#revenge plot

The dream of flying the skies with the same heartbeat as the mighty animal had come true. Except, the yearning for the freedom to fly to the edge of the forest–to see the ocean– had become a distant fantasy. There was nothing freeing about fleeing for your life or flying into battle, hoping–praying to Ewya, that you might live long enough to fight the next battle. Praying that you might live long enough to hug your family one last time. 

In another life, you would be embarrassed and full of shame at how good you had become at running for your life. A warrior should stand their ground and fight. But you had seen enough death to know when to give up. When to leave. You had developed an advoident style of surviving.

Together, you and your ikran, Leya, had become very good at retreting. Fast and proficient. Flying quickly and smoothly above trees, through the crevices of the flying mountains, above the clouds.

Someitmes you could almost taste the freedom, just there, on the tip of your tongue. Like a word about to be spoken. In the moments of stillness that came from flying above the clouds. Leya’s strong wing beats would level out and a loud, windy silence would settle over the two of you. There was nothing in moements like this. No commands. No explosions. No war. Just the fleeting presence of peace. 

Those moments had become rare: far and few between.

By the age of fifteen, you had become the main source of protection for your two younger siblings. The job had once been split between you and your older brother, but when he died in battle against the sky-people, the weight of his loss fell heavily on your shoulders. 

That was the first time you had painted the white kxetuve line of mourning down the center of your body. 

A body that had become a killing machine. 

You weren’t skinny and frail anymore. The years had begun hardening you. Muscles had grown where they previously hadn’t been. Your legs now taut with stamina to carry your body nimbly through the forest. Your arms and shoulders tense with lethal precision; always ready to aim for the kill. 

Killing the sky demons got easier the more you did it. Poison-coated arrow tips did most of the work; even if the hit wasn’t clean, they would eventually die. Even so, no matter how many humans you killed, they seemed to come back faster, and with their metal abominations were killing off your clan faster than you would comprehend. 

The longer the war went on, the more devastating the losses were. Death had become a friend to your clan.

Bones rattled against themselves, hung in patterns on new garments. Some even had them braided into their kuru’s. The warriors around you wore the human bones with pride. It was an honor to wear so many; to have killed so many. You might have participated in the trend; however, your mother demanded you never adorn the alien ones. 

And you obayed her wishes for a while.

By the next year, you had lost your father and youngest sibling. You didn’t even have time to truly mourn them. No, wave after wave of the aliens came, bringing death and destruction with them. The RDA had begun burning the forest around your clan in an effort to force your clan from their home. From your home. 

The white paint had become as familiar as the yellow and purple war paint. In fact, the white paint had become a second skin. A layer of emotional armor to coincide with your physical armor. 

Just like your paint your armor also hardly left your body.

A traditional necklace of muted teal and bone-toned river stones—once belonging to your older brother—rested heavy against your slender neck. A leather chest band, crafted by your mother after your iknimaya, crossed your torso, doubling as a sheath and resting atop a green, beaded chest covering that echoed the earthy tones of the leather loincloth at your hips. Soft purple riding leggings clung to your legs, their surface marked by wear. Your younger sister had made you an armband as well, adorned with two feathers—one deep violet and one pale yellow—to mirror the colors of your war paint and ikran. You treasured every gift they had given you, but your favorite piece of armor was the sheath you kept after your father’s death.

You took great pride in replacing his knife with a bone balde you had spent weeks crafting out of the remains of the human who had killed him. That had been the first time you had dragged the killing out for your own pleasure. 

If your mother had been displeased at the alien bone you wore daily, she never mentioned it.

By the age of sixteen, the size of your clan had been cut in half in just two years time. 

Traditional celebrations were slipping through the cracks. Effort and time could no longer be wasted on pretty weaving and dancing. Everyone was making sacrifices in hopes that the aliens would give up or die out.

Your presentation was not a clan-wide celebration, like it once should have been, but a quaint meal with your two surviving family members in your family’s hut. 

You hadn’t even been excited when you had presented as an omega. 

At one point, the clan would have called you a gift from Eywa. Your second gender was considered a sacred honor; Eywa’s promise of the next generation secured in your body.

Now survival meant lasting the day, not the procreation of the next generation. 

During war being an omega was less than ideal. 

Your first heat was a war in itself. The pain was unbearable. Heat and sweat coated your body. Your senses shifted. The smell of the people around you shifted; their pheromones appeared louder, sharper than before. The change was an assault to your nose. Shifts in vocal tone had made your body have a physical reaction that only the angry tone of your deceased father could have elicited. Obedience. 

Maybe in some other life, you could have lived out the delicate tradition of going through your first heat with a potential mate. Spent days alone together, feeling out the new changes in your body with soft embraces. But that was not reality. 

No, reality was sudden and rough and all consuming. War waited for no one; granted no reprieve from its constant drumbeat. You fought your way through bodies of pink skins while your biology fought its way through you. 

The years following your presentation were harder. Stress had caused your body to stop going into heat. Which you were glad about; in war, there was no time to be incapacitated with throbbing pain and aching need. There was no need for your body to bring you more pain when the pink skins flourished in their afflicting torment.

By your twentieth year, there were almost as many scars on your body as stripes. Some small injuries, from training too hard or scraping your body against the rough bark of the forest trees when bolting from unwinnable battles. Others, like the one on your left side just above your hip bone, were bigger and deeper. You had been nicked by a bullet and had almost lost your life from the blood loss. The wound had resulted in a raised scar that you preferred to keep hidden under the ties of your green, leather tewng. 

You had developed a true hatred for the metal machines they used to slaughter your people. If it weren’t for the seemingly endless bullet rounds the pink skins had and their metal flying birds, you were sure they wouldn’t have even lasted this long. If they fought like real warriors, with skill and knives instead of cowering in their metal skins and their skin walker suits, they wouldn’t last very long on Pandora. That much you were sure of. 

Humans fight dirty and kill dirty too. They never went for a clean kill. Never spoke to Eywa for guidance. No, they killed for no reason and cared little about how their actions affected the forest. How they had they affected you. 

The kxetuve mourning line hadn’t left your body in all that time. Every time it faded, there seemed to be a new reason to repaint it on your body. Loss was felt each time you had to apply fresh paint…it was hard to keep track of when one friend's death was repainted over by the loss of a fellow warrior. 

And now you had another reason to freshen up the pigment.

A fresh wave of tears was seemingly never-ending despite the wind’s effort to instantly dry them. 

You had been crying for days now. The most recent attack from the sky-people had been devastating. They had attacked while your camp was sleeping. There had been no time to prepare or to defend. 

The cries of your mother echoed loudly in your head. 

You had awoken to her screams.

To your little sister's last breath. 

To the sounds of skin walkers raiding and killing off the last of your people. 

You had begged, pleaded, and implored your mother to flee with you. But she was more than broken; she was lost. After so much grief–the death of her first son, then her husband, then her most recent child, and now her youngest daughter lay dead in her arms–she could take no more. Her eyes, once bright and golden, had been turned dull. Between her screams, she whispered for you to go–to flee; to leave her to die and finally be with the rest of her family. 

You had felt like a child. Not the warrior you were. You were a coward and left sprinting–and soon flying– as fast as you could instead of fighting like you should have. 

