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zutraeumen · 4 months

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HAYMITCH ABERNATHY ; a study

throughout the hunger games, haymitch is a prevalent supporting character in both books and movies, and serves as a foil within the narrative. he is actively a mirror to katniss, whose every action leads to the possibility of ending up in haymitch's position, as a mentor but also as a person.

their similarities begin with both being seamfolk; the poorest part of district 12 in which inherit grey eyes, olive-skin & straight black hair. however, this is altered with haymitch's unnaturally curly hair, which makes him stand out from most people within the seam. there is an underlying motif of him not fitting in with standards, and this is one example. him and katniss both have a younger sibling in youth, where as katniss has a sister, haymitch has a brother. both siblings are lost to circumstance, despite not being placed into the arena, yet their deaths are an immediate results of the hunger games itself. they create alliances which are hard to break, and when they do, find it in their hearts to surround those in their final moments with an ounce of care. katniss creates a tribute for rue, haymitch creates a final comfort for maysliee by holding her hand.

their similarities also stem from rebellious nature; where haymitch rebels against the arena, katniss does the same. despite this, their fates post-games are different. katniss is given a second chance to prove to the capitol that she is untraitorous, that the meaning behind the star-crossed lovers is true romance, and led her to spiral. she is surrounded by the forgiving, and even when she fails to prove herself, she never truly loses means of support.

(for remembrance sake); maysliee donner is one of the 4 tributes reaped for the 50th hunger games, due to it being a quarter quell. the rules for it are that instead of the usual 24, 48 tributes will be reaped in total, which is four kids for each district. she was from the merchant side of district 12, and had blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. she became haymitch's ally after using poison blowdarts to kill one of the careers who had attempted to take his life, and temporarily stuck alongside him until the final five, where they parted at the edge of the arena. this led to her death via the pink candy bird mutts skewering through the neck, and in an almost subconscious attempt to comfort her, haymitch holds her hand as she dies from her wound.

haymitch bares the brunt of punishment; his family murdered, his wounds staunched by money and wealth. he is his own damnation, his own support, and his own protector. he lines himself with solitary walls to protect himself from further self destruction, and is left to wallow in his own self-made prison.

with other characters such as peeta pointing out their similarities alongside them sharing a wavelength, both characters are entwined in fates, in self wars that they choose to fight differently.

haymitch is also gravely important to plot and deeper story, as he has a deep connection to the history of the mockingjay pin due to having its owner, maysliee donner, as an ally and district partner in its game. with the pin being inherited by madge undersee, katniss also shares a deep connection by having madge gift it to her, which mirrors the idea that it is important to both characters.

INDIVITUALITY

as an individual character, haymitch's self-medication surrounds him. he is forced to repent for his traitorship by watching the children of his district die, the sacrifices and stepping-stones for someone else's victory. he is inebriated by the drink, poisoned by his own grief and failure to succeed as a mentor. when having lost his family, he becomes son to no one; his bloodline is cut short, his life irrelevant the deeper he digs the grave of addiction.

despite it, his intelligence florishes as both a mentor and leader of the eventual rebellion, manipulating his way into the heart of both the capitol and district 13, proving his functionality that sets him apart from the textbook drunk. he has fully fleshed-out ideas when they occasionally become spoken, and reactions in rationality in comparison to emotion. he analyzes scenarios and problems from a far-away view before contributing, and creates a detached demeanour when casting judgement. tuned to his environment as a victor, mentor and tribute, he sees past the surface and digs deeper into the flesh of things; such as the arena within the second-quarter quell, when he pushes past the warring tributes to advantage himself with supplies.

he is easily swayed into sobriety when asked to mentor katniss and peeta — specifically because either of them are a shot at success, and the lucky cards atop the jokers that he was waiting on. he seizes the opportunity of their victory by creating a narrative of love within vulnerability the finality of the games by having two tributes in which defy the odds with their romance.

haymitch is able to understand emotions and the psychology of people, knowing that to please them, false faces must be created. in katniss' faliure to open herself up to pretending, she is excluded from planing and being able to understand haymitch until he hints. his ptsd makes him well-tuned in remembering important places, details and notes, which does take a turn for the worst when attempted to be drowned out by the drink.

a clear indication of redemption is paved for haymitch, from when he takes katniss and peeta on as mentees, to when he has them both suceed in victory. it is clear throughout all 3 books that in his determination to save both characters, he is shouldering the weight of a saviour complex; cleaning up in places where things were previously shattered, making for past actions. by protecting younger victors (e.g katniss, peeta, finnick,) he is repairing the unsheltered version of himself in which was damaged by lack of defense as a newly crowned victor. by fighting in the rebellion and holding such a big role within it, he creates a future he wouldn't have seen within his youth; one without the murder of innocents and no threat of the games.

COMPLEXITIES

as a hugely scarred character, haymitch is often mischaracterized within the portrayal of his trauma and addiction. he is presented by collins as a solitary man confined to his sins who believes that he cannot be redeemed from them, and when he is, still burdens himself with further guilt. despite his alcoholism, haymitch is classified as a functioning alcoholic, responsible in a monetary sense, alongside a working sense. his mind still latches onto inhibition, and only does he drown himself in the drink when close to the games or just as they've proceeded. he does not become hateful or violent (despite his sarcasm, bluntness, and often detachment,) but rather a lot more in control of restraint and personality.

haymitch's portrayal is rooted in realism, and is one of many presentations of drinking to cope with PTSD, although this one being closer to life. where other alcoholics are loutish and callous, spiraling from their agonies, haymitch has control within the storms of his pain and is able to will himself to trudge through it.

in this, his character deserves the respect and full understand that it should have, rather than the stereotyping of addiction that is referenced throughout all medias, wrongly assigned to his persona. yes, he does have many many flaws aside from his addiction, but those are not from it, but rather how he was moulded by experience and life.

OPINIONS

while it is unlikely within the hunger games that haymitch ends up with anyone, he still has the opportunity to grow and heal from his suffering and live a life of love and support. his addiction shouldn't be a pathway to dehumanize him, and believing that he wouldn't be a good father/lover is quite incorrect in stance. as a mentor, haymitch takes on a role of becoming a carer or guide, and maintains this especially for katniss and peeta. when their homes, their lives and the society around them crumble, haymitch is there to be the hand on their shoulder, even when lying through his teeth. as a lover, i believe that repairing his relationship with alcohol and slowly processing his trauma can lead to him opening up and becoming more palpable, more out there. by believing that he cannot ever have such things as a steady life and a family is a stereotype that dates ages back in terms of substance abuse and the portrayals and stories within them, which aren't necessarily tied to him.

CLOSING

in conclusion, haymitch plays a large role despite not being specifically a main character, yet an active foil. he is complex in both reasoning and notion, and has potentially one of the most tragic and unfortunate backstories of the series alongside characterization.

i hope you enjoyed this post, & feel free to ask me about my further ideals, opinions & headcanons.

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zutraeumen · 5 months

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SLAAAY KING!

Congratulations to Neil Newbon!! The Voice Actor for Karl Heisenberg and Astarion! Woohoo!

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zutraeumen · 6 months

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I know I’ve mentioned this plenty of times before but I’m still kind of annoyed by how the fanbase just kind of completely declawed the four lords and placed the entirety of the responsibility for their wrongdoings on Mother Miranda.

The Baker family are great, I love them, they’re an incredible unit of antagonists who are intended to be very sympathetic, at least for the most part. Jack and Marguerite in particular have lost all control over their minds and their bodies, turning into extremely violent murderers and cannibals who threaten and attack their own family, kill anyone unfortunate enough to come across them and, especially in Marguerite’s case, lose complete autonomy over their own bodies. Marguerite turns into a walking bug hive who’s only purpose is to feed her family and birth her new children. Jack is an unstoppable murderous force of patriarchal violence who has so much fun chasing down and harming his victims, which in the Daughters DLC includes even his own daughter. The exception to this is obviously Lucas, who has been cured of his infection and his acting of his own free will. All of this is caused by Eveline, everything Jack and Marguerite do controlled by her, and yet Eveline is just as sympathetic as the rest of them. She’s a ten year old girl. Even Jack, who has watched his family and their victims suffer because of her infection, doesn’t seem to hold any of it against her. She just wants a family of her own, after all. It’s a complex and tragic situation.

