#*daniil voice* ‘YOU HAVE YOUR OWN HOUSE’

[yourdeepestfathoms]

i love the fact that both Artemy and Clara can sleep in Daniil’s bed

imagine Daniil coming back to the Stillwater after a long, exhausting day, trudging up the stairs, ready to finally get some rest, and there’s these two conked out in his bed

(Artemy was definitely there first. Clara came second, saw him already asleep, and instead of, you know, going back to her own fuckin house, crawled right into the bed next to him and nestled against him like a kitten seeking warmth)

Daniil is just like, “what the fuck”

#sleeping in dan’s bed as clara is the funniest to me because of the beef they have with each other #he clearly thinks she’s annoying and he STILL lets her sleep in his bed #also does daniil get into the bed with them? does he just cut his losses and sit on the floor #does he take eva’s bed or trudge all the way to the shelter? #i do love the idea of all three of them cramming into that tiny ass bed #because his bed is SMALL #they’re practically piled on top of each other #someone definitely falls off (it’s daniil) #clara is the only one who is comfortable because i just know that girl can sleep anywhere #especially with the warmth of other people? she’s so comfy #she’s probably cozied up in between them #*artemy voice* ‘at least one of us will get a good night’s sleep tonight’ #*daniil voice* ‘YOU HAVE YOUR OWN HOUSE’ #pathologic #pathologic hd #pathologic classic hd #pathologic 2 #daniil pathologic #daniil dankovsky #the bachelor pathologic #clara the changeling #clara pathologic #clara saburova #artemy pathologic #artemy burakh #the haruspex #artemy x daniil

[quickhacked]

Chapter >> 6 [x] Characters >> Eddie Wolfe (oc), Huxley Byrne (oc), Ivan Dupoint (oc), Matvey Dobrynin (oc), Mikhail Koshechkin (oc), Roksana Dobrynin (oc), Shiro Nakano (oc), Vincent Mayer (oc), Viktor Vektor, Vitali Dobrynin (oc) Total >> 10.8k words Warnings >> Alcohol, blood, brief ableism + transphobia mentions, chess :/, death mention, family, light injuries, mild violence, smoking

‘Hey- Vito, easy-! Are you alright?’

‘It’s- It’s him, Vik, I-’

‘Breathe, kid, it’s okay-’

‘No! I saw- I was- It’s- The Broker, it’s-’

‘It’s who?’

Saturday morning. It was raining outside.

A ravaging rainstorm swept through the streets, leaving large pools of water on the asphalt and in the backyard of Vitali’s house. He sat in the windowsill of his room, forehead pressed against the cold glass as he watched his mother and Daniil unsuccessfully attempt to cover the jacuzzi with a canvas.

He brought his cigarette to his lips and went to take a drag, realizing only then he was merely holding a stub at that point, the tip still lightly smoldering. He mumbled something barely coherent to himself and pressed it out on the ashtray in front of him- which already held three other cigarette ends, all from the same day.

Summer vacation. Didn’t feel like it, though; Mikhail was away for two weeks, visiting family on the east coast, and Vitali was left all by himself in Night City stuck with merely never-ending boredom and his own family- and terrible weather, heavy acid rain continuously pouring down from the skies making it impossible to go anywhere.

He got up from the windowsill, wincing when his feet hit the cold floor of his room. His leg was acting up again; despite having had to deal with it for years already he was unsure what was wrong with it, but did not dare to bring it up to his parents, knowing they would not take him seriously anyway. He quickly pulled his hair up in a bun before leaving his room, making his way toward the kitchen.

Vitali didn’t like to leave the safety of his room. Especially after the recent confrontations he’d had with his mother he preferred to stay away from his family members at all costs, not wanting to accidentally inconvenience them more than he already felt like he was doing by merely existing and kick off another category five crisis which would take several business days to blow over.

He took a sharp turn right when he entered the living room- ignoring Roksana on his left on the couch, and his father straight ahead at the dining table- and he speed-walked into the kitchen without saying a word. The countertop was filled with dirty dishes, still; not his job to take care of, well aware Nadya had asked his father to clean them earlier that morning over breakfast, yet the urge to just do it anyway was nearly overwhelming.

Preemptive measures, so to say.

‘I want a drink.’

Roksana’s voice startled him and Vitali nearly dropped his glass, shooting a glare at his baby sister. She stood next to him, wide eyes staring up and arms crossed in front of her chest, and her gaze moved from the glass in Vitali’s hands back to his face.

‘Then you grab a glass and pour yourself a drink,’ Vitali calmly said, nodding at the clean glasses lined up in the corner on the countertop. ‘You are tall enough to reach them yourself now.’

‘I want a drink.’

Jesus Christ.

Vitali clenched his jaw and slightly tilted his head upward, swallowing his words as he stood indecisively in the middle of the kitchen for a few seconds.

‘Pour your sister a drink, Vitali,’ Matvey said from the table.

I’ll set fire to this fucking house, that’s what I’ll do.

Vitali mockingly mouthed his father’s words back at him as he reached for the tap and filled the glass to the brim with ice cold water. He set it down on the edge of the countertop and dramatically gestured at it, slightly turning toward Roksana.

‘I don’t want water.’

Then die of thirst for all I care.

‘What would you like, then?’ Vitali asked, fingernails scraping over the fake marble of the countertop as he curled his fingers into a balled fist. ‘Our finest lemonade? Some rum? Would you like me to pour you a cocktail, miss?’

‘Vitali.’

A warning.

Vitali glared at Matvey, anger bubbling up in his chest as he exhaled sharply and relaxed his hand. He kept his mouth shut and averted his gaze again, straightening his back as he- gently- shoved Roksana out of the way and opened the fridge.

‘Orange juice,’ Roksana quietly said, grabbing Vitali’s shirt and tugging on it way harder than necessary. Vitali glared at her and swatted her hand away, though made sure not to actually hit her- not wanting her to start crying uncontrollably as if he had smacked her in the head with a frying pan.

‘Careful with that,’ he muttered. ‘It’s not mine.’

He reached for the bottle of orange juice- it was almost empty, and another sharp exhale left his body as he closed the fridge door with a bit more force than he had wanted to, and he handed the bottle to Roksana.

‘Almost empty. Throw it away when you’re done with it, please.’

Roksana snatched the bottle out of Vitali’s hand and shook it wildly, walking away without saying another word. Vitali rolled his eyes and mouthed a silent “thank you, Vitali” and “you’re welcome, Roksana” before grabbing the glass of water on the countertop- having forgotten about it being filled to the edge, and some of the liquid spilled out and splashed on his pants.

Great.

He just wanted to cry, suddenly.

Every day his patience was tested to the limit and thus far he had been able to control himself; he wanted to prevent any more conflict from happening, and even though Nadya still regularly yelled at him at least it wasn’t because he had lost control again.

But it was hard.

It was so hard, and the fact he couldn’t even go to Mikhail to hang out with him instead, to do stupid shit with him to keep his mind off things, to fall asleep in the comfort of his arms and finally feel safe, and home- was not helping either.

Vitali silently cleaned the water from the floor, ignoring the stains on his pants and he dried the sides and bottom of the glass without complaining. He took a few sips, bringing the water down to a safer height, then began making his way back to his room.

But he stopped, halfway there. His eyes caught Matvey; he was in the midst of a game of chess against an AI opponent- 3D-projected chess pieces which moved on their own- eyes behind reading glasses solidly focused on the board in front of him.

Vitali slightly tilted his head as he watched it for a little bit. He couldn’t help but notice most of his father’s pieces were already off the board; while his opponent still had most of its own. Matvey was visibly losing, yet appeared entirely unbothered, and when his opponent beat yet another of his pieces he took it from the board and set it aside without as much as a clench of his jaw.

‘Care to play?’ he suddenly asked, without looking up.

‘No thanks,’ Vitali answered, yet still wandered closer. He placed his glass down and sat down opposite of his father, resting his cheek on his hand as he stared at the board in front of him.

‘Checkmate,’ Matvey mumbled. He gestured at his king- he had nowhere left to go, no other pieces around left to sacrifice in order to try and win himself. He gently took the piece and pushed it over, then took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat.

‘Playing against computer sounds boring,’ Vitali said. ‘What is the fun of it when you already know you will lose when you start?’

‘It is not about winning.’ Matvey reached for the device next to the board and pressed a button, and all of the 3D-projected pieces snapped back into their starting positions. ‘It is about learning- building strategy. I will not win now, but by memorizing these patterns- once I find a worthy opponent, I will know their play before they even know it themself.’

Vitali lowered his arms on the table entirely now and placed his chin on top of them, watching as his father began putting his own pieces back on the board as well. He let his eyes trail the pieces in the back- the rook, the knight, the bishop, the queen, the king…

‘So it’s all just set from the start?’ Vitali asked, eyes looking back up at Matvey. ‘From first move you make it is already decided who wins and who loses?’

‘In a way, yes.’ Matvey placed his last pawn down- his king’s pawn- then hesitated, and instead moved it forward two squares, and he pressed a button on the device again to tell the AI a new game had started. ‘While you cannot know exactly what your opponent will do, you can anticipate for it.’

The AI mimicked the move, putting its own king’s pawn directly against that of Matvey. And when Matvey moved his knight, the AI once again did exactly the same.

‘Petrov’s Defense,’ Matvey said, and the corner of his mouth slightly pulled up. ‘It always does that. A solid opening move- versatile.’

Vitali was barely listening, eyes glued to the pieces as he watched his father move another pawn forward, opening up the entire center of his side of the board. The game fascinated him; he had already known chess players thought ahead while playing, but he had been unaware of the fact patterns existed- and players actually made an effort to use these to their advantage.

It was almost a mind game to him, rather than just a simple board game; a pissing contest, even, to see and find out who had the most patterns memorized and with that knowledge would be able to win.

‘You should leave your room more,’ Matvey suddenly said. ‘We barely see your face anymore nowadays.’

Vitali clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes, glancing into the living room; Roksana stood right in front of the TV, eyes glued to the screen, and the bottle of orange juice stood untouched on the coffee table.

‘Why do you care?’ Vitali heard himself ask, and he redirected his attention to his father. ‘You’re always working anyway. There is as much to do here as there is in my room. And I can’t go out- Misha isn’t home.’

‘There are more people on this planet than just that boy.’ Matvey placed his pawn down on the board with a bit more force than before. ‘I think it’s good he is away- you two spend too much time together.’

Vitali said nothing.

He still did not entirely understand why his father disliked Mikhail so much; if anything, Vitali was a horrible influence on him, and absolutely not the other way round. Yet still, with every mention of his friend, Matvey acted as if he had committed several war crimes and was personally responsible for all the bad in the world.

‘Your mother believes you don’t want to spend time with us anymore,’ Matvey continued, his attention still on his game. ‘It upsets her.’

‘As I said- you are always working,’ Vitali snapped back, getting a little agitated at the mention of Nadya. ‘Both of you are. And the moments you are at home, you-’

He stopped himself just in time, and swallowed his words. Matvey briefly glanced up; but Vitali sharply shook his head, and mouthed a quiet “forget it” before sitting up straight again and leaning back in his chair.

Sometimes, Vitali had hope, still.

He wasn’t entirely sure why- Matvey proved time after time that if it came down to it he would pick Nadya’s side, always, even if he would later admit he secretly thought otherwise. Useless afterthoughts, none of it helpful to Vitali in the heat of the moment, and somehow even more upsetting than if Matvey had just kept his mouth shut.

It felt horrible to know his father agreed with him, but would never back him up.

Yet still, Vitali had hope; they did not see eye to eye on many things, but he knew it was because of Nadya, and Nadya alone. This conversation was yet another example of it-

“Your mother believes you don’t want to spend time with us anymore.”

Of course she had told Matvey to talk to Vitali. He was the only one Vitali could stand having a conversation with.

And it upset him. He was unsure what had gone wrong over the years- they used to be much closer, Matvey used to take time off from work to hang out with him and speaking to him did not feel like a chore like it often did now.

