#part 29

Thursday came bitter and sharp, all wind slicing through his coat as he ducked down an alley off La Rousse and into the backroom of an old tailor’s shop – a legitimate front. It was run by an elderly man named Niki who had been running the business since back in the early 1980’s, long before Monaco ever gained their nefarious Reaper. 

Lando just happened to be a loyal business partner of his – a humble young man who paid a generous amount in exchange for exclusive access to the basement of the old property. Niki had the added bonus of being a man who knew how to mind his own business.

Lando liked that in a partner.

The real business was three floors beneath—cold, concrete, and buzzing with quiet tension. His people were already gathered around the long steel table: Max Fewtrell leaning back in a chair, Logan with his arms folded, Carlos hunched over some schematics.

“News?” Lando asked, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto the rack behind him.

Carlos looked up, tapping the paper with his knuckles. “Got movement near Mile End. New shipment of knockoff tech—headsets, tablets, black market shit. I say we intercept and flip it.”

Lando nodded. “Do it quiet. No fireworks. I don’t want more noise than necessary this week.”

That’s when Verstappen stepped up to inform him that the warehouse on the docks had been hit. Two of Lando’s runners had gotten picked up and one of them was singing like a songbird. To make matters worse, their local books weren’t clean— for that matter, nothing was clean— but it meant that some fool had tried to skim off the gambling profits again. 

Lando stood at the edge of the table, leaning forward on his fists as he surveyed the projected losses and the photograph evidence. With the way his sleeves were rolled up and his fists were clenched, Logan had to approach him, cutting off his train of thought.

“Mate, you have to take a breath, you're going to kill someone and then paperwork becomes my problem.”

“...Mate?”

“Boss. I meant boss. It’s, uh, a different way of pronouncing it. Yeah! Uh, French. Very French.”

The glare Lando shot him was so potent and so familiar that Logan didn’t need a language to understand it.

Shut up, Spin.

Logan sighed.

Why is it always me?

By noon, his phone buzzed with a familiar unknown number. There was no contact name, but the area code was French, and Lando was smart enough to know who would be so bold as to call him again.

Gasly.

The French always were so full of themselves.

It’d been a while since he’d heard from him. The Frenchman wasn’t one to just call up without a reason. And Lando had a feeling this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat about old racing memories.

With a roll of his eyes, Lando finally answered the call, placing the call on speaker before leaning back in his chair. 

“Gasly,” Lando greeted succinctly, tone unreadable.

“Ah, now you pick up, huh? I have been trying to get your attention for some time now, Mr. Norris,” There was a slight chuckle, then a shift to seriousness. “Lando,” came the smooth, almost cocky voice on the other end. “You are busy?”

“Always,” Lando replied, his tone flat. “What do you need?”

“We should meet.”

He paused. The warehouse around him stilled.

“Where?”

“Neutral ground. Tomorrow night. Hmm, Le Voile d'Or? Not one of your places. Bring one of your own. Just one.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lando said, his voice low and cold. “But don’t think for a second I’m gonna let you walk all over me, Gasly.”

Gasly laughed, as if the challenge didn’t faze him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The line went dead before Lando could respond.

Bastard.

That night, Lando was back at the head of the intimate table setup in the meeting room, the dark mahogany reflecting the warm light of the ornate overhead chandelier. He folded his sleeves casually, rolling them to his elbows, his knuckles still raw but healing. Logan, Carlos, and Max Fewtrell sat with him, a fresh set of printed diagrams spread across the table—half club schematics, half distribution routes.

“He’s been running the street scene uptown with those modified imports and the fancy kid drivers,” Daniel added, leaning back. “Why would he want to fold into our operation now?”

“Because we’ve got infrastructure,” Lando said. “He’s got speed and no discipline. We’ve got routes, clean-ups, and an intel network he couldn’t build in a decade.”

Max tilted his head. “You thinking we bring him in for delivery work? Or enforcement?”

“Neither.” Lando’s jaw tightened. “We make him a runner. Use Gasly and his Garage to move product across districts fast. Street races’ll double as cover. We don’t touch the actual racin’—we let him handle that circus.”

Daniel let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty ambitious.”

“It’s efficient,” Lando muttered. “We’ve lost two outer routes in the last month. We need speed without, like, needin’ to rebuild everythin’ from scratch.”

Lando leaned forward, resting his forearms against the edge of the table, rings tapping a dull rhythm on the steel. “He said his crew is fast, low-profile, and looking for more work. But I think he wants protection—someone to watch his back if things go south.”

Carlos frowned. “Could be good.”

“Could be bait,” Logan muttered.

Lando considered both. In this life, everything came with a price. 

Trust, especially.

Still, he needed to keep moving. Staying still made him think too much—about her, about that night, about the blood on her hands and how small she’d looked on his bathroom floor, knees drawn to her chest, his name barely a whisper.