The four lords, while I suppose being similar in structure, are not the Baker family. Not in dynamic, not in character, not in the kind of tragedy that they embody. I could talk for a while about just how completely different they are, but I don’t know if I really need to.

The Baker family are so tragic because they were just innocent bystanders trying to help a woman and a little girl they found in a shipwreck out in a storm. That’s the only reason they ended up in the situation that they were in. While the lords have similar origins, being victims of Mother Miranda’s experiments to bring her daughter Eva back, an important distinction between them is that in the case of the lords, all four of them are still acting of their own free will. Yes, Mother Miranda has undeniable power over them. She leads the cult they are part of, she has control over the village, she is their superior. However, I really dislike when every negative action by the lords is pushed onto her, as if the lords are not all grown adults who are for the most part acting independently of her.

With Alcina, she is the head of her own extremely brutal crimes. I think a lot of people have forgotten quite how horrifying the situations of the maidens are, possibly due to the prevalence shipping between Alcina and the maidens, and though we have minimal information what we do know is very frightening. Alcina uses her work force like livestock, draining them for their blood in a cellar full of horrific torture devices, and leaves their corpses to shamble around, armed and ready to attack any unwanted guests that have slipped out of the daughter’s clutches so that Alcina still doesn’t have to do her own dirty work, given how highly above everyone but Mother Miranda she appears to view herself as. While yes, Alcina does need human blood to survive, her methods are brutal, and none of this has been enforced upon her by Mother Miranda. Similarly to Jack on occasion, she takes a great deal of pleasure in hurting and attacking Ethan as he runs from her. Additionally, everything she does to Ethan is against Mother Miranda’s request. While yes, it is retaliation after he killed Bela, the part I often see people leave out is that Alcina is equally as upset that he entered her property and was attempting to steal from her, and she isn’t just after him to kill him.

Alcina has also been an active participant in aiding Mother Miranda with at least one experiment, considering that I’d how she got her daughters. While I’m sure her strong admiration for Mother Miranda and Mother Miranda’s power over her has absolutely had an affect in this, that’s not something I’ll deny, Alcina is still a grown woman and in her written entries about this shows no qualms about her participation in this. Her general attitude towards others, using young women as a good source and turning men into scarecrows, also leads me to believe that she does not exactly care who gets hurt or taken advantage of when it comes to her and Mother Miranda’s personal endeavours.

Donna and Moreau are the two more sympathetic people within the four lords, but they are not innocent. To start with Moreau, he’s desperate for Mother Miranda’s approval, as well as the other lords. He’s insecure and lonely, and he’s doing what he has been instructed by Mother Miranda when it comes to protecting the flask. However, he does also take quite a bit of joy in trapping Ethan in the reservoir and swimming after him with the intention to eat and kill him. Moreau though, given his conditions and circumstances, is the one I think is the least to blame for what he does.

Donna is hard to discuss because we know so little about her. Her parents are dead, as well as whoever Claudia was to her, she communicates through Angie and she can cause those who enter her house to hallucinate. According to Mother Miranda, Donna is severely mentally ill and that is what has made her an unfit vessel. I think a lot of people took this to mean that Donna is unaware of what she is doing, that the hallucinations she is showing Ethan are frightening, but after having been a fan of this game for years I just can’t agree with that anymore. Donna intentionally lures Ethan into her house with visions of his supposedly dead wife. Donna is going after fears she likely knows Ethan has, making him relive Mia’s death, take apart a mannequin of her, listen to her voice panic over something being horribly wrong with Rose, all building towards the horrifying baby that chases him through the house. There is no way Donna doesn’t understand how what she is showing Ethan is distressing, especially when you consider that, given how she can make herself appear and disappear at will within Ethan’s vision and that Angie is sitting in the hallways stationary and unspeaking, Donna was likely close by Ethan at all times and could see and hear his frightened reactions to what she was intentionally showing him.

Donna’s death is upsetting, but Ethan was not just chasing her down and killing her. Donna was attacking him, or at least she was controlling her dolls to do so. It’s still a hallucination, but Ethan doesn’t know that. When faced with a threat that is keeping you trapped and trying to end your life, you will likely try to get away or try to fight back, as Donna is doing to Ethan after he starts to attack her and Ethan is doing to Donna when he thinks his life is still in danger. I would also like to remind everybody that Donna communicates through Angie. What Angie is saying, that’s Donna. Angie doesn’t talk or move once she’s dead, it is Donna who controls her.

Lastly, Heisenberg. I think Heisenberg is the one of the four most entrenched in headcanons. Headcanons are fine, I am never in this post trying to suggest they aren’t, but my issue comes in when people use them to try and change the canon of the game. For example, it’s fine to believe that Heisenberg was experimented on by Mother Miranda as a child, but that isn’t canon. It’s fine to believe that Heisenberg mourned the deaths of his siblings, but that isn’t canon. The opposite is, with Heisenberg not viewing the cult as an actual family and being very openly mean to all three other lords, even Donna and Moreau who seemingly haven’t done anything to slight him. While his goal of killing another Miranda is a very understandable and sympathetic one given what she has done to him, using a six month old baby as a weapon and trying to bring her father into the mix only to try to get him killed when he denies him is not. I cannot overstate quite how little Heisenberg actually cared for Ethan and Rose’s safety when it came to his goal, and given that we are playing as Ethan, Rose is the priority.

Heisenberg has built an army of corpses he has presumably stolen and desecrated. This is kind of fucked up actually, and done completely independently of Mother Miranda. He also puts Ethan through a very dangerous lycan gauntlet before he even reaches the factory, which makes it even stranger to me that people seem to interpret Heisenberg’s deal as something that would have benefitted both him and Ethan and as if he ever had Ethan’s safety in mind.

All four of the lords have tragic aspects to them and there are definitely reasons to sympathise with all four. They’re victims of Mother Miranda, who knows they will all be killed. She wants them to be, giving her less to deal with by the time she has Eva back. They never meant anything to her. Not Alcina or Moreau, who were desperate for her attention. Not Donna, suffering from her unspecified but apparently severe mental illness. Not Heisenberg, who was seemingly her favourite creation. However, all of them are grown adults who do their own bad things independently of her.

And it’s fine to still like them. It’s fine for them to be your favourite character. It’s fine to have happy or nice headcanons about them or want to kiss them or be their friend or to want them to have survived. It’s fine to like characters who do shitty things. It’s to be expected in a game series like Resident Evil. It’s a horror game series. People are going to do bad things.

I just find it so boring when people take away all their bite. What makes a character like Lady Dimitrescu so fun it’s that she’s completely over the top. She’s campy and ridiculous, her castle layout makes no sense, she’s got three kids made of swarms of flies dressed like a set of goth triplets, she’s a lesbian who’s castle is full of naked statues of women, she turns into a big dragon and laughs maniacally while flying around and trying to eat you. She’s evil and it’s fun. It’s the same with Heisenberg. He’s a campy show off with a fun voice and a massive hammer he never actually uses. He can control metal. He looks like a cowboy. He pronounced Miranda in a funny way. He talks to you over an intercom while trying to get you killed. They’re fun and evil and they fight over who gets to kill Ethan like they’re two little kids. It’s absurd.

What makes a character like Donna so scary is that she’s silently working in the shadows, unassuming at a first glance and unseen for most of the time in her house. She is the least threatening of the four upon first glance, and yet she has undeniably the most frightening part of the game. Pretending as if Donna is completely unaware of what she is doing and babying her like she is an incapable child waters her down completely and takes away from the effectiveness of her character.

