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Snippet - Tipping Point - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Silco forces Vander's hand beyond all recourse.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"They're like a cult," Vander said, their last night together.

Silco didn't glance up. He'd been sitting at the Drop's table, hands laced under his chin, poring over a map. Black ink, red ink. Blue strings running in between, like the veins in a corpse. He'd been at it all evening, and his eyeballs vibrated. So did the rest of him.

Usually, he'd take the percolating mania and channel it into Sevika. She was a solid presence: always available, always hungry. By now, he'd all but moved into hers and Nandi's flat. There was gossip, as there was bound to be. Neither he nor Sevika gave a toss.

Nandi was gone, and he couldn't shake her loss.

But at least he could fuck his way out of the grief.

That's what he and Sevika did, most nights: fucked, then slept, then fucked again. Mornings, they'd wake with sour mouths, and sour moods. He'd brew her tea, and she'd suck his cock under the table. Afterward, they'd share a plateful of sump-vole fritters, and plot the day's course. Then she'd leave for her patrol, and he'd go to work at the Drop. Evenings, they'd rendezvous at Jericho's. A little more planning, a little more fucking. She'd rub his shoulders, or he'd knead her calf-muscles. She'd feed him bits of smoked sardines, and he'd eat her out until her toes curled. Then, after the drinks were drunk and the dishes were washed, they'd fall into bed again.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

It wasn't love—neither of them was ready for that. But it was easy. It was enough. A rhythm he could fall into; a routine she could count on. Sevika wasn't Nandi. Everything about her was a fraction heavier, harder, coarser. She wasn't soft; she wasn't sweet. But her body was a good one, and her mind a keen one. Her temper could flare; but her humor could cut.

And her laugh, though rare, chased all the shadows out of the gloom.

He could live with that. Hell, he could live for it. Even—love it? In time. When Zaun was theirs, and the dead laid to rest.

Not that night.

That night, the maps wouldn't stop jittering. His mind kept running in circles. Sevika wasn't due till late. There was only Vander.

Only Vander, and his looming shadow.

And Silco's own: darkening the map.

"A cult, you say?" he said. A fortnight, he thought. The time's nearly up. "That's high praise."

"Is it?" Vander's chin jerked towards the flapping door, where a pair of scrappers had just slunk out. "That lot were practically beggin' for commands. Looked at you like you were a bloody god." He grimaced. "Makes my skin crawl."

"They're useful." Silco stirred the page with a fingertip. "Steady hands."

"An' sharp knives." Vander's brows bristled. "I ain't seen a lick of their faces, but I bet they're young. Too young for this kind of job."

"We were all too young."

"And look what happened." Vander crossed his arms over his chest, his face granite except for the vein throbbing in his temple. His jowls were furred with stubble; all attempts at grooming had ceased the past few weeks. "The Lanes are crawlin' with their sort lately. They'd kill their own mothers for coin. An' you've got a talent for pickin' the worst."

"Perhaps," Silco rejoined, "I prefer company with an ounce of ambition."

"Ambition's the least of their bloody traits!"

"Vander, use your thick head. We're at war." Silco tapped the maps with an idleness that belied his irritation. "And war needs more than soldiers and stalwart hearts. It needs spies and saboteurs. People who'll do the dirty work without compromising the cause. I have my contacts, and they have theirs. If it weren't for them, we'd have no way to ship our goods."

"We wouldn't have a bunch of cutthroats loose in the Lanes, neither."

"We've always had cutthroats."

"Not this many!" Vander's fist slammed against the table, rattling the glassware. Once, Silco would've jerked. Now, his body-language betrayed nothing. Passions were a volatile commodity; a good leader could ill-afford to succumb to his own. He'd learnt the hard way and meant to profit from the lesson. "They're a fuckin' infestation! Eyes like dead things an' smiles like wolves. They've got no limits. All they want is blood."

"The world's made them that way."

"An' you're the one exploiting 'em."

"I'm offering them a choice."

"Are you?" Vander glowered, looming into his space. "What are their options, huh? Down the gutter, or up the river? They're not loyal, Silco. They're fanatical. To you."

"To us," Silco corrected.

"I didn't ask for a cult!"

"Then maybe you should!"

Their eyes locked from across a flashpoint of inches. In their debates, as a rule, Silco weighed Vander's words before his own. It was a practice borne of equity: no partnership comes without compromise. Lately, though, they never debated. He'd get an earful of strident moralism.

Tonight he'd had enough.

"Right now, our plans are only partially done,” he said. “But unless we get every cutthroat, snitch and sneak-thief on our side, they'll be undone. The Wardens will kill us all. You. Me. Sevika. Benzo. They'll raze the Lanes to the ground, and salt the ashes. And when the smoke clears, the soft ones—the ones like Nandi, like Lika and her girls, like your two boys—will be put to work. All our children will die before they've a chance to live. Is that what you want?"

"Don't make this somethin' it's not." Vander's jaw jutted. "You think I don't want Topside's boot off our necks? You think I wouldn't give anything to make sure our kids breathe easy? You think I don't think back on Bloody Sunday every single damn day? What was lost? What you—" Silco's head tilted, a basilisk lifting, and Vander backed off just enough to avoid his stare. "...what we could've done."

"Could've. Would've. Should've." Silco's eyes descended to subzero. "All excuses for a failure to act now. Or maybe the Hound's losing his teeth?"

Vander's nostrils flared. He unbent to his full height stepped around the counter, a slow, lumbering turn. His shadow engulfed Silco like a fist.

"If you had any idea," he said, a whiskey-waft of heat. "Any. How much I'd like to—"

"To what?" Silco challenged. "Discipline? Force me to obey? Do try. I could use a spot of fun."

