#agent annabelle

turn back the clock to 1996.

jude—that is, drake, at the time—was one of the youngest people ever to be brought onto the basement crew. our watchers pinged him at just 14 for showing exceptional aptitude to what i would best describe as technomancy. the phrase ‘wiz kid’ was used often, and seriously. but, the then-wyvern—justine—knew that lilith wouldn’t bend on recruitment rules. she waited patiently until jude was old enough and immediately “adopted” him as a mentee.

our gate had been completely built by this time. at least, an early version of it.

but we knew way less then, than we do now.

and what we know now, we’re realizing, is still precious little.

i wish that i could tell you what happened to jude was significant. i wish i could say that it was meaningful, that it happened for a just cause. i wish i could say that for the handful of officers our homemade portal has swallowed over the decades.

but—well.

a year and a month. that was how long jude had existed fully in his role, fully as drake. justine trusted him completely, why wouldn’t she? he passed training with flying colors, of course he did, that genius born out of the bronx, maybe he’d graduate to her title someday, of course, why not, he’d make a great leader—

so of course he could do routine maintenance by himself.

of course, his hands would never slip and puncture the wrong wire, triggering an instantaneous opening that would have felt like stepping into a sauna turned way too high.

of course, he would never be snapped up, as though raptured.

but they did. and he was.

now, the good news, what slivers of it were to be found, were that we did trace his landing point.

the bad news—he wasn’t in north america in the 1990s.

he was in 19th century prussia.

and the worse news—which everyone knew was the worse news as soon as they saw lilith’s expression shift when she realized the coordinates—was where exactly in prussia he’d been spat out. it was why we couldn’t pull him back, even after repairing the gate’s puncture. why we couldn’t get a push signal to re-generate to the same point.

brennenburg castle.

she recognized it, of course she did.

alexander.

“lady,” lilith began. her eyes didn’t leave the screen, didn’t leave the green dot blinking in russia. “will you please get brosnya on the phone.”

when was it that she’d last spoken to yekatarina, the head of the order of snow and sun? a year ago? two? five?

because of the atrocities committed in that castle, the order is very—protective, of that particular parcel of land. today, as it was then, it’s heavily warded, and regularly observed. the structure itself still stands, condemned and rotting.

lilith had always run on the assumption that, surely, they’d sent field agents down into the castle’s interior to clear it. to make sure that nothing was left behind that shouldn’t be, like say—a proverbial open door.

an exquisitely, ridiculously dangerous open door.

but she still had a sense of decorum, and wasn’t about to point blank ask for some kind of verification as if it was owed to her. after all, the heaviest parts of that investigation would have been years and years earlier.

surely, they had.

surely.

but the unfortunate truth was that there wasn’t much to be done. alexander’s property was cursed, and that curse was powered by something far bigger, and far older, than us. jude was doomed as soon as he hit the ground.

the gate is our homemade doorway. we made it ourselves.

the orb that lilith desperately hoped was in the order’s protective custody, the entire reason behind the castle’s ruin? was built by something like a god. or gods. we’re—we’re not sure.

but it’s not our fault that research is limited.

remember another time we had someone try his hand at technomancy?

remember the time we hit a wall?

turns out that there is a way behind it after all.

remember, there was never any doubt that it wasn’t a wall, and a wall is not a wall without the other side.

if what had happened at brennenburg castle was anything like the world beyond the wall, lilith had zero desire for us, or any other agency, to go there.

more recently, dohbar has been sending her updates. there are seven orbs. “it’s all set up like spokes on a wheel, diana. spokes on a wheel. are we turning? where we are going? how many spokes? and where is the hub, you think? what could possibly lie at the center of something so vast? so ancient? what do you think, diana?” he was getting worse every month. she could see it in his writing. she knew ness was watching him, but not in the role of distant, mournful witness, not like she was watching him.

we have evidence that alexander managed to secure at least a beginning signal, an initial push, to this other plane.

we have no evidence that it was successfully destroyed—beyond the order’s word.

but lilith wondered.

