing to real friends he’s ever had. he would sooner die than admit this out loud

AUGUST​:

AMIRAH

“I have something of pertinent interest to everyone–but you all, in particular.” Her dark brown gaze moves to appraise them all–August and Geneviève, her tentative comrades despite the secrets that shackle them together, and Nikhil, the whip-quick mind that commandeered even Julian’s tempestuous adoration. It was quite a crew the viper had assembled– the last prodigal son, the art dealer, and the chess-master–and they waited now for her word to set them alight. Would she deign to give a spark, or damn them to ignorance and darkness? She likes to think Julian would have been proud.

Were the matters not so grave, she thinks she’d have held them in suspension just a bit longer, but she knows of the target etched on her back after her interview with Detective Domingo.

Amirah clears her throat, stilettoed-nails clicking the iPad’s screen off as she allows it to fall in view of the three–without information, and yet…“I have access to his original autopsy report.” She doesn’t elaborate beyond that–no clues as to how, or why, or for how long she’s had it. None of it’s important, nor is it being offered. “…I want to share it with you, because there’s more in it than has been released and I think it would be better for you all to know then myself and Domingo in light of these last few days, but I can’t do so without some sort of assurance.

“Geneviève, August–I know the detective wasn’t so kind as to only offer me the chance to say something off the record. I want to know what you told him, if anything.” She smiles, and it’s nearly genuine. This is, perhaps, the kindest thing she’s done for them yet. “Anything you say to me will be off the record and protected under the highest level of confidentiality. I don’t take well to liars, either.” She will not hesitate to throw them to the wolves, should she find out she was duped in a moment of her generosity.

“And, Nikhil,” Amirah says, turning to him, “I understand that you’ve not yet spoken to the determined detective, leaving you the opportunity to offer him something off-of-the-record.” It is clear she believes that anything is off-the-record for as far as she can throw Rafael–which is to say, not even an inch. “I want something to assure that our knowledge of this won’t find its way to the investigation. And if it does, well, I want something with which I can ensure I can return the favor. You know, collateral damage.” Reassurance, at its finest: assured destruction. 

“So, what is it?”

There’s a certain truth in all that Amirah says. He admires her for that, the way that she weaves words like spun gold and turns patchwork half-lies into beautiful tapestries. It’s an art form and Amirah has perfected the delicate nuances of such an intricate craft. Yes, he admires her, but in the same breath he fears her.

She turns to him, a look of knowing caught in the center of her gaze. 

“For what my word is worth, I am an attorney, and I’m not in the habit of incriminating myself, nor others when none of us are legally being charged with a crime.” It’s the truth, he didn’t say much to the detective, but he wonders if anyone else would have. He looks at Genevieve and wonders if their shared bond among the immortal made a difference in her reply.

“I do, however, have something I wish to speak with you about in private. A quid pro quo so to speak. This is not to say however that I do not trust, or wish for the rest of you to be involved, but as this is a rather personal matter,” his attention is drawn to the doorway, a look of faux longing settles neatly onto his countenance, “I believe the other party would be more comfortable with someone they know.”

Geneviève studies August carefully as he speaks, keeping her posture aligned and trying not to move, to fidget, or to behave in any way that might seem suspicious or nervous to any current people in her company.

It doesn’t surprise her in the least that he’s kept his lips firmly sealed to Domingo. Sanctimonious he may be at times, sure, but she would never say August isn’t admirably canny.

Once he’d finished, she coughs slightly, and attempts to follow suit, “Sorry to disappoint, Amirah dear, but I didn’t give our new friend anything to chew on either. You should know by now,” she says, with a sickly sweet, smug smile, “whatever you think of me, I’m not so monstrous as to sell out every single one of my friends like that. However much I might be entertained by the drama of doing such a thing, there’s no chance.”

“Dreadfully boring, isn’t it?” she says with a giggle. “Protecting each other.”

Though, of course, she’d never considered doing anything else.

“What about you, though?” she says, creeping slowly towards Amirah until their faces are centimetres apart. “Did you tell him anything?”

“Come on, it’s only fair if you asked us. Fess up, and then we can have some fun with this autopsy business.”

Was there anything in it? That was the question. It wasn’t strange for Amirah to enter into a dramatic bluff, after all.

Collateral damage. 

Nikhil had no intention of doing something as foolish as giving anything at all useful to the police, but he was just as certain that saying that would do little to convince Amirah. All too often, since he has arrived here, has he found himself backed into corners, making concessions. It wears on him, and yet the autopsy is simply too valuable a resource to let slip through his fingers. Knowledge is power, Amirah knows it. He knows it. 

“You have a deal,” Nikhil says, matter of fact, and slips his phone from his back pocket. Sure to angle himself to conceal the screen from the group, he types a simple, two sentence text message. A secret he’s kept for years, a night never once spoken of aloud. Not entirely damning, but enough that it should satisfy her, if only for it’s value in gossip. Amirah will have questions. Depending on the value of the autopsy report, he might even deign to give her answers. 

nikhil: I slept with Julian de Cervantes. 

He waits for the telltale sound of a text notification, and then slips his phone back into his pocket. “That should suffice,” he says, looking to Amirah with the slightest raise of an eyebrow. 

“You can’t repeat the past.”                    “Can’t repeat the past? Why, of course you can!”

it is an oft-repeated fact that perpetrators of violent crimes often returned to their killing ground: an inclination to relive glory, to initiate a self-served gloating. predators and scavenger beasts, too, were prone to revisiting carcasses to strip its meat over several nights, feasting until the bones were dry. detectives did something similar to the animals with the victims they watched over — simply in a less interesting way.

so when séverine moon carries her body back down to the de cervantes pool, there is no clarity on what to call her. There’s no understanding of intent. She’s somewhere between murderer, beast, and investigator, and there’s no nursery rhyme to distinguish which is correct.

as nikhil’s form materializes in the night, séverine smiles. it’s as simple and as complicated as a woman’s grin.