At least he could keep the rest of the world in order. That much, he could still control.

“He’s smart,” Max Fewtrell said, interrupting his thoughts, tracing a path from the docks through to the northern districts. “Gasly’s been running his racing ring lean. Tight crew. Fast drivers. They're ghosts, half’a the time.”

Carlos, leaning against the lockers, nodded in agreement. “They are a fast crew. Young. Aggressive, too. They know the roads better than most of our guys do. And the bikes they run with?” He let out a low whistle. “Custom-built, half of them. Perfect for the tight runs.”

“What, you trust ‘em?” Daniel half-laughed, skeptical.

“No,” Lando rolled his eyes, as if Daniel had asked some stupid, childish question. “But I don’t need to trust ‘em. I need him to know we could make each other very, very rich, ” he smiled smugly.

Logan looked up from the tablet. “Using his drivers as runners could cut our drop times in half…”

“And also draw heat,” Carlos pointed out. “They crash one car, we will lose the route and the product.”

Lando leaned back, eyes flicking over the blueprints again. 

Logan folded his arms. “ I dunno… could be useful. If we want to up our speed game, y’know.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Or it’s a setup. C’mon, I thought I was our car guy!”

Carlos only laughed.

Lando cracked his knuckles. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll hear him out. He wants to meet at a neutral place, suggested Le Voile d'Or. I want two exits, working comms, and I want eyes on the building an hour before Max n’ I even step foot in it. Logan and Oscar will go tonight and set up early. Got it?”

He could feel his heart rate pick up, the adrenaline that always came with making deals like this. But at the same time, he couldn’t escape the thought that kept gnawing at him—he wasn’t doing this to move forward anymore. He was doing it to outrun what was closing in behind him.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, the shadow of the city growing darker behind him. Everything he was doing now was just a distraction. A way to ignore the fact that, no matter how many deals he made or how many punches he threw, it was never enough. 

Lando gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time to think about that. Not now.

Gasly had his attention, and that was enough for tonight.

“Yuki!” Pierre barked, stepping over a tangle of brake lines. “The NSX is still sputtering in third—didn’t I tell you to fix that two days ago?”

Yuki, crouched under the hood with grease smudged across his cheek, didn’t flinch. “Yeah, you did. And I am, but maybe if Esteban didn’t screw with the ECU mapping behind my back—”

“That was an improvement,” Esteban waved off, leaning against the wall with a bottle of water and a smug tilt to his mouth. “Unlike your tuning, which sounds like a dying blender.”

Pierre groaned, pacing past the two. “If you two can go thirty fucking seconds without pissing on each other, maybe we would have a car ready before Lando and his crew show tomorrow.”

Tucked into a half-abandoned industrial lot on the outskirts of the city, the place didn’t look like much from the outside. But inside, rows of souped-up cars lined the walls, glittering under harsh fluorescent lights. Toolboxes clanged, beats thudded from an old speaker rigged in the corner, and the murmur of French, Japanese, and the occasional curse in English hung low in the air.

The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber hung heavy in the air, thick with adrenaline and sweat. Neon light spilled from under the cracked roll-up doors of Gasly’s Garage, casting eerie pinks and greens over the collection of customized engines and half-assembled machines inside. It looked like chaos, but every screw, wire, and rev was calculated—Pierre wouldn’t allow otherwise.

This was Gasly’s world. And tonight, he was not fucking around.

“We need to look tight,” Pierre said sharply, pacing between two low-slung Hondas with custom body kits and matte finishes. “Like… we belong in that league, same as him.”

Yuki, now crouched under the open hood of a deep purple Acura NSX, didn’t even look up. “We do belong in the same league. You just want to look prettier.”

“Prettier gets us in the room,” Pierre snapped. “The rest comes after.”

From the far side of the garage, a socket wrench clattered to the floor. Esteban straightened up, rubbing his grease-stained hands on an already filthy rag.

“I thought the whole point of us was not needing his approval,” he said, too loud on purpose. “But sure. Let us beg for Norris’s scraps. I’m sure he’ll be flattered.”

Pierre’s jaw flexed. “It’s not begging. It is business.”

Esteban gave him a look. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, mon frère.”

Yuki rolled his eyes, muttering something in Japanese that probably wasn’t flattering.

“Putain,” Pierre swore under his breath, rubbing the side of his face. “Where the fuck is Jack? Tell me the rookie isn’t late. Again.”

“He’s not late,” came Yuki’s voice, straightening up to take a step back from the hood and check his work. He was still admiring his handiwork when he plainly told Pierre, “You are just anxious.”

Pierre shot him a look. Yuki didn’t flinch, just wiped his hands on a rag and dropped the hood with a satisfying thunk, before coming to stand beside Pierre.

“I’m not anxious,” Pierre said, voice low but clipped. “I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

“You are pacing like my grandmother used to before Sunday Mass,” Yuki deadpanned.