That had been nearly two days ago. Leya was begging for rest through the bond; she was tired from the endless flying. You were sore from sitting for so long and wanted to stop just like her, but you were scared to stop. 

You needed to find toruk makto.

You need revenge. 

The thought was the only thing keeping you going. The thirst for blood–for justice–was all-consuming. It outweighed the hunger in your belly and the pain from the windburn on your face. You craved senseless, brutal, savage violence. 

The younger, softer version of you would be terrified of the monster you were willing to become. 

You would have to kill off the last little pieces of her that still lived in you. And if you had lost that soft, innocent version of you for the justice of your younger siblings who would never reach the age of sixteen; for your older brother who you had aged past; for your father who died protecting your clan; for your mother who had given her children to a senseless war; then you would kill off every soft and weak verson of yourself. You would become harsh, rigid, and lethal to avenge their lives. 

You lost count of the different types of terrain you had flown over.

You couldn’t remember when the forest had turned to water, but now the shoreline before you had shifted into another woodland jungle without much time to register the abrupt change in landscape.

Your body ached, protesting every shift in position as Leya descended lower.

The blue ocean that had stretched endlessly before you, its waters darker than you had imagined in all your childhood fantasies, was now a green sea of trees taller and brighter than you had expected. 

Just a little further, you told yourself, though exhaustion made your vision blur at the edges. Just a little more.

The Ometicaya clan came into view gradually—first the massive Hometree rising like an ancient sentinel, then the movement of Na'vi below. So many Na'vi. The sheer number of them made your chest tighten. You hadn't seen this many people alive in one place in years.

Their lives continued. Training. Laughing. Living. Like the war was something distant. Manageable.

The sight of it twisted something violent in your gut.

Leya's landing was far from graceful. Her legs nearly buckled as her feet touched the ground, and you dismounted more like falling than descending. Your own legs shook, muscles screaming from days of sitting astride her back.

The moment your feet hit earth, the noise hit you like a physical force.

Voices—so many voices—shouting, laughing, calling to one another. The clash of weapons from sparring warriors. The thud of bodies hitting dirt. Somewhere, someone was singing a war chant, deep and rhythmic, and others joined in with aggressive harmonies that made your skin prickle.

The Na'vi around you didn't just stop their tasks to stare. They turned. Warriors mid-spar froze with weapons raised. Hunters with fresh kills slung over their shoulders pivoted to track your movement. Even the children stopped their games, wide eyes fixed on you.

You must have looked feral to them. War paint faded and smeared. Mourning line stark against your blue skin. Eyes red-rimmed and wild. Covered in days of grime and dried sweat and blood that wasn't all yours.

Your hand instinctively went to the knife at your hip—the bone blade made from your father's killer was more comforting than you might care to admit—fingers wrapping around the handle.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. You caught fragments of words. Omega. Alone. Look at her war paint. Is she one of ours? 

The weight of their stares made your shoulders hunch. Made you want to bare your teeth. These people were whole. Their clan was thriving. Their warriors were strong and unbroken and looked at you like you were something strange. Something other.

Everything about them screamed what you weren't. What you'd failed to be.

Your clan was dead. Your family was dead. And you had run.

Survivor. Failure. Coward.

"I need to speak to Toruk Makto." The words came out harsher than intended, your voice hoarse from disuse and crying. Your accent was different from theirs, shaped by a different forest, a different way of speaking. "Now."

An older woman approached, her movements slow and deliberate. She carried herself with the kind of authority that didn't need to be announced—power that radiated from her very bones.

This clan’s Tsahìk you assumed. The title fit her like a second skin. Behind her, a younger woman followed as if she were the older woman's shadow. 

But it was the crowd pressing closer that made your pulse spike. Too many bodies. Too much noise. The scent of so many Na'vi—alphas, betas, omegas, all mixing together in a cacophony that assaulted your nose after days of nothing but wind and Leya's familiar musk.

Your fingers tightened on your knife.

"I am Mo'at, Tsahìk of the Ometicaya," the elder woman said, her eyes sharp as they cataloged every detail of your appearance. Every scar. Every weapon. The mourning paint. Her gaze seemed to pass right through you. Like she was looking into your soul. "This is Kiri, my granddaughter. Toruk Makto is not here.” 

Of course he wasn't here.

Of course.

You had flown for days. Days. Pushed Leya past exhaustion. Fled your mother's corpse and your sister's cooling body and the ashes of your home. And he wasn't even here.

The laugh that escaped your throat was sharp and broken. Several warriors shifted, hands moving toward weapons. You couldn’t care.

"When will he return? Who leads in his absence?" The desperation in your voice made you sound young. Weak. You hated it.

"When Eywa wills it," Mo'at replied, her tone giving nothing away. "What is it you seek, child? His son speaks for him in his absence.”

“I must speak with him then.” You can’t help but growl out in frustration. Child. The word scraped against your pride like a blade. You hadn’t felt or been innocent like a child in many, many years.

“He and his brother fight the sky-people as we speak." Her voice never wavers in tone as she answers your questions.

"And when will they return?” You demand.

The Tsahìk doesn’t answer right away. She tilts her head and, with a hum, begins to circle around you like a predator. 

You straightened your spine despite the trembling in your limbs. Despite the way your vision swam. Despite the crowd pressing closer with their whispers and their stares and their wholeness.

She was assessing you. Decided if you were even worth giving any information to. Only once she's completed a full circle around your weak, shaky form does she speak.

“They will be home by tomorrow evening.” She holds eye contact with you for what feels like a lifetime before you realise she wants an exchange of information. 

The disappointment and frustration of the situation tasted bitter on your tongue. You had flown for days with the singular focus of finding him. Toruk Makto. Jake Sully. The warrior who had done the impossible—tamed Toruk, the great leonopteryx that hadn't been ridden in four generations. The alien who had traded his life to become Na'vi rather than stay with the sky-people he had arrived to pandora with.

Stories of him had reached your clan even in the darkest days of the war. Whispered around fires. Passed between warriors. Legends that felt too grand to be real, and yet the evidence of his existence was undeniable.

He had united the clans. United them. Something no one had accomplished in living memory. Rode a beast of pure fury and death itself into battle against the sky-people and won. Drove them from Pandora with nothing but the will of Eywa and the strength of the people behind him.

Your older brother had spoken of him with reverence before he died. Had said that if anyone could save the Na'vi, it would be Toruk Makto. That he was a lethal legend—a warrior unmatched, tactical and brutal in equal measure. He didn't just fight; he destroyed those who threatened his people.

You had clung to that hope. Through every loss. Every death. Every moment you thought you might break. The thought that somewhere, Toruk Makto was still fighting—still winning—had kept you going.

And now you were here, and he was gone. Off fighting while you stood hollow and broken before his Tsahìk, surrounded by his strong, living, thriving people.

People who looked at you like you were a ghost.

Maybe you were.

"I seek Uturu." Your voice came out flat. Empty. "My clan is gone. I am all that remains."

The murmuring around you grew louder. You caught more fragments now. She seeks uturu? Sole survivor? Her whole clan? 

The girl Tsahìk called Kiri shifted beside her. Her expression shifted to something soft. Sympathetic. It made your skin crawl. You didn't want sympathy. You wanted revenge. You wanted the sky-people to burn the way your home had burned. You wanted them to scream the way your mother had screamed.

