SACHA

One minute Laura’s cleaning or, rather, pretending to clean, and the next she’s being dragged down the hallway by Sacha, foul mood stinking up the entire corridor as he yanks her into a butler’s pantry. She glares at him, annoyed at being manhandled, annoyed because she knows he’s pissed ( and, really, that had been the point ), but she’s not the only one who’d accused them. Not the only one who’d doubted him. Though, of course, she’d made her remarks with purpose, looking at him with a smug smile as she uttered his name.

Her expression shifts when he speaks, quoting her back to her, eyes gleaming with the small victory of knowing she’d gotten under his skin as she leans on one of the countertops. “In case you’ve already forgotten, I’m not the only one who did, Sach.” But am I the only one who got under your skin? The only one who lingers there? Prickling at the back of your neck? Are you annoyed or are you hurt? Be hurt. Be hurt. Because that was the point of this now, wasn’t it? The point of them? Who will land the blow first, who can drive the knife deepest? Who can peel back the skin and dig into the marrow of the other, into their essence? Their game hasn’t ended yet – it couldn’t, because Laura would never be able to admit she lost. So she’ll force him to concede, or do everything in her power to make concession his only option.

“Besides, am I wrong?” Painted lips tug at the corner as she pushes off the marble countertop, drawing a slender finger across the smooth surface as she slowly walks in their direction, counting on him to move once she gets too close. She refuses to be prey, refuses to let their presence, the way the air hums between them, deter her. “You get upset when someone refuses to play by your rules, love, and if they beat you and your own game…well,” she glances at him, head canted to the side, jostling loose long locks of hair from behind her shoulder. “All bets are off.” It’s not a question. They react with vengeance, and a part of her likes the thrill of not knowing what that will always look like, his response ever changing. A part of her likes the thrill of not knowing what Sacha might do if pushed. If she crosses the line. But Laura doesn’t just yet, stopping short half a meter away from them, amusement crossing her expression. She glances down at her attire before meeting Sacha’s gaze again with a raised brow and smirk. “would it be more believable if I wore one of those little French maid uniforms?” She wouldn’t even be surprised if there was one floating around in this old manor. 

What does it say about Sacha that they let all the other votes against him from fellow members of Death fall to the wayside? There is something three-times as infuriating about listening to Laura’s perfectly aimed and weaponized speech versus all the other nervous name slips. Leaning against the counter opposite to Laura, Sacha’s eyes are steady on the floor. “You’re clearly the only one who had so much fun while doing it.” It’s no secret that everything is made into a game for Laura — perhaps even more so than things are for Sacha, a fact he’s only now learning. Eyebrows furrow together as a new realization hits them: “Maybe it was you, and your fucking speech is just a part of your cover up act.” A woman well-versed in the arts of trickery and man-swindling has perhaps gone underestimated. “I should go apologize to Jack, hm?”

You get upset when someone refuses to play by your rules, love, and if they beat you and your own game… Sacha sucks his teeth, a sound of denial, though he can’t exactly rebut the argument. They stand up straighter, no longer using forearms to lean against the marble countertops. “Upset isn’t the right word.” But what is? Sacha has always struggled to name his emotions; his mother once doted on the memories of a little Sacha naming colors for feelings instead. Seeing the world in shades of blue despair, green envy, and bright red anger, the little butler’s pantry is tinged in amber hue in Sacha’s mind. “You clearly like to make me look stupid and I won’t let that keep happening.” Lips are pressed into a thin, annoyed line as Laura approaches him, only a few feet away in this cramped little room ( an odd place out from the rest of the manor, open and expansive ). Then, the game is on, a testament of wills. They’ve always been so similar, each taking turns as predator and prey — now, Sacha struggles against losing the power of the moment.

Sunisa’s slight of hand, as well as their capability of slipping through the cracks when needed were often utilized. On her own accord, sneaking through windows and bypassing security measures were a pastime, and it was only a matter of time before Death came knocking on that proverbial door, too. When she’s told that she’s expected to assist, there are no if’s, and’s, or but’s. She’s directed in the way that she always has been, with a gesture not meant for forcefulness (but she sees it this way all the same), and is told to get the job done. And she does it. 

The room is stuffy, and with Sacha’s constant groaning over their shoulder, Sunisa finds it hard to focus. She sets down the sanding scrubber, meant for serial numbers – just in case, she had protested. “You can go get your diet coke, it’s not like I’m going to fuckin’ fly away.” Even if she wanted to, the security measures they’ve taken on this floor, as well as the ones above, would have her pinpointed in a moment’s notice. She turns around to look at him and peels her gloves off before grabbing the screwdriver. It was time to install the last piece of hardware, which meant that her job was nearly done. 