Vitali feared it was his own fault. Yes, sure, Matvey got his promotion and had begun working more because of it, which could’ve had something to do with it as well; but less than a year later Vitali had come out as trans, and though his father was significantly more supportive than Nadya- not close to the bare minimum either, but Vitali could not complain- it had definitely changed things for them.

‘I won’t ask you to sit in the living room all day,’ Matvey suddenly quietly said, leaning forward a little. ‘But please- spare five minutes when she comes home. No need to ask anything, she will talk either way, but- just to show that you are trying. I know it’s not fun, she is…going through some stuff right now. But you being around more- it might help.’

Vitali clenched his fists underneath the table and exhaled sharply, but nodded.

‘Fine. But if it doesn’t help I will stop doing it. Not going to subject myself to her tirades and temper tantrums every day just because she’s upset I am not around more. Some self-awareness would do her good.’

The corner of Matvey’s mouth twitched-

A smile?

‘I can understand. Thank you.’

Hope.

Fuck, it was not fair.

Vitali often wondered what life would be like without Nadya there. Oh, how he wished his parents would just get a fucking divorce- or at least just move into two separate houses, they had plenty of money anyway and it was not as if they were dependent on each other in any way at all.

‘She works too much,’ Vitali suddenly bluntly said. A wave of confidence; whenever his father agreed with him he would be unable to stop talking, as if he had secretly been longing for a conversation with him for who knows how long.

‘She likes to keep herself busy,’ Matvey simply responded. Something about his demeanor changed, in that split second- and Vitali already regretted speaking up again. ‘When you get a job yourself you’ll understand.’

As if every conversation they had was fucking timed- Vitali could only say so much before his timer would run out and then Matvey would go back to his neutral stance, or would straight up condemn everything else Vitali still had left to say. And the worst part was that his father usually did not even notice- or at least, pretended he didn’t.

‘Isn’t it time you go looking for one, by now?’

The question caught Vitali off guard, despite it being asked on the regular.

And get deadnamed on the work floor on the daily because mother won’t allow me to legally change my name? Or get fired after less than a month because of my hearing aid or because I need to sit down to relieve my leg every so often? No thank you.

‘I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for opportunities,’ Vitali mumbled in response, mood immediately dropping again as he got up, regretting having joined Matvey in the first place and wishing he had just gone to his room the moment he’d been done there.

He hated how it always turned into that.

It was like a fucking game- Vitali needed a moment to find the pattern and then when he thought he had it he immediately lost it again. The way his father thought and acted was a mystery to him, and no matter how much effort Vitali put in he was unable to understand any of it.

He turned around, getting ready to leave; but something stopped him, and he hesitated as he glanced back at his father, jaw tightly clenched and heart for some reason nearly beating out of his chest.

‘Don’t forget to do the dishes,’ he quietly said, unsure if Matvey heard him, or if he was even listening to him at all.

‘I don’t want her to get angry at you again.’

‘He- He can’t be back, it- it can’t be him-’

‘Vitali- Hey, look at me. Are you hurt?’

‘What- What did I do?’

‘Vito-’

‘Why me?!’

‘This is where she showed up.’

Mikhail slowly followed Huxley into the room; an office, by the looks of it, stripped entirely from personality like the rest of the mansion. A drawer of one of the file cabinets against the wall was open- some papers scattered across the floor, dropped by Lauren the night before.

‘Nadya,’ Mikhail said, the name heavy in his mouth- a question, almost, as if he still could not believe it himself. Huxley glanced at him, her eyes briefly darting back to the door opening, and she gave him a solid nod with clenched jaw.

It did not feel right.

It already hadn’t- Vitali being targeted, old mercs showing up, people getting captured yet no one getting killed, the fucking game of chess- and despite it all making sense now the revelation had only made it worse.

Matvey Dobrynin.

Vitali’s own fucking father.

Mikhail clenched his jaw as he picked up a picture frame from the floor, the glass cracked; he wiped his finger over it to dust it off and a small shard got caught in his skin, drawing blood- though he did not even flinch.

He rarely felt actual anger, able to let his frustrations slide away before they would begin to inconvenience him and generally having no trouble at all finding healthy outlets for it all. Though now, staring right at the faces of Vitali’s parents, his heart racing in his chest and his jaw still clenched- nearly painfully so- and his right eye twitching uncontrollably-

‘So?’

Mikhail blinked and looked up, watching as Eddie wandered over and lowered himself on the desk, crossing his legs over one another.

‘What?’ he asked, glancing behind him and noticing Shiro had also partially entered, leaning in the doorway with one hand on his hip.

‘Why do you think he’s doing it?’ Eddie asked, his voice quieter than usual- as if he was afraid Vitali would hear them, despite their boss not even being present on the premises himself.

Mikhail knew. Had looked into it the moment Vitali had finally returned home in the early morning hours, brought by Viktor, piss drunk for the first time since the time he had been unable to find Vincent’s body in the landfill after their failed heist. And even before Viktor had been able to tell them anything, Mikhail had already known exactly what Vitali had learned-

Ever since the game of chess he had already had his suspicions.

‘It’s not up to me to tell you that,’ Mikhail simply answered, placing the picture frame back on the desk and absently wiping the blood off his fingers. ‘You know everything you need to know, now; anything else Vitali will tell you himself.’

‘If I may- this is important information,’ Shiro said. ‘His father might be targeting him, but he is endangering us all. Many have already gotten injured. Including yourself.’

He made a good point. Still, Mikhail was not going to talk; he understood his friends’ curiosity, but he knew Vitali much longer than them, and he knew how much of a sensitive topic family was to him. On top of that, Vitali was his boss- and Mikhail knew better than to run his mouth.

‘It doesn’t matter why,’ he answered. ‘Vitali is not in the wrong here- if you can’t trust him on his word, then at least trust me on mine. His father…holds grudges. This is one of them. That’s all you need to know- now we just have to stop it from going on any longer.’

Eddie and Huxley shared a look, but both said nothing of it any more. Even Shiro- judgmental look still plastered on his face- wisely kept his mouth shut, and gave Mikhail a solid nod before turning on his heels and leaving the room.

Mikhail exhaled and softly clicked his tongue, hands finding the clasps of his chest armor and fumbling with them to keep himself busy. It was way too soon for him to be back in the field- but Vitali had asked him to lead the operation, and he had been unable to tell him no.

It made sense. Mikhail knew Vitali’s family; he knew them very well, despite not even having seen them that often in their youth. Vitali would talk about them nearly every time he’d stay over at Mikhail’s place, telling him about whatever useless fight they had started that time, things they had said to him, or stories they had shared with him from their workplace.

Mikhail hadn’t minded. He’d noticed it helped Vitali, to talk about it all; it had always calmed him down, had made him less jumpy, and had made him smile more when the talk had been over. Which is why he had never asked him to stop-

And which is why he now knew and understood more about Vitali’s family than about his own.

‘One tiny thing I worry about, though,’ Huxley suddenly said. They were on their knees, gathering the papers scattered across the floor. ‘Lot of Arasaka mentions, lately. Will that be a problem?’

‘No.’ The word had left Mikhail’s lips before Hux had even finished their sentence. ‘I can guarantee you that. Arasaka will stay out of this.’

All ex-Arasaka. Vitali, his mother, his father- hell, Mikhail as well- and all for the same damn reason, too. Mikhail understood the mention of the megacorporation did not sit well with many of Vitali’s mercs, especially since Vitali had been in their control for a couple months not too long ago; but they were not behind any of this. Not this time.

What Arasaka had done made sense. The name “Dobrynin” had been like a stain on their image, after Vitali had begrudgingly accepted the task to kill Susan Abernathy, had been ratted out and then fired over it; Mikhail had quit his job, refusing to leave Vitali’s side, but Vitali’s parents had been forcibly removed from the premises, unable to ever return.

Considering how important their jobs had been to them when Vitali had still been a kid, and assuming nothing had changed over the years, Mikhail even kind of understood they were angry.

But this was getting seriously out of control, and going way too far.

‘Hey.’

Mikhail glanced up. Eddie had moved forward again and hesitantly reached out for him, aware of the fact Mikhail was still a bit skittish when it came to physical contact; he allowed Eddie to put a hand on his upper arm and gently guide him out of the room, back into the hallway of the mansion’s first floor.

‘We’re not doubting you, or Vito,’ Eddie quietly said, briefly glancing at Shiro who was rapidly making his way through the rest of the rooms. ‘It’s just- you know. We’re all tired. Thought we would get answers, but now we’re just left with more questions if anything.’

‘I know.’ Mikhail sighed and dropped his head. ‘Look- it really isn’t my place to-’

‘No, no- I know. Just-’ A short pause, as Eddie swallowed heavily. ‘How certain are you it ain’t his fault?’

Doubt, still, despite claiming otherwise.

‘Hundred percent,’ Mikhail answered, vividly recalling how Vitali’s superior at Arasaka had essentially threatened him while trying to get him to kill Abernathy for his own personal gain. ‘I wouldn’t lie to you, Eddie. Please.’

Eddie nodded, averting his gaze- in shame, almost, and when he lowered his hand again Mikhail reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could pull away entirely.

‘I understand,’ he said, giving Eddie’s wrist a soft squeeze. ‘Truly. It’s alright. We’re all tired and I too just- I wish things were different. But we can’t start doubting each other right now. Yes?’

‘You’re right.’ Eddie inhaled deeply and sighed. ‘You’re right- Sorry. It just… It doesn’t sit right with me.’

Mikhail knew Eddie’s family well, at that point. His parents- two loving fathers, who had always been there for their son; his ex-husband, ex-husband’s new girlfriend- all on speaking terms with each other, and shared custody of their daughter Mica.

A complicated situation, but they all cared for each other and had never lost their respect for one another along the way-

For Vitali, it had always been vastly different.

Mikhail fully understood why it didn’t sit right with Eddie; it didn’t sit right with him, either.

‘No sign of recent activity since last night.’

Shiro had made his way back to them, and Huxley joined the three in the hallway too, holding the folder with Matvey’s personal information under her arm.

‘Master bedroom, one single bedroom- I presume of the daughter. Two spare bedrooms, unslept in,’ Shiro continued. ‘Another storage room of sorts as well, I think they kept weaponry in it.’

‘So, the daughter was here too?’ Huxley glanced from Shiro to Mikhail. ‘And the other son?’

‘Not that I can tell, no.’ A short pause. ‘Does that add up, Mikhail?’

It felt strange, to be the one with the most knowledge of the situation. On one hand it gave them an advantage; but on the other hand, it all felt wrong, something that should never even have happened in the first place.

‘Checks out, yes,’ Mikhail answered. ‘Daniil had…issues. It would not surprise me if he also left home and never came back. Where’s Roksana’s room?’

Shiro led them through the hallway to the room in the far end. They entered, Mikhail last, and he briefly paused in the door opening before following the others.

The room had much more personality than the rest of the house altogether; brightly colored walls with posters, pictures and creations all over the place. A lot of the personal works were abstract- as brightly colored as the walls- and Mikhail slowly wandered past all of it, eyes slowly trailing over every single piece.

His eyes found a picture; a young woman, smiling brightly, same gap between her front teeth as Vitali and- much to Mikhail’s surprise- shoulder-length, bleached hair. She stood alone in the picture; much like in most of the others he could see, with the exception of those where she was posing with her mother.

It was almost frightening, how little Nadya had changed over the years. Out of all of Vitali’s family members Mikhail had seen her the least; something he should be glad for, according to Vitali- and judging by everything he had told him about her over the years Mikhail did not doubt that statement for a second.

‘You think she’s in on it too?’ Eddie asked. ‘Makes me sick to think about.’

‘No idea, honestly,’ Mikhail answered. ‘I’m guessing not. Hux- Nadya appeared shocked, you said, yes?’

No reaction.

‘Hux?’

‘Mish.’

Mikhail turned, eyes finding Huxley. They had not listened to the conversation at all and instead held up a piece of paper, a worried frown decorating their face.

‘Is this you?’

What?

Mikhail stared at the piece of paper in their hands- a picture, and he felt his heartbeat speed up when he noticed that from a distance, it did indeed look like-

He walked over and snatched the picture out of Huxley’s hands, cheeks for some reason starting to burn bright red as he realized it was absolutely a picture of him- in his teen years, by the looks of it taken by Vitali at some point-

But why was it in Roksana’s room?