Mo'at's expression remained unreadable, but her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—narrowed slightly. You watched as she scented the air, and her gaze sharpened further.

"You are omega."

Not a question. A statement. Another assessment.

Around you, the whispers exploded. Alphas in the crowd shifted, their postures changing. Some leaned forward, seemingly interested in the Tsahìk's observation. Others stepped back, wary. You could feel their attention like insects crawling across your skin.

"Yes." You lifted your chin, defensive, aggressive. Daring any of them to make it a problem.

Mo'at exchanged a look with Kiri that you couldn't decipher. The silence stretched long enough to make your teeth grind.

Was there something you didn’t understand? Why was your second gender so important?

"And unmated," Mo'at said, and somehow it sounded like an accusation. 

The crowd's reaction was immediate. Shock rippled through the gathered Na'vi like wind through leaves.  Clearly and unmated omega was wrong to them.  Apparently shameful, even. Given the number of people who stepped further away from you. 

Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt. "There was a war," you bit out. "Mating was not a priority when survival—"

"I understand," Mo'at interrupted, though her expression remained severe. "But you must understand our customs. An unmated omega of your age...it is unusual. It will draw attention. Challenges for you."

Challenges. Of course. You hadn't even considered—

Alphas here probably had rights. Claiming rights. The Ometicaya were thriving, which meant their traditions were intact. Their social structures were unbroken by war. Which meant unmated omegas were probably claimed young, properly courted, and bonded according to ancient customs you'd never had the luxury of following.

Which meant you walking in here unmated, unclaimed, smelling of no alpha, was probably the equivalent of ringing a dinner bell.

Fuck.

"I can fight," you said quickly, and your hand was still on your knife. Still ready. "I have killed more sky-people than I can count. I have survived unimaginable battles. I am not some delicate—"

Mo'at silences you with a raised hand. 

Your mouth snaps shut. It takes the rest of your willpower to keep a frustrated growl inside your throat. This was not a battle of strengths but a test of submission. Obedience. Willingness to obey their clan's hierarchy of leadership. 

You hated it. Hated how your biology was seen first and your skill second. Hated how you were willingly subjecting yourself to be reduced to a weak version of yourself that was helpless, all for the sake of claiming uturu. Claiming uturu for the chance, Toruk Makto will help avenge your clan–your family. 

Mo'at's expression softens, just slightly. "I will grant you temporary uturu. The law is sacred, and you have asked. But you will follow our rules while you are here. Until the Olo'eyktan returns and decides rather to grant you permanent uturu, you will respect our ways."

Relief should have flooded through you. Should have made your knees weak. But all you felt was hollow. You were going to have to play a role to fit in here. Another sacrifice of your character you were willing to make for vengeance.

"Thank you, Tsahìk," you managed. The words tasted like ash.

"Kiri will show you where you will stay." Mo'at turned to her granddaughter, and something passed between them. A look you couldn't read. "The large tent near the edge of the gathering space. It has not been used in some time."

Kiri's eyes widened. "Grandmother, that's—"

"It is available," Mo'at said firmly. "And it is far enough from the main camp to give our guest some... peace."

Mo’at turned to dismiss the gathered crowd. She mumbles a few words to a girl much younger than you. The girl nods and starts to make her way past you and towards Leya. You go to stop her, but a hand on your shoulder stops you.

"Go. Rest," Mo'at said, her tone slightly gentler now. "You look as though you might collapse where you stand. We will speak more when you have slept."

“My ikran…” You trail off, watching as the girl starts to untie your ikrans' saddle straps.

“Nita will take care of her. Now go.” Tsahik’s tone leave no room for argument. 

So you find yourself following Kiri through the clan's settlement, and it was wrong. All of it.

The Ometicaya didn't just survive—they thrived. Their tents were well-made, sturdy, decorated with trophies and weavings and signs of life. Warriors sparred with a viciousness that spoke of skill, not desperation. Their strikes were precise, practiced, and confident. Not the frantic fighting of people who expected to die.

You passed a group of young warriors—barely older than you—laughing as they wrestled, their bodies covered in scars that they wore like badges of honor. Scars from victory. From surviving battles they'd won.

Children ran through the paths, playing with toy ikrans, their laughter high and bright and so fucking innocent it made your chest ache.

Everywhere you looked, you saw what you should have been. What your clan should have been.

Strong. Whole. Alive.

The weight of eyes followed you. Whispers trailed in your wake like smoke.

Omega. Alone. Unmated. Survivor. Failure.

That last one you supplied yourself.

The tent Kiri led you to was far more spacious than you expected. Luxurious, even. Woven mats covered the floor, soft and carefully crafted. Weapons hung on the walls—a bow with arrows that looked like they could tear through metal, several knives with edges so sharp they caught the light, a spear that had seen use. All well-maintained. All belonged to a warrior who clearly knew their worth.

Furs were piled in one corner, creating a sleeping space that looked absurdly comfortable compared to the hard ground and cold stones you'd grown accustomed to.

Trophies lined the walls. RDA dog tags. Pieces of shattered equipment. And bones. Human bones, carefully cleaned and displayed.

This wasn't just any warrior's tent.

This belonged to someone important. Someone lethal.

"This is..." you started, uncertain.

"It's available," Kiri said quickly. Too quickly. Her eyes darted away from yours. "You can rest here. I'll bring you food later, okay? Just... just rest."

She left before you could ask questions. Before you could protest. The tent flap fell closed behind her, and you were alone.

Finally and blessedly alone.

The silence pressed down on you like a physical weight.

You stood frozen in the center of the tent, surrounded by signs of a warrior's life. A successful warrior's life. Someone who fought and won and came home to comfort and safety and a clan that celebrated their victories.

Everything you weren't.

Everything you'd failed to be.

Your legs gave out just as you reached the edge of the furs and you collapsed onto the thick, padded bed, and the scent hit you immediately.

Alpha.

Strong and woodsy with undertones of leather and high-altitude winds and something sharper— something you couldn’t seem to name, maybe some type of oil. It was overwhelming after days of nothing but your own fear-sweat and Leya's musk.

This was an alpha's space, but the scent was faded, and with one last look around the room, you decided that whoever had lived here hadn't been home in a long time. The thought made you unreasonably sad. 

You should leave. Should demand different accommodations. Should drag yourself back to Mo'at and insist on being placed somewhere—anywhere—else. 

You couldn’t stay in the home of a deceased warrior. This hut belonged to someone’s dead son, to a dead brother. It was wrong to stay, but your body had other ideas.

The exhaustion was too much. The furs too soft. And despite the faint foreign scent—or perhaps because of it—something in your omega biology insisted this was safe. Protected. An alpha's den–even a dead one–meant security. 

Your eyes slipped closed against your will.

Just for a moment, you told yourself. Just long enough to catch my breath. To gather my strength.

But the moment you relaxed into the furs, your body made the decision for you. Sleep dragged you under like a riptide, swift and merciless and ruthless.

You didn't even remove your weapons.

The bone knife pressed against your hip, the bow across your back dug into your shoulder blades. Your armor stayed laced tight, a second skin you couldn't bear to shed.