Villain characters are great! They’re very often the highlight of the story they are in, and they aren’t real! The four lords especially are often so completely exaggerated in what they do as well. It’s fine to like villains! It doesn’t make you bad! Characters can be bad people and you can still like them!

It’s just frustrating seeing a group of very fun and exciting villains, all designed with different aspects of horror, all over the top and campy and stupid and fun, all doing their own set of fucked up things, watered down to a set of poor innocent victims who have never done any wrong ever. If you want Jack and Marguerite, take Jack and Marguerite. Lady Dimitrescu loves killing and eating women and Karl Heisenberg turns corpses into soldiers. They’re bad people and they do comically exaggerated bad things. If you can’t stomach liking a character like that, horror is probably not the genre for you. Unless it’s Resident Evil 7, I suppose, but apparently tall women aren’t hot when it’s Marguerite Baker crawling on the walls.

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zutraeumen · 7 months

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The Act of Begging || 18+ Oneshot

✦ Summary: It's getting harder to focus during Potions class and only one person is to blame for that.

✦ Pairing: Aesop Sharp x Female Reader

✦ Word Count: 1,600

✦ Rating: Explicit, 18+ only - minors do not interact.

✦ Tags / Warnings: Age difference, praise kink, professor kink, reader is of age, slight power dynamics, student/professor relationship, vaginal fingering.

✦ A/N: It's 3am and I have no idea where this idea suddenly emerged from.

It started as a soft tingling – the not-so-quiet niggling in the back of your mind every time you caught the brooding gaze from across the room. The burning stare that made your thighs squeeze together and your chin dip down to your collarbone when the flush of heat spread across your cheeks.

How many times have you scolded yourself now?

It was all so wrong.

But surely something this wrong couldn’t taste half as sweet as the taste of his lips when they met yours.

You force yourself to stare down at your potion notes, trying to drown out the rumble of his voice as he lectures from his desk. But all you can hear is the sound of his gritted moans and muttered warnings ringing out in your head. You grip your hands together in your lap and will the lesson to finish.

You pride yourself in only sparring a single glance at the professor when Natty loops her arm through yours and nearly drags you out of the classroom. His eyes never lift from his desk.

Later that evening, no one so much as bats an eye when you slip away from the common room. You claimed to be in desperate need of a volume on advanced spellcasting from the library before curfew. Exams were only another three weeks away, after all. It was a believable excuse as any.

The library is not where you find yourself, however. As you hurry down another flight of stone stairs and take off down a familiar corridor. Shrouded in a faint glow from the collection of flickering hanging lanterns, the potions classroom is a still sight when you peer around the open doorway. Small footfalls lead you to the ajar door of the professor’s office.

He doesn’t even blink an eye when you step over the threshold.

You don’t even question how he knows it’s you every time – he just does.

Sharp presses the end of his quill against a piece of parchment, striking out passages and adding pointed notes to the essay in front of him.

“You’re late,” he mutters.

As though you had a set meeting time. As though any of this was ever planned out beforehand.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, despite yourself.

With a sigh, the older professor sets his quill to the side along with the stack of essays. Placing his elbows on his desk, and his chin upon his fist, he stares up at you with a scrutinizing glance that you can’t quite decide if it’s annoyed or hungry.

“Come here.”

Like you’ve fallen under his spell, you obey. Dutifully rounding the table to stand before him as he flicks his wand at the door – both closing and locking it – and manages to turn his chair to face you.

He reaches out toward you. The back of his hand drags down from the curve of your shoulder to the swell of your breast. You watch in awe as his finger presses against the rounded point of your blouse before he draws his hand back to his lap.

Sharp leans back in his chair, his legs falling open on either side.

“Let me see you.”

Sensing the heat radiating from his eyes, you feel your nimble fingers rising to the task of unbuttoning your shirtwaist. Slow and deft, the blouse falls aside – exposing your thin shift to the humid air of the office. Sharp rests his hand upon his thigh, rubbing in a lazy circular pattern as you push the shirt from your shoulders.

Reaching behind your back, you pop the two buttons on your skirt before that too joins your blouse on the flagstone floor. Stepping out of the pooled cloth, you manage to lower your gaze to meet the potion professor’s.

The look he gives you sends a bolt of heat to your belly like a flash of lightning, radiating out to every appendage until your neck and ears flush and your thighs give another involuntary squeeze.

“My darling girl,” he muses in that low tone of his.

Warm thick fingers wrap around your wrist as he pulls you toward him. You sink down onto the chair – pushing his legs inward as you rest your knees on either side of him. It’s a tight fit, but you hardly notice the slight agitation of pain flaring up as he leans forward to press his lips against yours.

A contented sigh falls from your mouth as the longing reaches the surface.

Surely it had been weeks, months, years since he had last had you like this. Since he had dragged you down and devoured you with every ounce of passion he had inside him.

Aesop draws back, his hand cupping the back of your neck as he meets your eyes.

“I missed you,” you whisper against the breath of space between your lips.

Your body rocks an inch forward in his lap as you seek him out – his touch, his presence, his attention. It’s all within reach, yours for the taking, but he keeps you steady with another hand resting upon the bare expanse of your right thigh.

“Did you miss me?”

His eyes darken a fraction and you find yourself transfixed in the glorious spiderweb-like lines resting there in his iris. Mixtures of charcol and ink rippling along with a splash of mystery and desire.

He smirks as his hips rut upward, just barely grazing your wet core.

“I always miss your presence when you are away.”

Your head falls back as the feeling of warm fingers begin to travel higher up your thigh – pushing aside the hem of your white shift.

“Aesop…” you sigh, tilting your hips forward to meet him – desperate to feel his touch there upon your most sensitive of places.

You hear the warm drawl of his chuckle as his knuckles rub against your aching lips.

“Oh!”

Dipping between the folds, his curled fingers drag through the velvet wetness that your desire has produced. You barely catch his next act – as your eyes snap open and your mouth falls in heavenly awe.

Bringing his hand up to his lips, holding your gaze, he sucks his own fingers into his mouth. With a pleased moan, his eyes flutter shut.

Grabbing hold of his forearms, you seek out his clothed girth beneath you. His head lulls to the side as he blinks back up at you – a knowing smile tugging at his pink lips.

“So wet for me and all from what? A kiss?”

A whine tugs at your throat as you try in vain to rut against his lap.

“Please,” you beg softly – eyes squeezed shut with your desperate attempts at relief.

There’s a beat of silence, of stillness.

And then…

“Yes…”

You can hear the curled smile on his lips as Aesop drags his fingers through your warm lips once again.

“I do love it when you beg, darling.”

Soon, you’re thrusting forward to meet his lazy exploration of your cunt. Crying out each time his finger grazes against the throbbing bundle of nerves at the top of your womanhood.

“Please, oh Merlin. Please, Professor.”

Like the flick of a wand, like a sudden change in the weather, Aesop grips hold of your left thigh and presses his thumb against your clit – rubbing a punishing rhythm that has you withering, sobbing out as you chase that nearing high.

And then he pushes forward. The prickles of his beard scrape against your neck as his lips descend upon your sensitive skin. His teeth graze your flesh but never sink in – though you wish for once he would just let go and give in to his desires. But his tongue flicks over your pulse point as his wonderful fingers work you up into a tizzy that has your thoughts turned to nothing more than the sensation of him beneath you.

“Come on,” he grunts. “Be a good girl now.”

“Oh!”

Your eyes squeeze shut as he works the rhythm with quick little flicks of his thumb. You can feel that familiar coil in your womb as the feeling of blissful release nears.

“Go on,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your heated skin. “Make a mess on my fingers and show me how good I make you feel.”

Yes, yes, yes. Your hips snap forward as you seek out that perfect touch, grinding yourself against his hand as your pleasure reaches its peak, and then down, down, down you go…

“Oh god.”

