#bee fics

“There are no explanations for how or why these mysteries affect our lives. But they’re like imprints, innate, woven into the fabric of our souls so when we walk this earth, we experience the world in its true light. You see things differently, do you not? You need not say so. You read differently, that’s all. You may not know it, but you cast a weary gaze upon the earth. I do not find the same qualities among many of our brothers, meaning our creed, our ideals are taught and applied to the world but not fully understood. It takes a talent many humans have not mastered. Not all can see through the veil that is the physical — the abstract. When we gaze upon a tree, we see its roots. I do, I’ve seen you have, and Sahar will see more of it too as the time passes. I sense the same sensitivity in her. There is no value for the sense we have been given and oftentimes it may feel like a curse to be free of ignorance and exposed to the harsh light of the world and its people. Although we are few, be reassured that your experiences are not misunderstood and are shared by a select few scattered throughout this life.” — Hamid, unused excerpt

'Hasty' and 'with an agenda' were the last descriptors Basim would use to pin to his personality, but coming from the lips of his mentor, almost anything rang true. He may have pushed his limit in arguing his point, true, and as futile as it was, it was worth every word to try — he was right, he'd take that to his grave. It earned him a following jab at his apparent 'growing ambition' and 'if he cannot execute a basic task, he has no place in executing the morally corrupt'.

Within his very essence, Basim knew this was to spite him for his cheeky defiance and even so, he had worn a smile to dress the wound of being outwitted. He'd wrestled with his features to achieve such a slight feat; his face betrayed him even at the best of times, but he denied giving her the satisfaction of any visible sign of defeat.

Incisions aside, he believed Roshan to be above petty, childish constructs like dealing punishments. Today he was proven wrong. Some days she had shorter patience for him than others — that was a topic he never had the courage to broach — and despite being a full-fledged member of the Hidden Ones, his autonomy was lower than he'd hoped for. He wasn’t an initiate anymore, so where was his wiggle room? He could follow a set of directions and traditions just fine, so long as they were reasonable. What he was being subjected to, was not.

Basim wasn't impatient per se, but he found sensibility in efficiency. Anything that wasn't consuming his time in a week-long, leisurely fashion suited him. This newest task, however, was of the painstakingly slow kind.

Holding petty grudges was not worth Basim's time but neither was this supposed 'mission', so he allowed himself to be at least a little resentful towards Roshan. He didn't do mindless things, he hated mindless things. If he wasn't learning, progressing or excelling, what was the point?

If he had no respect, he'd accuse his mentors of being lazy. He didn't see anyone else claim contracts off the board, he didn't see anybody else offer to help out allies in need. The first and final verdict was: "Basim can do this." They were right. Basim can do this. Something sparked up in him, a spur of cleverness and optimism. He wanted them to validate what he already knew and he aimed to win that battle. He planned on doing this errand and doing it so well that his betters would simply have to admit: "Basim is above menial chores" and tell him he can be on his way. Then the invisible rope that tethers him to Roshan would loosen. Wiggle room. Deserved space. So his step lightened as he followed the path he was instructed to take. He'd do it and make light work of it. Although a little begrudgingly.

—

He waited outside the walls of Baghdad, leaning against the post of some merchant's stall, fading in and out of a doze. A sensible rendezvous point, excluding getting over the wall, which happened to be half the mission. It was a necessary precaution. Apparently the guards did not favour someone who looked just as suspicious as the next person that walked past. Getting past the gate was the easy part, slipping past the guards' line of sight was another. It was a post dependent attribute; those posted at gates had a heightened sense of paranoia. There was always something tense about the atmosphere when walking into a guarded gate. He knew not why. His muscles clung to the ghost of a memory of that provocative experience and that was sufficient information to remind him not to repeat that mistake of waltzing in where he supposedly didn't belong.

He wondered how he'd get back in, now that his foggy mind was drifting in that direction. If it was him alone, he'd routinely backtrack and go back the way he came. His dismay was in knowing he would struggle to do so with others accompanying him. Again, proving he wasn't the man for such a mission. One or two allies wasn't a problem, solo tasks were preferable, though. The nature of this mission, however, entailed allies of lesser physical aptitude than he, so he was told. That side note subtly nagged at him. He found himself beginning to reroute in his head to vacate for the newcomers. What a headache. He wished he'd succumbed to sleep instead, a nap would've been more beneficial for the moment. No matter how dwindling his rest was, his thoughts continued to tick, preventing him from absconding reality and forcing him to focus on identifying his new brothers.

Picking them from the crowd wasn't an excruciating challenge whatsoever. He gave them credit if they were feigning incompetence to make an innocent first impression to the public. Basim watched them for a minute, stumbling, struggling to carry items, settling the crates down in a spot that looked 'good enough' when it very obviously was inconveniently in the middle of the road — clever. Almost believable. It wasn’t quite 'hiding in plain sight', but one could never be too careful as a Hidden One. Perhaps remaining hidden sometimes meant to call yourself to attention. Oddly counterintuitive, yet effective nonetheless.

Feeling a little guilty he hung back for so long, he approached the pair. He plastered on a smile like he was reuniting with family and not like he was wishing to be curled up, snoozing in the shaded patch he was previously sheltered by.

"Allow me," he offered kindly, taking a box out of the hands of the smaller of the two, lightening the load. His eyes snapped to the corners, searching for the small imperfection that would confirm these were indeed his allies. A little triangular carving, resembling the symbol of the Hidden Ones. He got the right people. The boost of dopamine didn't last long when he honed in on the exact situation he was placed in, regarding present company.

His 'allies' were a man and his young daughter. It all clicked into place. Every letter of the mission briefing was true and didn't hint at any grander, more exciting scheme, despite being so vague. Bothersome and disappointing. The girl — who may have been no more than twelve — shyly thanked him for the assistance but her voice faded into the background of his own internal one. He began to conspire what he'd do when he broke from the bounds of this living purgatory. Deep, undisturbed sleep. If he was lucky.

Poor hospitality, Basim. Ripping himself from his daydream, he turned to the girl's father to introduce himself. The polite thing to do.

"Basim."

"Hamid." His eyes creased with lines of kindness as he smiled. "Sahar." He gestured to his daughter, who perked up but retreated into her father's shadow. He sensed her discomfort and sent the girl a nod of solidarity. She didn't warm to the telepathic message and he understood well enough. He adjusted the crate in his arms and hugged it to his chest to prepare him for the path ahead.

Unnecessary words were not spent and hence introducing themselves, nothing else was discussed. Prearranged missions had a tendency to be smooth sailing if well-thought-out. This one was no exception, considering its low risk of running into danger. Save from the looming gate in front of them. Both dangerous and not thought about at all. No one was to blame for the gate problem, but the responsibility fell to Basim to deduce how to navigate said problem.