“Your grandmother also used to smuggle hash through airport security in her rosary beads,” Esteban muttered from the side, leaned against a stack of tires with a lazy smirk. “Ah, I know! Maybe she should be running this crew instead.”

Pierre turned his head sharply. “Say that again, Ocon. I dare you.”

Esteban lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I am just saying. If Lando Norris is coming all the way down from his big castle to check us out, maybe he’s expecting more than… this shit.”

Pierre stepped toward him. Yuki, with the patience of someone who’d seen this a hundred times before, simply pulled out his vape and took a long drag.

“You think you could run this place better?” Pierre asked tightly, jaw set. “Sois mon putain d'invité.”

“Je ne veux pas de ton travail, mon pote. I just want to survive the night without you starting a pissing contest in front of a guy who could bankroll half the East District.”

“Guys,” Yuki interrupted. “Maybe focus up? If we screw this up, we lose our only shot at this.”

The hangar doors creaked open with a mechanical groan before Pierre could respond. Jack Doohan rolled in then, stepping out with a backpack slung over one shoulder, hair damp like he’d just showered in a gas station sink. His car was flashy, over-tuned, too much chrome.

“You’re late,” Pierre snapped.

“Sorry,” Jack offered with a crooked smile, dropping the bag with a thud. “Cops shut down the shortcut. Had to take the long way ‘round.”

Pierre just glared. 

Jack raised both hands. “Hey, I’m here now. What’d I miss?”

Yuki stood up, wiping car grease off his hands. “Everything important. But mostly Pierre yelling.”

Pierre shot him a warning look, cutting them off. “We’re here to make this look good. Lando Norris isn’t just some suit with a penchant for fast cars. He’s a calculated bastard. He’ll smell desperation from a mile away, so get your heads on straight.”

A beat of silence passed. The only sound was the low hum of the cars still cooling and the faint beat of music shifting to something darker.

At the back of the garage, Jack stood quietly, knuckles skinned from a rushed brake swap, eyes wide as he tried to absorb everything. This was his third week with Gasly’s crew, and it felt like a masterclass in organized madness. Pierre didn’t trust easily, but Jack had shown he wasn’t just another rich kid with a turbo’d Civic and something to prove. He listened. He learned. And most importantly, he earned his bruises.

“Oi,” Pierre called to him. “Check the tire pressure on the GTR. If we’re gonna show Lando we can move fast, we need to look like we live at 300 kph.”

Jack nodded immediately, wiping his hands on his jeans before jogging over to the corner.

The Garage was more than just their base—it was sacred ground. A Frankenstein’s lab of torque and tension. The walls were lined with old race trophies and Polaroids: half the people in them long gone, half still hanging on by blood, rivalry, or debt.

“You have got two hours,” he said instead. “We meet Lando and his guy at midnight sharp, comprendre?”

Esteban crossed his arms. “And what do we do when Lando starts asking questions we can’t answer? You think he is just going to just hand over his distribution lines because we brought him pretty toys?”

“No,” Pierre said. “I think he’ll listen if we show him we’ve got speed, discipline, and something he doesn’t. He knows this city better than anyone — but we know the streets. Every alley, every cop rotation, every crew too young or too desperate to turn legit. That’s what we offer.”

Jack looked around, cracking his knuckles. “You, uh, think they’ll bring Spin?”

Yuki raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think so. Lando doesn’t let anyone talk for him.”

“Except the Fewtrell boy,” Pierre muttered. “That’s his second, from what I hear.”

Esteban snorted. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Yuki closed the RX-7’s hood with a clang. “Why are we even trying so hard with this guy? You know he doesn’t play well with others.”

Pierre shot him a look. “Because Lando Norris doesn’t just run a syndicate—he is the syndicate. We get this deal, we stop bleeding cash on side bets and finally start –how they say– playing in the big leagues.”

“And if he says no?” Esteban asked, too casually.

“Then we make him say yes.” Pierre’s voice was calm, too calm.

Yuki exhaled, long and low. “You always say that before something explodes.”

“That’s because something always does,” Pierre grinned, flashing gold where his canine used to be. “Now get the hell to work. Tomorrow’s not just a meeting. It’s our audition.”

With that, Pierre was already walking toward his own car — a sleek silver Nissan GT-R with a cobalt blue underglow, hood up, engine gutted and humming as his crew fine-tuned every detail. He stood there for a moment, one hand resting on the roof.

This had to go right.

Because Gasly’s Garage wasn’t just a bunch of kids racing for pink slips anymore – not since the money started moving, not since the bets turned serious. Not since the first time someone crashed, and the body disappeared before sunrise.

They were in it now. And Lando Norris — the Reaper himself — was the next step.

So yeah, they’d play nice. 

For now.

But only because they planned to run this city one day.

And when they did?

They’d remember exactly who looked down on them.