Mikhail opened his mouth, but no sound came out. What could he even say? He looked back up at Huxley, who was still staring at him with a questioning look on her face- and Eddie and Shiro did the same from a distance, though they all appeared more confused than anything else.

‘I don’t-’ Mikhail started, but he did not get much further than that.

Roksana had always been a little fascinated with him when they’d been younger. He had never thought anything of it- he was gay, this was Vitali’s baby sister of all people, she was five years younger than them, there was no way in hell Mikhail would ever even fucking consider-

‘I don’t know what this is doing here,’ he finally managed to wring out of himself, voice strangled as he lowered the picture with a shaking hand.

Yeah, this was making things complicated.

Mikhail rubbed the bridge of his nose, mumbling to himself in Russian as his neck twitched painfully and some forced coughs left his lips. He did not want to know what was going through the heads of his friends- he couldn’t even look at them anymore, and dropped the picture on the desk beside him as he quickly started making his way out of the room.

‘Misha, hey-’

Huxley followed, jogging up and quickly stepping in front of him before he could descend the stairs.

‘Search for any clue that could tell us more about their current whereabouts,’ Mikhail promptly said, raising his hand when Huxley opened her mouth to speak. ‘Contact Judes, see if she can get security network back online- I want footage, audio. Anything that can be recovered.’

‘Mikhail, we-’

‘That’s an order.’

Huxley closed her mouth again.

Mikhail was not sure what she had wanted to say, but he could not have any of it- not now. There was too much going on in his head and none of it was relevant to their mission there; all they needed was a new location, to find their way to Matvey, to get it over with- and anything else could be addressed later, if the circumstances called for it.

‘Yessir,’ she said, a surprisingly understanding look in her eyes as she gave him a nod. ‘Permission to take it from here? You can go home- sort out yer thoughts.’

‘Granted.’ Mikhail glanced at his watch and swallowed. ‘I’ll head back to office for now, still plenty of things to do. Once you’re done, please thoroughly check perimeter before leaving- we cannot afford more people getting injured now. Vitali will go insane.’

‘Of course. Don’t worry.’

Mikhail quickly walked past them before they could say anything else.

It was exhausting.

All of it- from the very start- it had been nothing but situation after situation and the brief moments in between had not been nearly enough for him to catch his breath. It helped, knowing who was behind it all, yet as Eddie had already said it raised many more questions, even for Mikhail who knew exactly why Matvey was doing it.

Mikhail deeply inhaled the moment he found himself outside again. They had forced the front gate open and two of their own cars were parked in the driveway, next to only one car of the Dobrynin family.

A bright, sunny day. It was nearly Summer; the air was starting to get warmer, the days longer. Mikhail almost expected to hear distant birdsong-

But this wasn’t the east coast. This was Night City. There weren’t any fucking birds around here.

God, he should’ve left when he had the chance.

Mikhail absently took out his phone, flipping through his favorite contacts and briefly pausing when Vitali’s name popped up. He exhaled sharply, the urge to call him strong; but he managed to stop himself, knowing Vitali would not be able to help him at all in that moment, and he quickly swiped left to call someone else instead.

Vincent picked up within seconds.

‘Hey, handsome.’ Their signature greeting. ‘You alright?’

‘Not really,’ Mikhail miserably answered.

He hated bothering people with this- especially over holo- but it was all too much, and despite this being his first day back at work he already longed for the comfort of Vitali’s penthouse- home- again.

‘What happened?’ Vincent asked, his voice immediately overflowing with worry the second he realized something was wrong. ‘Do you need me to come over? I’m out with Cato right now anyway- we’re around, we can stop by-’

‘No- no. It’s alright.’ Mikhail exhaled sharply. ‘Just…needed to hear your voice.’

In a way it was nice; to be comforted so easily by just the sound of his friend’s voice. Yet at the same time it was nearly embarrassing to him, how he seemed to be unable to just handle things by himself, as if he was back in elementary school rather than being a full-grown adult.

‘It’s just…been a long day,’ he quietly continued. ‘They’re- They’ve left the mansion. Nadya and Roksana have definitely been here, Daniil probably not. Matvey himself- I am not sure. We don’t know where they went, either. Still investigating.’

‘Fuck. Great start.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘And- Daniil? Do we know where he is? Maybe he can help.’

‘Doubt it.’ Mikhail pushed his hand in his pocket, fumbling with his keys as he looked down at the ground and carefully balanced on the edge of the curb. ‘Wouldn’t be hard to find him, I think, but- if he has nothing to do with this then I don’t know if Vitali wants to involve him at all.’

If there was one thing Vitali and Daniil had always argued about in their childhood, it was the fact Daniil had never been willing to help his older brother out with anything. Mikhail doubted he had changed much, since then.

‘Fair enough,’ Vincent answered. He hesitated for a moment. ‘Are you- Are you coming back to the office?’

‘Yes. Have to give Vito an update.’ Mikhail dreaded speaking to him a bit, for some reason, but knew that avoiding him would have a worse outcome for everyone involved. ‘Will you be there?’

‘Yeah! We’ll finish up here then circle back. See you there?’

‘Увидимся там- Fuck. Sorry. Thanks, V.’

‘No worries. Drive safe, okay?’

‘You too.’

Mikhail hung up and exhaled sharply again, rolling his shoulders as he briefly glanced back at the mansion behind him.

It did not feel right. None of it did.

And it frustrated him- there was nothing he could do to make it better, nothing he could say to make Vitali’s pain go away. Mikhail knew he had always felt like an outsider in his own family, but to have your own father hunting you down-

He clenched his jaw and lowered his gaze. Matvey had never been all too nice- hell, he had outright despised Mikhail from the moment they’d met- but Mikhail never thought he would be capable of any of this.

‘Family,’ he mumbled and scoffed, dropping himself off the curb and wandering over to his car.

‘What would we be without it.’

‘Vitali, sit down- You’ve been drinking?’

‘Doesn’t fucking matter- None of it matters anymore-’

‘Kid, please- Hey-’

‘It’s my father, Vik! He’s- I’m- It’s- It’s my father-!’

It did not feel right, to return to the office.

People had not said anything out of the ordinary; had greeted him as usual, though with a “good afternoon” rather than a “good morning” considering it had already been late when he’d finally showed up.

But they had stared, too. Possibly because he had needed to lean on his cane more so than usual, possibly because he had not made an effort to style his hair that day, or trim his beard, possibly because he essentially looked like a fucking walking corpse-

But most likely because they all knew who the Broker was, now.

It was fucking ridiculous. The truth was in the name itself, even- Matvey had been a banker at Arasaka for so long. Vitali could have known.

His head hurt. His own fault, this time; after coming face to face with his mother he had run off by himself, had found his way to a nightclub- still in full combat gear- and had drunk until he had not been able to see straight anymore. And he needed a lot of alcohol in his system for that to happen.

Lauren and Huxley had returned to the office, had told everyone there what they knew; but Vincent and Mikhail had already been at home and had only learned the truth several hours later, when Vitali had been brought back home by Viktor.

He hadn’t even needed to say anything.

‘So- we still have nothing, now.’

Vitali blinked and realized Mikhail was still there. They were in his office together- door locked, the both of them sat on the couch in the corner, Vitali holding a glass of water in his hands.

He had forgotten it was there, while zoning out; some of the liquid had spilled on his pants.

‘Hux took over, they’re still at the location right now gathering intel,’ Mikhail continued in Russian, as Vitali quickly set his glass on the table. ‘But my expectations are low. No sign of Daniil either, I’m assuming he has nothing to do with any of this.’

‘Fucking debil,’ Vitali mumbled. ‘Of course he’s not around. Good riddance, I suppose.’

‘One cunt less to worry about.’ Mikhail shifted position and something about his expression changed. Vitali immediately recognized his discomfort and slightly tilted his head, to try and catch his gaze.

‘Roksana had a picture of me,’ Mikhail bluntly said, noticing Vitali’s efforts. ‘It was… It was in her room.’

Ah. Right.

Somehow, not a surprising statement to Vitali. His sister had always been weird about Mikhail. A little worrying to hear it had not been a phase, but at this point he was just accepting any new information that came his way.

‘She’s insane,’ Vitali promptly answered and shrugged, shaking his head. ‘Don’t know how else to put it. Assumed it was a weird teenage crush she had, but- apparently she has not changed a bit.’

A string of noises left Mikhail’s mouth and he lowered his gaze, cheeks suddenly flushed red and an almost pained grimace decorating his face.

‘I don’t want to know what the others think of it,’ he quietly said. ‘It’s fucking embarrassing.’

‘I understand. What did you tell them?’

‘That I don’t know why the picture is there.’

‘Then that’s more than enough, no? You told them the truth, and- I also wouldn’t know what Roksana’s deal is, to be fair. If the others truly have more questions they can come to me, but I think you and I know about as much as them in this.’

Mikhail nodded, his jaw still visibly clenched as he exhaled and allowed Vitali to brush a strand of his hair out of his face. Vitali carefully got up- Mikhail immediately did the same, holding out his arm for Vitali to lean on- and he gestured at the door of his office, signaling to Mikhail the conversation was over.

‘Vito?’

Hesitance in his voice. Again.

‘You will come home tonight, yes?’ Mikhail quietly asked. ‘Directly from here. No… You know. Distractions.’

Vitali clenched his jaw, well aware of what Mikhail was referring to. Guilt washed over him and he lowered his gaze, whatever memories he still had from the night before flooding back into his mind-

Yes, it had been stupid of him. He hadn’t drunk like that in a long time- had tried to keep it up, truly- but he had been too distraught to give it all a second thought. He had not done anything he now regretted while under the influence- at least, he hoped he hadn’t- but were it to happen again-

Well, at some point it was bound to go wrong.

‘No distractions,’ Vitali repeated, and nodded. ‘I’ll come home. And… I’m sorry.’

Mikhail’s eyes fluttered shut and he lightly shook his head, stepping forward to wrap one arm around Vitali’s waist and press a kiss on his forehead.

‘I understand,’ he quietly said. ‘I would have done the same, I think.’

They walked over to the door together and left Vitali’s office, Vitali locking the door behind him. The waiting hall was mostly empty, at the time; much to Vitali’s relief, and he redistributed his weight to his cane while letting go of Mikhail’s arm.

‘Thank you for the update,’ he said, switching to English again and looking back up at his friend. ‘And for leading operation for me. I won’t ask that of you again, but- I just- I don’t know. I needed you to see it all, too. Make sure I am not going insane.’

‘I understand.’ Mikhail softly tapped Vitali’s upper arm. ‘I’ll be in security office if you need me, okay?’

‘Alright.’

Vitali watched as Mikhail walked away, greeting the only other group of people as he crossed through the hall and turned left at the far end to get to the security office, where Judy was stationed for the afternoon.

He relaxed his shoulders- had not even been aware he’d been clenching his muscles in the first place- and lowered his gaze to the floor, another wave of guilt rushing through his system. He felt like he was slipping; losing his grip on himself and what he stood for, and the moment his panic would fade a painful clarity would take its place, leaving him with only regrets.

It was difficult.

Everyone was there for him, ready to help, and he truly needed them; yet at the same time he still often found himself trying to avoid it all, wanting to deal with everything himself. Especially considering all of this was his problem- and probably his fault too-

Vitali clenched his jaw and began making his way through the waiting hall too, his next step already planned in his head. It didn’t feel right to continuously ask others to help him with things. On his friends’ urgent request he still did so- he had allowed Huxley and Lauren to tag along, and now he’d asked Mikhail to check out the mansion for him- but fuck, how he wished he hadn’t-

‘There you are!’

Vitali looked up and slowed down when he noticed Vincent jogging up to him with, despite everything that was going on, a bright smile on his face- to the point Vitali was unable to suppress a smile himself as well.

‘How’s your head?’ Vincent asked, gently kissing his cheek and taking Vitali’s arm so he could lean on him a bit while they stood.

‘Still killing me,’ Vitali answered, redistributing his weight a little. ‘But I’ll power through.’