They neared the gate and Basim's own inner safety mechanism was already firing off warning shots. He kept himself cloaked between the man and his girl as they walked, appearing as if he was their servant carrying their luggage. Or he hoped that's how he was being perceived by the jittery guards at their designated stations.

"Just to be sure," he raised the question, inclined towards Hamid, in nothing more than a whisper to maintain the ruse he'd made on demand. "What are in these crates? If we are pulled up by the guards, I'd like to know what it is I'm carrying." Routine security checks were common but as long as Basim wasn't hauling a crate full of contraband or smuggling other living beings across the threshold, he wouldn't take issue with it. Surely not, especially with someone so young in his company. He couldn't imagine dragging a child into illegal activities. No child should be raised in an environment like that, he'd never been more adamant about anything.

Hamid flashed a surreptitious smirk and replied, "Secrets." Basim's expression hardened. Any more vague information could get them killed for sure, his gut told him so. He itched to pry the lid open and look inside this burden to reveal these apparent secrets. Were it not nailed shut and in his arms, his thief's fingers would make that happen.

"I must know." Basim grew desperate, his alerted senses picking up every potential threat in the near vicinity. They were within the gate's suffocating grasp and Basim need not even be told. His ribcage felt as if it were curling in on itself and his physical surroundings grew dense. "Some peace of mind," he clarified, wondering if his anxieties were creeping through. He noticed it was beginning to get harder to mask fear when fatigue runs the body and mind down.

"Nothing more than dusty, old books and crafting materials, my friend, you need not worry. We'll pass the guards with ease." Basim wished he felt reassured by those words. He did not in the slightest. "Keep close, Sahar," he instructed the girl and she obliged willingly. Out of apprehension of the new environment, Basim figured.

They all crammed uncomfortably together to indicate they were associated with one another. Hopefully not condensed enough to separate themselves from the normal passersby. They walked on through the crowd, almost making it through the gate entirely before they were singled out by a heavily armoured man seated at a desk. Horribly out of place in any other circumstance, but in the moment he was booming at them to come over, nothing felt contradictory about his cladding and his passion for logarithms.

Hamid advised Basim not to say a word and leave the talking to him and Basim would've loved to verbalise his agreement, if his throat hadn't sealed itself off. His breathing ran shallow and he had to redirect all his energy towards controlling the onset of panic.

They knew his face. He knew they knew his face. Or his robes at the very least. Posters depicting his visage were all over Baghdad. Shoddy depictions at that, but sometimes that was enough for the brain to use as an identifier. His head drooped, staring at the box he held, passing his fear for submission or shame. This is the last time he ever played movers or servants, he swore to himself that. He didn't particularly mind it, but it was always the situation in which he had to do so was what bothered him most. Always a close shave from being sprung. Being that close to death left him in no control, like dangling above molten lava tied to nothing but twine. To say the least, he did not favour it.

It was a falsely polite, drab exchange of 'where are you headed?' Abbasiyah. 'What are you transporting today?' Writing materials, tools, homeware. 'What brings you to Baghdad?' The awaiting world of learning. 'Oh, Abbasiyah is wonderful for that' and 'is that your daughter? That's lovely. There's much to see, young one,' and a threatening, 'I don't want to see her out unescorted; supervise that one.' Amidst it all, not a single eye batted at Basim The Servant and he'd never been so grateful for a small stroke of luck. Hamid offloaded a pouch of coin and they passed through into the light again, into Baghdad.

"How did you do that?" Basim queried, once he'd regained the ability to breathe steadily.

"Do what?" Hamid's tongue phrased it just right to make Basim sound like the fool, although his answer was another question. "Bypass the guards? Simple. Don't act as if you've something to hide." Basim pursed his lips. This new ally had an attitude. "A little honey makes even dirt taste sweet." An odd answer, if not cryptic.

"Bribery?" A guess to decipher the riddle. That pouch of coin...

"Not at all. I paid my fee. It's all in the understanding, my friend. A bit of sympathy for the guards, uh? They get bored and tense, working tirelessly. Give them some small talk, some kindness, make their job easier for a minute and be on your way. It's not only you on edge. To change the energy received, you must change the energy being emitted." Basim almost stopped dead in the way of an oncoming camel. He'd completely froze in puzzlement. Was he a window? Was it so obvious that he was sweating through his robes? Perhaps he was a terrible actor.

"I see," he said, letting the scepticism tint his words. "Unfortunately, some of us do not have the luxury of conversation. Forgive me if I'm wary of being attacked." That, in fact, was a confession. One he didn't want slipping from his mouth.

"Ah. Not a friend of the Caliph?" A joke? "I hope this won't become a problem." The inflection indicated it was more cautious question than statement. Basim followed his eyes to Sahar, who was tailing her father, invisible in the shade of the shadow he cast. Therein lay the worry.

"Nor do I. I will do my best to keep you both safe. You have my word."

"To the letter," he affirmed, nodding a split second before a bag tumbled off the stack of precariously balanced luggage Hamid was hauling. He uttered an obscenity under his breath. "Sorry." Basim wasn't certain on who he was apologising to, so he kept quiet. "Did not think transport through. We'll have to carry everything the rest of the way there, if it doesn't trouble you."

Oh, it did. It did a lot. "Not at all." Lying through his teeth. Basim wasn't one to do such things. Not normally. Being crabby over this mission since the briefing had a domino effect and he'd rather be feigning kindness than maiming with honesty. He'd get over it. Whenever he forgot that it was all Roshan's fault for assigning him this colossal time waster.

From the shade, Sahar peeked out to claim the bag, as her arms were void of baggage, then slinked back to her hiding place. Hamid appreciated his daughter's help and did so verbally, whilst scanning the area for his bearings. His thorough search soon morphed into uncertainty.

Basim was tired of this. He was before, now it was painful. Any more incompetence and he'd lose his mind. For someone who spoke so eloquently, he had no idea how Hamid couldn't discern his north-east from his south-west. Wanting to move this process along, Basim suggested,

"Do you have a map?" He tried not to sound like he had better things he could be doing. Albeit true, anything to minimise lingering out on the streets would be beneficial for everyone, not just him. Hamid peered past the countless boxes and bags to his belt, where many pouches were attached.

"Uh, I don't suppose you could look?" Basim repressed a sigh.

"Of course." Of course you would, he wanted to say, but he knew better. Growing up a pickpocket didn't make him exempt from showing courtesy. He was doing his best to give his new brothers (burdens) a warm welcome, no matter how unhappy he was with the task at hand.

He put the singular crate down at his feet and sifted through the pockets for a map that might pinpoint the location of wherever they were meant to be headed. As he fixed his mitts on a square of paper that could have possibly been a map, a shriek tore through the peaceful bustle of Baghdad.