The chosen meeting, an unconstructed club called Le Voile d'Or was nothing more than a skeleton — steel beams, concrete floors, and open air where the ceiling should’ve been. No neon signs, no thumping bassline. Just construction tape fluttering in the breeze and the sound of sawdust spreading about. Lando liked it that way. No distractions. No corners to hide in.

The meet was set for midnight.

He arrived at 11:43, naturally. Max was already pacing near the car, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“They’re not here yet,” Max muttered, eyes scanning the lot. “You sure this isn’t a trap?”

“It’s always a trap,” Lando said evenly, pulling off his gloves as he stepped onto the gravel. “S’why we lay ours first.”

Oscar was already in position. Rooftop a block out, four floors up, a clean sightline, silencer on. One text and he could stop a heartbeat mid-sentence.

Logan had swept the perimeter earlier — camera blind spots mapped, back exits sealed, with Daniel and Verstappen posted by the service stairs. With Carlos positioned near the front entrance, nothing got in or out without them knowing.

Still, Lando’s eyes never stopped moving. Even in this hollow, half-built ruin, he was all edges. Sharp jaw, sharper gaze. His coat moved like a shadow when he walked, his boots steady and deliberate. You could tell just by looking at him: he wasn’t here to negotiate unless he wanted to.

11:56.

The hum of tuned engines echoed off the walls before the headlights appeared — three cars, low and fast, cutting through the dark. One was black with a burnt-pink stripe. The other, a silver Nissan, purred like a threat.

Gasly stepped out first. He didn’t hurry – he didn’t have to. He had that swagger particular to people who knew they were dangerous in ways others hadn’t even figured out yet. Yuki emerged just behind him — shorter, tenser, but clearly not a sidekick. Not with the way he scanned the site like he was already calculating escape routes.

Pierre approached with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, giving the Brit a once over. “Is that a gun? Or you are just happy to see me?”

Lando raised a brow. “Only as happy as you are,” he shot back, pointing his gaze to the handgun tucked into the band of Pierre’s baggy jeans.

Pierre chuckled. “Ah, touché.”

Max stayed silent behind Lando, eyes locked on Yuki, who looked like he might pull a knife just for fun. He made a point to stretch, the lifting of his jacket enough to show off the gun tucked in his own pocket, even if he couldn’t spot one on Pierre’s second. Tension crackled beneath the false politeness — a quiet understanding that everyone here had killed someone, directly or not.

Still, they went through the motions.

“Gasly,” Lando greeted.

“Norris.”

They shook hands — cool, quick, firm. No warmth.

“I hear you’re looking to expand,” Pierre said, tone smooth. “And I hear you’ve had trouble keeping up with demand lately.”

Lando didn’t react. “You offering t’help or just here to gloat?”

Pierre smiled. “Help, of course. I’ve got roads you don’t. Drivers you haven’t met. Eyes in places your boys would never pass unnoticed. You’re good at staying clean. I’m better at staying untraceable.”

Max Fewtrell looked over at Lando, unimpressed. Lando reflected that same look back to Gasly.

“Did you call me here just to make y’self feel nice, or do you actually have something f’me?

Gasly chuckled. “I have been thinking. You know how we used to roll together, back in the day? The racing, the high stakes? I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Lando unbuttoned the front of his suit, leaning against a makeshift table as he stared up at the Frenchman with a look that told to get on with it quickly. Lando Norris didn’t take kindly to have his time wasted, especially by posh wannabes looking to be somebodys.

“Go on.”

“I’ve got a network, a big one – street racers, quiter routes, plenty of guys who know not to play by the rules.” He glanced over at Yuki, who nodded, before he continued with his pitch. “We’ve got the runners, the cars, the cash flow, but we’re looking for someone who can push things, make it worth the risk. And you… well, you’ve got a reputation.”

Pierre had slowly been making his way closer to where the two Reaper boys were standing, and it was making Max antsy. Gasly saw Max’s hand twitch for his handgun and laughed, waving him off. “We are old friends here, non? No need for such things.” 

Within moments, Lando’s mind clicked over the options. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d been looking for: leverage, power, control. A street racing ring under his influence meant more money, more influence, more control of the territories he was still trying to solidify. Gasly could help him gain an edge over rival crews who were too weak to understand how to play the long game.

“I’m… listening,” Lando muttered carefully.

“There’s potential in this for both of us, Lando. We can talk the bigger numbers when you agree. But you and I, we’ve always worked well together. Let us make something bigger than just a few races, hmm? Let us make it profitable for both of us.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. He could hear the pitch—Gasly was selling the idea of partnership, but he was also a businessman. If Lando played his cards right, this could open doors for all sorts of opportunities. But he had to be careful. Gasly was clever, slippery. And Lando wasn’t sure he trusted the guy enough to dive in without a second thought.

