poetry by dead men

What feels like a lifetime ago...

“It’s done?” 

Zahira tried not to wrinkle her nose at the stench of cigarette smoke and gunpowder, the cloud of it so thick it managed to seep past the shroud of black that covered her face, the veil of mourning she still insisted to wear despite the lack of an audience that mattered. Was it a genuine act of love lost? Was it a facade that helped piece together the backdrop for the ultimate con? She herself couldn’t tell anymore. At this point, she was well past the frivolities of intention. 

“It’s done.” The man with nicotine stained teeth handed over a thick envelope tied together by twine. The weight of her new life bound in manila paper, greasy fingerprints left behind in a sloppy show of nonchalance. She winced. “Is this…?” 

“Don’t insult me, Neheb.” The man scoffed. Serpent. He wasn’t wrong. 

“The real papers have already been sent out. They should be in that jackal’s lawyer’s lap by morning.” Of course. They were professionals after all. Another scoff came from the man before her, indicating to her that she had perhaps muttered that last bit out loud. 

“Professionals, yes. Though don’t sell yourself short, Neheb, it runs in the family.” Her chest tightened as he eyed her meaningfully, only for his eyes to slide next to her, to the boy… no man, seated quietly beside her, eyes downcast and knuckles white on his knees. Family. It unnerved her how different they were, yet bound together by blood. 

“Don’t look at him.” She hissed. 

“I can do whatever the fuck I want, whore.” He growled back in rapid arabic. “You think forging the last will and testament of Thibault Verhoeven was light work? This is a favor to your brother if anything else.” He spat out a glob of spit to the side to ward off the bad energy brought about by the name of the dead. “You and your son? You owe me your fucking lives. You may be dripping in rubies now, Zahira, but never forget where you came from. A serpent will always be on its belly.” He flashed his own ruby, large and ostentatious on his finger, a reminder. A threat. 

Zahira was quiet for a moment more before Mazen looked up, the only time he allowed himself to speak.

"And... Thib?" The words felt like glass in his throat. The man's smile was cruel as he dropped a photo of Thibault on his desk. "We'll make that decision when we need to. Just... play nice for now, little snake. You'll know when it's time." Maz swallowed tightly before averting his gaze once more.

“Now get out of my sight. We’ll set up a wire for your payment. Every month, I will expect it.” He waved his hand in dismissal, one that Zahira did not hesitate to obey. Without another word, she reached out and grabbed her son’s hand, pulling him out of his chair as she dragged him out of that filthy room. It should have felt different… she was leaving with the keys to a kingdom… yet she still felt dirty. 

“We do not speak of this, Mazen.” She whispered as they were stopped by large men with guns the size of her thigh. She took in a deep breath, spine like iron as they blindfolded them and herded them into an unmarked car. 

“We take this to our grave.” She hissed. Sure, a serpent will always lie on its belly, but all the more reason for them to use their fangs. 

“Yes?” She insisted as her nails bit into his skin. 

--

"Have you seen Thib?" Maz peeked into his mother's room, brows furrowed, irritated at the prospect of not knowing his brother's whereabouts.

"He's with that Vincent boy." She says airily. Maz' mood immediately sours. "You know him?" She asks.

"I don't care for him." He dismisses airily. His eyes flash green.

--

"Why can't you come with me?" Maz asked, struggling not to be petulant. "We always go. You've studied enough." He tries to tug the book away from Nicolai as the other shoots him an indulgent smile. "I have to study more." He replies.

Nicky always has to study.

"You're already the smartest in the room, Nicky. Give the rest a chance." He watches a shadow loom over the other's eyes.

"Vincent's transcript begs to differ." He mutters, annoyance clear in his voice. But Maz... Maz knew Nicolai better than he knew anyone.

He could spot the fondness in the slight curl of his lips. More green. He flops next to the other and rolls his eyes.

"I don't care for him." He says through a sigh, but his lips turn down into an ugly scowl.

--

Vincent is in the room when they announce the cards. He seems familiar with most.

Lachlan. Cass. He bares his teeth at the thought.

Mine, he wants to tell him. Ripping viciously at their limbs if only to keep them next to him.

Vincent didn't even spare him a glance.

Prick.

--

Vincent dies, because of course he does.

Vincent's death quickly becomes the center of things because of course it does.

Vincent, Vincent, Vincent.

Even in death, he haunted the narrative. Envy coursed through him as his lips curled downward into a snarl. Every fucking conversation, he now had to listen to them solve for a crime he couldn't care less about.

--

"What was your relationship with the deceased?" They asked him.

Maz looked back and crossed his leg over his knee, head tilted and eyes impassive... but was there a glimmer of emerald glee in them perhaps?

"I don't care for him." He answered easily.

--

There are two things true about Mazen Ashraf Verhoeven.

Envy was a dear friend he often took to bed.

He was a world class liar.

{ ✦ } Where did you last see THE TRAGEDY? Or when did you last hear of THE TRAGEDY?

Mazen shrugged nonchalantly, looking around and taking into account the absolute nothing of the room. "I didn't pay much attention to Vincent. Never had to. Nicky always knew him better... I suppose so did Lachlan and Cass... I never felt the need, so we never crossed paths too often." He waved a hand dismissively.

He had never truly been the fondest that his three closest friends at the time had known someone without him. Even if it were all individually. Perhaps there was some jealousy underlying his words... he didn't dwell on it long enough to understand it.

"Guess the last time I saw him was at the gathering of the cards. We didn't speak. Didn't see him after that."

{ ✦ } Where were you at time of death of THE TRAGEDY? And what were you doing?

Mazen frowned at this question, jaw clenching as he eyed the emerald on his pinky finger before lifting his gaze to look at the woman impassively. "Family." He said simply. "I was with family."

{ ✦ } Who can attest to your alibi? (You may pick other characters, even without discussing beforehand.)

Mazen scoffed before rolling his eyes. "What are you, the police?" His lips curled into a nasty scowl before looking away once more. "... My cousin. " He finally said, tilting his head to look up at the woman through thick lashes, dangerous and cutting.

He had been with Ashara and her father at the estimated time of Vincent's death... he didn't care to expound.

"You should have the sense not to get anywhere near her, though."

{ ✦ } The SOCIETY requires your verdict on THE TRAGEDY's demise: Was it the calculated hand of murder? The cruel whim of accident? Or the final, desperate act of self-annihilation? (Pick one option. No explanation needed.)