"Thief, thief! Guards! That man is stealing from his purse!"

"No, no, no. Not now." Retracting his hand in a flash, out of impulse, he scooped up the crate again. Hamid spoke a thousand words with one look, but the baseline was: 'what in the world is going on?' "We should get going," he instructed with urgency, ushering them away as quickly as he could manage with his hands full. So much for ensuring their safety.

Swords drawn, a pair of soldiers spliced through the crowd to pursue Basim and his newfound kin. He placed himself tail-end in defence, hurrying Hamid and Sahar forward with his quickened step. A struggle, factoring in the weight they bore in their arms. Basim hadn't given a second thought as to where they were going, it just had to be a lengthy distance between him and any armed forces. Not the warmest of receptions, but he'd had colder — Roshan earlier that morning, for example. Not that he had the second to spare to ruminate on that instance. Food for thought he had no time to digest.

—

They lost their pursuers eventually. Veering down countless trails and disappearing on something so simple as a bench did the trick. An old trick, yet effective to no fault. Prior to that debacle — the other part of Basim's brain not kicking up adrenaline and spurring him to run, counted at least twenty apologies to the public, all served by Hamid as they pushed past with impudence. He'd changed his tune, resting his forehead against the tower of boxes he had in front of him, speechless and more or less breathless. Basim concurred, his heaving created an offbeat overlay, loud in his ears.

Next to her father, Sahar clutched her one bag like it was precious, making almost no noise as she caught her breath. At intervals, she'd cast her gaze to Basim, full of spite that he'd broken his vow moments after pledging it. Her displeasure with him was fair, Basim accepted that. But the scrutiny of a little girl was unsettling, especially feeling it impact his perception. If he'd disappointed a kid, surely he was inadequate for this kind of job. He didn't even take a glance at her — couldn't bear to. Though his eyes were elsewhere, he could feel her emotion beginning to hang about him like a shadow, reflective of the few moments he spent in her company.

His mind spiralled, remembering friends he'd let down before. How many kids' lives he cut short from his recklessness. He didn't mean to. Just like he didn't mean to this time. Oh no. Guilt. Too deep now. The darkness was familiar, an old friend returning to visit. A resented old friend. Familiar though, and strangely reaffirming. A nightmare was his waking hours. His resting ones too (if he could call it resting these days).

That's it. The jinni. That's what it reminded him of. Sahar's glaring mirrored that of his personal demon and that was a terrorising sensation he thought no person could replicate. His chest was tightening a few notches again, squeezing his lungs, twinging a few heartstrings. His bottom lip jutted out. Perhaps it wasn't just Roshan who was overly sensitive today.

Having had enough of the restrictions, Basim stood up abruptly, without the crate he was responsible for lifting and began a pace in a seemingly random direction. Inner turmoil was no easy conquest. External ones, however, he could deal to and that was a better place to start.

Those posters with his features scrawled on them posed a problem for any future moves he or his companions wanted to make. First thing to tackle: getting rid of those. From there, he hoped, their journey would be less a superfluous plight and more a meaningless meander.

"Where are you going?" Hamid's voice strained with worry. When Basim's reply was dead air, he called out, "Basim?" Suppose his vigour returned.

"Posters. I have to get rid of them," he stated. He didn't mean to sound short and snappy but his patience was wearing thin. His faux perky disposition was corroding.

"Oh, a known face, are you?" His jokes grated on Basim. He wasn't certain if it was the condescending undertones or the fact that it was something he would've said on the other end of the stick. "If you don't mind my curiosity, I'd like to see one. Local art sparks my interest, even if it is so small as a wanted poster." Basim gritted his teeth and prayed no other sign of frustration seeped through. Movers or tour guide, Basim did not sign up for this test of willpower.

"If you can call it art," he muttered. "All right. Keep in sight, I'll show you." Hamid sprung out of his seat with renewed energy. He entrusted the safety of their possessions to Sahar, who was told specifically to stay seated and keep watch until they got back. He felt her uncomfortable presence on him again the second he turned away, leading her father to wherever a poster may be. Being rude wasn't in Basim's nature, but in that beat, he was grateful to be parting ways with her temporarily. Maybe in that time she could fix her sulky demeanour.

—

Fascination was an odd thing, tailored to the individual through innumerable factors. For Basim it was classical literature and the wonders of the sky above. For Hamid... it was an unintelligible scribble based off who knows what. Some eyewitness who had a hard time remembering faces? Because he was sure he appeared nothing like that in his reflection. They said that was the door to narcissism. They may be correct in this case. Though who was he to complain? The less the image looked like him the better.

Basim scrunched his nose, staring at what Hamid could possibly be so enraptured by. There was a likelihood that there were just some things he'd never understand. For once, that notion didn't string him up. Instead, he gazed off into the blur, blank as ever, save from fatigue's dark circles.

"The line work is incredible, the use of colour is eye-catching — an interesting piece," he mused, then paused to lower his voice for only Basim's ears, "if not a little inaccurate." Basim idly nodded in reply, humming a tune between an agreeing 'yes, thank you,' and a sarcastic 'yes, thank you'. The sooner he could dispose of the target on his head, the sooner they'd all be safe to roam. Not that Hamid was too concerned with that at the minute.

Impatient and bored to no imagination, Basim took hold of the edge of the sheet of paper and yanked downwards, shredding the poster in one satisfying tear. On automatic, he balled it and shoved it in a pouch, out of sight, not bothering to look at how they failed to do him justice.

Hence would be the appropriate time to walk away. A hundred times over he'd have done so. Had Basim had the energy, this unimportant instant would have followed trend. Unaware to himself, his psyche sailed off to distant shores once more, starting a new life away from unreasonable mentors, silly missions, sleepless nights, odd companions and bounties on his head. That was a life worth living. He'd have played the scenario out too, were it not for an obnoxious cough that erupted from beside him.

Another civilian out to try their luck and challenge the limits of Basim's sanity. A stream of accusations flowed from their mouth, whirling around Basim but not threatening enough to strike an alerted response. He phased out of reality again with hooded eyes, unamused. Amusement must have been what this civilian was lacking, for creating all this fuss served no other purpose and drew no eyes their way. It was him on the poster, yes, but his refusal to entertain the drama outweighed his instinctual reflex to be honest.

To his relief, words that would have been wasted were preserved and better utilised by Hamid, whose bearing suddenly exuded a graceful, disarming authority.