“And in return? Somehow I get the feelin’ you’re not doin’ this out of the goodness of you heart,” Max asked.

“Product. Routes. A seat at the table. Not the whole table — I know who I’m talking to.” Pierre tilted his head, smiling. He took a step closer, his voice lowering. “But… perhaps a slice.”

Yuki stepped forward, holding out a tablet with a map — color-coded, clean, and too detailed for Lando’s liking. Lando didn’t touch it. He simply nodded for Max to take it.

“I’ll have someone vet it,” he said.

“Of course,” Pierre replied. “And if you don’t like what you see?”

Lando met his gaze. “I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

The air held its breath for a moment.

Then Pierre smiled again. “I always like a man who’s polite when he threatens me.”

“Oh no, I’m not threatening,” Lando said, his smile sickly sweet. “Yet.”

Pierre laughed. Yuki didn’t, his eyes flitting between the two Brit’s momentarily.

One mistake, and it could all fall apart.

They talked numbers next — shipments, timing, how many people were on Pierre’s crew, what kind of muscle they had, whether they had clean fronts or needed cover. Pierre answered everything easily, like he’d been rehearsing for this moment.

Lando noticed it,  clocked it, but didn’t call it out.

Pierre’s boys had made their pitch, and Lando—cool, unreadable, two steps ahead as always—had picked it apart and rebuilt it in his favor. On paper, they’d be allies. In reality, Gasly’s Garage would be working under him without realizing it. Lando had danced circles around sharper men. Pierre might’ve been slick, but Lando was surgical.

He slid his hands into his coat pockets, posture relaxed. Beside him, Max gave the faintest nod, as if to say we’ve got this. Across the concrete skeleton of the unfinished club, Pierre was still talking—something about logistics, runners, trust but Lando had mostly stopped listening by then.

They’d already won. His work here was done.

But he let Pierre talk anyway, because letting a man believe he’s in control is often the final stroke in tightening the noose.

By the time they finished, the night had shifted — the air less hostile, the power still clear but… tentative. Like everyone had shown their cards, but kept a few aces tucked into their sleeves.

Yuki appeared more closed off, standing more like a protective Doberman by Pierre’s side, while it was Pierre who approached so he and Lando could shake on it..

“Looking forward to working with you, Lando.”

“We’ll see,” Lando said. His designer shoe clacked against the concrete underneath as he too took a step closer, and then—

“Lando—”

Two clicks sounded before Oscar’s voice crackled to life in his ear – urgent and out of breath.

Why was he out of breath?

Lando barely had enough time to wonder when Max looked at him with a matching expression of realization.

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

Boredom, irritation prickled him. The fabric of his clothes felt much too rough for his liking. A lyre was being poorly plucked at. The girl he had chosen with a wave of a hand and an uncertain finger from the portion of the harem that still belonged to him; smelled poorly and wasn’t pleasing companion for the night. He had not visited them in several seasons.

All he had wanted, was one that had not warmed his brother’s bed. He didn’t wish to ignite any anger that could be lurking in the shadows of his mind. Also, he was very aware that besides the madness that ensnared his brother but had given him painful growths that had blemished his brother’s visage and form. He did want that illness to take ahold of him nor you.

He sighed, as the thought of you came over him. You’d learn. There were actions he had to carry out with the vanishing of the moon. The gods had to see him submit on their wishes. He was their vessel in this existence.

There was a loud clang of their swords that drew his attention back to the fighters. Their mock battle before him was growing routine. He blinked when the tide of their fight took a turn. One with wild, dirt brown hair it was rumored he was new in the possession of Macrinus. The whispers that reached his ears, spoke of him having Hanno as his name. It mattered little to him.

He had managed to get the upper hand, or foot by pressing the man with bland yellow hair to the marble floor with a sandaled foot on his throat. He paused, he looked towards him. The prone man scrambled, flaying his hands about. His face flushing with not being able to get a full breath.

“Lord, sire. My emperor He clapped a close fist against his chest. “Beautiful empress…”

The girl behind him made a shrill sound. Anger filled him, it boiled in his stomach. Then he felt as she squeezed his shoulder. Turning, he looked at her hand then her. “Touch me again, I will have your hand removed.” His hand loud enough for her to hear. She moved back, he relished seeing how pale she grew. With hope it was enough for her to leave him be the remainder of the evening.

He turned back to the man. He leaned in. “She is no empress. Familiarize, with who our proper empress is,”

The man grew pale, bowing his head.

“Many apologies, sire.”

“If you make such a mistake again, I will have you fight a beast of my choosing in the arena.”

The man underfoot ceased moving, all voices stopped murmuring.

A wet chuckle came from Caracalla. “And you will only have a spear in hand.”

Sitting back, he took a sip of his wine and placed the glass down.

“And perhaps I will allow a wooden shield.” He added. Sometimes he did like how blood thirsty his brother could be.