You were safe for now, and that was enough.

The bathroom light hums softly overhead.

I lean closer to the mirror, steadying my hand as I drag the eyeliner into a sharp wing. Not too heavy. Not too perfect. Just enough.

A different version of me looks back.

Older. Tired in a way I’m not. Practiced.

I press my lips together, then swipe on lipstick—slow, deliberate. The kind that lingers. The kind people remember.

The curling iron clicks as it cools on the counter. A cheap motel hairdryer hangs crooked on the wall. Everything about this place is temporary.

Forgettable. Good. I smooth down the dress next. It’s not my style too tight, too calculated but that’s the point.

Tonight isn’t about me.

It’s about him.

I take one last look in the mirror, letting my expression soften into something learned.

Then I open the door.

The motel room is dim, lit by a flickering lamp.

He’s already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward like he’s been waiting. When he sees me, he grins.

“There you are.”

I close the door behind me. “Miss me?”

He laughs, a little breathless. “You look… different.”

“Do I?” I step further into the room.

He watches me, like he’s trying to figure something out—but whatever doubt flickers there gets buried.

“Come here.” I don’t rush. I let the silence stretch, just enough to pull him in.

Then I reach back and unzip my dress. His smile stays until the fabric slips.

Until he sees it.

The scar. Right down the center of my chest.

He pauses. “…I don’t remember that.”

I glance up at him. “Really?”

“You didn’t have that last time.”

I laugh quietly. “I’ve had it my entire life.”

Something shifts.

He leans back, really looking at me now. The makeup. The way I stand. The way I speak. “…No,” he mutters. “That’s not right.”

I tilt my head. “What isn’t?”

“You’re—” He squints. “You look younger.”

My smile sharpens. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

He stands, unease creeping in. “Who are you?”

I take a small step back. Not scared. Just adjusting. “I’ve always been told I look like my mother.”

That does it. He freezes. “…Mother?” I watch it click. Slow. Sickening. “Y/n?” he says.

I smile wider. “Bullseye.”

He flinches. “You’re only—”

“Seventeen,” I finish.

And then I break.

My shoulders pull in, my voice cracks “Who are you?!” I scream, stumbling back. “I want my mom! Please—someone help—!”

The door slams open.

Police.

They move fast—too fast for him to recover, too fast for him to explain. Hands grab him, force him down.

“What’s going on—?!” he tries.

I't's too late because to them, it’s simple. Here stands a terrified girl, in a trapped in a room with a known procurer of prostitutes. Case closed.

I collapse against the wall, shaking, crying into my hands as they drag him away. He keeps looking back at me. “Wait—she’s lying—!”

No one listens.

The door slams again. Silence creeps back in. Sirens fading. Voices distant. Boots cross the room. Softer this time. “Hey… hey, it’s okay.”

I feel her crouch in front of me. “You’re safe now. He’s gone. You’re safe.”

Safe.

I keep my hands over my face a second longer. Let my shoulders shake just enough.

Then I lower them showing my red eyes and wet lashes. Perfect. “Is— is he gone?” I whisper.

“Yes,” she says gently. “You’re okay.”

I nod, small, fragile. But my gaze drifts past her to the dark TV screen. My reflection stares back. Not quite mine. My mother’s face, looking through me.

The officer keeps talking, soft and distant, but I barely hear it because I almost look exactly like her. Almost.

My fingers brush over the scar, the only thing that ruins it.

And then just for a second I smirk. Gone before anyone could notice.

“Three months,” I murmur.

She doesn’t hear.

Three months since my mother disappeared. Three months of nothing.

So I started. Today was day one.

One man off the list.

He didn’t know enough—not about her. He knew about me, though, so I guess that’s something. But he was never important. Just a pawn in all of this and now? Now he’s nothing too, just another name crossed out.

I look back at my reflection.

Closer now. Closer to the top. Closer to Frank Castle.

The officer helps me to my feet, guiding me toward the door, still talking softly.

I nod along.

Play the part. But my mind is already somewhere else because tonight wasn’t just about removing a name.

It was a message.

Something that spreads. Something that might reach him. After all he’s the one who pulled my mother into that life.

And now? Now I’m getting closer. One man at a time.

The moment I realise I’m being followed, my pace doesn’t change. That’s the first rule. Don’t react too fast and don’t confirm anything.

But the car behind me stays too steady. Too patient. Like it’s matching me step for step without ever committing to passing me or falling back.

My stomach tightens. I turn the corner like I’m just going home. It turns too. Okay no.

I keep walking for another half block, forcing my breathing to stay even. Like I don’t notice. Like I’m not counting every reflection in every window.

The car slows slightly and it's still there. Still watching.

My pulse spikes. I break into a run. Not straight. Never straight.

I cut across the road, duck between parked cars, take a sharp turn down a side street I know loops back on itself. The tires behind me hesitate for half a second just enough to tell me I’ve broken their rhythm.

Good.

I run harder.

I take another turn, then another, weaving through alleys until the city stops feeling like streets and starts feeling like traps I’m slipping through.

The engine fades, no footsteps, no shadow, nothing.

I stop behind a brick wall, pressing myself flat against it, lungs burning.

Silence. I wait and count. One. Two. Nothing. “…Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”

I move again, but differently now. No direct path. No straight lines. I loop back toward the apartment from the opposite side of the block, cutting through the back streets until I reach the fire escape.

I don’t use the front door. I don’t risk it. I climb.

Metal creaks under my weight as I pull myself up, hands still slightly shaking, eyes scanning every window as I go.

By the time I slip through the back entrance, I’m breathing normally again.

Or at least pretending to.

The apartment is quiet in that late-night way fridge humming, pipes ticking, streetlight cutting through the blinds.

My shoes hit the floor by the door.

In the kitchen, my sted dad Benjamin Poindexter is at the table, scraping food into the bin. My plate still full, cold from my absence.

He doesn’t look at me right away. “Where were you?” he asks. Not loud. Not yet.

I lean against the doorframe. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“A party.”

He finally looks at me. Really looks. I can feel it the way his eyes track too carefully, the way his jaw tightens like he already knows the answer he’s not supposed to have.

Of course he does. He’s a detective after all. “You have a curfew for a reason, baby girl.”

I flinch. “Don’t call me that.”

“You’re my daughter—”

“I’m not your daughter,” I snap. “And don’t call me that.”

His jaw flexes. “I’m your stepdad.”

“No,” I shoot back. “You’re just the guy she manipulated enough to give her a bed.”

“Y/n—”

“It’s been three months.” That stops him.

Just for a second.

“You’re a cop,” I go on, sharper now. “Why haven’t you found her yet?”

“It’s not that easy,” he says.

I let out a hollow laugh. “Sure.”

“I’m trying—”

“Are you?” I cut in. “Because it doesn’t look like it.”

“I loved your mother,” he snaps then freezes like he didn’t mean to say it out loud like that.

So do I. I laugh, short and bitter. “See? Even you talk about her in past tense.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly.

“Then what did you mean?” I step closer. “Either you fell out of love with her—”

He hesitates, just long enough.

“Or,” I finish quietly, “you’re like me… and you already know she’s dead.”

“Don’t,” he warns, stepping forward.