“When you’re walking across the runway, Adrien, just make sure you hold your chin up, and even if you don’t feel confident, make sure you make long, confident strides.” “Even if I don’t feel confident, mama?” His mother’s eyes crinkled, “Even if it’s not real, try to make it real to your audience. They only know you, and the clothes you’re wearing. They don’t know your story.” Adrien held his head high, took a deep breath and he walked. One confident stride followed the other. Cameras flashed in his peripheral but he was too blinded by the stage lights to see each and every one. His mind wandered, his throat tightened in an impossible way and he blinked back the tears that he knew would give him the perfect en vogue look when the shots released in a few hours. Nobody would think there was something wrong, they’d point at it and go, “That’s just part of the look.”  Even if it wasn’t, because he made it real to his audience, and they didn’t know his story. He turned at the end of the runway, flashed a smile that made his eyes crinkle, and walked the other way. His heart felt like it would pound out of his chest at any moment. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he was backstage. His heart stilled and he walked back to his dressing room, letting the bright lights drown out his feelings.

It had been so long since his mother’s advice rang in his ears. When he first started modeling, he repeated it like a mantra, day after day, shoot after shoot. Sometimes he’d think about it during fencing lessons, and Chinese classes. If he held his head high, and made long confident strides, then he could do everything. The world didn’t need to know what was going on inside his head. He changed out of the runway clothes, hanging them up on their pristine velvet hanger. “Something’s bothering you, kid,” Plagg’s voice broke the cacophony in his head and Adrien turned, smiled, “I’m fine, just stressed, that’s all,” and he shrugged his shoulders like it was the easiest thing in the world, plucking a blonde hair off the shoulder cuff. It was a truly beautiful garment, hand beaded. There was no doubt that his father was a brilliant designer. Plagg floated over to land on his shoulder, face nestling against Adrien’s cheek. He leaned into it, selfishly, and sighed. It was a long day, and the exhaustion weighed heavily upon his shoulders. After that runway shoot, he had to go over to Luka’s to watch their Kitty Action rehearsal (a song that Adrien wasn’t in, something he would forever be grateful for) He enjoyed his time with his friends, and he got it preapproved by his father. That didn’t help explain the anxiety settling in the pit of his stomach, coiling up like a frightened snake. “Okay Mr. Stressed, care to put pants on?” Adrien snorted out a half laugh, “Yeah, I will. Don’t worry. How else am I supposed to show off the Agreste loungewear line?” He rolled his eyes, opening up the box his father had left him. At least it should be comfortable. And it was, he realized as he popped the sweatshirt on, combing his hair artfully back and out of his face. It was still sticky with styling products, falling in loose waves around his head. He took a makeup wipe to his face in an attempt to rid himself of the thick layer of foundation on his face. It halfway worked, and when he looked up at himself he felt like it was okay. Smeared mascara was a look, right? Oh well, he didn’t have time to take off the rest of it. He managed to jump into joggers, and toe his sneakers back on before he was grabbing his bag and rushing through the door. He didn’t stop jogging until he was out of the building, flipping the hood of the sweatshirt up. Plagg stayed by his side, tucked in the space between his neck and shoulder. “That exciting, hmm?” Adrien laughed, genuinely, “It is, it’s practically a sleepover..” Practically? Who was he kidding? It was a sleepover by all sense of the word, and his father actually approved it. His heart beat heavily, not with dread, but with joy. “Ohhh a sleepover! How exciting, did you remember-” “Your camembert, yes Plagg, I remembered your camembert, but you have to stay hidden. I’m only bringing you along because..” “Because anything can happen, I know, I know. And while you listen to your friends write and perform music, I’ll be making the coziest home out of your bag.” “And you call me weird,” he huffed and shook his head. The houseboat was in sight in it’s massive glory.  The top of it was lit up with beautiful string lights that reflected against the inky water it sat upon, swaying slightly against the waves. Adrien took a second to compose himself, sucking a deep breath in, and exhaling it slowly. It was just a sleepover, it was so simple, but it was with so many of his friends. Marinette, Alya, Juleka, Rose, Ivan, and Luka. Nino wasn’t able to make it but it would be okay. Head high, confident strides. The text message said to just walk in so he did, and he was greeted with well- a lot- They were laughing in the practice room, it smelt like popcorn and oddly like pancakes. Plagg zipped into his bag and grinned up at him. Adrien swallowed and walked in, laughing nervously. “Sorry I’m late, I tried to get here as fast as I could.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, he really did try to get there quickly, he knew he was quite late though. What if he missed the rehearsal? “I didn’t know you wore makeup during your shoots, Adrien,” Alya was the first one to speak and she sat up from the floor. In seconds she invaded his personal space, swiping a thumb under his eye. Oh right, the smeared mascara. “Well, in shoots I uhm- no? No makeup during shoots but this was ah.. runway and those pictures are like uhm, well you know, super candid and stuff so it’s important to wear makeup so that you look alright from all angles, and you know, this is kind of the debut before the winter collection so it’s a bit more macabre,” he was pressing his fingers together, a nervous tic he’d been told to stop multiple times. He couldn’t help it, Alya was just so close and Adrien’s nerves were still shot from his modeling endeavor Juleka’s head cocks out along with Marinette’s, and Adrien felt heat rise in his cheeks. Was it that weird? “I thought you might be finally trying a punk look,” Juleka said with a smile and a little nod, hiding behind her hair again. Marinette giggled, “It would be an interesting look on you,” and she patted the spot next to her, “Both of you need to come sit!” Adrien nodded and shifted his bag, smiling at Alya. She smirked back at him and led him along. Luka smiled at him and patted the spot next to him. Adrien sat down, succesfully, between Luka and Marinette. “If I did a punk look my father would probably keel over,” he didn’t mean for the joke to come out as dark as it did but even Ivan snickered. “Or have a freaking stroke,” Alya added.

“So he’s still controlling?” Luka asked, and Adrien could only shrug. “Just.. overprotective. Looking different can get you into trouble, I guess? Or get you odd looks, and I do represent his brand.” Marinette sighed, “His very posh, fashion forward brand.” “Exactly!” Adrien leaned forward, crossing his legs and bringing his knee up to his chest, “But I do enjoy the modeling, I’m actually doing something new for the winter line.” “Ooh, you have to spill,” Rose spoke up, and laughed, “The winter shows are always the best! The clothes are sooo avant garde.” Adrien couldn’t remember a time he ever talked about himself so much, maybe as Chat Noir, but that didn’t count. He really did love modeling though, it was so easy for him to talk about.

Mist curled around his feet as the world constructed before him, a recognisable venue fading into view. The tendrils of mist dissipated, the draught and eerie ambience easing off. An evening chill nipped at the bare fingers of the man scouting the abandoned streets. His breath clouded as he adjusted the faint-coloured tricorne upon his head, collecting his thoughts, preparing his speech wisely. To him, this was a regular occurrence, a meeting pre-planned, messages exchanged to arrange it in secret. So far, it was effective and the opposition hadn’t the foggiest clue of the gathering taking place. To him, this was normal, this was business. To his descendant, however, this was wrong, all wrong. 