Rutting lazily against his palm, you can feel the sticky wet mess of your release dribbling out of your cunt.

Aesop’s lips press a trail of kisses from your neck up to your jawline, before he places a ghosting touch near the corner of your mouth. Leaning back, you meet his desire-blown gaze.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs with a pleased sort of smile.

You can feel the drag of his fingers through your soaked folds, the teasing digit circling your entrance. It’s too much and not enough all at once. Taking hold of your bottom lip with your teeth, you grind down lightly against his open palm – much to his pleasure.

“Please.”

A calloused hand cups your cheek as he prods gently at your quivering center.

“Please what?”

Forcing your breath to steady out, you meet his hungry gaze.

“Please… Professor.”

He hums with delight as he presses his finger past the tight ring of your throbbing cunt.

“That’s my girl,” he coos in a non-too-sweet voice.

Your cries befall his parted lips as he tugs you closer and brings you to the brink for the second time that night.

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zutraeumen · 8 months

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Hollowed

This is a part of my one-shot book called: Even the Doll, should it please you... You can find the whole book on these platforms: FanFiction, AO3, Wattpad or Quotev. Bloodborne belongs to its respectful owner.

Hollowed

―︎

"Just go out and kill a few beasts. It's for your own good. You know, it's just what hunters do! You'll get used to it..."

―︎

The following days, the days after Gilbert's death, were enormously difficult. Over the course of your long life, you accepted death as that part of life that was inevitable. Some deaths were easier to deal with, certain others, on the other hand, severely challenged your beliefs at times. But never to such an extent that you wouldn't come to terms with it at the end of the day.

But Gilbert's passing was nothing like the usual, and so your brain couldn't cope with it like it was used to at this point. Yharnam was a place that didn't adhere to the laws of nature, the Great Ones made sure of that. With the defeat of Rom the Vacuous Spider, it was as if a veil had been lifted off your eyes and for the first time, you saw this cursed city for what it truly was: a world without hope.

With the city of Yharnam being ravaged by the plague borne of ancient blood found in the catacombs below the city and distributed by its most powerful institution, the Healing Church, the people cowered in their homes while beasts who were once their neighbours roamed the streets. The Hunters who were in charge of slaying these beasts would inevitably give in to beasthood themselves, to be consumed by bloodlust. All the while great incomprehensible beings surrounded us, but could barely even be bothered to notice we were there, and those who ruled over this city were all either dead, dying, driven completely mad, or had become something else entirely.

An old (sadly deceased) friend of yours would tell you this in that rough voice of his: This place was going to hell! And were you back in your home, far away from Yharnam, you would have shared a good laugh about it but now... now...

It felt useless, YOU felt useless. Ever since waking up in that blasted clinic, you've tried your best to help others survive throughout. You jumped on the wave of Yharnam, acclimatized to its customs in record time while also trying to never stray far from your true self, but to what end?

Where was the end? When would it end? Was there even an end to the Hunt?

How many others would leave you alone in this hellhole?

At this point, it seemed impossible that anyone could be left alive and unaltered. We were all entangled within a web we couldn't even perceive. This place was not just horrible, it was horror, stitched into the very fabric of reality. A reality governed by its own distinctive laws where no matter what you did it would all accomplish nothing.

Despair began to take over your heart, and there was nothing that could help you get rid of it.

It had gotten so bad that even Gehrman forwent disappearing from the Dream for more extended periods of time in hopes his presence would soothe whatever that was bothering you. It was the Doll that came to him for help as she found herself at wit's end for once.

He was there, keeping you company in the back garden amongst white flowers that would never wilt.

Consumed by your thoughts, you didn't even feel the weight of his eyes and it concerned him greatly because he began to recognize himself in you. The way you would become a slave to your thoughts was something the old hunter knew very well. And only he knew the dangers of tumbling down that rabbit hole before it was too late, before you would make a habit of it.

An exchange of words would be the simplest remedy, but the mere thought of speaking to you turned his tongue into a lead and shooed away any sentences he could have conjured. His brows furrowed, and his lips set a downside line expressing his growing disappointment.

How could he struggle to ask you one question? Gehrman didn't remember being that shy around a lady! But you felt like a whole other deal, and after a lifetime of excruciating isolation where he at some point even forgot his OWN NAME, the simplest interactions felt daunting. Maybe furthermore because he didn't want to sound completely moronic. At his age, the hunter shouldn't be tumbling over his words like a newborn fawn like he so feared he would the moment his mouth opened.

With a sigh your keen ears surely picked out, the syllables steadily rolled off his trembling tongue, "What has your mind so unsettled Good Hunter?"

How to better start a conversation than with a question? The years spent in the Dream certainly did nothing to wear down Byrgenwerth off him. Several moments of silence followed. The type of silence that was as if he had disturbed a fragile peace. And now he kicked himself even more because who was he to think YOU would wish to divulge your worries to someone like HIM? Decrepit and crippled, and to top it all off, utterly pathetic. He shouldn't have-

"-I guess everything."

It took him a while to realize you have actually answered his question but he caught on eventually, too late to ask you to elaborate before you dove into a tale he would very much loathe interrupting.

About the distrustful citizens, about fellow Hunters who had lost their way, about the few survivors left in your care, about the slaying of mighty and frightening beasts alike. Even when you mentioned Byrgenwerth, he reigned in his curiosity so you could get it all out.

"... my friend Gilbert, he was also an outsider. He- he was struck by an illness, coughing more and more as time passed. I've brought him as much antidote as I could find, but it didn't help. The last time I came to visit him, he was delirious and couldn't even recognize my voice! So I went into the Forbidden Woods in search of answers. Imagine how much I've found? Nothing but new perversions to haunt my sleep! Yharnam changed upon my hasty return and I worried for my wards. But nothing could have prepared me when I moved to check up on my friend at Central Yharnam. He- he..."

You choked up, sobs wracking through your throat and never had the desire to hold you have been greater in him than now. He didn't go through with his impulsive thought, coward that he was, but relinquished one arm to rest it on your hunched shoulder. You tensed, then relaxed immediately after, welcoming the touch and something in Gerhman's stomach churned. He didn't know what it meant, but found himself wanting more nonetheless.

He gave you the time and space to collect yourself, it sounded hypocritical of himself but it was imperative that your emotions would flow through you freely. They were never meant to be cast aside or repressed, he had paid dearly for that lesson.

"He turned into a beast and I had to put him down! My best friend!"

The dam broke, and you buried your face into the palms of your hands. Gehrman regarded you with a sullen but empathetic gaze, somewhere finding it within his memory to remember what it was like to lose someone dear. He may not be able to put a name to the faces but it was enough. It was always the most compassionate hearts that suffered the most.

Considering your circumstance, words of hope and encouragement evaded him.

Should he offer his sympathy? Should he give you advice? Should he say nothing? Should he... should he... should he...

It was not the first time that he was convinced that a person such as you had no place in the Dream. In Yharnam. Being a Hunter.

Even though he was better off with you by his side. It would be incredibly selfish of him to keep you in an environment where nothing would ever thrive. Of infertile soil where all flowers would wither before they could blossom.

He should motivate you to search for your true purpose for being in this Dream, so he could, as he had done many times before, free you from it. With his Burial Blade.

The mere thought of hurting you brought him unimaginable pain. The mere thought of severing you from the Dream, never to see you again, felt soul-crushing. But he would do it, if only to spare you this.

It was the best he could offer at this moment.

"Oh, dear hunter, didn't I warn you not to think too hard about this? The moon is close. It will be a long hunt tonight. If the beasts loom large, and threaten to crush your spirits, seek the Holy Chalice. As every hunter before you has. A Holy Chalice will reveal the tomb of the god... where hunters partake in communion."

Your inquisitive eyes, so magnificently grey under the right ray of light they could be silver, turned to him, filled with such sadness and despair it pushed a stake through his stale heart. It was difficult to continue when you held him transfixed but he had somehow found his voice.

