#ofcastora

Death, Boris thinks, makes his brain rewire itself. All other thoughts shift an inch out of place to instead focus at the task at hand: he’s always been better with words, and he’s a decent shot, but there have been so many mishaps and mercy-killings and blood stains to clean up over the years that when Damiano specifies that he wants someone erased from the world of the living entirely, well... he can’t help the nervous buzz. It’s one of his many fatal flaws: give him a crowd, and he’ll write them all poetry. Give him a gun? He can muster together a sonnet, but it’s not quite as flowery as his other works.

It’s with this sense of thrumming anxiety that he waits for the initiate he’s been assigned to babysit: not in the most official capacity, obviously, but the verbiage had more or less been keep an eye on her. Castora Aguilar is eighteen, wary to the ways of the Montagues but not disinterested in their methods, and seems to have a few notions spinning around in her head as to just how quickly she’ll rise through the ranks. He’s waiting on her now to arrive from the lobby with the keys to the flat, perpetually unoccupied. When they open the door they’ll find nothing but a rifle left behind by some other lackey, some bottles of water, and a camera to confirm when the deed is done. This afternoon, he’ll be wielding the camera. He cannot help but feel grateful for it. Taking a life is no small burden, besides.

There, across the street from the window of the flat Boris is waiting outside, sitting in the lobby and enjoying his early cup of espresso, is the man Castora is going to kill today. Boris might not like her much for the sake of her tendency to chatter, but if he’s intent on ensuring anything this morning, it’s that she’ll succeed. It flatters them both to do well, especially on tasks like this, when Damiano has insisted that the death be public and gruesome. Carleo -- no first name given, tall and reedy with a beard that looks like it’s been glued to his chin -- will have his brains splattered on the floor of that little cafe he so greatly adores before noon. The crowd will exit, and his little mob of buffoons that trail after him like hounds will find their leading man dead, effectively crushing whatever rebellion they’d been trying to incite among the ranks of the Montagues in a matter of moments. Boris checks his watch. They have a little over an hour to see this through. The elevator bell rings, and he lifts his head to see Castora step out. No one exits with her. It’s just the two of them in the hallway. He nods at her, only speaking once she’s close enough that he doesn’t have to shout: “Did you get the keys?”

🤗 - draws my muse in for a hug

“We’re okay, come here.” 

Pandora tugs on Castora’s arm, pulling her into her space and wraps her own arm around her shoulders. If this was any other situation, she would make a quip about the smeared blood between the two staining their shirts. The desire to protect Cas from what they went through overwhelms Pandora. Her other hand reaches for the gun in Castora’s hand, tossing it onto the nearest surface so the other woman wouldn’t have to worry about the weight in her hand. If she doesn’t see the weapon, she won’t be concerned with it. Their breathing is the only noise in the room, the other companion in the room has long since passed. She finally brings her other arm to her shoulder, hand instinctively going to the back of her neck to pull her closer. 

This was never supposed to happen. Their mission had been simple - it was given to them after all. The idea that Cas would have to step between her and a gun never crossed either of their minds. 

🌅 - A memory associated with a certain location.

       The door’s locked. Henry thinks this with some amount of pride, because even though the building is the most secure he could find, it never hurts to be triple safe. He taps his pockets, setting the bottle in his hand on the ground by his feet as he searches for the key. He ends up with three keys to three separate cars, the hard key for the gun safe in his office, his wallet, three coins, and a half-smoked cigar, but no house keys of any kind.

       Henry, frowning, pounds on the door again, loud enough to be obnoxious.❝ Hector ! ❞ he calls through the door, laughing a little.❝ Heeeector, ❞ he calls again, almost kissing the door in his joyful urgency,❝ Let me in, tesoro. ❞ There’s no reply, and he wobbles enough to consider sitting down, grasping at the bottle so he doesn’t spill it all over Hector’s doorstep. He hasn’t thrown up near him in months, either, and he’d like to keep the messes at a minimum, keep the winning streak.

       Trying to stand again makes him very dizzy, so Henry sits, back against Hector’s door, thumping his head a time or two before it starts to throb. Trying to ward off the inevitable pounding, he takes another swig from the bottle, barely tasting it at this point. ❝ Nei tuoi occhi c’è il cielo, ❞ he sing-songs through the door, trying to coax Hector into letting him in. In his drunken state, he doesn’t even consider that he might not be home.❝ Let me look at you. ❞

       After a moment, his smile dims, his eyes turning black as he stares down the empty hallway. He finishes the bottle, rolling it off to the side so he won’t smash it if he moves or falls asleep. Henry turns on his side, his ear pressed against the door, trying to listen for Hector’s footsteps. If he hears him, he can go to sleep; he’s safe.❝ I wouldn’t, either, ❞ he says, slurring now.❝ Wise move, caro. Is this the night you give me what I’m due ? ❞ He taps his fingers against the door, watching them like they’re some sort of spider, grotesque and fascinating at once. 