Before looking up, the man spoke once again. “May the gods strike iif my apology is not worthy, sire.” He continued. “I ask, shall I dispatch this man in your name, the rightful empresses’s name?”

He wiped his mouth, sighing.

“Yes.” He nodded.

The man gurgled as the brown haired man struck fast at the heart. There was no longer a struggle and he lifted his foot from the man’s throat.

“He’s your gladiator, Macrinus?”

He slid him a glance.

“Keep a watchful eye on him.”

“Yes, sire.” He bowed. “Many apologies for his error.”

“Don’t let it happen again. I am sure you do not wish to lose any funds in your investment.”

“Sire, sire.” A short, round man knelt at his feet. His voice barely, a hushed whisper. Geta could see him trembling. “Sire, Aelia of your domus has sent word that you are in need to return.”

He rose an eyebrow. “Did she say why?”

“No, but it was with great haste.”

He stood. “Is my carriage ready?”

“She sent a fresh one for your return.”

“Brother, continue to enjoy party. Do with her as you wish.”

He made quick work to leave.

“Let our festivities continue!” He heard Caracalla call out. “The night is fresh and so is the flesh and food.”

He pressed his lips together as he gathered his clothes about his frame. Stepping into carriage, knotted and tightened in his stomach.

*********

Getting up from the table of food, a plate of grapes, in your lap clattered loudly to the floor. You didn’t care. You were certain you heard the return of Geta. Stepping over the plate, standing a little straighter a fuzziness filled you. You missed him. You would tell him this and beg for his forgiveness.

The main area was awash with warm light of several torches. There were giggles and excited voice. You hoped that meant he was in good spirits. You drew closer.

Your heart squeezed as you drew close. You watched as a concubine’s hand slipped down his front. He looked pleased. He did not take it away. As you walked up, he kept her hand where it had settled on his chest.

"Go back to your chambers," he commanded. "I am," he smiled up at that s concubine then looked back at vou.

"I am," he smiled up at that s concubine then looked back at you.

"Finally, enjoying myself today. And You've defied me enough today. Leave my prescence."

"But Geta."

"That is emperor." He corrected. "You will learn your place."

"Sire," your voice cracked.

"Please." You dared look at him from bowed head, through the strands of hair that fell into your eyes.

"I said, leave my presence."

You turned, though before you could run away, there was a hush of whispers. Then a peel of laughter that came from her, that sounded like a screeching cat followed by his much deeper, richer sounding laugh. Both however ripped away at your heart.

You tried to run, you fell hard. A scream burst forth from your lips. Pain filled you. You clutched your stomach. “My baby, my baby.”

*********

Sweat, clung to your features. Unease, filled you as he watched Aelia, tried to stop the struggle that had come over you.

He drew closer. “My petal, my beautiful petal I am here.” His voice cracked.

@honey-eyed-munson @amethyst-serenade @laura-naruto-fan1998

@screaming-blue-bagel @kitkat80

@blondie324 @alyisdead

@hellomadamebutterfly @helsa3942 @misspendragonsworld

@therealjomarch @deliciousfestsalad

--

Robotnik drummed his fingers on the metal table, his foot matching the rhythm. He was once more dragged into the interrogation room and chained to the table. Just like last time, Verone was taking his sweet time.

He still had no idea how long he had been incarcerated. There wasn't a single clock or window to give him an idea. Even the guards weren't wearing watches. Worst of all, he had only been offered one meal. Not only did it not offer any indication of time, but it had messed up with his internal clock as well. He was truly lost to how long he had been there.

Were Stone and Rockwell all right? Did Walters know where he was? Robotnik had never been a worrier, but with nothing else to do, he was stuck.

All he could do in his cell was slowly dismantle the bedframe and sink. It was slow work with his fingers as his only tools.

Creek!

Robotnik's head snapped up as he saw Verone step into the room with a cloyingly sweet smile. He was carrying the same file and tablet as last time.

"Doctor," Verone nodded in greeting.

"Where are my Hybrids?" He demanded instead.

"Which ones?" Verone set down his file and arranged a few papers before meeting Robotnik's rage filled gaze.

"My agents. Stone and Rockwell. What other ones?"

"Well, there are the Hybrids you brought with you to the breeding facility. And, of course, they Hybrids you were trying to kidnap from said facility."

Clenching his jaw, Robotnik wanted to demand to know why he was being accused of kidnapping. He rescued those Hybrids! They had been stolen away from their positions and shoved into cages.

"As for your agents," Verone huffed. "They are under Commander Walters' protection at the moment. Neither have been very talkative."

Robotnik snorted. He wouldn't be surprised if either of them bit Verone.

The other man studied him for a few long moments, Robotnik still refusing to say anything to incriminate himself. Verone let out a heavy sigh.

"Doctor, we both know you were at General White's home the night he was murdered."

"No, I wasn't."