"Most of the Holy Chalices lie deep within the tomb of the gods. And the few that found their way to the surface... Were lost again in the hands of men. But if the old hunter tales remain true... ...one of the Holy Chalices is worshipped in the valley hamlet. Yet the town is in disarray... It was burned and abandoned, for fear of the scourge, home now only to beasts. The perfect place for a hunter, wouldn't you say?"

He worried immensely when you said nothing, continuing to stare into the grey fog beyond the gravestones where enormous pillars rose from endless nothingness. Time seemed to stretch on, and he resisted the urge to fidget with his cane. It was only until you rose and left for the lamp without a word that his fingers relaxed.

But in the exact moment, with a cry of a wounded animal, he struck the lumen flowers as hard as he could. Again, he had said the wrong thing, and those dearest to him always paid for it. Just as the Moon remained a permanent presence in the Hunter's Dream, he remained a fool.

―︎

You knew that Gehrman didn't imagine this when he gave you the tip.

But it was what you thought he meant.

Death and decay latched onto the very air. The Blood-Starved Beast lay rotting in a corner of the church, all gangly looking with its skin for a cape. Needles prickled your skin just remembering how its long claws tore your limbs apart more than Gascoigne ever could. Had you not discovered the Blood Cocktail's special properties by being thrown into a pillar, it was most likely you would never end up besting it. Throwing a torch at it also helped.

Accelerating, you did your best to sprint through the rest of the way to evade the lurking beasts. Much for their sake as for yours. Their beastly visages reminded you too much of Gilbert, the hurt of his passing prevailed still, yet you were sure that this was the right place to be.

It was the hunter atop the great tower that interested you, for he struck you as an odd fellow, in a good way. He hadn't introduced himself the first time you stumbled past the heavy gates and into Old Yharnam, but with a warning shot that had landed terrifying close to your boot, he made sure you remembered his words acutely:

"You there, Hunter! Didn't you see the warning? Turn back at once, Old Yharnam, burned and abandoned by men, is now home only to beasts. They are of no harm to those above. Turn back, or the hunter will face the hunt."

You narrowly side-stepped being pounced on by a werewolf. What convinced you again that this was a good idea?

Grief... it was grief.

At this point, you had to figure out the way to the top on your own because you never stepped foot near that place. Passing it by in favour of getting to prey that had to be slain. It was impossibly dark within the gothic structures, haunted by the mingling and moaning of a great number of beasts. Your heart beat louder than ever, you feared you would be discovered.

A scraping noise tore a gasp out of your open mouth, drawing in the residual soot, you swallowed down a cough and held your breath while tip-toeing into another room as gracefully as you could. You weren't allowed to fight so you decided to hide, but for fear of your own well-being, you kept your trusty Saw Cleaver at the ready.

After a moment of anxious silence, instead of the frantic patter of monsters, your ears picked up measured footsteps. Human footsteps. Oh shite-

In your haste, you absolutely forgot that the person you sought after wasn't the only one guarding the turned inhabitants of this old district. He had a companion chasing after you when you attempted to traverse through the streets with no direction in mind.

The very same companion whose footsteps now closed in on you, just around the corner. You hoped he would walk past but he was a skilled hunter, unlike you, and like a dog, once he caught a whiff of your scent, it was as good as over.

You closed your eyes once his dark silhouette came into vision, and resigned yourself to your fate. Any sort of aggression on your behalf, even in the act of defence, would undoubtedly put you out of favour of the hunter you sought. So what was left for you to do than offer yourself like a sheep for slaughter?

The only small hope you have left was that he would be merciful and make it swift. Decapitation, preferably. There was a short whirring of parts, a mechanism that would only find a home to ears that heard the sound before.

Clutching your Saw Cleaver in a death grip, the prospect flew right out the window the moment you heard that particular sound because it reminded you of another dreadful thing: there was no sharp edge for a clean cut with a saw, was there?

You began praying, even more when he came so close that you could hear his ragged breath. Stumbling backwards, you suppressed a shudder. You were a Hunter of beasts, not people. And by no means other Hunters. That was probably one of the biggest reasons you greatly respected that old crow.

It left you wondering where she disappeared to when the Blood Moon descended.

You imagined it took a vastly different level of skill to battle other hunters, with infinitely more years on their hands than your measly months. That was one of the reasons you feared antagonizing the woman whenever you talked, choosing to nod along instead of voicing your opinions.

Everything happened so fast and sort of slowly at the same time, how he approached you in quick strides. How his sudden speed scared you to death so much that you tripped in your haste to avoid it. Your surroundings were so dark that you couldn't even tell when you ended up down for the count.

Consciousness returned to you slowly, vision swimming. Groaning from the pain at the back of your head, you rolled to your side, finding the ground pleasantly soft - a cot?

"I am alive?" you said to yourself quietly, unprepared to have survived the chase.

"Be thankful for my companion," a roguish voice told you over the sounds of your elderly moaning, "I would have thrown you to the beasts were it up to me."

He followed up with something, but it was difficult for your old ears to hear. You shuffled a bit from side to side, as if it would shake your delirium. You must have looked like a drunken fool on the ground. Your head certainly felt like it.

"Do you hear me Hunter?! I will not repeat myself, what brings you to Old Yharnam?"

His booming voice rang like a bell inside your pounding head, echoing against the walls of your skull. The pain was grand, grand enough for you to abandon good sense and become angry.

"For God's sake will you tone it down a bit?!" you answered snappishly, fingers pawing at the short ends of your hair. Perhaps he will take offence and put you down for good, he would do you a favour now.

He snorted, but otherwise made no attempt to come forward to your request. Boots clung against the hard stone, away from you, and a held-in breath released itself from your asphyxiating lungs.

You worked yourself onto your feet once your vision cleared, bringing a hand up to help your eyes adjust, was the sky always so bright? A gentle breeze passed over your scalp, your hand followed inquisitively, now, where did you lose your hat?

"Aren't you a strange fellow?" he noted unkindly.

Patting down your clothes, you looked up from under your miraculously intact spectacles to meet his gaze, "[Y/N][L/N], worst Hunter you've ever met, pleased to make your acquaintance."

It at least drew a smirk from him, but not more. Not until you've answered his inquiry.

"Oh, fine!" you groaned dramatically, "I came for you."

He tensed immediately, like a deer in headlights, you should have worded that better.

"No! Not like that. I- ugh -I wanted to meet the man atop the tower. I take it that's you?"

Relaxing somewhat, he tipped his tricorn hat, left eye narrowing onto you suspiciously, "I've no interest in matters further up, neither do the beasts here in Old Yharnam. They do not venture above, and mean no harm to anyone."

"I mean no harm to them or you, I swear on my mother's grave."

"We noticed."

The man turned his back on you, whether it was because he believed you or didn't see you as a serious threat, well, realistically, it could be both. You were positive he could put you down like a pig for slaughter if he wanted, and it seemed he knew it too.

Admittedly, it would bruise your ego if you still were a young lad, but on your ancient bones, you were glad he chose to spare you. You were hoping to get to him, in fact, it was your only goal since you started your excursion. For he may have displayed a certain air of nonchalance, but you just knew he was attentive to your every movement, waiting for you to step out of line.

"Well? What are you waiting for, an open invitation? Come, join me."

You did as he told, stepping up to his rooftop perch. Some part of you thrummed with anxiety, did he spare his blade only to chuck you off the tower? It didn't help at all that the Gatling gun stood there ominously, striking even more fear into your heart without being aimed at you. This deadly machinery was jarring much like your pistol had been at the beginning. Imagine that, a hunter being scared of his own weapons!

As a simple woman of the common folk, coming from a village in the countryside far from any greater cities or fancy castles. Life had been hard, but fulfilling. Living in a house that had supposedly belonged to a witch once. It certainly didn't gain you any favours with the townsfolk, but as long as it promised a roof over your head you saw no harm in it, superstition be damned.