“i was going to drown myself,” in slow approach her voice floats as it might have if thrown onto the top of chlorinated water. hollow, light, a brief stir away from floating out of reach. séverine’s gaze flits out to the gently lapping pool, observing idly how the underwater lights render it luminescent. “test the properties of resurrection.”

“niki, sweetheart.” her soft hand is a pincher across his chin, fingers and thumb indenting affectionately into his cheeks. the night feels so daring and darling she has the instinct to kiss him, and it is a testament to their mutual respect that she doesn’t. instead her fingers draw downward over his chin before removing themselves entirely, bypassing nikhil’s body so as to continue her saunter along the edge. “if you like, we can go together. be the stones in each other’s pocket.”

Séverine’s tongue is of silver, her eyes just as bright in the low light and her nails just as sharp as they ghost across his cheek. On her perfect lips, the prospect of mutual destruction is almost tempting. What would she do, he wonders, if he accepted her terms, kissed the tips of her fingers, brushed back her hair and leaned in close to whisper in her ear. Yes, Séverine darling, let us destroy ourselves together. 

Instead, Nikhil tilts his head and regards her warmly for a long moment, listening to the quiet of the night, taking her in. “And miss out on all the fun?” He asks. He watched her dip her fork the morbid display-made-dessert and raise it to her lips, he is certain that there is a part of her too that can’t help but admire their host’s showmanship, eager for the next move of the game. “It’d be such a shame,” he tells her. “All this work, only to lose two of the best players when the game has just begun.” 

He glances out over the water, the gentle glow, soft and benign, and then back to Séverine. She’s more dangerous than drowning, he knows so very well. It’s why he likes her. “If it’s a resurrection you want,” he tells her, low and inviting, “we can find a more fitting sacrifice for your grand experiment.” He doesn’t doubt that Sev could cheat death if she put her mind to it. Hell, maybe they’ll make a tradition of it, each death another reunion, another game, until they all finally tire of each other or only one remains standing. Nikhil has a feeling he knows which would come first. 

Hadrian didn’t realize he had been holding his breath. Things hadn’t changed, not by much. The tension, the sparks that cracked through the air couldn’t be heard. But he could feel it run through his nerves. He was reminded of everything from Verdamme just at a glance of the other. Still think you can read me. There it was, the melodious temptation of sin itself. 

“Depends, if you’d allow it,” Hadrian remarks, almost coy. Nikhil always had a way with pushing and pulling, teasing in all methods of game. A master of strategy even in the bedroom, it was always a thrilling surprise to say the very least. He had certainly left a mark upon Hadrian that had been incomparable to the past five years that had flown by. 

His hand remained, he tensed, considering of letting go, and yet he realized he couldn’t. He had missed whatever fuckery they had - in all its nonsensical touch. “The gallery,” Hadrian almost whispered, “is cheap. I think I’ve set my sights on something far more valuable, interesting even. His gaze doesn’t waver as he stares at Nikhil. Your move. 

Depends if you’d allow it. Hadrian gives him credit Nikhil’s not sure he deserves, as if Nikhil had ever truly managed to resist him. They’re too close and not close enough, alone in the empty gallery, hands still clasped together. Nikhil isn’t sure he could let go if he tried. He is sure that he doesn’t want to, almost as sure as he is that he doesn’t want to find out. 

Hadrian takes the role of the observer, the analyst, scrutinizing him, calling him interesting.  It feels like a challenge. It feels like Verdamme, like Hadrian, like everything the past five years wasn’t. Nikhil stares back at him, eyes flicking from his eyes to his mouth and back again. He almost doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to push too hard and break whatever spell they’re under, watch Hadrian vanish into a stranger once again. But then, Hadrian was issuing a challenge, and when had Nikhil ever backed down?

It could be any one of them, Jasmine knew, but she wasn’t interested in theorizing over brandy and caviar. She wanted answers no more than any of her other friends invited here tonight. It was there that Jasmine differed so vastly from Nikhil—he probably loved the chase of the facts, the unknown information, the secrets everyone was hiding under their skin. She couldn’t be bothered. Not when it was real life, not when it was something as serious as the consequences of all their sins coming back to haunt them.

Perhaps that’s what it was. Haunting. Julian had loved his games and his threats. It seemed only appropriate for him to act out his cruelest game yet when he was already dead.

“He was a man,” Jasmine repeated, a harsh emphasis on the past tense, a faint smile falling across her lips. “Maybe he’s something else now. Maybe he’s a ghost.”

Sometimes, talking to Jasmine really did feel like that talking to family. In the good way, the way other people talk about theirs sometimes, the way Nikhil pretends he talks to his when coworkers are present; easy, familiar. 

Nikhil laughs, a low, warm, chuckle, and lets it settle into an echo of her faint smile, genuine, if tinged with a quiet hint of bitterness. “Oh, he’d love that.” Nikhil replies, dryly amused. Julian might have found a way to torment them from beyond the grave, but there was nothing supernatural about that prick. It was just like him, to arrange for his own haunting. The forethought was almost impressive. Nik wanted to break the whole plot open like a puzzle box, see how it ticked, trace the web of connections it must have taken to bring this thing to fruition. 

make love to: sutton

have a quickie with: julian

make love to: sutton

have a quickie with: august

unsex (???): Hector

divorce: Gen

rob a bank with: hadrian

hide a body with: sutton

be stuck in an elevator with: hadrian

be stuck in traffic with: gen