We both know why. We both know he knows I’m lying but neither of us says it. Finally, he exhales. “You’re grounded.”

I let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah? For what—existing?”

“For lying. For disappearing. For putting yourself in danger.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” I snap.

“That I’m trying to keep you safe!”

“Yeah?” I shoot back. “You kept my mum safe too, right?”

That hits. I see it. The way something cracks behind his eyes.

The TV in the background flickers with a late-night news segment. “…and authorities confirm the vigilante known as the Punisher has struck again—”

I roll my eyes and drop my bag by the counter. “That guy is everywhere,” I mutter. “How come you haven’t arrested him yet?”

Dex doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick briefly to the screen, then away. “Change the channel,” he says instead.

I pause. “That’s it? No lecture? No cop speech?”

“Y/n.” His voice is sharper now more controlled but not calm.

“Where were you?” There it is again but different this time, less parent more pressure.

I shrug. “I told you. Party.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t lie to me.”

That lands heavier than it should. “I’m not lying.”

A beat then he stands slow, measured and suddenly the room feels smaller. “You came in through the back,” he says quietly. “Why?”

My stomach drops slightly but I don’t show it. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That’s not true.” Not a question but a statement.

My eyes narrow. “You following me now or something?”

A pause a little too long, “No.” But it doesn’t sound clean it doesn’t sit right.

The TV continues behind him. “…latest attack has been linked to the assassin known as Bullseye…”

I snort under my breath. “Honestly, how many people is this guy even supposed to be?”

Ben doesn’t respond he just watches me.

But I don’t stop. “I’ve got three more months,” I say, stepping back toward the hallway. “Then I’m eighteen. Then you’re free of me.”

I glance at him. “Happy?”

“Don’t say that.”

“What?” I shrug. “Then you can go back to being a bachelor again.”

He just stands there, watching me. Like he wants to say something, like he doesn’t know how. “…Fine,” he says finally, voice tight. “You’re grounded. Until then.”

I huff, already turning away. “Yeah, right.” My door slams behind me.

My room is quiet when I shut the door. It’s the only place in the apartment that feels like mine but even that’s a stretch.

I move straight to the closet, pushing past hanging clothes until my fingers find the loose panel at the back.

A small push it clicks.

The wood shifts just enough for me to slip through.

My real room. My safe haven. It’s small. Bare walls, low light. The air feels different in here still, controlled. Mine.

And covering the walls is everything. Photos. Names. Strings connecting one face to another. Notes scribbled in the margins. Dates. Locations.

A map of her life. A map of what happened to her And in the center is him.

Frank Castle.

Pinned right in the middle like everything leads back to him.

My eyes linger there for a second then shift to the side. To the list. I pick up the pen sitting on the small desk, rolling it between my fingers before pressing the tip to paper.

One clean line.

The Victor Hale man from earlier tonight, crossed out.

I smirk. “One down,” I murmur.

The ink dries quickly.

Just another man connected to her. Just another dead end.

But still I"m closer. To Frank. To the name at the centre of it all.

My father.

The smirk doesn’t fade because I can feel it now. I’m getting closer. One name at a time.

« Les âmes se rencontrent sur les lèvres des amants. »  Percy Bysshe Shelley.

En se laissant tomber dans le canapé du salon principal, Béatrice expira longuement, épuisée. Chaque fibre de son corps lui reprochait de l'avoir poussé aussi loin. La fièvre persistait, sourde, et la fatigue pesait sur ses épaules comme une chape de plomb.

Malgré tout, elle avait passé une excellente soirée.

L'horloge murale indiquait trois heures du matin. Depuis la terrasse, les voix des pirates parvenaient encore jusqu'à elle, mêlées aux bruits de pas dans les couloirs ; certains regagnaient leurs chambres.

— Béa ? chuchota une voix considérée comme du miel, au vu des musiques passées plus tôt.

— Hum ? répondit-elle, à moitié endormie.

Ambre apparut dans son champ de vision, un petit rictus aux lèvres, et passa ses doigts dans les mèches blanches de sa meilleure amie.

— Elles sont toutes couchées, en sécurité. Tout le monde va bien, pas de blessées, fit son compte rendu Béatrice.

— Ça s’est bien passé avec celles de Shanks ?

— Elles ne seront plus jamais les mêmes… glissa Béatrice narquoisement.

Ses paupières se fermèrent malgré elle, et elle sombra dans un sommeil profond. Ambre continua de lui caresser les cheveux un moment, assise à côté d'elle sur le canapé, puis en profita pour réajuster sa tenue.

Une fois rassurée que sa sœur de cœur soit en sécurité, Ambre chercha un moyen de la ramener jusqu'à sa chambre. En temps normal, la blonde ne s’inquiéterait pas de la laisser ici, c’était chez elle, après tout. Cependant, elle savait que Béatrice aurait souhaité dormir dans sa chambre avec des invités présents chez elle.

En pensant à ses invités, Ambre partit rassurer les capitaines que les leurs étaient bien rentrées.

— Tout va bien, Ambre ? demanda Marco après l'avoir remerciée.

La blonde était restée un peu en retrait, sa question initiale toujours en tête.

— Je me demandais si Aaron ou Will' étaient en état de ramener Béa dans sa chambre. Elle s'est endormie dans le salon.

Un simple coup d'œil aux deux Shine suffit à constater qu'ils étaient complètement saouls et inaptes à porter qui que ce soit. Ambre était en fin de convalescence post-accouchement et ne se sentait pas de déplacer une personne complètement inerte.

Shanks et Marco observèrent les deux hommes en secouant la tête. Visiblement, ils n'étaient pas en état. Le blond se leva et se tourna vers Ambre, mais il ne s'attendait pas à ce que le Roux en fasse autant. Ce dernier prit la parole, une lueur malicieuse dans le regard.

— Laisse, je vais la monter. Je sais où est sa chambre.

Le ton de Shanks laissait planer volontairement un doute tandis qu'il se dirigeait vers le salon. Marco arqua un sourcil, mi-amusé, mi-suspicieux.

— Pratique : ils sont voisins de chambre, précisa Ambre avec légèreté une fois l'homme parti, dissipant le malentendu.

Shanks trouva la jeune femme allongée dans le canapé, complètement happée par le sommeil, insensible aux bruits qu'il faisait.

— Ça, c'est du sommeil lourd. Comment peut-elle dormir aussi profondément ?

— Il faut comprendre qu'elle est chez elle, entourée de sa famille. Et vous à proximité, difficile de ne pas se sentir en sécurité, répondit doucement Ambre, partageant le point de vue de sa meilleure amie.

Le rouquin laissa les paroles d’Ambre résonner en lui tandis qu’il observait la femme endormie. Son visage affichait une mine assez sombre ; de temps à autre, elle fronçait les sourcils. C'est alors qu'il remarqua à nouveau sa pâleur. Par réflexe, il posa sa main sur son front pendant qu'Ambre ne faisait pas attention. Béatrice était légèrement fiévreuse. Il se demanda s'il devait en parler à la blonde.

Pour l'heure, il se contenta d'encercler le corps de Béatrice de son unique bras et de la caler contre son épaule. Il nota intérieurement sa légèreté, presque inquiétante. D'un coup d'œil discret vers Ambre, il chercha une réaction, un signe d'alarme, en vain. La mère de famille ouvrit simplement la marche.