It had been mostly Vincent, telling Vitali he was allowed to ask for help. Not just the day before, when he had tried to convince Vitali to let him go to the mansion in his place instead; ever since Vitali’s leg surgery he had tried to reassure him it was okay to not be able to do everything yourself, and truth was it had helped.

Yet now- it was all becoming too much.

‘What’s our next move?’ Vincent asked, his eyes following some mercs passing by and defensively straightening his back a little when they shot them some curious glances. ‘Misha said you probably don’t want your brother’s help, which- is understandable.’

‘Daniil will stay out of this for now, yes,’ Vitali answered. ‘I… I was on my way to our French friend right now, actually.’

‘Oh-! Preem. Want me to come with you?’

The question was a little unexpected.

Vitali blinked and looked back at Vincent, who patiently waited for his answer, eyes slowly moving over his face- tracing his freckles, Vitali knew, having noticed Vincent did that pretty often.

Part of him wanted to say no. Vitali knew how ruthless he could be in situations with his enemies, and he did not want to subject Vincent to any of that; yet for some reason, a curious feeling filled his chest and caused his heartbeat to speed up to the point he could barely find the strength to start walking again-

‘I would like that, yes,’ he quietly answered, giving Vincent’s arm a soft squeeze. ‘Thank you.’

Should’ve said no.

They left the waiting hall together, Vitali still holding on to his boyfriend’s arm as they walked toward the elevators. He was exhausted- entire body screaming at him to sit down, or lie down, even, and the painful thrumming in his head from the night before had not gotten any less over the course of the day.

He knew he could go home. No one would blame him- well, he hoped- and he could pick up his duties the next day, or even later that week if he needed more time to recover. Yet it didn’t feel right; nor was he able to sit still, now, knowing who was behind all the attacks. He needed his answers, he needed to resolve the situation as quick as he could-

But the moment they reached the door of the room Dupoint was held in, he hesitated again.

‘Are you sure you want to be here for this?’ Vitali quietly asked Vincent, turning toward him with his key tightly clenched in his hand. ‘I can’t tell you how this will go.’

‘That’s no problem,’ Vincent answered and gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Do what you gotta do, pretend I’m not there. I just-’ A short pause. ‘I just don’t want you to be in there by yourself, y’know?’

Vitali’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned forward until his forehead touched Vincent’s, his exhaustion momentarily overtaking him. Vincent hummed softly and pressed a kiss on the bridge of Vitali’s nose, his hands gently cupping his cheeks and index fingers running over his cyberware.

God, Vitali wanted to go home.

‘Come on,’ Vincent whispered, and his lips teasingly brushed past Vitali’s as he spoke. ‘Let’s get some answers, then we take a break before gettin’ back to work. Sounds good?’

Vitali couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from curling up and he slightly tilted his head, opening his eyes again and raising his eyebrow upon seeing the dangerous sparkle in Vincent’s eyes.

‘A break?’ he repeated. ‘To do what?’

Vincent shrugged, briefly glancing into the hallway as he rested his hands on Vitali’s hips and swayed the both of them from side to side a bit.

‘Anything you want, baby.’

Between all the stress and situations they’d had their quiet moments together, of course; yet not nearly enough as Vitali had hoped, recalling only two official dates in total despite the two of them already having been together for- damn, nearly a year now.

Vincent’s birthday is coming up.

Birthday, and anniversary. Vitali clenched his jaw, mood immediately shifting when he realized he had barely given it any thought yet. Vincent seemed to notice and stopped moving, hand reaching up again to brush some of Vitali’s hair out of his face.

‘You can take a nap,’ he said, fingers dragging down Vitali’s cheek. ‘You look like you need one. No offense.’

‘None taken,’ Vitali replied and lightly smiled again. ‘I feel like I need one. Or two. Hibernation.’

‘Hittin’ the hay early tonight.’

‘Sounds like a dream.’

Vincent cupped his face again and kissed him, his lips soft and gentle against Vitali’s. A slightly one-sided kiss; Vitali was too exhausted, and allowed Vincent to lead him through it, closing his eyes as he felt himself finally relax.

‘Ready?’ Vincent mumbled into the kiss.

‘I’ll never be,’ Vitali quietly responded.

Vitali unlocked the door and walked inside, allowing Vincent to close the door behind him. He placed his cane against the wall and tossed his key on the table on his right, then slowly started rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as his eyes moved to their captive.

‘Good afternoon,’ Dupoint said from his chair, smiling at Vitali as if he was not tied down at all. It was still strange, how quickly his entire attitude had shifted over his entire captivity- but Vitali was too tired to question any of it.

‘What is he doing here?’

A glare in Vincent’s direction. Vitali ignored it and slowly walked closer, then sat down on the edge of the chair and reached for the cart next to it-

But something stopped him, and he froze mid-movement. His eyes were glued to the knife he had reached for and he clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply as the nightmare he’d had crept back into his mind, together with the feeling of warm blood sticking to the tips of his fingers-

Vitali rolled back his shoulders and straightened his back, moving his hand back and reaching it out toward Vincent instead without looking away from the cart. Some noise behind him; followed by the comfortable weight of a gun in the palm of his hand, and he twirled it around lightly before turning toward Dupoint.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Dupoint patiently asked, his eyes somewhat nervously moving from Vincent to the gun in Vitali’s hand. ‘Surely I gave you the right coordinates-’

‘It is my father.’

Dupoint’s voice faltered upon hearing Vitali speak and the corners of his mouth twitched, before he relaxed in his chair. Vitali leaned forward, raising the gun slightly as he adjusted the armrest and rested on it himself, the gun pointed toward Dupoint’s chest.

‘You knew,’ he slowly said, pausing briefly to check Dupoint’s face for any sort of confirmation- and Dupoint merely nodded in response.

Anger bubbled up in Vitali’s chest, but he pushed it away, well aware of the fact Vincent was standing right behind him. He cocked his head up and inhaled deeply, allowing his heartbeat to settle down again.

‘Didn’t want to spoil the surprise,’ Dupoint said. ‘He wanted you to figure it out yourself- if you would ever even find out about it at all. A mind game if you will. See if you could piece all the puzzle pieces together yourself-’

Vitali whacked him in the face with the back of the gun, a painful jolt of fury rushing through his system. He pressed the barrel against Dupoint’s forehead, and leaned in as he sat up on his knees to get as close to him as possible.

‘Where can I find him?’ he asked, maintaining his composure- but the slight tremble in his voice gave him away.

And of course Dupoint noticed.

Another one of his signature smiles spread across his face and he let out a sigh, glancing past Vitali to look at Vincent instead. His eyes moved back, and he slowly shook his head before speaking up again.

‘What will you do?’

Burn this entire city down, if I fucking have to.

‘When you find him, what do you expect will happen?’ Dupoint continued, relatively unbothered by the gun against his head. ‘Who do you expect to find, exactly? And what will you do?’

‘Vito.’

Oh, he was good.

Vitali lowered the gun, jaw painfully clenched as he tried to keep the hurricane in his chest under control while simultaneously keeping the fog in his head at bay. He turned his head toward Vincent, and watched as he walked closer, grabbing Dupoint’s attention.

‘You don’t need to know any of that,’ Vincent said, gently taking the gun back from Vitali- but not putting it away just yet. ‘All you need to do is tell us where we can find ‘im, and we’ll take care of the rest.’

‘I’m sorry- I’m not talking to you,’ Dupoint cut him off. He turned his head back to Vitali and opened his mouth to speak, but Vitali forcefully grabbed his face, forcing his mouth open, and lifted his right arm as he turned his wrist and activated his mantis blade.

It had been a while since he had done so. The invisible cyberware lines on his forearm briefly glowed golden, and his blade snapped out within a second, the tip coming to a stop only inches away from Dupoint’s eyes. Without hesitation, Vitali activated his heating sensors- and the blade began glowing bright red, as he moved it closer toward Dupoint’s mouth.

Dupoint whimpered, eyes wide now that the situation had suddenly escalated and he squirmed in the chair. Vitali gave him his moment, holding the blade still right in front of him; a threat, for now, though he was not scared to use it.

And Dupoint knew that.

‘Where can I find him?’ he calmly repeated himself, briefly eyeing Vincent to check his reaction; his face was mostly unreadable on quick glance, but Vitali could tell his boyfriend was biting the inside of his lip.

Another whimper left Dupoint’s throat and he slightly moved, trying to pull his head away. He visibly hesitated for a second, then nodded-

But as soon as Vitali let go of his jaw, Dupoint exhaled shakily, and then laughed again.

‘My, my, Vitali,’ he said. ‘You are completely lost. Your father’s determination, yes- but so disorganized, and slacking. Running in blind, without a plan? Without a long-term goal? Your father is not going to stop for you, you do realize that, yes?’

‘Shut up,’ Vitali muttered, but Dupoint did not listen.

‘Such a disappointment, truly. I’ve heard stories about you, but my friend- you do not live up to them.’ Dupoint paused, sucking in a breath as he dropped himself back in the comfort of the chair. ‘Hurt me all you want. Clearly you are not ready yet.’

‘Christ, what kinda masochist-’ Vincent stopped himself and briefly glanced at Vitali, before turning back to Dupoint. ‘What we’ll do once we get to him is none of your fuckin’ business. Get your gonk head out of your ass and tell us where we can find him!’

‘Dear lord- Vitali, please leash your dog-’

Vitali grabbed Dupoint’s jaw again in one swift movement, eyes plastered to essentially nothing as he raised his blade again and brought it back toward Dupoint’s face. Though the moment he looked up to place the searing tip on Dupoint’s tongue, he froze-

Dupoint looked up at him in anticipation. He was waiting.

And suddenly, it clicked.

Vitali slowly opened his mouth, but the words got stuck in his throat and he sighed, a smile spreading across his face as he lowered his blade, deactivated the heating sensors and retracted it into his arm.

‘I get it now,’ he said, glancing at Vincent and letting go of Dupoint’s jaw. ‘Oh- you are pathetic.’

Dupoint blinked, clearly caught off guard by Vitali’s sudden shift in attitude and he left his mouth half open, unable to answer.

‘You want me to hurt you,’ Vitali said, climbing off the chair and slightly raising his voice. ‘You are- You are expecting him to care, no?’

How great it felt to be right.

Vitali watched the blood drain from Dupoint’s face and his mouth open and close indecisively a few times as he visibly tried to find the right words to say. His eyes no longer held his earlier triumph, and instead he almost looked scared now.

‘What’s in it for you, Ivan?’ Vitali continued, taking a step closer again and causing Dupoint to wince. ‘Money? Something…else, perhaps? You return to him, broken and bruised, and you- you are expecting what, exactly?’

Vitali did not even want to think about it, nor did he expect an answer; Dupoint pulled up his shoulders and closed his mouth a final time, and for the first time in days he looked like how he had looked back when they had first strapped him to that chair.

‘Well, let me tell you one thing about my father.’ Vitali leaned over the chair again, until his face was only inches away from Dupoint’s.

‘He does not fucking care,’ he spat. ‘He can’t.’

He’s not coming to save you.

‘You’ll rot here,’ Vitali bluntly continued, pulling back and regaining his composure as he ran a hand through his hair. ‘He won’t come looking for you. You’re nothing more than a tool to him, like all of his mercenaries- you’re not special. You’ll spend the rest of your days within these four walls and no one will even fucking miss you.’

Finally. A weakness.

Vitali had been waiting for this moment; to break up Dupoint’s pattern, get ahead of him, and then use it against him to the point he would break. Crack, at first, though Vitali knew that with enough time he would shatter, and give him all the information he needed.

‘Let’s go,’ Vitali said to Vincent and nodded at the door. He grabbed his cane from the wall and together they moved closer to the door, Vincent opening it, about to step outside-

‘Wait!’

Vitali stopped in his tracks, unable to suppress a small smile as he watched Vincent turn around again- their eyes briefly met, and in the midst of his victory Vitali could only just suppress the urge to lunge forward and kiss him.

He turned back around, gaze finding Dupoint’s and he smiled again, watching Dupoint struggle to sit up a little straighter before finally speaking up, his voice strangled-

‘I’ll take you to him.’