Vander seized a fistful of his shirtfront. The next moment, Silco found himself being dragged across the countertop. The whiskey glasses toppled to the floorboards. The ledgers and maps scattered. He was half-slung through the air, the room upside-down before the breath was knocked out of him.

His spine hit the wall, legs dangling. A fist pinned him in place.

Vander's features were contorted, a red-hot fury at once leashed and explosive. His fingers closed around Silco's throat. He didn't squeeze. Not yet. But the threat was there.

"D'you even listen to yourself?" he gritted. "D'you have a shred of decency left? Or did Nandi's death knock it all outta you? She'd be ashamed. To see you. To see what you're doin'!"

Silco let one corner of his mouth curl. "What am I doing?"

"You know damnwell what!"

The nights, he meant.

The plainclothesmen gutted in the shadows. Their bodies left in the open where everyone could see. The edge of Silco's knife never clean when he came home.

"It's not the way," Vander said, a hairline crack in his voice. "You know it isn't."

"You haven't stopped me."

"Stopped you?" Vander's knuckles flexed. "I've tried. Every day since you started. I thought...you'd get it out of your system. You'd snap out of it. But you haven't. You won't. You've gotten a taste for it."

"I have a taste for keeping us alive."

"You have a taste for murder!" Vander shook him. "An' I can't keep turnin' a blind eye. You're the best thing that's happened to the Lanes, Blut. If the Undercity had to choose, they'd have my back. But we'd all be six feet under without you! That's why you need to get your shit together. Because when this is over, I won't let you walk away."

"Threats, Vander?"

"This has gone far enough." Vander's pitch dropped. The Hound's warning rumble. "If you cross the line again, I won't hesitate."

"You won't have to."

"What?"

"The Sheriff has issued a search warrant. In a fortnight, the Enforcers will crack down." Silco's eyes went past Vander's shoulder, where the maps had fallen. "A citywide sweep. We'll lose the advantage. Our networks, our stockpiles. Everything. Unless—"

Vander's hold on his neck tightened. "Unless what?"

"We strike first."

"First." Vander's grip stayed immobile. But his stare was no longer a blister. It was a burn: eating Silco alive. "Fuck. This is what you've been planning."

"A smokescreen."

Silco's fingers folded around Vander's wrist. It didn't budge. Vander was strong; the strongest he'd ever known. Struggling was besides the point. Part of him was already prepared to go all the way. To let go and take Vander with him into the freefall of blackness.

"The Enforcers bodies will divert Topside's attention," Silco went on. "Their patrols will be spread thin. The bodies were all near the Canal Zone. They'll believe our operation was concentrated there. Meanwhile, the guardposts at Bridgeside will be understaffed. We'll deploy the squads to transport the ammo. If everything goes as planned, the Lanes will have the full arsenal by tomorrow night. Then, the real war will begin."

"Blut..."

"Think. You'll have everything. A force. Firepower. Enough to drive Topside out of our streets for good."

Vander's fist clenched and unclenched. His eyes roved the room, the empty stools, the felled glasses, the scattered plans. His shoulders caved inward.

It wasn't surrender. It was a man, bracing himself against a massing storm.

"How could you?" he rasped. "Silco, how could you?"

"There is no other way."

"Sevika... she knows about this?"

"We had a talk."

"A talk," Vander repeated flatly. "Of course. You're her damned messiah now. That girl was always prowlin' for someone to take her old man's place. Someone who'd give her orders. Who'd make her feel strong. I told you not to play games with her. To not lead her on. To not—do this!"

With renewed disgust, Vander shoved him away. Silco swayed but kept his balance. Vander's fingerprints burned around his throat.

"That's why you chose her, isn't it?” Vander went on. “Her gang's the most coordinated in the Lanes. The most ruthless. Our folks respect 'em, but they fear 'em, too. They're perfect for what you've got planned." When Silco stayed silent, he shook his head. "For Janna's sake, Blut. She's barely twenty-two. You were supposed to be her family. Her mentor. Not the person who puts the goddamn matches in her hand!"

Silco snapped. Low-blows made for the deepest cuts.

"You used me first, remember? When I was sixteen and you were twenty-one. You knew I'd do anything for you. You knew I'd follow you to the ends of the earth. You've always known, and still you've never had the guts to do what should be done. So I have. Because someone has to. Someone with a spine, and the balls to take what's theirs."

"Fuckin' hell." Vander's face had changed. The lines carved deep, shadows in the hollows of his cheekbones. He looked both worn to the bone, and blasted open. "All these years. All these years... an' you never let it go. Why couldn't you let it go? Why couldn't you forgive me?"

"Why couldn't you?!"

The air was charged with currents. Silco's body sang. Like a sea-change: skin sloughing off, and something raw and primal birthing itself. Something he'd known was always inside him, and was now in its last throes of transformation. He had no name for it but he knew its shape.

It was a part of him. A monster. Same as Vander's.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," Silco said softly. "Nor am I giving it. But I am asking you to do what's necessary. For us."

"Us," Vander repeated, the word scraped raw.

"Our city. Because Zaun will die if we don't do this, Vander. So will everyone we love." Silco took a step towards him. Vander shuddered. He felt the tremor. Felt the monster behind it. The two of them: feeding off each other. A decades-long twining of call-and-response. "We can't keep on like this. You. Me. Sevika. Benzo. Lika. We've been fighting our fates since we were children. Now it's time to take the fight to Topside."

"Blut..."

"We can win this. We have the weapons. We have the people. We have the resolve. We just need you."

“Me?”

"You're the Hound of the Underground. Our champion. Because that's not me, Vander. It will never be me. No matter what those scrappers, or Sevika, or you, or anyone says. That's not who I am."

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