The people didn't like it, but you being the poor church mouse that you had been, could care less about the approval of others. Getting through the day was your main priority, and you never understood why people would look down upon you.

Didn't you have any right to fight for your life, insignificant as it was?

You did, you would, you have...

That was why you stuck around for so long, outliving even those who made life exceptionally difficult for you. You were never welcomed, that had always been an unfortunate reality for you, but you've earned the people's respect enough to be tolerated. Until... well...

"I've never seen anything quite like it."

He turned to you slowly, watching you looking at his massive gun with fearful respect, "Aye, isn't she beautiful? Crafted her myself."

You hummed, in awe of his obvious craftsmanship, but also in partial relief that he had decided to indulge you despite his suspicions, "It reminds me of Gehrman."

The man seemed to spring into life in a matter of seconds, "Blast me! YOU are the Hunter of the Dream?!"

"Ahem," offended, a scowl so foul rested on your face that it made you look like a true hag. It had less effect on him than it used to have on children. Quite possibly because he was also an older gentleman, "I've killed my fair share of beasts, thank you very much!"

He laughed. A positive sign. It eased your fear, but only at the expense of your pride, "Yes, certainly, with the blonde lad in tow for sure?"

...

Fine, maybe you had help most of the time, but that was hardly something anyone could hold against you! Much less this grandpa who had his own little helper down the ladder.

"That still counts!" you remarked, crossing your hands, but it didn't fool him.

Your humility earned you a hearty slap to the back, and while his impertinence to ridicule you aggravated you to no end. Alas, you dared not retaliate for the fear he would take it as an act of aggression. At least the tense atmosphere receded a bit, it was a good thing that you just so happen to have a great sense of humour!

"I no longer dream, but I was once a hunter too."

Your eyebrows rose as your voice took on a lighter tone, "You were?"

The seconds ticked by, his lips formed into a straight line and there appeared to be a swirl of memories behind his one healthy eye, "Forgive me, you don't have to tell me."

Your head tipped and anxiety reared its way back. The man stood like a statue and continued to stare at a point beyond your head. Almost as if your arm had a head of its own, it reached out, against your better judgement, and settled on his shoulder.

Fast as lightning, he trapped your hand with his own. Painfully, at first, until he realized you meant no harm and lessened his grip. Taking the leap, you rubbed it gently in hopes it would ground him to whatever distant place you have sent him to. You really wanted to be thrown off the tower, didn't you?

Fortunately, you seemed to have caught him so exemplary off guard that he did neither. Much to your disbelief, all tension faded from his cautious person so far he even put down his Stake Driver.

"There's nothing more horrible than a hunt. In case you fail to realize, the things you hunt - they're not beasts, they're people. One day you will see."

His manly hand, covered by thick gloves that didn't diminish their roughness, pushed something small into yours. A badge. You looked up at him, dumbfounded. Why would he give you that? Wait, why was he saying his goodbyes?

"Thank you...?" you said slowly, sincerely confused.

"The name's Djura, retired hunter."

The man has a name!

"Thank you, Djura," you tested out his name, "but why are you giving me this?"

"I have no use for it anyway."

You stubbornly wanted to stay, surely he understood that. Dismissive as he tried to be, you wouldn't budge on getting the reason out of him. At this point, for some weird reason, you trusted he had no intention of getting rid of you.

Djura didn't, however, have any further reason to indulge your company as of now.

"What is it? Surely I need not repeat myself. Go I say. You have the whole night to dream, make the best of it."

Taking the loss, you did as he asked, and begrudgingly made your way down the ladder, one foot at a time. You were so wrapped up in your head that you hadn't even noticed that somebody was following you until the person actually made himself known by pulling at your dirty coat. Turning rapidly, your first thought was to lash out in fear of danger, but a strong arm pushed something into your clothed chest.

Getting ahold of yourself, you realized you had been moments away from harming Djura's helper. Your blood pressure skyrocketed after the horrifying thought. After a tense moment and a slow look down, you realised why he had chased after you. He just wanted to give you back your lost Top Hat.

You swallowed thickly, "Thank you."

He nodded, and you expected nothing more than that until...

"You're not so bad."

You must have heard wrong, but by the time you turned around, he was already gone. Like a ghost. You shrugged, it didn't matter anyways, but the same couldn't be said about the pleasant feeling that settled in your stomach. It was curious, the many ways the human mind worked. By the time you were at the nearest lamp, you had not once thought about your friend's death at all.

Perhaps there were still some good things left in Yharnam after all.

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zutraeumen · 9 months

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Passionfruit (Julian Slowik x OFC)

Welcome, dear readers! I am not a fan of long introductions so I will keep it short for your sake. This is a self-indulgent fanfic crossover between the John Wick and The Menu fandom where I do not own any other character than my self-imported character Adele Cole. As English is not my mother language, I apologize for any grammar mistakes in advance. Spoiler warning if you aren't familiar with any of those films! Reviews are appreciated but if you don't like it, don't read it.

You can find this work on these platforms: FanFiction, AO3, Wattpad or Quotev.

Passionfruit🍴Masterlist:

Hawthorne Island

The First Course

The Second Course

The Third Course

The Fourth Course

Palate Cleanser

The Sixth Course

The Assassin and the Chef

Final Course

#romance #john wick #the menu #julian slowik x ofc #julian slowik #chef #john wick 4 #john wick chapter 4 #keanu reeves #eventual comfort #eventual romance #eventual happy ending #eventual relationship #eventual smut

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zutraeumen · 9 months

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The Final Course

Chef Julian Slowik didn't know what to do with himself.

He didn't know how to feel about his ruined Menu, and about the two guests who made it so.

There was no time to waste on unnecessary thoughts other than salvage what was left and finish it. Although looking at the corpses of his avid followers, he regretted that not all made it to the journey with him. They deserved to feel liberated too.

Alas, death was nothing. He was the Chef, the Man. He worked with death every day. Death was his business. How could he call himself a chef if he didn't experience death? Two cooks tip the barrel on its side. A vicious liquid poured out across the floor.

Resigned to their fate, the diners didn't even bother lifting their feet. By now some even felt as if they deserved it.

Servers have begun draping thick sheets of marshmallow strung together with candy floss over the diners.

The staff continued to hustle, creating elaborate, Jackson Pollock splatters and swirls of melted chocolate and graham crackers crumbled atop the tables.

Slowik stood still as an owl and thought. He looked around his restaurant. The ferocious beauty of his food. The havoc he had caused. The totality of his life. And somehow he knew this wasn't the perfect ending to his menu. He shook his head, dismayed.

It was time for him to be done with it, "So. Before our final course, there is the matter of the bill."

Servers placed checks on the tables, along with little Hawthorn gift bags.

"We're on a no-tip system, so gratuity is included. Please enjoy your gift bags. A few goodies in there -- a booklet of our local suppliers, some house-made granola, one of Doug Verrek's fingers, and a copy of tonight's menu.

Lillian Bloom reached for her wallet until Ted stopped her, "No, this is on the magazine," He noticed that Lillian was almost about to cry, "I know."

"No, it's just - I just realized I'll never get to write about this."

Richard reached for his wallet with his one good hand and gave it to Anne.

"Can you take out my Amex?" He looked at her, "Anne?"

"I don't want an apology, Richard."

The man looked at his wife solemnly, glowing with shame and subsequent regret, "Happy Anniversary."

Each tech bro tossed in a credit card -- they're going Dutch.

The movie star put down his card.

"I am your friend," Felicity reacted with a sniff.

The movie star smiled at his only friend, "Told you you weren't leaving."

"Again, thank you all for dining with us tonight. You represent the ruin of my art, and my life, but now you get to be a part of it. A part of what I hope is my masterpiece."

With Chef's prompting, the guests slowly begin to clap. The movie star couldn't help but give it up sincerely for himself and for a fellow artist. The cooks applauded as well.

