#vftp

The sun had gone down hours ago, although that meant little for time during the winter moons. Bronwyn let out a sigh as she tucked her scarf into her parka, made sure her mitts were snug and warm. For all her time in Linast, she wasn’t sure she would ever adjust to just how short the days could get. She would never understand why anyone would choose to put the capital in the north.

She stepped into the hallway and, her heart leaping into her throat, very nearly struck someone with her door. She gasped and thrust her door shut, turned to fuss over whoever she might have offended. Her nerves soothed to friendly annoyance when she saw just who was standing there.

“Reyhan,” she greeted. Then, eyes turning onto the man next to him, she smiled. “Arif.”

“How do you do,” Reyhan said with a little bow.

“Better than you, I’d imagine,” she mumbled while looking towards her door. Bronwyn laughed nervously as her face went flush. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Nonsense.” Reyhan offered his arm to her. “It’s my fault for standing too close to the thing. I, of all people, should know how dangerous a door can be.”

Bronwyn again laughed as she took Reyhan’s arm, and looked over at Arif to flash him a smile. He offered her one in return, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

Reyhan started down the hallway, and Bronwyn kept happy pace beside him. His energy was youthful and refreshing, a rare thing in these hallways. She prayed it never changed.

“And just where were you off to at this hour, Miss Minnet?”

“I don’t see how that is any of your business, Mister Atalamiy.”

Reyhan looked over his shoulder at Arif, sporting his signature bachelor grin. “You hear that, Risha? Certainly is an independent one.”

Arif chuckled. “If you had half her spirit, Reyhan, I’d fear you.”

Bronwyn looked at Arif, playful toothy smile on her face. She let her arm slip free of Reyhan as he moved ahead to hold open the door.

“Do you fear me, Arif?”

His lovely garnet eyes twinkled playful. “I fear for anyone who goes up against you.”

Bronwyn hummed as she stepped through the door. “Good answer.” She again took Reyhan’s offered arm, but as the two of them descended the steps, she stole glance after glance back at Arif. Each time he would smile at her, patient and kind, and Bronwyn would give him one of her own. It was on the second floor that Reyhan stopped pretending not to notice.

“You two like each other,” he said, quiet enough that Arif likely wouldn’t hear him.

Bronwyn tilted her head, looked at him. “What makes you think that?”

“Just believe me,” Reyhan said. “I know what it looks like when someone’s developed feelings for Arif.” They went down the final set of stairs in quiet, and Reyhan broke away from her to again open the door. As Bronwyn stepped by him, Reyhan leaned his head against the door and gave her a warm smile. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice almost a whisper, “I think you would be good for him. And He’s a good man, Bronwyn. He could be good for you, too.”

She paused, for a second uncertain. As her eyes flicked down she breathed, “Thank you, Reyhan.” Footsteps sounded behind them and she turned just as Arif appeared on the final landing. When he saw her he gave her a smile, and without thinking, she returned one of her own.

Maybe they would be good for each other, although Bronwyn doubted they’d ever properly know. She wasn’t sure she’d ever know much about companionship after Anatom, wasn’t sure she’d ever known it in the first place. But as Arif stepped beside her and adjusted his hat, hope pulled her against all sense. She took the arm he offered her, and wondered how someone could look so confident yet so shy at once.

Faddei Peshov looked at the newspaper that had been dropped onto his desk and plucked his glasses from his collar and rested them on his nose. He leaned forward to examine the page, not completely sure what he was looking for until Faina Osinov landed her finger on a small article. Faddei tugged it closer to himself and muttered the words as he read them.

He got only a paragraph and a half of sight reading in when he looked over his glasses and fixed Osinov in ill hidden annoyance. He sighed and set the paper down, laced his fingers together and shifted forward on his seat. He wet his lips. “Tell me,” he began. “Predstav Osinov. How, exactly, does this concern me? This article is about Kudin’s region. Did you confuse us?” Perhaps age was catching up to her.

Osinov’s fur coat ruffled much like an annoyed, toothless wolf. “I fully intend to speak to Kudin about this, don’t doubt me, but I’m not here for the Predstav of Zapagora. I’m here for a word with the most vocal man on refugee restriction.” She jabbed her finger into the paper. “Did you have a part in this?”

“Of course not,” he snapped. He swiped the paper out from under her and jutted it out to her. How dare she come into his office and make such baseless claims? “And even if I had, this is in perfect compliance with the Echyet’s stance. Northern Yshtral hasn’t been touched by Blylahf, and we don’t accept refugees from safe places.”

Her lip curled as she took the paper back from him. The way she clutched it to her chest made it look like she thought newspapers were a dying breed. Faddei leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. “Any other accusations you have for me, Predstav Osinov?”