‘Vitali?’

‘Vitali, hey-’

‘Kid, please- Can you hear me?’

Vitali blinked, and finally looked up.

Viktor’s office. Not sure how he had managed to find his way there. Last thing he remembered was downing an entire bottle of- of something, in a club- not even all that close to Viktor’s shop, now that he gave it another thought. Where had he come from? North Oak?

The mansion was in North Oak.

How had he gotten there?

‘Your father?’ Viktor slowly repeated.

Vitali could not answer him.

He slowly looked around, a sudden soberness to him now that he had finally realized where he was; he was sitting on Viktor’s surgery chair, legs dangling down and his leg brace standing next to him. He was still in full combat gear, too- and he felt sick to his stomach, and the entire room was spinning around him.

‘I feel horrible,’ he blurted out, the words nearly painful as he forced them out of his throat and he sank forward a little bit. Viktor- positioned right in front of him- caught him with ease, and held him up by keeping his hands steady against Vitali’s shoulders.

‘How did you get here?’ Viktor calmly said. ‘Is there anyone with you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Vitali quietly answered. He felt tears well up in his eyes, suddenly- and as much as he tried to push them away, embarrassed enough already for being there in the first place, he was unable to, and a quiet sob left his throat.

‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted out. ‘I’m sorry, I- I don’t know why I came here-’

‘Don’t be,’ Viktor immediately cut him off. ‘I’m glad you did.’

Vitali had shown up on his doorstep unannounced plenty of times.

It had taken him some time to warm up to Viktor when they had first met- only just moved out, recently started college, reunited with Jackie, insane authority issues which had already caused him to get in trouble at school and at his job several times- but picking up boxing with his best friend and Viktor as their trainer had helped. With much more than just that.

Vitali had still gotten into many fights in college; something that hadn’t changed since high school, except he’d no longer had Mikhail around to patch him up, and he hadn’t wanted to bother Jackie or Mamá Welles with it. Often, he’d tried to deal with it himself- but that had not always been the case.

‘The Broker is my father,’ Vitali quietly said, eyes wandering off into the room. His voice sounded distant, and broken- but not because of the fog this time. God, he wished.

‘Christ.’

Viktor reached for his own face and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Vitali shakily exhaled, averting his gaze as he tried to put the memory of Nadya- his mother- standing there in her sleepwear in the doorway of the office, wide eyes staring straight at him, out of his head-

Viktor asked him something, but Vitali couldn’t hear him. He turned his head back, and Viktor repeated himself- but despite his hearing aid, Vitali still did not understand a single word he said, but he was just sober enough to be able to read his lips.

‘I’m certain, yes,’ he quietly answered. ‘Mother was there.’

He had told Viktor about them, a long time ago. Only once- and had never brought them up ever again since, ashamed of ever talking about them in the first place.

But that meant Viktor knew of what they had done. How they had mistreated Vitali for most his childhood, and how they had refused to speak to him after he had left home, despite his desperate, almost daily attempts to reach out to them again-

‘What do I do?’

Vitali looked up at Viktor, tears freely rolling down his cheeks as he smiled wearily, a choked scoff leaving his throat. ‘My mercs- They’re all relying on me, Vik. They trust me. What the fuck do I do?’

He wanted to leave.

He wanted to leave Night City and never come back; move to the east coast and start a new life there, preferably all by himself so he would no longer cause any harm to anyone.

But he couldn’t.

Viktor exhaled deeply and suddenly pulled Vitali toward his chest- an unexpected gesture, but Vitali was too tired to fight him off and allowed Viktor to wrap his arms around him and he closed his eyes, his eyelids heavy.

‘You do what you always do, kid,’ Viktor quietly answered. ‘You don’t give up.’

Easier said than done- but Vitali knew Viktor meant well. He had not even expected him to answer in the first place; his head was a mess, and the urge to run away was still there. He could just go, leave in the middle of the night, never come back-

But he couldn’t do that to his mercs. Not again.

‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen you give up in all my years of knowing you,’ Viktor continued, letting go of Vitali again and tapping him on his chin to tilt his head up. ‘That gonna change now?’

‘No,’ Vitali quietly answered. A strictness to Viktor’s voice; unlike how he usually sounded, but it reminded Vitali of when they’d still trained together every Sunday, back when he’d still been in college- and for some reason it helped.

But then he remembered the picture frame- his own mother and father staring back at him, looking at him- so many years apart yet they still looked almost exactly the fucking same and now his own father was- He was-

‘Do you think he wants me dead?’ Vitali suddenly quietly asked, eyes once more filling with tears as his chest painfully tightened and his shoulders tensed up. ‘What- What did I do, Vik?’

‘Not the right time to draw your conclusions,’ Viktor gently cut him off, shaking his head. ‘So far he’s just been sabotaging. Hurtin’ you more than anything else, through your network- think if he wanted you dead he wouldn’t be takin’ his time like this.’

Viktor made a good point. Matvey- fuck, it felt wrong to think about his name again- planned everything out carefully, and he did not sound like the man who would drag out an assassination attempt like this.

But in that moment, Vitali had a hard time believing him, still.

He shakily exhaled and closed his eyes when Viktor put a hand on his shoulder again, squeezing reassuringly. Exhaustion washed over him now, and he wished he had just gone home in his drunken state, instead of there-

And in a moment of weakness, Vitali leaned in, suddenly. Unsure what he was expecting.

But desperate.

And Viktor instantly pulled him to his chest again, strong arms tightly holding on to Vitali as if he feared he would fall apart the second he would let go. Vitali closed his eyes and buried his face in Viktor’s shirt, another shaky exhale leaving his body as he desperately tried to keep his tears in.

‘Come on, kid,’ Viktor quietly said, a sudden somberness in his voice.

‘Let’s get you home.’

#nuclearwriting #rbs much appreciated :) <3 #CHAPTER 6 BABEYY this one took me forever but it's fine i had to figure some things out #i have a Lot to say about this one. there's so much going on #purposely resolving as much as possible as soon as possible btw because these people are all supportive of each other #miscommunications are Minimal because they trust each other. for now #tee hee #ch:the broker

[meyerlansky]

oh what's 'haunted house fic'?? that sounds like fun :)

god i am SO MAD at myself about this one because it would have been PERFECT TO WORK ON LAST MONTH and post around halloween, but no. i am a fool and didn’t remember it was in my WIP folder til like oct 28th. anyway, this one’s a gift fic for @goatsandgangsters who is not technically in the patho fandom but puts up with me talking about it constantly with a ridiculous amount of grace, and who in one of my streams where i was doing the day 2 quest with isidor’s house, when daniil showed up at the end of it and i mentioned he’s the one to let the plague out if you don’t get the quest done in time, said in chat “but what if they went in the house together and got scared and held hands :3″

and i immediately started writing it on the sly! snippet:

The door swings shut behind them hard enough that Daniil feels it in his bones. He'd send his own glare Burakh's way for slamming the door, were it not for the prickling unease dragging across his skin the moment the door closes. They're plunged into a cloying, coagulating darkness, the shut door cutting off what little light spilled in from the street.

His mouth is dry, rather suddenly. The air outside is thick and warm—from the steppe herbs in bloom, he's been informed—but the house is like an ice box, deathly still and cold. There's an odd droning in his ears, and his throat clicks as he swallows. He tries to inject his tone with some measure of levity as he says, "Is your house always this dreary?" It's not the right word. Sinister, perhaps. Malevolent.

Burakh seems to know it. "No." There's something in his voice, something edged and brittle, that drags Daniil's gaze up to his face. There's something edged and brittle there too. Before Daniil can react with anything more than a sinking, curdling feeling in his gut, Burakh strides off down the dark hallway.

"What—Burakh!" he hisses, voice low, into the darkness, unnerved by the way it seems to grasp at Burakh's broad shoulders, drawing him into itself. Daniil does not run after him, but if his steps are perhaps a little quicker than even his usual tendency, Burakh's height and his head start are certainly to blame.

He catches up before Burakh rounds the far corner, for which Daniil is absurdly thankful—it's utterly irrational to fear that the man would simply dissolve into nothingness the second he was out of sight. Foolish. Burakh glances at him once he's at his side, a new tension strung through his expression. But he shortens his stride, without a word, as if he can tell. His silence, the lack of a jab when Daniil has left himself so plainly open for one, is nearly as unsettling as the twists and turns Burakh leads him through.

Something rattles in the walls as they pass. Rats, surely.

i’m admittedly a little nervous about this one because i’m not sure my default style is suited to creating a horror/tense atmosphere, but i’m gonna TRY

#wescravings #asks #wip title meme #pathologic #burakhovsky #gonna put them both Through It #it's supposed to be a one shot but i do have ideas for spooling out the verse a bit after #more ideas now tbh #hm 🤔

[permian-tropos]

Daniil - Liberosis

Didn’t think this prompt word would become so poignant so soon. The subject matter wound up kind of surreal and taking whatever path I thought might be interesting but sometimes it’s nicer to let other people search for meaning in something. 

IDK yeah I just wanted to publish this. Contains canon-typical misery.

Liberosis: The desire to care less about things.

-

It rains again, always with that damn rain, and inside of each puddle in the street is the reflection of a man with cold eyes. They’re a little bit sardonic, as if the protective cloth tied over his mouth obscures a world-weary smirk. They track movement deliberately, and never dart or flash.

When did this happen? When did his features freeze in place like this? It’s interesting. The last time Dankovsky saw his own reflection, he was burned out like a candle stub.

This is better. You’d rather see a second wind from the Capital doctor on his rounds, a man who cares less and does more, even if what he does isn’t much use to anyone. It’ll give people less reason to panic.

The plague is spreading on the wings of panic. That’s why the patrolmen show no mercy to the sick, those shambling mummies, when they stray into the streets.

Dankovsky never gave such an order. The man in the puddle wears his intentions well: But I wouldn’t countermand it.

When you think about it, the only way to fight the plague is to resist your natural human desire to seek help, or even the comforting touch of another; instead you must succumb in solitude, to save others.

The nature of epidemics really is to target the most precious aspects of our being…

“What do I do? What do I do? I’m lost…”

Dankovsky first expects that wheedling voice to come from a child, but it’s too knowing, like it’s playing a game.

Sometimes they’re called mimes, but they talk too much. They’re more amused by the circumstances than the name Tragedian suggests. Subconsciously, Dankovsky has gotten into the habit of treating them as if there is not a human under that patchwork black cloth, but paper stuffing, or an animated wire frame. They’re an oddly useless counterpart to the orderlies, and they certainly don’t answer to the Bachelor.

“One of you?” he sighs, backing up a few steps. “What do you want from me this time…? Get it over with.”

The masked man dawdling under the streetlamp tips its head slowly one way, then the other. “His Excellency thinks I spoke to him?”

“I’m the only one on the street. Unless you’re raving, in which case I have no time for lunatics.”

“How cruel. In any case… I’ve lost my mask.” The Tragedian shields its eye-holes from the rain with a hand, and looked far and wide.

“It’s right on your head,” Dankovsky grouses. “Now what’s my reward for finding it, a bag of marbles? Or wait, you’ve lost those too.”

“Oh, no, not this. This is my face. You see how blank and plain it is? It wants a character, a role to play. A mask, a mask.”

Dankovsky folds his arms. “What about playing a man who doesn’t leave his house… wherever he comes from, his burrow, his den, and doesn’t get himself into trouble?”

The Tragedian offers an apologetic shrug and spread palms. “I tried it but alas, it weren’t for me. I didn’t know my lines, and came too late…”

The Bachelor mutters, “You’ll be a dog soon – playing dead.”

“I’ve lost a mask of careless cruelty… I think it would be fun to wear a while. It grins at simple victories and doesn’t shed a tear for those less fortunate. I’d like to be the one who laughs in Hell…”

“Fine, I’ll look for something like that… I suppose.” It wasn’t the first bizarre request he’d taken, and been able to fulfill despite not understanding it at first. Whatever the Tragedian was looking for, it would turn up eventually.