—

Descendant: an observer, witnessing only the events that took place through this machine. He shouldn’t be back with this ancestor, he lived out enough of this man’s time. Where was the life he was meant to be reliving? Descendant could not affect space and time, though he could file a complaint to his team outside the machine. And that’s exactly what he did.

        “Guys, what’s going on? What- what’s happening?” he spluttered, refraining a panicked curse, failing to articulate his thoughts. Wait… he could speak now? A rushed response from his female companion, Crane, clarified next to nothing.

        “It seems we have stumbled upon some kind of glitch or something. I’ve done a couple diagnostics and- well… I can’t pull you out of the machine right now. It’s too big of a risk, we need to get back on track with the original timeline, but I gotta do it from the inside. I don’t know why we’re back here, with this ancestor specifically, since we were much further ahead yesterday. Anyway, my advice is to just play this out and see where it goes. I’ll work on repairing and rearranging the data, so we can go back to searching for the artefact.”

        “So what you’re saying is the machine has glitched, and I can’t go back to the previous save state?” Descendant asked, a question too evident now. “Huh, it’s kinda like a video game,” he added to himself, forcing himself to make light of a dim situation.

        “No, this is not like a video game, Des. A video game will glitch and often crash. This, this is more like you’ve suddenly discovered a secret level and you can’t get back to the main game until you complete it,” came another voice, more masculine, more matter-of-fact. Descendant’s other loyal colleague, friend second; his words. They called him Robin, believe it or not. None of these names were particularly inventive, considering being labelled after birds, but it was the best one could do whilst being a fugitive from a technology company that integrated itself so smoothly into society. Nothing was ever easy when one was dubbed as the ‘bad guys,’ despite being anything but.

        “Uh, okay. So, does anyone know how this actually happened?”

        “I don’t know how, but your brain is fighting the machine. I knew this could happen, though not like this. It appears your brain is subconsciously withholding information and is altering events to its preference. Maybe,” replied the technician, sharing her uncertainty and plausible theory.

        “Maybe?” Not all took her words with a grain of salt though. A well-known fact about Robin was that he was quite analytic, making him sound arrogant and pompous at times, which got on everyone’s nerves. Especially now, when everyone was feeling pressured to repair the errors that had mysteriously generated before them. “Even your car is in a better state than your theory, Crane.”

        “I don’t see you handing out any bright ideas,” she snapped, leaving no beat between Robin’s insult and her venomous retort. “Just play the thing out, Des. Hopefully I can get you outta this.” And, as the body of a familiar stranger, Descendant took his first step into a new world.

—

The roads weren’t well lit on this particular night, the only providers being a few oil lamps in the distance and the natural beams of moonlight, casting a soft glow on the cobblestone beneath Griffon’s tan boots. The resplendence of the streets at this hour were immense, considering the lack of bustle in the surroundings, though he hadn’t the time to appreciate such small moments alone. Missions to complete, people to report to. Busy, busy, busy. Much unlike the scene outside the venue.

        His chin tilted up to set his gaze on the building’s sign, cautious about the headpiece he wasn’t accustomed to donning. To Griffon’s distaste, this was a formal gathering, one not appropriate to wear bloodstained robes to. Also not one to bring an arsenal of weapons to, which came as another reason not to be attending the performance. But one man can’t have it all. Fortunately, if the worst case scenario comes into action, he’d be prepared. Besides, he could use the bare minimum - his hands - to disable an enemy. He would kill if need be, if a threat presented itself. He was an adept in the art of death; he was taught to be that way. He took no pleasure in it. Simply, he was good at it. When one was taught swordcraft as soon as one could walk, this was how one would see themselves. This was how Griffon’s brothers-in-arms saw him: a talented death dealer. 

        Anticipating the unexpected, the killer disguised as a nobleman entered a whole new atmosphere.

—

“Father,” Griffon hummed low, eyeing the stage and surreptitiously taking his seat at the booth. “What news on the artefact?” Both his father and sister had arrived at the meeting ahead of time, varied reactions between them. His sister, Branwen, clad in voluminous purple fabric, gave a tight-lipped acknowledgement to her younger sibling. Their father, Corbin, much more forbearing and glad for Griffon to join the party.

        “Your sister and I were wondering the same. How did your previous search fare?” His father’s eyes, flecked with steel, yet held such patience; this was a man that raised a strategic murderer. This was a man who could hide his true intentions behind a smile.

        “Fruitless, I’m afraid.”

        “Ah, no matter. Your sister, in fact, has found a lead.” Branwen smirked, arrogant, not catching her father’s stern eye as she did so. That was deliberately for Griffon’s notice, and hit its target dead on, a rippling effect of envy and fury spreading throughout his body. “Which is why we’re here today,” Corbin finished, setting his hands face down on the table. Griffon repressed a grimace. There it was. If there was one thing he could rely on about his father, it was that. There was never a family get-together without the mention of business. Not anymore, not since he was in his tender years. Corbin gestured towards his daughter and she took the liberty of presenting the information herself.

        “A flock of little birdies told me,” she paused, winking at her own awful pun, “that an influential figure is in possession of the artefact. As luck would have it, they’re said to be attending the performance tonight. Which is exactly why we’re here instead of the chocolate house a few blocks down.” Corbin’s lower lip jutted out at the mention of the chocolate house, his mind set on a hearty tankard of ale, which would never come to be.

        As soon as Griffon opened his mouth to further the conversation, a thunderous applause erupted from the audience, forcing him to cut himself short and turn his head. A woman cantered onstage, the band playing behind her incredible vocals. He was caught gazing upon her figure, though not out of lust. As upon her neck, was the artefact. She had the amulet. 

        This meeting wasn’t a waste of time after all, Griffon relished in that knowledge, bringing his boiling blood to a settled simmer. That brought him a sense of solitude, albeit a temporary one.

        “Oi,” Branwen elbowed her brother to attract his attention. “Does she look familiar to you?” He squinted, as if his eyes could zoom in on the performer, who was busy singing something about feeling distant from an old lover and how they weren’t meant to be. Not that any of this concerned him to any extent, he was trying to determine who this woman was. Squeezing his eyes shut and opening them, he focused in again, using the gift that he was endowed at birth. He could see her now. And then it collided with him head-on. By the Spirited Eagle, it was her.