“They’re probably caught in line or something.” Sunisa hadn’t spent much time around Enzo to get to know them, but they were smart – smarter than herself. She admired them in a way. Sunisa swivels in their chair from the left, and then to the right, legs kicked out in front of them. Knocking their heels against the ground, they tap the ground with no beat in mind, but there’s a light tap tap tap, as they do so. “You don’t think they ran away, d’ya? Spent all this time hanging out with ‘lil ‘ol me, only to be cost another.” They bring a dramatic hand to their forehead and swivel their chair again, grabbing the piece of framing that will go into the wall. “Once they get back though, I can put this bad boy in, ‘an then we’re good to go on that front.” 

—

Trusting anyone goes directly against Sacha’s detached nature. It’s a rare thing in their life, even more so since joining Death, surrounded by all these new recruits who are typically either too excited or too flighty to be told to handle anything on their own — or in Sunisa’s case, blackmailed and forced into their ranks. So Sacha watches them, keeps a distrustful eye out, because it’s what Uriel tells them to do. Except... what used to be management and oversight has somehow evolved into babysitting. In fact, it’s now listed in their job description, right under ‘funneling all your money away to a leader you believe in less and less as time goes on’ and ‘getting passed up for every promotion.’ Well-versed in white-knuckling things if they’re only temporary, as long as it’s no more than a rung up the ladder towards something higher, there’s a part of Sacha that has soured on the idea of teamwork at all; why is he wasting his time here in Death only to be snipped at like this by subordinates?

“Hm,” he starts, watching her swivel around in the chair, tapping feet on the ground; he thinks it’s perhaps an act, possibly done to make them look less suspicious — it’s what Sacha would have done if he was in their position, anyway. “Ran away, or stolen?” It’s a dark joke, but they smirk as they say it anyway. “A good hacker is a hot commodity right now.” Maybe it’s an act of revenge from the other gangs, their chance for repayment; nabbing a useful prospect to their ranks would just be a bonus. Pulling phone out of their pocket, Sacha sends a quick text to Enzo, just in case.

SACHA → ENZO: ok come back

SACHA → ENZO: dont bother with the coke as long as you have the batteries

Considering they’re close to the end, their ragtag new headquarters only requiring a few finishing touches, Sacha won’t be stuck waiting on Enzo to show fucking face for much longer — there’s a party tonight, a chance for those in Death to forget about their losses for a bit, and they sit here stressed that they’ve yet to pick out their outfit. “Good,” he replies, a nod accompanying, though he really wants to quip ‘it’s about time.’ A glance towards the complex looking security system Sunisa has just finished installing has Sacha say instead, “so, give me a run down here. What kind of information will I have to hand over to Uriel in order to get in here? Fingerprints? Voice recognition? Fucking retina scans?” In Sacha’s still-forming opinion, Uriel knows far too much about his ranking members, and an ex-plastic surgeon with all this biometric information about his gang makes the Dominion nervous. 

Contempt with the day sours Sacha’s mood; there’s no hiding their annoyance as they leave the East Gallery. In fact, they’re the first one out the door, splitting as soon as the votes have been cast and counted. Sacha is second to only Jack, who is admittedly an obvious choice ( the person the Dominion votes for themself, even ). Of those that name Sacha, votes from other allegiances don’t bother him at all, unlike the ones that come from within Death. What kind of ‘thank you’ is this, all his personal sacrifice and donated funds only to be met with fingers pointed in his face, accusing him of treacherous things he hasn’t done…but perhaps dreamt about once. Or more than once, but Sacha tries not to enjoy the fantasies too much, if for no other reason to save himself the heartbreak of his subservient reality.

One vote in particular irritates him beyond what is probably reasonable — Laura nearly laughs as she names him, and Sacha seethes in response. Her icy words are a shrill ring in his head, one that repeats until he can’t sit still anymore. Content to roam the grounds rather than stick around in the shared room, Sacha drowns out the rest of the tumultuous world with AirPods in ears, on their way to brood about the garden for a change. Turning a corner past the kitchen and dining areas, he stumbled upon an all-too familiar figure, appearing to be busied by something: it’s Laura, lazily cleaning her assigned wing of the manor, if you could even call the half-hearted work cleaning. He feels hot blood rush to his cheeks, anger colouring vision and face as he sees her.

Impulsively, he approaches her, grabs hold of her wrist and pulls her further down the hall wordlessly, leaving no room for argument. They make a swift turn around corner into a butler’s pantry, outfitted with marbled countertops and rows of cabinets likely filled with someone else’s silver and china, the perfect setting for two angry bulls to duke it out. Sacha finally lets go of her wrist upon entry, unaware or apathetic about how forceful he is. He storms to the far corner of the long, narrow room, preferring space between them. “The fuck was that in the gallery?” he spits, holding angry gaze until their eyes meet, somehow unable to take the tension. Shaking his head, he quotes her words with ire: “‘Sacha is quite sensitive when you slight them?’ Throwing me under the fucking bus doesn’t exactly do you any favours there, Laur.” Despite the truth to it, they hate being reminded of their own weaknesses. “You weren’t fooling anyone with that fake dusting shit, either.”