Verone raised an eyebrow and picked up his tablet. Robotnik eyed the piece of technology.

"It is true we don't have any footage of your truck heading towards the general's home, but we do have this."

He laid the tablet on the table, just out of reach of Robotnik's hands. A video played for a few seconds.

An empty road. Suddenly, the video was interrupted, replaced with static. After a few moments, the video resumed of the road.

Verone swiped, another video popping up. It was a different stretch of road, but the same thing happened. Static then normal. However, Verone didn't stop there. He kept swiping, showing more and more videos.

All of them leading towards White's home.

"Your truck was never seen," Verone admitted. "But, sometimes, it's the things we don't see that are the most telling."

"You can't prove anything," Robotnik scoffed.

"I don't have to," Verone smiled. However, there was no warmth in it. Instead, when Robotnik stared into his eyes, all he saw was a dark pit leading into a kind of darkness even he wouldn't venture into. "I'm not here to declare you guilty or innocent, doctor. I'm here to understand your motives. GUN has already decided you're going to be staying in this cell for the rest of your life."

Robotnik swallowed.

No.

He refused.

Even if he had to kill someone with his bare hands, he would not stay here.

"So, would you like to tell me why you kidnapped your agents?"

"I didn't kidnap them!" Robotnik hissed.

Verone's face dropped into an unimpressed expression. With a few taps, he pulled up a new video on the tablet.

Robotnik grimaced as he saw himself step out of his mobile lab, Stone over his shoulder and his arms guiding Rockwell. Of course, both were tied up.

"What would you call this?"

"They were in heat! If I hadn't done anything, they would have--" He cut himself off. It was obvious what they would have done.

"Hm," Verone nodded. "The fact you took them from their assigned post is reason enough to declare it a kidnapping."

"Would you say being locked up and threatened to be raped as a post?"

"I don't work with Hybrids."

Robotnik slammed his hand on the table. It didn't have as much impact as he wanted, but it had Verone frowning.

"Hybrids are far superior to humans and yet, none you simpletons can recognize it!"

"Is this why you asked for Stone to be your agent?"

"What?"

That took him off guard. Robotnik had never requested any agent, even Stone.

"Yes. You were given a list of agents to choose from and you chose Agent Stone."

Verone touched his tablet and pulled up a document. Peering closer, Robotnik recognized it. It was an agent selection form.

GUN and Walters had sent him dozens. He had ignored all their attempts at making him choose his next agent, instead allowing them to randomly select one.

In fact, he had ignored the last one to pop into his email before he had been assigned Stone. So, how had Stone been chosen. Squinting, Robotnik read over the other candidates. All of them were human. Stone had been the first and only Hybrid to be put on those lists.

Robotnik schooled his features as a wave of shock and awe swept over him.

There was only one other person he knew that could have pulled this off.

Did Stone really want to be his agent that badly?

"Doctor?" Verone called out. When Robotnik raised his head, Verone narrowed his eyes. "You've had this planned for a while."

"What are you talking about?"

"From all the footage I've seen of you and Agent Stone, it's obvious you care about him. But, he wasn't enough was he?"

"Are you having a stroke?"

"After a year, you give him a collar. Then, another Hybrid shows up on your doorstep. Magically, she also has a collar. Eventually, you have a dozen of Hybrids on the same base bowing to your every whim. Finally, you go after a facility housing even more Hybrids. One would think you're obsessed with Hybrids, doctor. Almost like General White."

"You moronic--!" Robotnik tried to bite back his anger, but he could do nothing against the growl clawing its way up his throat.

"And that's why you also murdered General Cunningham."

"I didn't touch him!"

"No," Verone agreed. "But it wouldn't be hard for me to find some evidence connecting you to the plane crash. You have your pilots liscene, don't you?"

Robotnik was going to strangle Verone with his handcuffs. Or maybe slam his head into the table until his brain became soup.

Verone gave him a shit-eating grin.

"I really do enjoy our talks, doctor."

With that, Verone scooped up his file and tablet before he blinked down at it. With furrowed eyebrows, he swiped at something.

"Looks like it's your lucky day, doctor. You have a vistor."

Robotnik frowned. Verone didn't say anything else as he left.

Alone once more, Robotnik shoved down the disgust rising in him at being continously compared to White. He never demanded loyalty from those Hybrids. They gave it willingly. The only Hybrid he had ever intended to collar was Stone. All the rest were unexpected.

Lost his thought, Robotnik jumped as the door creeked open again.

"Ivo."

Inside the throne room, the banners had been torn down and burned by the now red-fire torches. The previously white marble floor had been scorched and nearly shattered. The throne, black with white, was now occupied by the one Ghost Phantom hadn’t seen in too long.

“Plasmius,” he greeted.

The Ghost smirked. “Phantom.”

He looked around, though he never let the other out of his sight. “Hate what you’ve done with the place. It suits you.”