Une expression amusée lui échappa : il ne sentait aucune résistance alors qu'il n'y allait pourtant pas avec douceur.

— J'ai l'impression de déplacer un corps.

Marchant devant, il ne vit pas la grimace d’Ambre après cette remarque.

— Il est très compliqué de la réveiller une fois dans cet état.

« Surtout avec une santé aussi fragile », pensa-t-elle.

Une fois dans la chambre, il la déposa dans le lit. Shanks s'apprêtait à mentionner sa température quand il aperçut, dans la salle de bain, un linge près d'un bol d'eau. L'état fiévreux n'était donc pas nouveau. Il fit rapidement le lien avec la sieste, la fatigue visible un peu plus tôt.

Surmenage. Cette conclusion fit monter Béatrice dans son estime.

Elle avait probablement travaillé d’arrache-pied pour le mariage et l’enterrement de vie de jeune fille, pris le temps d'intégrer les femmes de son équipage et veillé sur elles malgré leur animosité initiale. Shanks trouvait que Béatrice dépassait les dires de sa famille : elle possédait un aussi grand cœur que son grand-père.

★⋆✩✩✩⋆★⋆✩✩✩⋆★

Le lendemain, en fin de matinée.

— Je n'y aurais jamais cru si tu ne me l'avais pas montré.

Orion contemplait, des étoiles dans les yeux, l'église face à la place principale.

— C'est tout à fait normal. L'architecte avait conçu le bâtiment pour qu'il paraisse petit et sans cachet, afin que les soldats ennemis ne s'y attardent pas, expliqua Béatrice. Ils venaient d’inspecter la future salle des fêtes. Cette église a été la seule bâtisse épargnée.

— J'ai du mal à réaliser que c'est demain, dit le père de la future mariée en s'approchant de l'arche fleurie où deux personnes allaient se dire « oui » dans moins de vingt-quatre heures.

Orion avait élevé sa fille seul. Sauvé par Shanks, après un accident de pêche, il lui avait juré fidélité. Charlie, restée avec le reste de sa famille, avait compris et promis de suivre ses traces un jour.

Leurs histoires n’étaient pas si différentes, au fond. Orion avait toujours priorisé son enfant, jusqu'à ce que l'honneur entre en jeu. Finalement, sa fille avait choisi l'équipage de Barbe Blanche, ce qui avait fait pleurer de rire le père.

— J’ai l’impression que c’était hier… le jour où j’ai dit adieu à ma mère en serrant Liam contre moi, alors qu’il poussait ses premiers cris.

Douze ans n’était pas vraiment un âge pour assister à la mort de sa mère. Pourtant, avoir pu accompagner Chiara restait un souvenir heureux, désormais, plus que triste.

Orion étudia la jeune femme avec respect. Avec le temps, ils avaient discuté brièvement du mariage, mais aussi de leur vie privée. Plus qu'avec son capitaine, le vieil homme lui rappelait Thoma : calme, juste, priorisant le bonheur des autres avant le sien.

— C’est beau ce que tu comptes faire demain, sourit l’homme en se tournant vers elle. Et cela représente bien ta relation avec Liam.

Esquissant un sourire en réponse, les deux adultes partirent voir Thoma qui venait d’arriver, quittant ainsi l’église, maison des Dieux…

★⋆✩✩✩⋆★⋆✩✩✩⋆★

 Plus tard dans l'après-midi, chez Ambre.

— Vraiment, Béa ? rit Ambre en enfilant la jolie robe blanche qui fit briller les yeux de son amie. Tu n'as rien d'autre à faire la veille du mariage ?

— Nope. On a tout vérifié avec Orion, Liam, Charlie, Thoma et Soan, répliqua Béatrice en tournant sur elle-même dans sa chaise roulante. Tu vas pouvoir profiter de tes aînés : ils retrouveront leur maman sans qu’une petite dernière toute mignonne ne leur vole la vedette.

La blonde étudia la marraine de ses marmots dans le reflet du miroir.

— Très bien, mais n’oublie pas de tout me raconter.

Béatrice enlaça sa meilleure amie et plaça un baiser sur son front.

En arrivant dans la cuisine, Béatrice déposa tout ce qu'elle portait sur l'îlot central. Aaron tenait Cassiopée dans ses bras ; la petite lui faisait d'adorables sourires, merveilleuse nouveauté de la semaine. Maintenant qu'elle avait acquis cette capacité, elle faisait fondre absolument tout le monde.

Marco et Shanks, installés dans la cuisine pour se faire un café, saluèrent Béatrice avec une drôle de lueur espiègle. Sa curiosité faillit la pousser à demander quel était leur problème, mais elle se ravisa en les voyant observer le bébé. Le capitaine roux se leva immédiatement, sincèrement intéressé par l'évolution de Cassiopée.

Aaron et son capitaine, eux, furent surpris de voir l'Empereur s'enthousiasmer autant pour la petite princesse.

— Elle a tellement grandi ! s'extasia Shanks en appelant Yasopp.

La petite sursauta dans les bras du noiraud, effrayée par la voix intimidante de l’Empereur. Par réflexe, Cassiopée chercha le visage de sa marraine, en vain. À son jeune âge, elle ne voyait pas encore assez loin pour l'apercevoir.

De petits hoquets de peur secouèrent son frêle corps. Shanks se tourna aussitôt, comprenant la gaffe qu'il venait de faire. Il risqua quelques grimaces, mais elles firent davantage rire les autres pirates que le bébé.

Béatrice comprit que tant que Cassiopée ne la voyait pas, elle continuerait de paniquer. Elle tendit les bras vers son frère, qui lui céda aussitôt la petite.

Cassiopée leva péniblement la tête vers sa marraine, à la fois obnubilée et rassurée. Elle reprit vite son caractère charmeur et fit un grand sourire à Béatrice, qui crut s'évanouir devant tant de mignonnerie.

Bien plus en sécurité désormais, Cassiopée essaya d'attraper une des mèches rousses qui réapparaissaient devant ses yeux verts quand Shanks s'approcha à nouveau. Shanks recula au dernier moment, provoquant chez elle un gazouillement joyeux. La fille d'Ambre tenta de sautiller dans les bras de sa marraine, débordante d'excitation.

— Ils sont tellement adorables à cet âge, déclara Shanks après s'être assez amusé.

— Même quand ils sont malades, approuva Béatrice.

Béatrice tourna son attention vers le second capitaine, une expression indéchiffrable, provoquant le haussement de sourcil du blond.

— On discutait avec Aaron de ta façon de t'occuper des bébés. Comme je garde Cassiopée aujourd'hui, on s'est dit qu'on pouvait faire une petite interro surprise.

La tête de l'homme fit éclater de rire les autres pirates et Béatrice.

Il n'avait, a priori, pas révisé.

— Hum… Tout seul, yoi ?

— Non, ensemble, le rassura-t-elle en souriant. Cassiopée est du genre méfiante avec les personnes qu'elle ne connait pas. Je ne serai pas loin.

Il passa une main dans sa chevelure désordonnée et observa le bébé dans les bras de Béatrice.