“Heartless man.” 

Faddei chuckled in amusement and made a sweeping gesture to the door, and the fury she wore would be comical if it were directed at anyone else. As it was, it only proved to annoy him. She spit the words, “Lacking in Echyet ideals,” whirled around, and slammed the door on her way out.

Kokhta Denaski sometimes wondered what life would be like if his island were claimed by Drekku. He imagined he would still find his way in politics somehow, it would take a lot to douse that fire, but he doubted he’d have climbed the ladder so quickly. Bloodshed worked in his favour that way.

However, if his island had been Drekkan, he might have been able to avoid ever having met Sirza Babayev, which would have all around been a wonderful thing. Maybe then he could have spent the lunch hour in peace.

“I don’t know why you won’t vote for my proposal,” she continued. “Even Predstav Taito agreed, and you of all people should know how she is.”

Kokhta bit into his sandwhich, perfectly ignoring Babayev and instead opting to read the latest novel that had grabbed his interest. Tomb of Queens it was called, and Kokhta was of the opinion that whoever had translated it from Enyese had done a very poor job of it.

“Denaski,” Babayev tried. When Kokhta still ignored her, she made a growl deep in her throat, reached across the table and pulled the book from his hands. “Why won’t you support me on this?”

Kokhta glowered at her and, ever so slowly, set his sandwich down. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, please. Please, for the love of Vikwo, tell me, because Denaski, I really don’t know what to do to sway you at-”

“I don’t like you.” He pulled his book from her hands and skimmed the page until he found the line he’d left off on. “And your ideas aren’t good enough for me to overlook that.”

Istayar was fine with most things, and on some level, he understood that the young were the future.

But for some reason, he just couldn’t stand the fact that Chayyal Mayul, more than ten years his junior, who would have been little more than a child before the revolution began, was on the reform committee. She had no right to be there, especially not when held up against himself, Arif, Eyana, and Reyhan. They were the ones who should be reshaping this country, not this thirty year old girl whose northern region had managed to escape most of the bloodshed.

He hated her, he was certain.

“Predstav Zhevon,” Mayul said. She was frowning, as she almost always was. “Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

He hadn’t been paying attention. Her ideas were often flights of fancy and he didn’t have the patience for entertaining them. He leaned forward in his seat.

“I think we should seek out other options first, Predstav Mayul.”

Her lips curled, and for a second, he thought he might finally get an outburst from her. Instead, she took a breath and forced a smile onto her face.

“Of course, Predstav Zhevon. You know I always appreciate your council.”

He watched as she collected her things, and bid her a warm farewell as she left his office.

Arzu Shivar pushed his dark hair from his face. It had been styled by his boyfriend this morning, but due to his habit of endlessly tugging on it, his curls had become less glossy and more frayed. He inhaled his ofha pipe and wondered what kind of scolding awaited him at home.

Thinking about that was a lot kinder than trying to imagine what kind of scolding awaited with Pertakhili. He had messed up big time. What a simple slip up of words could cost him.

The door to his right opened, and Arzu looked at it with nervous interest. The person blinked upon seeing him, and without saying anything came to stand beside him.

Arzu inhaled through his pipe, held it, let it out in a heavy breath. He held the pipe to Medico, but they shook their head. Arzu placed the pipe back between his lips and pulled in another breath.

“You only smoke when you’re stressed,” Medico mused.

Arzu scoffed. “You a detective now?”

Medico looked sideways at him, clearly annoyed, and Arzu looked back with his own blasé . Medico looked back out at the Kuvve grounds, watching the birds that pecked at scattered seeds. “I know you, Arzu.”

“You know that I like to be left alone when I’m stressed, Buksia.”

“Last name basis?” Medico sounded less hurt than Arzu would have liked. They sighed. “I know that if you didn’t like the company you’d leave.”

Elyk Kaskil and Ippolit Osulchin disagreed on most things, but the one thing they could agree on was their hatred for Florentiy Zhuk. They both found him too showy, too press friendly. He courted the public like a first date, and neither of them could stand it.

“Look at him,” Elyk groused. He watched as Zhuk, flanked by reporters, talked as if it was all just casual conversation. “Getting comfortable in that spotlight.”

“Jealous?” Ippolit teased, but after receiving a glare from Elyk, changed his tone. “He’s abusing his position for fame.”

“It’s revolting.” Elyk wrinkled his nose as Zhuk signed a piece of paper like an actor signing his autograph. He had to look away; it was too disgusting to bear.

Beside him, Ippolit chuckled. “Almost makes you miss Gruvchin, doesn’t it?”