Now the Tragedian was clasping its hands together, pleading. It was remarkably expressive for having, as it said, such a blank face. “But if perhaps you’d let me borrow yours…”

“That’s completely unsanitary.” What kind of idiot request was that?

“I mean the one behind the cloth, the visage that regards the world so icily…”

The Tragedian pokes an impudent, spidery finger right between the Bachelor’s eyebrows, which pinch together in great chagrin.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at… but I get the impression you’re not asking for a real object.” He slaps the finger away. “If you want to wear my face, playact all you like. Just don’t impersonate me to anyone important, or use my name for any stupid ventures. Or you’ll regret it.”

Dankovsky leaves the actor to mime out his gratitude, head fervently bowing, clasped hands pumping up and down. He’d expected to get something out of this exchange, but perhaps it’s a longer-term investment. Or it’ll be quite the farce when the thespian starts wandering around the town pretending to be him. He’s not sure what he’s given away.

Signal fires mark the start of an infected district. He tightens the cloth around his mouth and nose and rushes in. There’s one house in particular he has to visit, so he very much intends to keep his head down all the way there.

His ears are assaulted by wails of the dying, carried far even by stagnant windless air.

At first he doesn’t understand why his skin is prickling. Senseless paranoia.

I gave away my mask…

It doesn’t mean anything!

But something’s changed in him for sure.

Even though it’s illogical, he’s shivering like ice has been poured down his shirt.

His eyes catch movement and he jolts away at first, because he’s learned to flee whenever a human shape stumbles across his path in districts like these. One filthy touch from any of these walking corpses could pass on the infection.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t come near me…”

“Help us…” the mummy gabbles. It’s sobbing under the linen wraps, but those cries might be of relief as well as pain. “Please, please, you’ve got to help us… I’ve been looking all over for a doctor… You’ve got pills, haven’t you? Kind sir… spare us something… even just a sleeping draught…”

Dankovsky should be fleeing, and he’s frozen instead. He should do the compassionate thing and put a bullet through this faceless cloth-wrapped head, and he cannot. He has the unsettling thought he would rather turn the gun on himself.

The supplicant takes his inaction as permission. Its hand has seized him and is crawling up his forearm, creeping as surely as a mold on a wall.

“There must be something…” the infected one pleads. “If only to… I just wanted to… oh, but it’s so… my head’s spinning… I can hardly hear myself, can you hear me? Am I speaking? Are you there?”

More dying souls are shambling out of the alleys and either they can smell healthy skin like sharks smell blood or they’re spotting him through the gauze over their eyes and immediately recognizing him. Two have emerged from behind one building… a third and fourth from a park…

The dead come to drag him down into the earth. Rain pours down his cheeks.

“Hey!”

There’s someone behind him, shouting, but he doesn’t realize it’s directed at him until—  

“What do you think you’re doing, dummy? Dummy Dankovsky!”

“Hah?” He’s unstuck when that strident childish voice pierces his ears through the white noise.

In comes charging none other than the wandering saint girl, shoes pattering and splashing through the sodden pavement. She spreads her palms out like she’s pushing out a great wave of force from them, some kind of heavenly wind, and even though no immediate magic goes off with a theatrical bang and puff of smoke, the sickened townsperson withdraws.

Clara catches Dankovsky’s arm. Her grip is mighty steel.

“You didn’t think you could heal them with your touch, did you?” Her tone is either mocking or heartachingly sincere. She’s too peculiar to ever be one thing or another, so maybe it’s both. “Don’t… don’t get those funny ideas into your head, okay? You’ll make people worry about you…”

Of course he finds her words ironic, but not surprising. It’s the usual way that young people parrot the things they’ve been told by others, as a way of expressing concern.

Especially ironic now that she’s extending her free hand towards the bandaged wretch, with a strained but beatific smile, flashing white teeth. Her fingers unfurl, flexing, preparing for an incredible sleight-of-hand.

“Don’t be scared,” coaxes the Changeling. “I’ll take care of you!”

“Careful—!” the Bachelor croaks, voice stolen by panic. But he still waits with bated breath, wondering if he’s about to witness a miracle.

But as soon as Clara’s palm brushes the gauze-wrapped fingertips, the infected person’s hands turn to claws. They gasp and clutch their chest, rocking on their heels, head bobbing.

It’s almost as if they’re trying to express a profound devotion and love that cannot fit inside them. Then they exhale without a word, collapsing in a heap, like a thread over their head has been snipped.

Clara’s smile shrinks by millimeters. Water droplets slide off it, dropping from the corners of her lips.

“Why…?” Her query is a quiet chime, a small tolling bell.

“Leave it, leave it. It was a myocardial infarction,” Dankovsky mutters. “Plainly, a heart attack. It’s usual for them to die like this in the end… Perhaps they were startled by us… Overwhelmed by a moment of hope.”

“I thought I was the one who healed…” the girl says, eyes fogged with confusion. “I mixed it up… Even we can’t tell us apart anymore…?”

Damn this… The girl’s delusions are only going to worsen now. Whoever’s been letting her roam about without supervision needs to rethink their priorities. She used to irritate Dankovsky with her proud preaching, and he was afraid she’d be able to stir the town’s population into a fervor. They come out of their homes in search of her sometimes.

Still, it’s possible she’s been witnessing frightening things for days — or longer? who knows where she came from or what she’s suffered to be without a family now — and has convinced herself she must have a purpose. Whose mind doesn’t falter like that in the face of an insane world?

The Bachelor doesn’t think he’s nearly as paternal as his rough-and-tumble counterpart, the favorite of the orphan underclass, Burakh. But Burakh’s not here right now.

Dankovsky slings a strict enclosing arm around Clara’s shoulders.

“You didn’t do it, Clara…” he commands her to believe, as his heart keeps minutely panging in that new way that he’s not accustomed to. “Don’t think about it. Pull that ratty scarf over your mouth and nose and keep moving.”

She’s stumbling after him, reluctantly keeping apace. “But can’t you see I’m not her…?”

“Whoever you are, I don’t care,” Dankovsky mutters. He stares only ahead, at the distant waterlogged signal pyre marking the invisible border between poison and safety.

#my fics #pathologic #daniil dankovsky #clara saburova #tragedian (pathologic)

[silenthillmutual]

For the cliche prompts: Artemy/Daniil 4 or 23 (it could be 4 and 23 if you are feeling like mixing both. Tbh I wasn't able to choose)

(hello this is kind of silly and i’m not confident in its quality, but i am planning on writing a follow-up to this for the other number though it will probably be shorter than this! numbers here)

--

Things have been getting, in a word, ridiculous. The rain hasn’t let up in this section of town in four days, setting the scene nicely for all of Daniil’s drawn-out internal monologues about the futility of fighting fate or nature or whatever. His mind continues to grumble to himself as he sits in the hospital, trying to do research and feeling more and more, as time goes on...ridiculous. There it is again. Like the whole world - or at least the Town, which may as well be a world all its own - is laughing at him.

Burakh has been getting better at sneaking up on him; the only way Daniil knows he’s entered the building is from the gentle click of the front door as it closes again. He wishes the man would announce his arrival instead of using the opportunity to always try and catch Daniil off guard. One of these days he won’t have time to build his composure back up. 

Today, he’s safe; the rain makes the other man’s shoes squeak against the floor and he listens to the low-voice swearing with a smirk on his face. “Not today, you don’t,” he mutters to himself as he turns. He takes a moment, before standing, to admire Burakh’s form, eyes softening as he watches the man’s rain-soaked  hair fall and stick to his forehead, fingers weaving between the strands as he tries to push it back. He never manages to catch Daniil watching him like this, his own eyes taking int he sick strewn all about the hospital. Daniil looks away before Burakh can manage to do so. 

Daniil’s eyes manage to land exactly where he needs them to for a plausible escape. “This one,” he says, skipping the pleasantries his colleague never engages with anyway, “Has no sign of any illness. I suspect he’s merely playing ill to get out of the house.” The man even groans, over-exaggerated, on cue, and Daniil feels a little smug, as if that’s proved his point. Burakh doesn’t respond, or even react as if he’s heard, which chips away at the dam Dankovsky has been building, though at the present he can’t see the scale of the damage or the size of the resulting fracture. He files it as distraction, as even in their arguments, Burakh has never properly ignored him, and he is busy with his vials of tinctures.

He tries to clear his throat amidst its sudden buildup without drawing attention, licking his lips as he thinks for a moment on the cadence of his voice. It’s gone down again; maybe he hadn’t readjusted to it, let his voice go out?

Daniil stands, taking a few breaths as he goes, and starts again, keeping his tone steady as he speaks. “No matter. Now that he’s here and taking up a bed, I suppose he could have caught the Pest - or else be a carrier.” The man on the bed curls up suddenly. What Daniil can see of his eyes have gone wide. “So perhaps we should keep him for observation, if nothing else. Probably a danger to let him out now -”

When he turns back around, he finds his face almost against the other man’s chest, and has to fight back the blush that starts to creep up his neck at how very close they are. Dankovsky’s never warm, but good god, this man - between the heat he radiates and the way he makes Daniil feel, suddenly all feverish and flushed - it’s a small miracle Daniil doesn’t pass out from sudden warmth shocking the system. And now he can’t stop staring either, and he really needs to - stop dawdling, stop with the rapid blinking, and continue his thought already, damn you -

“Are you alright, Burakh?” he ask instead, his voice a horrid squeak, an octave or so higher than when he last spoke.

“Look in my eyes, emshen. I want to make sure you’re not lying when you answer the question I’m about to ask you.” His tone doesn’t demonstrate anger, but he may as well have asked Daniil to change the position of the sun and the moon... Alright, while perhaps not so literally impossible, Dankovsky struggles to maintain eye contact even with people he is not so wildly attracted to that a little more than a week’s worth of interaction incurs a massive internal paradigm shift in him. So this task is not so much less Herculean in nature. Burakh, too, seems to recognize he’s perhaps asked a little too much, as Daniil’s focus falters to those lovely cheekbones and lips, where his eyes follow Burakh mumbling, “Alright, that’s good enough.” He feels rather proud of himself for managing to re-establish the contact in time for Burakh to ask him, “What are you doing with a book on local herbs?” Which is when Daniil feels his stomach plummet and panic set in.

Alright. He needn’t come up with anything elaborate for an answer. “Research,” he says simply, hoping he’s not smiling too anxiously.

It’s hard to tell from the way Burakh is looking at him. He guesses his answer can’t have been too believable, because Burakh presses Daniil. “Research into what?”

“Local herbs, obviously!” Daniil smiles, but he can’t feel his face.

He’s still holding out skepticism about some of the truly bizarre things that people here believe, but a few more shoves in the right direction and he might even start to believe in some form of precognition; there’s nothing specific he can pinpoint in Burakh’s manner or expression to warn him that this answer will not be well-received, and yet he feels it somewhere in his stomach. His chest flips before the scowl sharpens and Burakh speaks. “You don’t trust me,” he accuses.

Daniil is back to rapid blinking - though thankfully this time it’s in confusion, as opposed to flustered cornering. He focuses more clearly on Burakh’s eyes, on his pupils, trying to determine what could have inspired this sudden agitation - though of course, Daniil is far from being am ind-reader. “Nothing could be further from the truth,” he says. It’s another chip, another scrape he doesn’t inspect.

“Then why do you keep asking other people about me?”

This, this is probably the suspicious look that Burakh is searching him for. He can imagine his face must have gone pale now, because the heat from earlier is gone. But it’s from a different reason to whatever Burakh is surely thinking, though Daniil is a terrible liar and all he can say is, “Excuse me?”

And not even, Excuse me? like ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ But Excuse me? like ‘I didn’t hear you.’

“Capella says you talk a lot about me. Her brother says you’ve been asking about me, and the culture. And he’s not the only one -” But whatever Burakh says next is cut off in Daniil’s mind by panic. He has not, apparently, been as subtle as he’d thought or else pleasantries as exchanged in the Capital were as lost on everyone else as they were on Burakh. Which would have been excuse enough have  Daniil not waited so long to execute it. Stupid, stupid move, Dankovsky, because now it’ll just look flimsy if you try to say your preoccupation with your colleague was intended to be polite.

