#archer.

i. half moon bay. she would know it blind and deaf, from the feel of the sand beneath her feet, from the smell of the breeze off the water. the fog was too thick to see through. a familiar voice sounded out over the water, soft and tremulous. “don’t leave, arch. don’t leave me. i can’t lose you again.” “i won’t. you won’t.” she replies like a promise, but when she steps into the water she does not find the comfort of a pinkie wrapped with her’s. there is only the cold and the dark and the crushing pressure, the hand she hoped to grab already out of her reach.

ii. the storm rages, high wind and drenching rain, but archer flees out into it anyway. she is something small, her claws digging into the dirt to keep herself steady, and what waits for her is larger, sharper, capable of eating her whole with one snap of her teeth. “i can help you.” she insists, her eyes on the chain that binds, searching for a weakness in the links. lightning strikes close, and her clawing turns desperate, blood welling. “i can get you out of this.” “no, you can’t.” the words are gentle, warm. “i chose this. i choose this.” she screams, every inch of her trembling. “but it’s the wrong choice!” The wind rips the words out of her throat and casts them away, unheard.

iii. drake inc. headquarters. royalty stands with her as she surveys her empire, perfect envoys with soft voices and sharp eyes. “i’m scared.” says the little queen-to-be, reaching over to straighten archer’s crown. were her fingers already bloodied, or had she cut herself on the crown’s edges? the golden prince cradles his love’s hands and she realizes she can’t see where the blood starts or where it ends, only that they are all covered in it, warm and sticky and unavoidable. they wear it better than she does, with grace, with smiles. “we know what it costs.” he says with a voice like ice, moving to stand protectively between his partner and archer. “what it takes. what you are. stop pretending.” when she looks for her reflection, she sees scales and slitted eyes and sharp teeth, can taste iron and ash on her tongue.

iv. she sits fiddling with a circuit board, all live wires and hot metal. she feels it wearing away at the skin of her fingers as she works, flaying away every protective layer. still, it was only pain; it needed to work. “it’s pointless.” came a voice near her ear, dry and logical. “there’s still time.” she insisted in a whisper, voice hollow, shoulders hunching. “i can still fix it.” “you?” a scoffing little laugh cut deeper than the edge of a thin blade, pressed close to her throat. “you’re the one that broke it.” The blade breaks skin, but she can’t take her eyes off the board, won’t, not until she understands how it all connects.

v. she hears the gunshots, sees the blood spill, but no matter how hard she looks, she can’t be certain who shot first, who carries the deeper wound, who’s closer to dying, who needs to be saved. all she can see is the same dark hair, the same pale eyes, the same bloodstained smiles. “please.” she tries, but she can’t reach for both of them at the same time. “just stop, you don’t have to — ” she begs, but that just makes them go cold in the same way. they speak with one mouth, one heart, for once in agreement. “sai come finisce questa cosa, piccolo ipocrita.” she turns her gaze to the bullet casings littering the ground, pretending not to understand.

vi. she stares down into an open grave, considering the depth of the darkness beneath her feet from where she sits on the edge, swirling a glass of champagne in her hand. it was garnished with an orange, but she knew what she would taste if she put it to her lips, bitter and medicinal. “just drink it.” he suggested, placid and calm. “i already have. it was always too late.” he moves before she can find words to speak, jumping down into the grave. She tries to fight the filling of it, desperately shoveling handfuls of dirt out with her hands, but he merely lay down to await his own burial, crossing his arms over his chest. The look on his face never shifts as the rising earth slowly consumed them both: no fear, no pain, just an empty upturn of the lips.

vii. she struggles to keep balance on a high wire, legs shaking, arms outstretched. the costume she wears wasn’t made for her: tight, constricting, puffy sleeves and jingling bells. her audience is small but talkative, with eyes that never blink. “she’ll fall.” whispers the fox with glee, licking at the blood crusted around her mouth, hungry for more. “maybe, maybe not.” says the cat with the wide smile from nearby, but when she looks to him he hooks his claw around one of the wires, poised to cut it loose. the sharp bark of a dog chases him off the wire, and the voice that speaks next is like honey, smooth and sweet, hard to distrust. “it’s okay if you do. it won’t hurt.” the world slid, turned upside down, and the last thing she sees before impact is a dark-haired figure watching with a pleased smile, as if the fall is her favorite part of the show.

mrs. elaine knight, Mr. Drake’s personal chef. The closest thing to a mother those girls had, I think. She’s the one who made them snacks when they finished their homework, who celebrated their birthdays with cake, who memorized their allergies, knew their favorites. She worked herself to the bone for those girls, and no wonder — even now, she can only afford to pay her husband’s medical bills thanks to Mr. Drake’s generosity. I heard she wanted to follow little Archie when she moved out of her father’s place, but I guess Mr. Drake liked her cooking too much to let her go.

piper drake, a wildcat, through and through. She used to drive her father up the wall — but he loved her. We all did. She was impossible to hate; she didn’t give you any other choice. When she was fifteen, she convinced Archie they should go and find Saoirse while she was touring the UK. They got all the way across the Atlantic before I caught up with them, and even then, she didn’t go quietly. She made Arch break my fucking nose. Cussed me out all the way back to Palo Alto. God, I miss that kid. Gone too young, too soon.

archer drake, a good kid. Tough kid. I taught her how to throw a punch, smoke a cigarette. I remember, the day we buried Piper, she snuck out halfway through the funeral. I found her crying on the curb, quiet as a ghost. I asked her what I could do for her; she asked if I could bring Piper back. When I said I couldn’t do that, she just nodded and asked me for a cigarette. Archer’s still alive, still here — but we buried two girls that day, not one. She's never been the same.

casimir drake, a titan of industry. The years have changed him. When he first hired me? Told me to call him Casimir, big smiles, big laughs. But the bigger Drake Inc. got, the higher he ascended. No more time for the small stuff — he had bigger fears, was facing bigger threats. He’s got warrants for arrest out in three different countries. For breaches of data privacy law, skirting of international norms, flaunting of regulatory guidelines — keeping Dante and his firm busy. He’s unprecedented. His tech drives revolutions and enables autocracies. He’s like a god in Silicon Valley — but he doesn’t come down the mountain anymore. He doesn’t need to. He has Arch for interacting with everybody lower on the totem pole — his eyes, his ears, his hands.

saoirse blake, the indie popstar better known by her stage name, Gaia. She and Mr. Drake are living proof opposites attract. She sells out arenas, he hates getting his picture taken. She was long gone before my time — Anan says she left Mr. Drake when the girls were just infants, to keep touring. No contact for years, until Piper’s accident. Then — well, if Piper was a firecracker, her mother was a goddamn firework spectacular. Mr. Drake had to take out three different restraining orders against her. I don’t think she’s even allowed to step foot in the state of California, much less on any Drake properties.

jack meyer, the girls’ personal driver. I hate to say it, but he might have been more father to them than Mr. Drake — he took them everywhere. Gymnastics, ballet, school plays, summer camp. Taught them to drive. Let them ‘borrow’ his keys, every now and then… Mr. Drake was never going to let him keep his job, not after Piper’s accident. But what he said about the brakes being tampered with, that crazy conspiracy theory shit — I should have hit him harder. Drake was right to keep him away from Arch; who knows what she might have thought if she’d caught wind of his bullshit.