#polyhydra

Still, he misses him, even if they only live about ten minutes from one another. And -- well, it’s not a visit for no reason if he has something to give him, right?

Just a quick visit. In and out, long enough to hand him the robe and see how he’s doing and then be on his way.

That’s the plan, even when he brings Khan in tow with him to the Loft across the way, passing the Rod as they go.

“ Peter? Are you home? ”

The biggest threat of the outbreak wasn’t the outbreak, it seemed.

(It was, actually, the biggest threat. The people with knives in the streets are just a side effect of the madness, which meant solving the outbreak solved that problem.)

Artemy’s trying. He’s trying his damned best to keep the Town from tearing itself in half and he’s reward the same way he was when he arrived in town: knives honed on steel and blood. He’s not even paying attention to which door he barrels through and bars shut, except that it’s one with stairs and --

Laying back on the stairs puts him face to face with a sketch of the Polyhedron, and the owl-eyed architect of the building two stories over him.

“ Hello, Peter. I meant. . .to knock, but I was in a bit of a rush. ”

Sifting through the nighttime fancies of those that slept at night, Aspity muses at the images. The diurnal creatures rest in the dark hours, but she was one of the more nocturnal beings.

It was always amusing to see what the townsfolk and others put out, not knowing that they could be seen. And many times, not even remembering the fleeting scenarios and images that the brain made to make sense of things. Revealing a fraction of their true nature.

Tonight, she was going to check on Vlad Junior, who was meant to be released. She had been tasked with giving him nightmares until he bent his will to give the Termitary to Artemy. That had passed, but the lingering need for certainty still remained.

She walked along the threads in the dream world, away from the safety of her physical body, freely dancing on bony stilts as she prowled the afterimages of the streets.

Unexpectedly, she had company.

She blinked and looked down. It was Peter.

He seemed to be somewhat aware of the state he was in. Not quite mortal nor ghost. But consciousness with form. He looked different though- little nubs of horns on his head, which looked a little like symmetrical knocks.

Aspity lowered herself to greet him, with not a small amount of confusion.

“Sayn... baina? Peter?“

It never particularly bothered Saburov until one morning, the body of another architect, the builder of the Stillwater and the Cathedral, nicknamed “Farkhad“, was found under one of the Stairways to Heaven.

At first glance, it appeared to be accidental. The smell of twyrine and a bottle seemed to confirm it...

Until persistent rumors that Peter Stamatin was the last man seen alive with Farkhad that night.

Saburov had tried to get permission from the Kains to investigate the matter himself, but as far as that family was concerned, it was little more than a tragic accident, and besides?

“Don’t you have anything better to do than chase rumors, Alexander? It was an accident, the Stamatins are beside themselves, and are soon about to start on the most profound architectural advancement of this century. Go home to your wife and leave the affairs of the Kains to the Kains.”

Nina’s words. Simon and Georgiy agreed. He could not argue with the twins protecting their own set of twins.

But it gnawed at him that he was certain that Peter had gotten away with murder. “Inconsolable Architects“ and that horrific mural seemed to be more of a sneer than any real grief.

It was a case that ate at him for the last six years, and admittedly, while he initially favored Peter out of all the architects and artists brought in (because Peter was the more softspoken and earnest seeming one, and because of the artworks the Saburovs had commissioned), murder was still murder.

Or was it?

Dankovsky had recently given him reason to doubt that assumption, that Andrey was actually on the Staircase with Farkhad. The records from Burakh seemed to support the claim that Peter was a victim in the situation.

Burakh was right about the records being ghastly. God’s grace, he could see why Peter did not want to reach out for administrative help.

It would be a delicate situation to tread with both of them here.

He sits across from the twins at his home in the Rod. They had drifted so much from looking like reflections of each other. It had been some time since he had seen them in person- he could have sworn their eyes were brown then.

“Thank you for answering my summons voluntarily,“ he begins, “There are issues I would like to discuss with you involving an  unsolved case regarding the death of the Architect ‘Farkhad’ -“ he’d be damned if he could remember the man’s real name, “- your cooperation would be most appreciated in the matter.“

His own sense of justice wouldn’t let him rest otherwise.

It’s edging into sundown when she stops on the doorstep, tossing a wave back to the two dogheads who’d taken it upon himself to chaperone her from Artemy’s doorstep to Peter’s. She’s pretty sure she may be older than them, but it doesn’t matter - she likes the company, however brief, while they talk about how they’re going to toss the Caravan into pit of the fallen Polyhedron if they find them. There’s something different, however, when she steps into the Loft. She’s not sure what it is - she doesn’t think its a spirit, because it doesn’t feel like a spirit, but something is here, something that... reminds her a little of Peter, but also not. 

He knows no one is home. The clinic is empty for the moment, Borte and Jurim have left, and Aspity took Murky and Sticky with her while Artemy recovered. He’s on the upswing (he thinks he is, anyways) and. . .there’s definitely someone walking about downstairs.

The only alert he gives to the person in his kitchen is the creak of the stair on the staircase that always made noise -- and then he’s clicking the light on with a blanket draped around his shoulders.

Seeing Peter digging a hand into the designated Stamatin snack jar isn’t that startling. Artemy hardly reacts to it beyond a tired smile.

There are still a number of hounds around, one of whom passes him an infant that he’s caring for in Daniil’s stead for the day. A very calm, almost unnervingly quiet little one by the name of Masha, who Daniil explained as ‘the strangest baby you’d ever take care of’ before running out the door.

She’s tucked into the curve of his arm as he finds where Peter has spent most of the day drawing, dragging over one of the rocking chairs to sit nearby and kick back on.

“ Alright, Peter. What’s our game plan so far? Let me see what your mind has come up with today. ”

Usually, it came up with horrors. Now, maybe, he could hope for something more like blueprints. Farkhad did not share his ideas with anyone, but Peter might have the best insight into him compared to anyone else.