— Très bien, mais je ne suis pas un doué avec les enfants… soupira-t-il, nerveux.

— Pas de souci.

Shanks observa la scène avec amusement en sirotant sa boisson. Il était rare de voir l’ancien second d’un Empereur se retrouver dans une situation embarrassante, presque dépassé. Ses iris argentées glissèrent vers Béatrice et le bébé. La maternité lui allait étonnamment bien. Dans d'autres circonstances, il aurait pu être jaloux de ne pas être à la place de Cassiopée, agréablement installée contre la poitrine de sa gardienne.

Il détourna brusquement les yeux. Ce n'était pas une façon de voir la fille d'un de ses nakamas. Ni son alliée.

Marco attrapa précautionneusement l'enfant. Il fut surpris de constater que sa mémoire motrice reprenait le dessus : il ajusta naturellement la position de la petite dans ses bras.

Béatrice se maudit intérieurement d'avoir sous-estimé à quel point un homme tenant un bébé pouvait être séduisant. La chemise toujours entrebâillée, Cassiopée nichée dans les bras puissants du blond... Béatrice comprenait pourquoi Aaron avait choisi Marco comme parrain. Malgré ses pertes, il restait un des hommes les plus puissants de ce monde.

 — La paternité t'irait bien, Marco, dit Aaron à voix haute, verbalisant les pensées de Béatrice.

Ce dernier eut une moue gênée, peu à l'aise. Son regard noisette se tourna vers celui de Béatrice, cherchant son approbation. Elle la lui donna d'un hochement de tête.

— Effectivement, cela te va plutôt bien, sourit-elle en le narguant, mains sur les hanches, avant d'éclater de rire quand il tressaillit : Cassiopée venait de sautiller dans ses bras, visiblement d'accord avec sa marraine.

★⋆✩✩✩⋆★⋆✩✩✩⋆★

Ils consacrèrent le reste de la journée aux soins de la petite. Béatrice se limita à fournir les indications strictement nécessaires, n’ayant d’ailleurs que peu d’éléments à communiquer : Marco assurait la prise en charge avec efficacité et maîtrise. Doté d’un tempérament calme et réfléchi, il donnait l’impression que la gestion d’un nourrisson sur une journée s’apparentait à une tâche simple. Béatrice, en constatant cette aisance, ne put s’empêcher de comparer avec sa propre expérience lors de sa première garde de Milo, le fils aîné d’Ambre.

Elle se souvint alors de l'âge de Marco : il avait forcément déjà côtoyé des bébés. Il lui avait d'ailleurs expliqué s'être occupé des enfants d'Oden à leur naissance, sur le navire de Newgate.

Le soleil se couchait petit à petit sur l'archipel des Muses. Marco monta les marches vers la chambre des enfants, où un landau attendait Cassiopée, déjà lavée et en pyjama.

— Dois-je aussi dormir ici pour la nuit ? plaisanta Marco en gagnant le balcon avant de s’installer sur une chaise longue.

Attenant à la chambre, un balcon complétait le tout. Béatrice était allée chercher de quoi boire avant de rejoindre le pirate.

— Mes excuses, mais la chambre la plus proche est la mienne. Disons que ton interro surprise s'arrête maintenant.

Elle lui sourit en lui tendant un verre.

— Du vin ?

— Personnellement, je voudrais éviter tout effet secondaire par rapport à demain, dit-elle doucement. Je sais que tu ressens moins les effets de l'alcool.

— Je vais faire preuve de solidarité pour cette fois, yoi.

Un silence agréable s'installa, accompagné par la brise maritime, dans l'ambiance apaisée de cette fin de journée d'entraînement au rôle de parrain.

Ils avaient constaté à quel point ils pouvaient se synchroniser facilement, et leur capacité à s'organiser sans forcément se parler constituait un réel atout.

— Aaron nous a révélé ton poste dans la Marine bien avant son mariage. J'avoue être curieux à ce sujet, yoi.

Les bras croisés derrière la tête, allongée sur sa chaise longue, Béatrice but une gorgée de vin.

— Je m'en doute.

Elle recula dans son siège, peu rassurée sur la tournure que pourrait prendre cette conversation.

— Ça n'a pas dû être évident d'être l'ennemie de ta propre famille.

Béatrice se demanda si Marco savait que ce n'avait pas été son choix d'entrer dans la Marine.

— Que t’a dit Aaron ?

— Un soir, amoché, il m'a avoué que tu étais dans la Marine depuis vingt-quatre ans. Huit ans, ça me paraît un peu jeune pour que ce soit volontaire, surtout vu ce qui se passait dans ta famille, yoi.

Béatrice nota l'honnêteté du pirate, qui lui parlait de ce qu'il n'était pas censé savoir. Elle se demanda si connaître un de ses secrets lui pesait. Un peu comme le fait qu'elle devait révéler à Shanks qui elle était réellement pour sa fille…

— Non. Ce n'était pas un choix.

Elle sentit un poids s'envoler de ses épaules en avouant à voix haute que les actes qu'elle avait commis n'étaient pas de sa propre volonté.

— Je voudrais te faire une confidence.

Béatrice se tourna vers lui, alertée par son ton sinistre, presque triste.

— Je souhaite me venger de la mort de Barbe Blanche. Tuer Teach. Lui faire regretter tous les crimes qu'il a commis.

— Quand ? Comment ? demanda-t-elle, inquiète.

— On se prépare encore. Peu après le mariage de Liam, je pense, yoi.

Béatrice fronça les sourcils, peu encline à cette idée. Elle se redressa face à lui.

— Je sais que tu as des informations sur lui. Si tu me dis ton prix, pourrais-tu me les donner ?

Marco avait toujours accepté cette partie d'elle : le fait qu'elle soit Marine. Comme il l'avait dit, il le savait depuis plus de deux ans. Pourtant, lorsqu'il l'avait rencontrée, il lui avait serré chaleureusement la main, lui avait souri. Il avait réussi à séparer Lisa Cassipan, l'identité forcée, de Béatrice Shine, celle qu'elle était vraiment.

Elle comprenait son besoin d'apporter justice à ses frères et à son père, tués au combat. Béatrice contempla la main de l'homme mais, par respect, ne la prit pas. Marco portait le deuil de trop de personnes. Son cœur se remettait lentement à vouloir se sentir vivant, quitte à ce que ce soit par la colère ou la soif de vengeance.

— Marco.

Le regard noisette de l'homme croisa le sien.

— Si je pensais que tu avais une chance contre Teach avec les tiens, je te donnerais tous les renseignements que tu veux. Mais j'ai aussi des informations sur ton équipage, et je sais que pour le moment, c'est une mission suicide.

Marco encaissa l'avis de Béatrice, qui lui parlait calmement.

— Tu sais que j'occupe actuellement un poste stratégique au Gouvernement Mondial. Je te parle en tant que professionnelle, en tant que membre de la famille Shine, mais aussi en tant que sœur de trois de tes hommes. Je veux être honnête : je refuse de perdre mes frères dans une guerre que je sais perdue d'avance.

Les faits étaient durs à entendre, mais la façon dont elle les présentait en prenant en compte son point de vue le toucha plus qu'il ne l'aurait cru.

— Vous avez la même façon de parler, Akagami et toi, yoi, dit-il avec un sourire las en se prenant la tête dans la main.