“You really think so?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Quite frequently, I remember.”

“Hm,” Phantom hummed, approaching the dais, “That’s weird, ‘cause I don’t remember having ever lied to you, Uncle.”

Plasmius shrugged. “There you go again, nephew.”

Phantom laughed humorlessly. “You got me there, man.” In a flash, he was in front of Plasmius, an ecto-made broadsword - a weapon Pandora had taught him to use a while ago - at his throat. “You’re a bad actor. Where’s Vlad.”

“What’re you-”

Phantom pushed harder, drawing green blood from the shallow wound. “Cut the shit! Where’s Vlad!”

The Ghost grinned, big and wrong and familiar. “Can’t get anything by you, huh?” They faded into a shadow, traveling and reappearing behind him. “I take it you accept my challenge, then?”

Phantom turned around, growling. “Only if you drop your disguise. Where is he!”

The Ghost’s grin was back as they laughed. Shadows covered them shortly before melting off, taking Plasimus’s face with them, revealing a Shade in his place. “Do you really want to know?”

He’d never really gotten along with Vlad, but they’d come to an understanding after the man had become a ghost full-time.

The Shade laughed harder now, nearly doubling over. “Dead.”

Phantom’s face fell. “...what?”

“Dead!” The Shade cheered, “Gone! Expired! Departed!Perished! Fallen! Departed! Ended!”

The Shade’s cackles faded into the background. Vlad was…

Something in Danny, the same thing he’d felt when he’d heard the news of his family, cracked.

Roaring, he accepted the Challenge and charged the Shade, swiping the broadsword at their neck. They dodged back, bringing two knives from the shadows before springing back at him, aiming for his torso with the clip blade while aiming for his arm with the curved blade.

“I will never forgive you!” He screamed. The Realms shuddered. The Sade cackled.

The two traded blows under the eyes of the Realms, evenly matched for nearly five minutes. An impressive five minutes  of neither getting hurt. Eventually, though, one of them had to cave.

Phantom cut for the Shade’s torso. They dived under the blow, managing to cut Phantom’s left arm, just blow his elbow with their curved blade. He jumped back, the broadsword dropping from his grip as the pain stung. The sword dissolved.

“What,” the Shade taunted, “done already?”

While fighting, neither combatant will be healed by the Realms.

Phantom scowled, creating a bo staff. “Not even close.”

He charged again, spinning the bo to aim for their head. When they dodged, he quickly aimed for their legs, striking them in the shin.

They jumped back, landing in a crouch with their hurt leg extended. They frowned, the first time their smile had dropped since the Challenge was issued and accepted. Then, they leaped toward him again, dropping the clip blade to punch his jaw. He blocked, hitting their wrist with the tip of his bo while he stepped back.

Following him, the Shade used their forward momentum to go into a front handspring, picking up their clip blade as they launched. As soon as they were back on their feet, they lunged again. Phantom met them blow for blow, spinning with his staff.

Their dance traveled through the throne room, neither allowing it to get close to the doors.

On the steps of the dais, the Shade swiped at Phantom’s neck. When he blocked, they tripped him, throwing him down. Before he could recover, they planted their foot on his chest and knocked his bo staff from his hand to dissolve on the marble floor.

They pushed the curved blade to Phantom’s neck, drawing green blood from the shallow cut. “Any last words, King Phantom?”

Phantom’s eyes narrowed as he shifted. “How’d you End Plasmius?”

Their head tilted to the side as if wondering why he was asking. They answered nonetheless. “Did you know you fight like him? Just as cocky, just as prone to rage.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he grunted, grappling their wrist and grappling for the curved blade. He managed to throw them off, keeping the curved blade for himself.

The Shade scowled, rolling to their feet. “Why won’t you die!”

“Sorry, Nyssa, but you’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that!”

They froze. “How do you know that name?”

“Your name?” He taunted, “It’s took me a while, but you’re just as grotesque as your father and sister, Nyssa Raatko.”

She roared, charging in with her clip blade, wildly swiping at him. He continued to dodge around her. “Do not mention their names!”

“Upset because neither noticed you died?”

“Shut up!”

“They let you keep using the Pits! Why should you be mad?”

“Stop it!”

She cut at his arm. He ducked around, cutting her throat as he spun behind her. She dropped to the ground, dropping her clip blade and bringing both hands to try and stop the blood flow.

Phantom, too, dropped the curved knife, gathering the ect around him into another broadsword. From behind, he hefted it up with both hands- “For what it’s worth, you fought valiantly.” -and brought it down on her neck, cutting off her head.

The Realms shuddered as Nyssa’s body melted into shadows. Slowly, Phantom’s Keep restored itself.

Phantom let the broadsword dissolve. As the Keep repaired, he picked up the two knives. As Spoils of War, they were to be displayed in the treasury. With a sigh, he sat on his throne and mourned.