Burakh’s stopped speaking now, and Daniil doesn’t know for how many minutes he’s been done. It’s enough that he looks perplexed, and suspicious. Daniil scrambles, mentally, to find a response that’s one-size-fits-all, and lands with blurting out, “I’m just interested.”

“And why couldn’t you just ask me?”

“Because you’re busy,” Daniil says, working a calm facade back in place. “As we all are. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

The look on Burakh’s face is disbelief, but until he says something of note, Daniil can’t possibly judge how much damage has been done. “Because I’m busy.”

“Yes.”

“We’re all busy.”

“Aren’t we?”

He looks genuinely upset now, though. Daniil can’t fathom what in his words could have possibly inspired that look. “Right. You’re so busy asking Yulia for books on panacea and Vlad for resources on local lore you can’t ask me,  your actual colleague about these things. Right.” Oh. Oh dear god no. “I thought perhaps we were friends, oynon, but looking for this without telling me? Asking my friends about me behind my back -”

“I just wanted to know if I could help you,” Daniil says. Which is much more honest than he intended to be, but now that this entire attempt to - what, impress him? Is going up in smoke, Daniil’s starting to realize how very bad at subterfuge he is, and that he never exactly thought this plan through. If he had, he might have come to the conclusion that his shift in priorities and ideology was never going to come without some humility and a significant amount of self-humbling. But now he’s stuck in t his fiasco where Burakh thinks - 

Well, he doesn’t actually know what Burakh thinks outside of there being some sort of betrayal of trust. And he does seem upset about it, so maybe there’s still a way for Daniil to get himself out of this mess. “You suck at lying,” Burakh tells him. “So you may as well tell me the truth. What did you do all that for?”

Right. Right! He can do this. “I changed my mind,” Daniil says evenly. 

“But why would you?”

“You’ve proved your panacea idea has ground to walk on.” Yes. This is going smoothly.

“And what changed your mind on that?”

“I fell in love with you.” 

He hears the words fall out of his mouth and listens to his brain scream afterward. It’s not what he wanted to say, not what he was telling himself to say and he’s not even sure how the words managed to come out against his permission or his knowledge like that. He could have, and should have, just said he’d heard it from Aglaya, or one of the children. There’s complete silence for a moment or two, an entire minute or so, until Artemy starts to ask, “What did you just say?” at the same time Daniil laughs a little too loudly, half shouting the words “Would you look at that, my shift is over!” tripping over himself to run out of the theatre.

#burakovsky #daniil is trans AND autistic here and u can tell! #ok to rb #nori writes #stepperous #icarus.docx #mine

[atissi]

Eva Yan?

How I feel about this character:

[Spoilers for Bachelor Route in first paragraph]

I like her but I don’t think I know her! For a long time it didn’t make sense to me why she died, and I think it's because I wasn't paying attention for that day, or an event was missed, or maybe it's cleared up when you talk to her on Day 12. (As you would know, Niru) I’ve been studying her character to get a sense of her voice, but I still feel like her ideals and motives elude me...

That might be because I find it hard to engage with characters who are friendly and helpful...they aren’t as compelling to me as characters who are terrible at talking to others jfklgfg. I do enjoy what P2 is doing with her character, and how spacey and idealistic she is, while being simultaneously so morbid. And the way she was in P1, scared of everything but also very stubborn and brave when committing to her own dreams, can be so fun! Her conversations are definitely interesting but it’s difficult for me to get into that mindset and replicate it. Her anxieties about the quality of her soul, and her relationships to the Stillwater and the Cathedral, are already interesting based on what we get from the art book, so I hope to see more of it in Bachelor’s Route!

And I do love her airy, floral aesthetic. She’s one of those characters I enjoy drawing and collecting Pinterest boards for, but can’t really understand lol. Hopefully that changes the more I roleplay as her.

All the people I ship romantically with this character:

Eva and Maria, obviously! I also think how Eva and Yulia respect each other’s very different perspectives is cute, but I don’t have an idea of how their dynamic would play out. I actually like Eva and Daniil too, even though Daniil is rude to her a lot in P1, just because she’s one of the best people to take none of his shit while still being his friend. I think the dynamic of like, loving each other, but never meeting at the right time or right place to really make it work for their respective life goals, is tragic in a sweet way. Just like Eva!

My non-romantic OTPs for this character:

...I feel bad for saying this, but I have no thoughts about this. Uh, Daniil technically counts? I know she’s friends with the Stamatins, but until Matt and Caden convert me to caring about those guys, I remain completely apathetic towards their existence.

Wait, wait, fuck it. Eva and Grace. I like their parallels and I think they’d really vibe with each other’s outlooks and personalities. They probably hang out at the graveyard and talk about death while weaving flower crowns.

Niru, can I just recommend all of your Eva writing and call it a day?

My unpopular opinion about this character:

[Spoilers again]

Eva is capable of being quite cowardly and mean, and I wish I saw more content of her focusing on that! Her fear of Artemiy and Clara is funny and also so revealing of her social standing...she’s probably a rich girl from a noble family, if she lives in the Bridge Square. She dreams of being a Herb Bride, but the outside world scares her. She’d rather just dress up and dream of souls and death in a metaphorical sense. It was undeniably bold of her to throw herself from the Cathedral, but what I want to see is the hours leading up to that choice...writing letters with twyrine-numbed hands while praying that she dies cleanly and painlessly. Checking her hair before she leaves the house. Closing the windows so it isn’t cold when Daniil comes back. That sort of stuff.

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon:

If I knew where any of her family was it would be so much easier for me to figure her out. How did she grow up? How did she end up moving to the Stillwater? How did she first meet the Stamatins? Has she ever been to the Capital? How does she feel, always living with someone new? Did she always think and act like this, or did something change as she grew up? Please, I just want more backstory for her!!!!

#inbox #askmeme.txt #cw suicide mention #cw drinking #eye strain #OH MY GOD TUMBLR MOVED THE READ MORE AGAIN. FUCK!!!!

[2ofswords]

If you are still doing the kiss prompts I would love to see you write Daniil x Block with 25 (unless you hate the ship that's ok)

I’m always doing propmts! And here you go! I’ve never written this pairing but I tried my best and hope, you enjoy the fic! ^^ 

Even after everything was over, the rain wouldn’t stop. As if not even the earth’s gate but heaven’s had been opened and people forgot to close it after the great catastrophe. The earth was bleeding while heaven was crying, Dankovsky would have expected to hear from the town. Yet it remained quiet, still recovering from the disease that held it on the clasp of death and mourning the losses it had to suffer. September reached its end and with it came the time to grief and say farewell. Or at least the Bachelor wished that he was allowed that kind of luxury.

Entering the Town Hall felt familiar yet uncanny, like revisiting an old memory. One, he would have loved to bury, recalling countless sleepless nights spend fighting over arguments that lead nowhere and errands that proofed to keep him for a fool every single time. And not a lot had changed since the last time he arrived. The many adjustments and working places that had been established through the outbreak were merely left empty. It made sense when the towns own governor had been left powerless first and dead later. No one even bothered with the new arrangements. Yet there was one familiar silhouette. The only spark of life in the building being the commander, standing at his usual spot and still leaning over a map. As Dankovsky approached he noticed it did not show the towns layout but their countries borders.

“Preparing for the war?”

Block looked up for a second. The wrinkles in his brows didn’t vanish as the diligent concentration and care that were all too familiar to the Bachelor met his own questioning gaze.

“I want to make a swift decision once my troops have left this town. We have been decimated. If we don’t plan our next action carefully that would mean the end of our division.”

More lives who were at stake. Dankovsky didn’t know if he should envy or pity him. Marching straight ahead directly into the next meat grinder. These soldiers would face nothing but death one way or another. But at least he still had the means to confront it.

No. That was the wrong way of putting it. None of them had the means to fight death. They would all fall eventually. All hope has been lost the moment Block’s own canons did strike the tower. Saving hundreds of lives and condoning a thousand others. Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt. It’s nothing but a miserable endeavour and one he is quite familiar with.

“I heard that you would depart today.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Block got up from his hunched position. Closed the map to store it in a bag he had set by his side. His eyes met Dankovsky after he finished his task. A steady gaze. Almost an hopeful one and the fact that somebody would search him for such an ounce of light at this point felt as exciting as frightening.

“I wanted to say my goodbyes in person.”

He felt himself stumble through the lines as a blush blossomed on his face. How embarrassing if not utterly inappropriate. Yet the commander managed to smile at his pitiful display. A subtle pull on his lips, barely reaching his eyes, yet his stern face lit up with warmth if only for a little while.

“A shame. I was hoping you would change your mind. We are still in need of medical personnel.”

An enticing offer. Leaving the town behind together with all of its misery. The Bachelor was very aware, he would not be able to return to the capital. Not yet. Not, when all of his hopes were lost, even if he desperately needed to. His colleagues were expecting him. He was expected to salvage the ashes of his Thanatica the same way Burakh did with the blood of the earth.

“I am needed here. Even with your orders someone has to organise the last distribution of the panacea. And with winter approaching we have to ensure no further outbreak is to happen. One single child evading our methods and it could all reappear again.”

Block let out a sigh as his smile vanished and Dankovsky felt the urge to add something to his speech, only to lighten up the Commanders mood again. To ensure that not all has been lost. Not between them. He still held the man in high regard, even after everything. He did understand his grief. Oh, how he understood this terrible situation! That is exactly why he wanted to make sure, the other one sees the sun after this bitter night.

But he heard the rain outside and envisioned the heavy clouds in the sky. No light was there to replace the stars hidden from their view. And he didn’t know where to find his own, didn’t know where to look himself much less where to guide the Commanders gaze. So he stayed silent.

“Then that’s that”, Block sighed, lifting the bag over his shoulders and sparing the Town Hall one last glance. “Would you I would highly appreciate your company on my way to the station. If you can spare the time.”

“It would be my pleasure, Commander.”

A curt not was the answer, until, suddenly the general reached out for his hand, to pull him out of the Town Hall. Daniil’s breath stuttered in his surprise and he barely managed to fight the foolish urge to pull away. Thankfully, since the touch was unexpected but not unwelcomed at all. It was hard to feel the warmth of the skin through both of their gloves. It wouldn’t have fit them anyway and the way, he got gently pulled towards the exit, the way the leather moved under his touch still felt alive. Human. Like a firm grasp of a person who was either confident or had to feign this confidence through all of their live.

Dankovsky thought that Block would let go after they left the Town Hall. That it had been nothing but a small and deniable gesture, that both of them could keep in their memory without having to properly think about it. But he didn’t and now the Bachelor’s mind is raced with the frayed edges of possibility. Thoughts of what could not be, what he had already declined. He was no man for the front. A scientist at heart and barely a doctor, much less a medic fit for the battle ground. Yet following the Commander, talking to a man made of the same spirit and pulling through together… It was a pleasant dream, if nothing but that. One he could have chosen for himself and yet had no choice but to refuse. And even while holding his hand, while grasping onto what little remains of their togetherness… Block would have never denied his decision. He would never have used a personal sentiment to convince him, that would have been beneath both of them. Still. Somewhere in him, Daniil felt the want for something more. To be told to stay with the military, even begged maybe. For Block to stop with a simple small gesture and ask him to stay. Telling him that he wants him to stay just for the sake of being himself.

Would he have considered it? Dankovsky didn’t think he would have been kind enough. Yet he managed the cruelty to long for this moment.

Even with the remnants of a connection between his fingers, walking to the station was a gruelling and quiet task. The rain poured over them as steadily and mercilessly as ever. Small tiny drops collected around the Governors lashes, as he pointedly looked away and towards the ever same houses. They were wasting time. Time he should have spent fighting the last remnants of the plague. Time they could have spent having a last talk. Time that was nothing but their lives slipping through their fingers and could never be obtained again. When will the brave commander fall? If this town didn’t defeat him, would his next battle do the trick? The day after? Would Dankovsky try to ask the train-driver foe news, ready to hear about his departure?

Maybe he should have been the one begging the Commander to stay. He might need further help with the administration here. Or an ally for his fight with the powers that be.

“How unfortunate.”

The words escaped him before he was able to stop himself.

“What?”