        In an instant, she wasn’t any performer and these words she was spieling off were no longer meaningless. He cursed himself for how ironic this panned out. It could have been anyone, a wealthy aristocrat perhaps, or a corrupt member of Parliament, but no. It had to be his ex-lover, Avis, reappearing into the world after being declared missing seven years ago. Missing, that eventually concluded to the status of ‘deceased’ when he abandoned the search for her with reluctance. His jaw clenched, how dare she show her face again. His mind refused to register it, she was dead to him. She should be dead. Although, he couldn’t deny the flutter of hope that his heart manifested, that animated feeling he hadn’t felt in an eternity. No, he shoved it to the back of his mind, where the notion was meant to belong. For now, he’ll bide his time, watching, listening to the song that was - upon analysing - written for him. It was a song at the minimum, a message at the maximum. That’s what this was, he gathered: a message. A beckoning. He’d made his decision in a heartbeat. If he was being called, he was going to answer.

—

“Uh, we found it, guys. You can take me out now.” Descendant’s voice wavered, a tone of fatigue hitting his final word.

        “In your wildest fantasies, maybe,” Robin spat over the intercom.

        “You gotta keep going, the end of the memory is close. You’re doing fine, just hang in there a little while longer. I think I almost cracked the code.” Crane, however slight, was more optimistic regarding the conditions. Descendant groaned, throwing aside any composure he had in reserve.

        “Okay, quick question before I keep going: who’s the chick? You know, the one that has the amulet.”

        “From the scrambled data we can gather, she seems to be a past lover of Griffon’s, which doesn’t make sense because- well, his son- we already know the messy details,” Robin reported in a split second. He was in charge of linking these historic events, yet the way he pieced it together was unnatural and expeditious.

        “Maybe this is like the whole ‘memory inside a memory’ thing, except this is more your ancestor’s dream-like state. Basically what I’m saying is that your brain is fighting the programming, but it’s not you who messed up the machine.” Crane pitched in with another theory. Descendant sighed,

        “That’s a relief.”

        “I think this is what Griffon wanted to happen, instead of what really went down.” She sounded sure on that one. Robin grumbled a few profanities under his breath about her speculations. Akin to their first spat, Crane told Robin to shut his mouth, before she sewed it shut for him and bade Descendant to keep moving forward. Which he did, to avoid becoming a part of his friends’ disagreement.

—

“Father, sister, if you’d excuse me-”

        “So you do recognise her?” Branwen interrupted, with the air of a child who was desperate to know a secret. Corbin raised a hand to halt further questions, oblivious to their conversation.

        “Do what you must, son. I give you leave to go. Bring us the honour we deserve.” ‘I give you leave,’ that was a phrase Griffon wasn’t attuned to hearing. Straying away from his superiors for an extended period of time had allowed him to abide by his own laws. He never needed anyone’s permission on what leads to pursue and whose life to put an abrupt end to. For years, Griffon had played the role of ‘lone wolf’, and in that moment he realised, he desired to keep it that way.

        Corbin presented Griffon a discreet gift under the table: a feather-shaped blade that - in spite of the low lighting - winked at its new owner, welcoming the new partnership. The son grappled onto his newly acquired asset, testing its weight. He slipped it beneath his cape, to not arouse suspicion. He hoped that there wouldn’t be the necessary means for his blade to taste blood, nevertheless, it would suffice. Branwen intoned,

        “May the Spirited Eagle guide your hand, brother.” Her prayer fell on deaf ears, as Griffon was passing through the crowds, on the path to success.

        This path steered him down various halls, tracking the footsteps of his target. His advancements reduced the distance between them. Better yet, his prey was unaware of being tailed, giving him the upper hand. A wry smile contorted his features, drawing his hat lower on his face to obscure himself from any potential witnesses. He was able to detect her footfalls, his sharp hearing continued to prove valuable. Then, the rhythmic clapping of steps ceased. 

        Griffon skidded to a stop, scanning the surrounding hall. Everything looked the same in this accursed place. Panic surged through his blood, the pattern of his breathing matching that of a feral beast. I can’t lose her. Damn this interminable labyrinth! Unconsciously, he fumbled with the knobs either side of him, as if either would open and give him resolution. Neither did, as they were locked. On the verge of another outburst, his fit was prevented by a slam of a door in the nearby area. All his senses activated at once, bolting down towards where the sound originated, discovering a door in which the lock was absent. Without a moment to lose, the man shoved it open, coming face-to-face with the one he sought.

        “I suppose you got my message then.” It struck him that it was indeed her. Back from the dead, Avis. Distance couldn’t deceive him anymore.

        “Hmm, quite,” he replied, and he could never be so quick to sour. His sight went wandering from her complexion to the pendant resting on her chest. Her expression relaxed and she laughed, flitting a hand to a sunken-eyed pianist. They played a melodious tune, while Avis opened her arms, leaving herself vulnerable.

        “Once more for old time’s sake?” Griffon was plunged into conflict. Every muscle yearned to hold her again. Still, there was that nagging in the back of his mind, telling him to drive his blade through her heart, to punish her like she did to him. No, he assured himself. Now is not apt. Years ago, he vowed that he wouldn’t be fooled twice. And he was going to stick by it. Stepping into her embrace, he needed no words to affirm that he was to play her little game.

        They swayed to the music, the way they used to do as children. Whatever the pair shared in the past had diminished, nothing was the same. His hands crept upwards to her neck, her breath hitching at the contact. This was not a display of affection, in spite of her response. The dance was a ploy, his fingers were following his crafted method. His nail caught the knot of the amulet, having it within his grasp. The woman was almost distracted enough to dismiss the thievery. Almost, but wasn’t. Griffon’s fist retracted, coming away with his prize. Mission accomplished, or so he thought.

She wormed her way out of his clutch, an evident mark of betrayal etched on her face. The pianist hit a false note and sent a wary glance over at their employer, discontinuing to play once assessing the situation. Griffon passed the amulet through to the inside of his sleeve, putting on a ruse that he hadn’t nicked a thing. She shook her head, she wasn’t ignorant.

        “You’ll regret this,” she said, folding her arms over her chest as if to protect herself.

        “No, I rather think I won’t.” He reversed, exiting the room before overhearing the words:

        “Wren, get the boy.”

        Griffon had himself a new enemy.

—

“I ask for a simple trade, Griffon. Don’t make this difficult for yourself, or for the boy. Come on, where is it? Where is the artefact?” Avis barked, deluded. The wind whipped at her hair on the rooftop, an utter change in scene from inside the theatre. She was trembling, possibly because of the evening air or the young boy struggling against her arm.

        “Father, help! Help me!” The boy began to sob, choking against his words, the lock on him tightening. The child was about four, yet intelligent for his age, much like his father.  Griffon had reached an impasse: sacrifice his son for the artefact, losing the one reminder of genuine, pure love to save the world from being cast into eternal shadow. Or, save his son, surrender the artefact to her and fail his mission to endanger everyone. The kid wailed as his father devised a plan of attack. 