        ❝ I think I’ll die if you leave, ❞ he says to the door, like it can keep all his secrets locked away. He can only be honest after diving head-first into the bottle; just another little character flaw.❝ I want you to. I don’t. Please don’t. Let me in, you have to — ❞ Those same light fingers pry claw-like against the icy wood, to no avail.❝ There’s nothing else. ❞ When no answer comes, he pulls up his knees close to his face, the way he did as a child. The light is too bright, and he has to close them, falling asleep within seconds.

At the exact moment he does it, Boris decides that jabbing a knife into this poor young Capulet’s neck is, for lack of a better word, unfortunate. It’s messy, definitely ugly, and he’s no trained killer, which means that he’s just a little too far off to the left, so this boy (not even a man, not yet) is left to gurgle and choke on his own spittle on the floor while Boris is left to watch and stare at the microphone wire peeking out from between the buttons on his violet-hued silk shirt. No accounting for taste, he thinks.

Even as he crouches to tuck the wire away before Castora Aguilar comes any closer, he notes that this feels a little more familiar than he’s comfortable with. It’s not the first time he’s been caught in a strange situation, not even the first time with her, and this is, what, the fourth Capulet contact he’s run through? He’s beginning to wonder if he’s not very good at his job.

Or maybe that’s the issue. This, technically, is not his job. Maybe he’s just not as good as negotiation in general. Still, he kneels, tucks the wire away, and stands again -- with blood on his hands, across his palms. He tries not to feel too badly about how disastrously this meeting went, supposed to last only five minutes and nothing more, and feels worse when he feels bad anyway. He’ll make a note of trying not to kick himself while he’s down, later, and pulls it together as Castora draws closer with each step. There is no time to compose himself, tidy up, look like the emissary he’s supposed to be.

She has a habit of doing that, always has, catching him in the moments where Brutus is just a man. Funny.

He supposes the body in front of him now could very well be a metaphor for their distancing, over the years. He might’ve called her something like a little sister once, but their estranged version of communication (a text sent back and forth every two months or so) and no answers to give, much less a goodbye said -- well. They make things a little uglier than that. He knows she’s been climbing the ranks like no one else, knows that her skill, it seems, is unparalleled.

He didn’t really help, but he still can’t stop himself from feeling proud. He looks at Castora, after over a year of not seeing her and saying nothing to her, without ever bothering to tie off loose ends (they were supposed to get coffee together the week he’d been put on a plane, no apologies or farewells spoken in the meantime), and feels, uncomfortably, regret. Can’t have that. So he gives her a small nod, ignoring the blood on his hands, and a half-smile, pretending the pang in his chest at the sight of her (all grown up now, not quite the girl she’d been, curious and terrified and a little weepy) after all this time has done nothing at all.

LAST SENT TEXTS?

[ 05.02.19 4:00p ]     How would you feel if someone set you up on a blind date? I think you could use some happiness! Oooh, what if we made you a tinder and you let me manage it for a day?! That would be super fun! You deserve some hugs and kisses, Cas! Don’t forget to make me a bridesmaid when this is all said and done! 05.05.19 12:01a ]     I know we’re only a few years apart, but I feel like you’re so wise! I think we both have something to teach each other, don’t you? I’m so glad I found you! 05.10.19 3:27a ]     OMG did I ever tell you about the time I almost got mugged? It was crazy! I think he was a bit of a smooth-talker, you know? I also believe that he still thought that I was attractive. What if he wanted what was in my purse but he also wanted to get to know me? [ 05.12.19 3:27p ]     Can I tell you something, Cas? I know lovey dovey talk vexes you, but I need to share this. I am in love with Tomas Sabello. Can you believe it? I thought it would take longer than this to find my other half, but I did it! [ 05.14.19 2:59a ]     If you let me come over again, I promise we won’t have another brownie situation. I miss you!

LAST UNSENT TEXTS?

[ 05.01.19 1:00p ]     I didn’t have the birds and the bees talk with my mother, she’s always shied away from topics like that, but I’m not an idiot! Yes, I know that the baby doesn’t just fall out of the stomach when nine months are up, Castora! [ 05.08.19 7:11p ]     Maybe if you weren’t so lonely, you would be open to the idea of someone else finding love. [ 05.17.19 6:22a ]     Do you think that you’re going to grow old and alone with five cats? Why are you so scared of love? What’s going to happen once you’re too old to be of any value to the Montagues?