"And now, our final dessert course is a playful twist on a comfort food classic..."

"The S'more: the most offensive assault on the human palate ever contrived. Unethically sourced chocolate and gelatinized sugar water imprisoned by industrial-grade graham cracker. It's everything wrong with us and yet we associate it with innocence. Childhood. Mom and Dad.

Chef looked at his mother, who was passed out at her table.

"But what transforms this fucking monstrosity is fire. The purifying flame. It nourishes us, warms us, re-invents us, forges and destroys us. We must embrace the flame."

There were tears gathering in the eyes of our diners. They know what's happening and some even began praying. Slowik grabbed a handful of hot coal straight from the grill, not even registering how it burned his palm, and slowly made his way into the centre of the dining room.

"Please --" Anne begged shakingly.

But was she pleading for him to stop... or to continue?

"We must be cleansed. Made clean. Like martyrs or heretics, we can be subsumed and made anew."

Tears well in Chef Slowik's eyes. He paused, taking a deep breath. He had somehow found... release.

The chef tossed it in the flammable pool. A watery curtain of blue flame billowed across the floor. A warm, metamorphic glow illuminated the faces of our diners. Despite everything that had gone wrong, Chef Slowik was prepared to perish from this world that had grown so inhospitable to him, smiling face in the firelight.

There were screams of torture around him but it was as if the man ascended to Heaven already.

That was until the Devil came knocking on the door.

And dragged him hastily out of the restaurant.

#romance #horror #the menu #julian slowik #chef slowik #julian slowik x ofc #margot mills #john wick #john wick chapter 4 #keanu reeves #john wick 4 #winston scott #eventual happy ending #eventual comfort #eventual romance #eventual relationship #slow burn #enemies to lovers

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zutraeumen · 9 months

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The Assassin and the Chef

There was a radio on the shelf. A VHF radio in fact.

Hah, jackpot!

Pulling herself together, the tall woman dashed towards it, it looked legit as far as radio went. Turning it on with a push of the button, she quickly checked if she was on the right channel, before pushing and holding the red distress call button.

After a moment of waiting, she pushed the push-to-talk button and began speaking into the microphone, "Hello? Is anybody there?"

"Come in?" Came in crackly.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Hawthorne Island! I require immediate medical AND military assistance. We are thirteen people on this island, and most need immediate medical care OVER!"

"This is the Coast Guard, who am I talking to?"

Adele's brows scrunched together, why would he need to know that?

"This is Hawthorne Island, Hawthorne Island!"

Crack and static, "What did you say?"

She was getting frustrated with this guy, "This is Hotel-Alpha-Whiskey-Tango-Hotel-Oscar-Romeo-November-Echo! Hawthorne Island! People are dying. It's an emergency! OVER!"

"Okay, just, uh -- don't move!"

The channel went cold making Adele scoff disapprovingly. Well, at least help was on the way.

And most of her time was up. They surely were already suspicious of the Sommelier's absence and sent someone to look for him.

Her sensitive ears picked up footsteps. Only one pair.

Walking back outside, the last person she expected to run into was Margot. Stepping into the light slowly, she abandoned her cover to intercept the redhead, "Hey, Marg-"

SLAP!

The redhead whipped around with such speed that it took even Adele by surprise, slapping her across the face. The petite woman packed quite the punch, her left cheek stung.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry! I've never- I didn't know..."

Adele held one of her hands up to silence her, the other massaging the reddening side of her face. In hindsight, served her right! What was she thinking, approaching the poor woman from behind, knowing how silently she moved?

"It's okay, Margot. No harm done."

The girl stopped her fussing and looked as if a heavy weight had fallen off her shoulders. Margot was glad that Adele was safe.

"What are you doing here, outside?"

Margot took a second, arms hugging her shivering form, "The chef sent me to fetch a barrel from the smokehouse, Elsa gave me this key."

"So you are one of his then?"

The towering assassin meant nothing by the question other than acknowledging the fact that the escort was put to a test of loyalty, but to the redhead, it sounded accusing all the same, "Absolutely fucking not. I just did what I had to do to get away."

"And you did right."

Margot visibly deflated, "How did you get away? I thought I'd never see you again."

"I've fought for it."

Right because you totally looked like it.

"We have no way to get off this island. The ship and boats are gone, but I've managed to call the Coast Guard for backup."

There was a spark of hope in the girl's eyes and she managed to calm herself down. Adele wasn't good at comforting people, but she hoped a friendly pat would convey reassurance to the distressed escort.

She didn't deserve this.

Somewhere a twig snapped, they were being watched.

"Listen Margot," dark brown met hazel, "go back to the docks and wait for help. I will get the barrel and go back to the restaurant."

"Are you out of your fucking mind? You want to go back?!"

Adele gripped her shoulders firmly, "We don't have time. Listen to this old woman and get to safety. I will buy you time to escape. Don't worry I have a plan."

The redhead seemed unconvinced, but knew better than to argue with a stout woman like Adele. The assassin wouldn't budge on this.

"Okay," Margot breathed out, handing her the key to the smokehouse, "Okay, I will go but be careful. That man is fucking insane."

Adele appeased her with a comforting smile, and shoved the corkscrew discreetly inside her palm "Don't worry about me. I can handle myself just fine."

Famous last words?

Without looking back, the redhead trotted along the white gravel in her high heels and Adele watched her until her form vanished.

"You can come out now," Adele called loudly, turning towards the direction of their stalker.

At first, there was nought a sound, as if the person couldn't believe they were discovered. They were stalling.

"No need to play coy, I know you're out there."

Out of the shadows of the forest stepped Madam Elsa, the maître 'd herself.

Of course the Right hand would look for the Left.

Elsa had her sharp eyes accompanying them since welcoming them to the island.

"I take care of the customers so Chef can worry about the menu. And you have made my job very difficult."

She made her displeasure known, fumbling with her modernistic Victorian uniform until it procured a cleaver from its deep pockets. It looked as if she was here for more than making sure that Margot got that barrel to the chef.

"..."

The raven-haired assassin squared up as the shorter woman approached, ready for confrontation. There was no telling what Adele was up to, even when Elsa was at arm's length.

"How did you survive?"

Adele grinned cockily, "Why don't you find out yourself?"

Provoked, the Asian woman slashed at her face in time for the assassin to duck and drop the hidden scathing knife from up her sleeve right into her hand. With the precision of a black mamba, she wedged the long knife right between the gaps in her ribcage.

Elsa grunted, the cleaver falling from her arm while her body tipped backwards. The injured woman wheezed, the air escaping right through the slit in her chest. It wouldn't take long for the cavity to fill with blood. Adele gave her a few minutes at best.

"I- gurgle -didn't know about the barrel."

"What was that?" Adele eyed the dying woman, coming closer.

"He forgot about it. N-not me."

The assassin paid her no further mind once she breathed her last. Taking back her knife, she took care to rub some of the blood on the dead woman's apron before sheathing it back in her sleeve. Hiding it for future confrontations which will no doubt await her.

At least help was on the way.

The assassin would come to realize that that wasn't very much the case, but in the meantime, there was a barrel she needed to retrieve and a Chef to surprise.

"Happy birthday dear Bryce! Happy birthday to you!"

CLANK!

The singing stopped as all pairs of eyes narrowed on the encroaching woman in the black suit.

Damn, she loved feeling like a badass bitch from time to time.

The barrel accelerated as it rolled off the stairs and almost caught Richard's chair. It would have made it all the better if it had. But her client wouldn't have appreciated having to pick up her husband from the ground a second time. Imagine the strain on her back!

Various expressions of hope and fright passed over the tired faces of the guests. But Adele had eyes only for Chef Slowik. Nobody knew but, she took immense satisfaction in his potent frown. Furrowed eyebrows. Tense lips...

It was simply marvellous how many emotions passed over his wide eyes. It was solid proof that she was pushing the right buttons.