        His child, Corvus, was his treasure; a product from a feeling so broad, so true. His mother wasn’t present, hadn’t been for years and she wasn’t here, on this rooftop. She had remained in her own country whilst Griffon trained their son to fill boots too big for him. Irresolution struck him at point-blank, staring into the glossy eyes of his son to find some solace. What he did discover though, was that same raw strength and defiance that attracted him to his mother. Gathering these memories and feelings, he would use them, or at least try to. As much as he’d want to speculate how his son made it to the theatre, the clock was ticking so it would have to wait. The choice had been finalised, he knew what he had to do.

        “Alright,” he called, keeping his voice level in the circumstances. The amulet was out in the open once again, a pulsating glow spreading over his hand. “Here.” He tossed the artefact to her, watching it skitter across the surface like a skipping stone on a lake. She released the boy at the sight of the pendant, scrabbling at the floor to repossess it. Griffon wanted to laugh: she always used to be his little magpie. Used to.

        “Father!” Corvus scrambled over to his father, clinging to his leg with a leech-like grip. He caressed his son’s head, relief washing over him.

        “Corvus, I want you to go downstairs, back to your grandfather. Can you do that for me?” The lad nodded profusely, already out of view within the passing seconds. He prayed to the Spirited Eagle that Corvus would be seen home safely. Griffon would have followed suit, but he had some unfinished business to attend to. It seemed that Avis did too, as she was facing him again, the cord of the amulet dangling between each of her digits.

        “It’s funny, we’ve been at this for centuries - searching for these artefacts to keep them from the clutch of our enemies, to supposedly ‘save the world’. But, have you noticed, Griffon, that all it’s ever done is caused dispute? Wars that raged for years because either side refused to find common ground with those we deemed wrong for the world. Does it humour you that we insist on repeating history over and over? Or are you just as much of an imbecile as the ones you call brothers?” Griffon composed himself and denied himself the right to speak. “If we had an open mind, if we had it in our hearts to forgive our rivals for the mistakes of the past, would we be better off? Could peace be attained? But no, you and your ilk are the reason why peace cannot endure. You speak often of unity, but do you know its true meaning? Of course not, which leaves me one option left: this.” The amulet left her hand, tossed off the roof and began to plummet. Griffon stood both shock and awe of her action, seeing the glow dissipate and plonk into a stream metres below them. It was gone. Washed away with the flow of the current. He wanted to scream, thrash about violently, dive recklessly after it, but he knew it was hopeless. The sounds never came, nor the movements. He was stuck. More importantly, he had failed his mission, his family, himself.

        “Aren’t you burning with a passion to kill me? Aren’t you furious like your brothers of old that I have demolished your goals? Go on, draw your weapon. Kill me.” She was goading him, that was all too obvious. Then why was it he let the thought in? Why did he consider unsheathing his blade? She wasn’t the woman he grew up with, she wasn’t the one he spent endless nights with. She was a monster. A monster who’s incessant ranting filled his ears.

        “I’ll give you a head start,” she said, stepping closer to him. “Do you remember when we spent an entire night talking on and on about our future? How we vowed to live by each other-”

        “And die by each other,” Griffon finished, the words programmed into his brain by the stain of a memory. “How fitting.”

        “I’ve thought a lot about this day and what it stands for us now. Which is why I said that we’re not meant to be, that’s never going to change. So let’s at least agree to go our separate ways, huh?” It all clicked into place, her song. She had seen this play out beforehand, but how? “The decision is yours to make, but I think I already know which side you lean towards. I’ve played my part in all this, I assume you will honour yours. Let’s end this like we should.” Hunched over, she took a few more steps, being now in close proximity. Griffon’s head hung low as he procured the dagger from his cape, turning it over thrice before asserting himself. The artefact may be lost, but he could still finish the final stage of his mission. Applying pressure with the tip of the blade against her chest, he heard a squelch as he punctured through a vital organ. He was already lowering her to the ground during her dying breaths, focusing in on the crimson blood blooming from the void, his hands slick with it. She had space for her final words.

        “We’re good,” she burbled before the blood spilled from her mouth, and the last of her life ebbed away into infinity.

—

“Wow,” Crane exclaimed, baffled as anyone else about what unfolded. “You’re good now, Des. I can get you out. Welcome back.” The alternative reality dissolved, pulling Descendant back into the present day.

        “Man, that was insane. Does anyone have any idea of why that was so messed up? What kind of happy dream world was that?” Descendant rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of it all. In fact, no one could gather a clear concept.

        “We don’t know, but I’m glad we got you outta there. Robin was worried about you.”

        “I was not!” Robin defended, flapping his arms about like a crazed octopus.

        “Anyway, I’ve rearranged the data and deleted some unusual codes I found while you were in there. We’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.”

        “Thanks.” Descendant gave his gratitude to his friends that had worked overtime to save him from another perilous situation. He lay down on a nearby mattress, allowing his aching muscles to relax. “By the way guys-”

        “Yeah?” Crane shot back. The escapee of the machine spoke the words that were at the front of his mind.

        “We’re good.”

Speed, Shadows & Hijinks

Part 1 : Deflation

"Hey, Jinx, if your training with him is stressing you out — you know, you can always learn some driving tips from me. I can pull a few strings and transfer your mentorship, I'm sure they'll allow it if I try." It wasn't only Jinx that didn't understand Shadow's behaviour, evidently. Given that, they couldn't really give Sonic any real commitment to his proposition, and instead let off a bit of steam in the form of dismissal.

"Nah, it's just been a rough day, that's all. I appreciate the offer, though." Their head slumped onto the table, the steaming cup above them serving as a representation of their evaporating spirit. They downplayed the situation to the best of their ability, because it was owed. To Shadow or to themself, they weren't sure.

Not even a child could be fooled by their lies.

"How he's treating you isn't fair!" Amy pitched in. "You're doing your best, believe me, you're great on the track! You're not to blame, he is. He just needs a little more patience and he'd see how good of a racer you are!"

Since their arrival, Amy always had Jinx's six. Her surety and confidence in defending the newcomer was never unwelcome. Amy was good with people. There was an undeniable merit linked to the statement, where it was more fact than simple speculation. The words she exchanged with others were rarely misunderstood. She could pacify even the most wild of beasts — or become the thing she seeks to calm. It was either or with her, and there was some relief in knowing Jinx was on Amy's good side.

Jinx saw value in having Amy as an ally... or a friend. Her and Sonic both. Tails too. There was no animosity in their interactions with Jinx and that, they reckoned, was paving the road for potential friendships. What's obstructing your potential from becoming reality? They wondered exactly that. Shadow had cryptically asked that of them once. Different circumstances, consistent question. The answer was plain as day: spending all their time and energy on a serious mug who wanted nothing to do with them or the development of their skills.

As much as they hated it, there was validity to Shadow's criticism. He was nothing if not brutally honest.