What isn’t, would have been the right answer. But he still felt the need to take the question at face value. To clarify. This was his only chance after all.

“That we are meant to part ways.”

They had reached the station by now. The last men, who haven’t found refuge in their carts were managing the last pieces of equipment and machinery.

“Come with me.”

The Commander’s voice was hushed and yet it crawled through Dankovsky’s skin, catching in his throat. He opened his mouth, wanted to answer, to argue probably, since he couldn’t it was completely impossible and yet –

“For a while… Just…” The Commander dragged him under the roof of the Passenger station. Even with the returning kids the rain had left it desolate. Ghostlike before but suddenly filled with meaning as the Commander cupped his face. His eyes shining with the same hope he had shown at the town hall and now, looking directly into his eyes, the glimmer ignited into a warm but fierce lantern.

“A memory. A small one. For both of us.”

It’s more of a question and Dankovsky couldn’t help but nod. Couldn’t help but reach out for the Commander. He would have loved to feel the skin, assess if it’s dry and rough or if the war had spared this part of his body. Yet he couldn’t and breaking the moment to remove his gloves would have ruined the tiny remnant of magic they managed to keep in their grasps. So he pulled the Commander towards him. There were small raindrops dripping from his hair to his cheeks as the Bachelor touched one of them with his other hand trying to be as gentle as his nature would allow him. There also were some glistening on his lip and Daniil decided, it was his personal goal to eradicate them from existence, leaving nothing but a nice but fleeting memory of this heavy but sweet moment in their stead. He always imagined the Commander’s kiss to be dry and rough, but there they were, exchanging pleasentries and tying the mutual sense of longing into one singular entity.

But it wasn’t meant to last. Of course it wasn’t. And when they parted, Dankovsky knew, that he would have to let go.

Better to do it quickly. Efficiently.

“Safe travels.”

His voice betrayed him, yet Block didn’t. He only nodded and turned to leave them both behind. The rain caught onto him, run through his hair and travelled down his coat, as Dankovsky watched him leave.

________________________________________________

Prompt: Wet kisses after finding refuge from the rain. Pairing: Daniil/Block

#Anonymous #ask #Kissing meme

[vileart]

Dramaturgy Triptych:Emily Dickinson @ Edfringe 2017

Born under the train tracks in New York City, The Emily Triptych is an original solo performance piece dedicated to the mind and art of Emily Dickinson. This summer, we bring America’s greatest poet and most famous recluse to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.

Our project meets her at three points in her day. In Part 1 (Morning), we meet a younger Emily, embroiled in the eternal conflict between the artist and her Creator. Part 2 (Noon) explores the literal blossoming of her inner life after many years of solitude. Part 3 (Night) transports us to present day New York, where the actress playing Emily treads the boundary between living and dead. 

What was the inspiration for this performance?

The inspiration for our piece was a coffee-table book called The Gorgeous Nothings, put together by a textual scholar and a visual artist, which displays photographs of Emily Dickinson's envelope writings alongside transcripts of them. This marriage of physical object and language struck me as very theatrical. Especially as the objects concerned, often cut-out sections of used envelopes, are both fragile and surprisingly tenacious. They are objects in flight, whose flight has now been stopped. I think that performance often shares these qualities - fragile, yet tenacious. A flight of thought that must, according to the nature of performance, be fixed.

Is performance still a good space for the public discussion of ideas? 

Yes. In my home town of New York, I have just spent a month ushering a controversial production of Julius Caesar in Central Park, where Caesar was a Trump lookalike. The media went crazy. And I have never had a stronger feeling of being in the right place at the right time as I did in that theatre, in the centre of New York, in the centre of... some conception of the world. I do not, however, seek to 'discuss ideas' in my own work. I think performance should be allowed to breathe. Whatever audiences take from it should be personal rather than political.

How did you become interested in making performance?

Performance is the form of storytelling that involves as many means of expression as can be crammed into it. It makes the most of human bodies and voices and souls. And also non-human things, like light and physical space and textures and colours. I could not now imagine trying to say anything without all of those elements to work with!

Is there any particular approach to the making of the show?

Yes. The show was developed as a result of intense collaboration between Miranda McCauley, the performer, and me. We developed it over the course of about six months, rehearsing once or twice a week, at the beginning, and more often towards the end. Our first rehearsal took place during a snowstorm in January, and... here we are now in sunny Edinburgh. The show indeed has always been responsive to conditions in the world outside. We perform in a room with windows using natural light, so the character of the piece changed from winter to summer, as birds started appearing outside our windows, and the light changed from leaden to golden.

Does the show fit with your usual productions?

It does fit in the sense that Slava (my co-artistic director) and I both take the literary basis for our work very seriously. So no matter whether we are working with Shakespeare or Daniil Kharms, or in this case Emily Dickinson, getting as intimate with the author as possible is our first goal. And then, I have been fortunate enough to work with Miranda on two productions now. Such that her virtuosity and physical creativity are becoming 'usual' for us. For which I couldn't be more grateful.

What do you hope that the audience will experience?

If they hold their collective breath for only a moment, we will be happy. One of our audience members in New York said that he felt as if his soul had been looked into. That, I would say, is the ideal experience.

Though a full cycle of the Triptych lasts an entire day, audience members are free to attend as many or as few segments as they wish, in any order.

Dickinson (1830-1886) spent most of her adult life in extreme isolation. Yet this isolation gave birth to over a thousand poems, many of them the best our language has to offer. 

From the bedroom, kitchen, corridors of her Amherst house, she loved, and philosophised, and questioned God with a voice that is both familiar and alienating. Domestic and cosmic. Feminine, rebellious, and strange.

Over the six months of its development, this piece has become a translation into dramatic form of something drama often overlooks: the stillness and silence from which great thoughts proceed, and with them, great words. 

It is an opening up of deep introspection – its language, its patterns, its idiosyncratic beauty – to the external eye. It is an effort to create an atmosphere in which Emily’s thought, and her poems, can live.

Performed by Miranda McCauley, directed by Charlotte Day, adapted from the poetry and prose of Emily Dickinson.

The Emily Triptych

Quaker Meeting House/Venue 40

August 12th & 19th – 13:30, 16:00, 20:00

August 15th-16th, 18th – 13:30, 17:00

from the vileblog http://ift.tt/2hY09Xd

#Theatre #Blogger #visual art #Edinburgh Fringe #Experimental Critique

[jashasedai]

OTG Liveposting- The Sydney Opera House

Master Post- https://jashasedai.tumblr.com/post/158649570028/on-the-grid

The Redbull team- Alondra (matched to Fernando Alonso) and Pilot (matched to Max Verstappen) have a sponsorship event at the Sydney Opera House.

The Sydney Opera House was an iconic place in Australia, not in Mebourne, but when the sponsors discovered Alondra loved music, they flew Redbull out for a tour.

"The arched shapes of the buildings were designed to resemble the sails of ships," the tourguide told them.  He led them along the walk outside the building.  Fernando and Max nodded as they translated this to Pilot and Alondra.

"I don't know how to sign ships," Max told Fernando.

[Yachts, like in the harbor at Monaco,] Fernando told them.

Both Stigs turned their head sideways and looked at the peaks and nodded.

"You must raise your voice, high, high, high, like the bird," The performer told Pilot.  He sang a beautifully high note, eyes closing in bliss at the perfect tone.  The two of them were sitting in the dressing room surrounded by costumes and makeup and casually interested other actors.

Pilot couldn't understand the words, but the man was wonderfully expressive with his body language and it was quite clear what he wanted.  Pilot knew he had never been much of a singer, but he closed his eyes and tried to make the noise with his voice.  It was not accurate.

"Work started on the building in 1959," the tourguide told his remaining audience.  They walked through the Concert Hall.  Fernando had been to many grand buildings and wasn't so impressed with this one in particular.  The tour was filled with facts, but the height of the sails and how many tiles were in them was not information that filled him with awe.  The buildings themselves were lovely, but he wasn't gaping around in wonder.

Max ran a hand over the soft fabric of the seats when the tourguide stopped to tell them how many people could sit in this room.  

"No, no, like this," A woman said, touching her own throat, and gesturing [breathe,] without knowing it was a gesture.  She sang a note as well.

The first performer nodded.

Pilot watched in fascination.  He tightened his hands on his knees and shifted his seat on the prop crate.  He controlled his breathing and sang.  His voice was different than theirs, but he had heard Stigs sing the same notes as humans, before.

"You are flat," Another woman told him.  She same over and sang a note that sounded different than the first two.  Pilot sang it back identically- flat.

"Is there somewhere to eat?"  Max asked.

"Why yes, there are three restaurants..." The tourguide started.  He talked about them as they walked through high ceilinged, shining corridors.  Fernando could see Max's excitment building.  He remembered the hunger he felt as a constant, driving force, as a teenager.  Maybe easier than most, because Alondra had kept feeling it long after Fernando had stopped, the age difference between them making itself felt.

Max's disappointment was palpable, when their next stop, instead of one of the restuarants, was another auditorium.

Racing Drivers and teenagers, Fernando reflected, could never get enough to eat.

Pilot watched the actors with a big smile.  They were easier to understand, even with their indecipherable noises, than any humans he'd ever met.  It was as though their meanings were always just out of reach.  They moved with intent, though.  They would be very fluent if they learned to gesture.  He watched them argue about him.

Every human in the room was crowded around him, trying to figure out how to get him to make the right noises.  This was a lot of fun.  Everyone was so friendly, wanting him to sing to them.  He was getting much better.

Max and Pilot were sitting in the box, waiting for the play to begin.  Watching the performance was part of the event, and they had each been allowed a guest.  Fernando and Alondra, invited Rabbit and Mark- who was pleased to share his national landmarks.  Max had expected Pilot to invite Tumba.  Instead he invited Daniil, necessitating that Max invite Tumba so as not to break up the set.  The guests were seated behind the Redbull team, for filming purposes, and Pilot was leaned over his seat telling Tumba how he'd spent the day having voice lessons from the cast.

Fernando came into the box and sat in the seat on the end, leaving a space. He was dressed neatly in a tuxedo, as were the rest of them.  Rabbit's and Tumba's had dark blue pocket squares, and Pilot's had red.  

"Where is Alondra?"  Max asked him.  His pocket square was black, like the rest of the humans'.

He shook his head.  "The crew wanted to film one more shot with him."

"I haven't seen him all day."

He shrugged in response, "He tells me he is fine, is working."

"Working?" Mark asked.  "Without you?  Who was translating?

Fernando shrugged.

"The Sydney Opera House welcomes you to our production of Richard III will begin momentarily.  In honor of some special guests, we have arranged a performance of the Duet of Doge and Amelia from Verdi's Simon Boccanegra," a voice announced.  

"Look at the subtitles," Max exclaimed, pointing at a screen to the side of the stage with the translation in English along the bottom.  The main part of the screen was taken up with an image of a Tuxedo wearing Daniil translating the words into Stig gestures.  "So THAT'S where YOU'VE been all day."  Max pointed at Daniil, who grinned.

The lights came down, the curtain rose.  On the stage was a woman and an older male.  The music began.  The woman turned and sang.  After a moment the male turned around.  The song was about a father and daughter, reunited after thinking they'd lost one another forever.  He sang with a deep voice, full of love, full of the ache of a father who'd lost his child.

His voice hit every note perfectly, but he never sang a word.  He sang like a perfectly tuned engine.

As the last note faded away, the audience stood and applauded.

Alondra bowed.

Everyone clapped Fernando on the back.  He was BEAMING.  "Look at the subtitles now," he laughed.

Daniil laughed in anticipation of the joke.  

The subtitles read "When performance matters... it has to be powertec."

[That was where he was all day?] Pilot asked, [I was having voice lessons and he was not and he got to sing everyone a song.]

[Keep up your voice lessons and you might get to sing next time,] Tumba told him.

[Alondra will teach you.  Even the car was a better singer than Fizz when they started, but he's very good, now,] Rabbit told Pilot.

#fanfic #fanfiction #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #top gear fanfic #grand tour fanfic #AU Tame Racing Drivers #alternate universe #Liveposting #On The Grid LivePosting