WHAT MY MUSE SAVED YOUR NUMBER AS?

Cas 😘

WHAT CONTACT PHOTO MY MUSE HAS SAVED FOR YOURS?

[x]

WHAT RINGTONE MY MUSE HAS SET FOR YOURS?

Greg Street Good Day instrumental LMFIDLDOD

HOW MANY TIMES MY MUSE HAS CALLED YOURS THIS WEEK?

Four. She prefers to text Castora so she doesn’t have to hear her tone.

HOW MANY CALLS HAS MY MUSE MISSED FROM YOURS?

More important than the man of the hour, however, is the princeling of the Montagues. He’s making his way from cluster to cluster, tending to his flock with all the careful devotion of an heir. He smiles in just the right way and they all practically faint into his arms. Makes sense, he supposes. That’s what they need to do, if they want to stay in the mob’s good graces. Lucien isn’t here for the shepherd, though. He’s here for the hound. Ajax stands in such an imposing way that all those making an effort to converse with Roman don’t stand too close. He’s got something in his ear feeding him information, and not once does he seem unaware or taken aback. It’s incredible: it’s like he predicts what Roman is going to say or where he’s going to move to before the man even does it.

The opening comes -- Roman says something to Ajax. Ajax nods, and when Roman moves away with two strangers at his side, Ajax does not move. Instead he does his best to blend into the crowd, falling back, turning his gaze towards the paintings rather than the people. Now’s the time. If Lucien wants to take this opportunity to have what he’d consider a crucial discussion with Ajax, now is very much the time to do it. He grabs a champagne flute off a passing tray and smiles and nods at those who recognize him. Those that don’t pay him no mind. He fixes his eyes on the piece Ajax is staring at with a little too much intent, and hopefully his hurried movements will be passed off as sudden interest.

For a moment, Lucien thinks it’s worked. No one seems intent to stop him from going anywhere up until he’s halfway across the room and listening to the big artiste ramble about the elegance in a woman’s hands from a few feet away. And then Castora Aguilar appears out of the corner of his eye, approaching him with as much determination as he had in pursuing Ajax. (Surely she doesn’t intend to speak about the delicacy of finger bone movement -- Lucien would rather die than have that conversation with anyone.) He decides then and there that there will be no more moving. He plants his feet, puts on a smile, and hopes to fake it well enough that Castora will let him go on with his night.

Fat chance, but a man can dream.

He lifts his champagne towards her in acknowledgement, instead. Ajax remains where he’s standing from what Lucien can see. The conversation might not be entirely out of the window, if he plays his cards right. He turns his attention back to Castora.  “Ms. Aguilar, it’s good to see you.”

🔪- A memory about a dangerous situation.

       Damn him! Her contact, a weaselly type she’d only ever known as Junco, was late. Brielle tapped her heel absently against the ground, arms crossed. It was warm enough that she wore only a thin, flowing shirt, still unused to the ridiculous heat of Italy. Now, she wished she’d worn a coat, if only to be able to stuff her hands into the pockets imposingly.

       It was a routine fucking assignment. Junco was a lower-level American transplant who apparently liked to use bird names for aliases. Personally, she thought the English junk fit him well, too, though it was in her best interest to keep that quiet aside from the contact name in her phone.

       After a minute she ducked back into an alcove, watching the alley with increasing worry. If Junco wasn’t coming, she couldn’t bet that someone else wouldn’t. While the Montagues paid off a fair amount of la policia, there were always those double-timing for the Capulets, or the few noble crusaders who hadn’t had the cause beaten out of them just yet. If Junco ratted, she would be sure to tell Marcello, and it would go far worse for him than anything la policia had waiting, but perhaps he was stupid enough not to realize.

      Footsteps sounded at the end of an alley, along with a jangling of keys. The sound was suspicious enough that she leaned back against the swinging door and entered the kitchen. Inside was a lone bus-boy, the water spraying dishes so loudly in concert with the music he was blasting that he didn’t even hear her. 

       Brielle ducked through the door into the restaurant at large, all cleared out of even serving staff, and stole across the room, fitting her body into the host’s podium. The flexibility she’d earned over time helped here as she folded herself in, small as she could, and listened as they entered the kitchen. The music cut short, and low voices began speaking for a moment before she heard footsteps enter the large room full of tables. Briefly, she saw a flashlight sweep overhead, but it passed her without regard.