"Thanks, Amy, but... maybe he's right. I'm slow, I hesitate; I don't trust myself to do the right thing. And every moment in that vehicle is a split second decision between life and death. Maybe I'm failing myself because my confidence dictates how I'm driving. Should I apologise to him for that?"

"No!" She was so adamant. Jinx admired that to an unfathomable degree. "He's a grump, his reactions are unkind. Just leave him. Tomorrow is a new day and he'll be over it by then, don't worry. I know Shadow, he doesn't hold a grudge unless it's important to him."

The Speed, Shadows & Hijinks Series :

Sometimes he almost forgets his personality goes deeper than the mask he presents to others. It’s easier this way. He doesn’t have to think, or feel - he just has to perform.

That is, until people stop laughing.

Once in a blue moon, he’ll have the misfortune of meeting someone who finds his mask… unsavory, or even obnoxious. It crushes him to his core. What’s the point of carefully manicuring his image like this if some stranger can cut him down so easily?

But the alternative is almost worse - sometimes the walls he builds become so thick that no one can hear him screaming for help. They just smile and laugh along, telling him he’s so funny, so silly, just calm down and have another drink.

It’ll be fine.

He’s just overreacting.

Isn’t that just like him?

Jameson wants to scream, to scratch their eyes out - they don’t know him! They don’t know anything! And they don’t deserve to, either. Some cruel stranger isn’t worth his time. No one like that will ever know the real him.

But… is there even a “real him” anymore?

He’s become a doll, simply going through the motions, trying to put on a good show. A puppet for whatever director throws him a bone that month.

And after all that, he usually can’t even afford to see the final cut of the films.

As much as he tries to tell himself that his friends and fans make it all worth it, that too is a lie. They only feed into the feelings of isolation and unreality. He doesn’t exist to any of these people, not really.

With all of these thoughts swirling around his head day in and day out, Jameson isn’t too surprised when he starts to see shadows in the mirror. He laughs - maybe he’s finally losing his mind, or maybe the exhaustion and hunger are finally starting to get to him.

Jameson downs the glass of dirt cheap whiskey left over from the night before, scrunching up his nose at the taste. Disgusting - but it does the job. He puts on his favorite hat, and doesn’t even blink at his flickering reflection while he straightens it. For a moment his blue eyes flash a brilliant, inhuman shade of green, but he merely stands back and shrugs.

He should try to get a hot dog on his way to work. As sick as he is of those damn things, he couldn’t turn down a meal he could pay for in card tricks. Especially if he was already seeing things this early.

With a final twirl of his mustache and tug at his coat, his mask falls easily into place. The reflection is no longer his, but it’s not the work of any strange shadows.

He practically bounces out the door, locking it behind him and putting the key away with a flourish. A neighbor down the hall giggles at his antics, and he shoots her a winning smile and a wink. The whiskey stinging his throat helps numb the dread already burning in his chest.

Time for another day.

-

It’s been months since the hallucinations started, and they’ve steadily gotten worse. Jameson had mostly kept them to himself, only ever mentioning them offhandedly to an acquaintance at a bar one night. That had been a mistake - he wouldn’t dream of repeating what he’d called him.

He is still a gentleman, after all - even if he’s gone completely off his rocker.

Jameson looks in the mirror, now completely unbothered by the shifting reflection. Some days it barely looks like him at all. He’s caught glimpses of sharp teeth and pointed ears, black clothes and eyes to match. If he had ever been a religious man he would have probably called a priest by now. He laughs at the thought - as if the church would want anything to do with a man like him.

It has been happening more often, though. Sometimes it almost seems like the reflection is trying to speak to him or reach out. Other times it simply… moves on its own. He’s not sure which should be more troubling.

These days he barely has the energy to care. So he doesn’t bother, and keeps getting ready for the outing he’d been dreading all day.

Despite his many protests, the group he tends to hang around most often decided to throw him a birthday party. He was never one for them, honestly - his parents had never been able to afford gifts, and he hasn’t had a single real friend since he moved away. His last few birthdays have just served as a painful reminder that another long, dreadful year had passed without him getting any closer to his goals.

“Twenty-six, huh? You’re getting old, chap,” he says softly, looking over his reflection. It’s eyes are once again shining green, and his outfit flickers every so often. Jameson grins at it because really, what else could he do? Well, he could smash it, for starters, but no matter how bad it got he could never bring himself to do it.

It’s just a morbid curiosity, he tells himself again - and he definitely couldn’t afford a new one anyway.

Or maybe he’s just that bored.

Hm.

Jameson shakes his head, “No time for that nonsense, they’ll be here any minute!”

For another night of cheap booze and pub food - at least it won’t be coming out of his pocket this time.

He picks up his hat, flipping it and rolling it from one arm to the other before flicking it into the air and onto his head. He’s been practicing that one for a while. “So much for old dogs and new tricks,” he says to his reflection, winking. He could swear that for a moment it looks... impressed? Amused?

A soft giggle echoes on the edge of his mind.

Jameson catches his reflection’s eyes for a moment, and feels a strange tugging in his chest. As if pulled by an invisible string his hand begins to reach out to the glassy surface. Closer, and closer… until he could swear his fingers could simply... push through...

A loud familiar voice calls his name, violently snapping him out of his trance-like state.

He rushes to his window, poking his head out to look at the city street below. A small group has gathered - though larger than he expected. The source of the shouting stares back up at him - a handsome young man with a mop of blonde curls and freckles, not too much older than Jameson… Charles? George? Something painfully common, unfortunately. But he’s handsome nonetheless. Jameson’s heart skips a beat - he’s been harboring a small crush on the man for some time now. He’s glad to see him at the head of these festivities.

“I’ll be right down!! Don’t run off without me!!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”

Jameson feels his cheeks start to burn and pushes away from the window, clutching his chest. He hears a few laughs and jeers from the crowd below, then a loud smack followed by a roar of laughter as one of the girls calls him a tease.

“I was joking, James. Damn! Sorry!”

“A bloody shame, really,” Jameson mutters to himself, embarrassed. He crosses the room again, checking his reflection one more time. The blush flickers away for a moment, only to return worse than before. He sighs, thoughts wandering back to that strange pull he felt a few minutes ago as he fixes his hair.

He reaches out again, fingers gently brushing against the glass. The cold surface makes him shiver, but beyond that… nothing. It’s solid. Just another weird hallucination to add to the growing list.

“Maybe next time you’ll swallow me whole. God knows I wouldn’t mind.”

Jameson straightens his coat and gives himself a final once over before heading out the door, locking it with the same practiced flourish.

Smile and flirt with the neighbor girl. Shoulders back. Keep a bounce in each step. He’s going to have a whole crowd to entertain tonight - all eyes will be on him for his special day. The ever present simmering dread once again begins to flare, but there’s no time for that now.