justine was heart-broken, which is why the handle was retired for fifteen years, even as her title passed to jeremy, who followed protocol out of respect—up until he actually met drake and it felt a little too much like a ‘stars aligning’ moment.

a clever cover story was crafted for the benefit of jude’s parents. one that made his ending quick, easy. pure accident. pure fate. pure whatever would bring them peace.

lilith didn’t know it. she wept, god, how she cried, for nights, praying for the first time in what seemed like lifetimes to anybody, please let it have been quick. please let it have been easy. please let him be in peace. please let it have been quick— a never-ending mental prayer chain, timed with her heartbeats, with her jagged breaths. because she knew it had been none of those things. she knew this for a fact. but she whispered into her hands anyway, cupping her own pleas like water to offer to the universe for just this one thing.

at least... as much peace as they could offer at the price of a body. there was nothing to bury. nothing to burn. “we’re sorry. he is gone.”

they bought a plot anyway. they upturned the soil, (”ned--neddy? honey, is this--are we breaking the law?” “oh they wouldn’t dare touch this flower bed, analiese. it’s--it’s the principle of the thing!”) planting begonias. jude’s favorite flower. and yes, he has a tombstone, calling him by his names: jude levi shepard. beloved son. beloved friend. beloved, beloved, beloved.

jude was “buried” in between his paternal and maternal grandparents in a cemetery in long island.

There’s always been a sort of truce between the Assassin’s Guild of London and the city’s tight knit community of thieves that scour the cobblestones.  A very mutually beneficial relationship based around the sharing of information and of course the lending of a hand when need be.  The guild wielding a dagger and the thieves an open palm with nimble fingers- the respected right and left hands that control London as so many in it’s dark underbelly could attest to.

This is the relationship that Guild Council Member, Joan, falls back on when he is compelled to complete a strange favor he owes.  The favor itself is a simple one: poison a certain judge that has been dealing out death sentences to both career thieves and street urchins alike.  The request on who is to carry it out is the odd part- his daughter, Rebekah.  A quiet girl who’s only tasks so far had been transporting important documents between assassins and picking out the color of ribbon to bind them.  The request is an assurance that the task will be completed because if she is caught then death is almost certain.  

With the possible loss of his daughter Joan turns to the streets listening to whispers and asking around for someone talented enough to slip poison into a judge’s wine glass at a party and just dumb enough to be willing to do it.  It is with a flourish of recommendations(both because of skill but mainly for the latter) that a young man by the name of Drake is referred to him.  A true street urchin and Londoner with sleight of hand skills so smooth they seemed almost like magic.  Although Joan knows very little about the young thief he believes that the kid is his daughter’s best chance at success.  Much to his surprise however, it turns out the Rebekah is very familiar with Drake having had to deal with his near constant flirtations during her deliveries.

“I always let pretty girls win the first round, love.  Might even let you win a few to get the taste for it so you’ll come ‘round to see me again.”

So with a heavy sigh and immense love for both her father and the Guild Rebekah accepts his help in poisoning a crooked judge.  A feat they would have to complete during a crowded party since the judge in question was a paranoid one and getting into his manor was impossible.  Usually a simple servant’s uniform would suffice for entrance but with the help of a sly hand an invitation is secured- for a couple.

“What do you mean you don’t know how to dance?  Aren’t all assassins supposed to know how to blend in with high society?”

“I was never patient or graceful enough for classical lessons!  My governess gave up on it after I hid in the attic and refused to come down.”

“I guess I’ll have to teach you then.”

It does take some time and a few sore toes for the couple to get comfortable with each other as dance partners but soon their movements flow as if they had been doing it since they were children.  Rebekah is surprised to find that she likes dancing with him, likes his hands on her- even if he uses it as a chance to take everything from her coin purse to earrings with a snide comment of “maybe you should pay better attention”.

The party goes smoothly as does the judge’s passing in his sleep from the poison Drake slipped into his wine glass out of Rebekah’s necklace.  It is reported in the papers as simply natural causes and the underbelly of London rejoices at the death of a tyrant while the hands that control it celebrate a young love that ties them together.