Cette remarque fit naître une idée. Peut-être que le rapprochement de Shanks envers Marco avait une arrière-pensée. Elle devait saisir l'occasion.

— Peut-être qu'une chose est sûre, Marco, reprit Béatrice en se penchant vers lui. À nous trois, nous pouvons obtenir justice.

— À nous trois ?

— Shanks et moi sommes déjà alliés, tu le sais déjà. L'idée de l'être avec toi ne serait pas absurde, non ? Nous voulons tous voir Teach tomber. Voilà le motif de notre alliance.

Marco se recula légèrement, ignorant jusqu'alors cette information capitale.

— Je n’y avais pas pensé mais, la famille Shine s'est alliée avec un Empereur ? demanda-t-il, incrédule.

— La famille Kamuku l'a fait avec Newgate, donc avec toi. Thoma avec Roger. Alors pourquoi pas moi ?

— Attends, comment ça, toi, yoi ?

— Je suis celle qui va prendre la relève de Thoma, lui avoua-t-elle.

Elle le regretta aussitôt : personne ne devait savoir qu'elle avait du pouvoir dans la famille Kamuku, alors qu'elle était concrètement l'héritière légitime de Soan. Elle devait parler uniquement au nom des Shine.

— Bon sang, tu es sûre de me donner autant d'informations ?

— Marco, je suis persuadée que tu fais partie de ceux qui peuvent venir à bout de Barbe Noire. Cet homme menace ma famille. Nos familles, se corrigea-t-elle.

— Tu es en train de me proposer une alliance, yoi ? demanda-t-il après un court silence.

— Nous le sommes déjà, Marco, lui rappela-t-elle. Liés par Soan. Il reste mon grand-père.

Béatrice allait se faire remonter les bretelles. Par tous ses Hauts Commandants.

— Voyons ça plus tard, reprit Béatrice en rentrant, suivie par Marco. Demain sera une grande journée pleine d'émotions. Ne laissons pas ça gâcher l'événement.

— Je garderai cette conversation en tête, yoi. Merci d'avoir autant pris ma position en compte, Béatrice.

Elle faillit lui répondre qu'il n'avait pas à être aussi séduisant en disant ça, accoudé à l'encadrement de la porte-fenêtre, la chemise toujours aussi diaboliquement entrouverte.

— C'est normal. Tu es le capitaine de l'équipage de mes frères et de mes belles-sœurs.

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En se couchant ce soir-là, elle se demanda franchement ce qui lui était passé par la tête pour faire une telle proposition. Béatrice s'était laissée emporter par l'envie d'aider Marco.

Soudain, sans un bruit, une silhouette enjamba le muret séparant les deux balcons. De sa position, allongée sous son drap, elle vit Shanks atterrir sur son balcon.

Elle glissa calmement un bras derrière sa tête, tirant discrètement sur sa manche pour cacher ses mains, et observa la scène se dérouler.

Sa baie vitrée était grande ouverte ; elle avait préféré ne pas fermer les volets cette nuit. Son sourire s'agrandissait, amusée de voir le grand homme jeter un œil à l'intérieur, comme pour vérifier si elle dormait. Ce qui faillit la faire éclater de rire, c'est quand il se tint le menton, réfléchissant visiblement s'il pouvait entrer.

Il dut se dire que oui, puisqu'il s'avança.

Et se cogna contre le rebord de la fenêtre, à deux doigts de s'étaler majestueusement.

Évidemment, cela déclencha le fou rire de Béatrice, tant la scène était ridicule.

Quand elle s'arrêta, essoufflée, elle pointa du doigt l'homme qui avait rejoint son lit.

— Je retiendrai ça toute ma vie ! lança-t-elle, hilare.

Elle sentait presque des larmes se former au coin de ses yeux avant de brutalement enfouir son visage dans l'oreiller quand il alluma la lumière. Elle grogna contre l'agression visuelle, attrapa son second oreiller et le lui lança à la figure.

— Éteins ça ou je fais en sorte que ton navire ressemble vraiment à ta tête.

Ce fut au tour du capitaine de rire, mais il s'exécuta. Shanks en profita pour observer Béatrice se redresser et le fusiller du regard, serrant son oreiller contre elle.

— Qu'est-ce que tu veux à cette heure-ci ?

Assise en tailleur, toujours accrochée à son coussin, elle fixait son allié, avachi sur un fauteuil qu'il avait tiré près du lit.

— J'ai entendu ta conversation avec Marco.

Le pire, c'est qu'elle n'était même pas étonnée. La chambre d'enfant se trouvait juste en dessous de celle de Shanks ; il lui suffisait de sortir sur son balcon pour tout entendre.

— J'ai mal interprété ton attitude envers l'équipage ? demanda-t-elle, inquiète.

À ce moment, ses yeux s'étant habitués à la pénombre, elle remarqua qu'il ne portait pas sa cape. Sa manche gauche était nouée. Béatrice apercevait la fin de son bras. Un frisson la parcourut à l'idée de perdre un membre.

Elle s'était toujours dit qu'un jour, pour payer ses péchés, on lui couperait les deux mains.

— Non, c'est exact. Je ne connaissais simplement pas le détail de son plan. Marco n'a jamais voulu s'allier à moi pour ne pas trahir l'adversité qui existait entre Newgate et moi.

— J’ai merdé ? murmura-t-elle, davantage pour elle-même.

— Je ne pense pas.

Il posa son unique coude sur l'accoudoir du fauteuil, réfléchissant avec elle.

— Je pense que tu lui as donné le point de vue extérieur dont il avait besoin.

— Tu te doutais qu'il voulait se venger ?

— À ton avis, Béatrice.

Elle frissonna presque en entendant son prénom prononcé ainsi. Son ton était devenu tranchant, dangereux. Ses iris argentés s'étaient acérés, mais elle ne se sentait pas en danger.

— Si on s'en prenait à l'un des tiens ou à Ambre, tu ne voudrais pas rassembler les tiens, tous aussi avides de vengeance, et tuer le coupable ?

Assimilant le nouveau point de vue, Béatrice comprit ce dernier.

— Mais c'est grâce à ton recul que tu as peut-être réussi à le sortir de cette folie vengeresse.

— Je l'espère. Sinon, je n'aurai pas d'autre choix que de rappeler mes frères et leurs femmes, quitte à leur en donner l'ordre.

— J'en aurais fait autant… si cette guerre se déroulait…

— Ils perdront.

— Et tout ce qu'il leur reste, termina Shanks.

Béatrice se mordit la lèvre. Elle espérait avoir été convaincante, car elle savait qu'elle ne pourrait rien faire de plus.

— Tu as fait ce que tu pouvais, assura Shanks, le regard étonnamment doux.

— Allez, allons dormir. Demain, on a une sacrée journée qui nous attend.

— Plus pour toi que pour moi, répondit Shanks avec air malicieux. Moi, je vais tranquillement profiter de tout ce que tu as préparé.

Elle se retint de lui faire un doigt d'honneur quand il repartit vers sa chambre en passant à nouveau par le balcon.

— Les portes, ça existe !

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Nombre de mots : 3 900.

Temps de lecture approximatif : 10 - 20 min.