Feeling like the cat that got the cream, she sauntered over to Margot's seat, not even lamenting Tyler's absence. She leisurely receded against the backrest, crossing one leg over the other, openly establishing her presence in the quiet dining room.

After reigning himself in, the Chef fixed her with a blank stare, "Miss Cole, we've been awaiting you."

The assassin smirked, "I don't think you have."

His jaw clenched subtly, "Where is Margot?"

The assassin gave a nonchalant shrug, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

A vein popped into his neck, but there was no redness on his face yet. Nothing was going according to his plan and it was beginning to get to him. After a deep breath, he relaxed once again and took up his professional persona.

"What have you done to her?"

"I went for a stroll."

Chef's eyes darted to Anne Liebrandt, who in her dishevelled state, clutched a hand to her chest.

Jesus woman, how obvious can you be?!

"Miss Liebrandt," Slowik began candidly, "why did you invite Miss Cole to dine with us tonight?"

Her husband shot her a confused glance as the woman looked down at her hands and then at Adele, "I owed a favour to an associate of mine."

"And just who is this associate?"

"Winston Scott."

"Hmmm..." The chef seemed to be contemplating something, Adele was unsure if he recognized the name or not, but she wouldn't put it past him. He stared directly into her soul and Adele met his gaze calmly.

He knew he would gain no ground by confronting the assassin, so he sought to turn the unexpected situation in his favour by attacking her weak link. Clever man.

"I want you all to understand something," he began as he slowly approached Adele's table, slowly taking a seat in Tyler's chair. He brought himself to her level, "I am a monster. No, was a monster. And a whore. But tonight everything I'm doing is pure. Egoless. And at last, the pain is almost gone."

Adele sat there, keeping herself relaxed and movements slow.

There was a candle on the table. Chef Slowik extended his hand directly over it. The flame burnt his flesh, but he didn't so much as flinch, "Chef's Hands. Asbestos hands. I can carry a cast iron from a hot oven to your table with no protection."

He snuffed the candle with his thumb and forefinger.

Impressive.

"I can no longer be hurt, Adele. As Dr King said: We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor. It must be demanded by the oppressed."

"Did he just quote Martin Luther King?"

Neither of them budged as they continued to tear the other down with their eyes-

HONK!

Outside the windows, a light appeared on the water. A small boat. Adele saw it out of the corner of her eye. Chef Slowik spotted it, too, for a moment frozen with indecision, perhaps even fear.

The Coast Guard has arrived.

"So you found our radio."

He stood up from his seat and shouted to his hardworking colleagues, "Clear the dining room. Immediately!"

Servers appeared from everywhere to get people presentable again, wipe down the floor, their work hyper-fast. One server applied a white bandage to Chef's hand and tied a new apron around his waist to mask his blood-soaked pants.

Adele looked out the window to see a lone coast guard officer stepping onto the dock, and her glee fell.

Chef Slowik saw the same. He smiled just a little, "You will be tempted to ask him for help. To plead, even. This would be unwise. He cannot help you."

The guests look unconvinced and exchange conspiratorial glances. How could they let this opportunity pass?

"Ask yourselves two things: One, if you really want to be responsible for the death of an innocent man. And two, ask yourselves -- this entire evening, why didn't you all try harder to fight back? To get out of here? Honestly, you probably could have. Something to think about."

The patrons look around. He made a valid point. Why didn't they?

A knock. Chef Slowik nodded at a server to unlock the door. Two figures slowly strolled into the restaurant, and one of them was Margot. You've got to be kidding...

"Good evening officer, how can we help you?" Slowik offered warmly.

The man, a familiar face, looked around, hands on his belt, "I got a report of a disturbance."

"Here? What kind of disturbance?"

"A violent one. Are you the owner?"

"I am the executive chef. Ownership changed hands recently, but that's another story. I don't wish to be rude, but, as you can see, we are right in the middle of service."

Not quite understanding what that means, the officer looked around at the diners. They seemed composed enough. But anybody ELSE other than one of Slowik's cooks would have noticed that something was wrong right away.

It took her one glance to realize that this man was a mere parrot, if memory served her well, then she remembered seeing him rummaging in the kitchen earlier into the evening. Besides, no real U.S. Coast Guard (much less an Officer) would turn up to a perilous distress call without BACK UP!

"Did anybody here call in a distress on the short-wave tonight?"

All shook their heads, except for Adele.

"We are not in the habit of serving our guests short-wave radios with their meals," Slowik joked with forced cheer. His cooks laughed with him, maybe a little too loud.

The Coast Guard Officer noticed the movie star, who looked a little worse for wear, but better than before. A glimmer of recognition passed across his face.

"Hey, are you --?"

"Yes, yes, y-es, yes, I am..." George stuttered as he stood up from his seat, shaking.

"Oh, wow. I'm a big fan."

"Thank you."

"Would you like his autograph?" Chef Slowik asked the suddenly very shy officer.

"Well, uh, I don't want to bother you."

The movie star was quick to acquiesce him, "No bother at all, but I don't- I don't have a-"

A server arrived with a pen and paper on a tray.

"What's your name?"

"Dale."

With a scribble of the pen, George engaged the guard, "What's up, Dale?

"You're great. My wife and I loved that, uh... what's it called? The one where you're the surgeon?"

"Calling Dr. Sunshine." George looked at the chef spitefully.

"Yeah. Great stuff."

The movie star smiled sadly and handed over the autograph.

"Thank you. You're very kind." George sat back down.

"Okay. Well, sorry again to bother you folks. I'll be going now."

"Thank you for your service," Slowik told the smiling officer who turned and walked back toward the door. As he did, he looked down at the note.

The officer turned suddenly, whipping out his gun, and pointed it at Chef.

"Hands above your head! Now!"

"Are you joking?" Slowik asked in shock.

"I am not joking, sir!" The officer moved to the

A guard of Chef Slowik stepped forward to protect hismaster, but Chef held up a hand.

"Clearly there's a misunderstanding."

The patrons went into an uproar, springing from their seats with renewed hope that somebody would save them from this nightmarish dinner. The officer looked overwhelmed as he tried to get his voice heard over the commotion. Margot and Adele watched in baleful silence.

What a spectacle!

"Help us! He wants to kill us all!" Anne cried out. Other diners chimed in as well.

"You," he pointed the end of the gun at the chef, who stood calmly, "on your knees with yourhands over your head. Now!"

Chef Slowik drew a long breath, dismissed his guard and complied. The patrons cried with impeccable relief. Thanking God and whatnot.

"Nobody moves till I say so!The officer inched forward. When he had almost reached Chef,he pivoted toward Margot's table, gun still pointed, and pulled the trigger. A small flame emitted from the barrel that lighted the extinguished candle.

And as quick as hope arose, it was violently crushed.

A brilliant play by Chef Julian Slowik.

The officer holstered the gun, put on an apron, and joined his comrades in the kitchen. Getting a pat on the shoulder from Slowik for his believable performance. George should take notes.

"In a kitchen, we all work together or nothing works at all. And you, Margot from Nebraska, you have betrayed our sacred bond of trust. And you've shown your craft to be careless. I was wrong. You're an eater. A taker. Like all the rest."

CLAP!

Somebody clapped. Once. Loud.

Time seemed to stop entirely, but the claps echoed still until they evolved into applause.

The one making that much noise was none other than Adele Cole, casually sitting in Margot's seat. After the initial shock wore off, everybody expected her to speak but she held quiet as she fetched a pack of cigarettes USA Gold, the cheapest on the market.

Taking one out, she suddenly realized she had forgotten her lighter at home, "Margot."

The poor thing sprung with a gasp of surprise at the mention of her name, "Huh?"

"Can you please give me your lighter dearie?"

The startled woman took a second too long for such a menial request but nobody stopped her from fiddling with her purse.

"Thank you, Margot."

Taking a deep drag, she enjoyed the smooth, mild flavour before her stomach rumbled loudly and the pleasant feeling was replaced by a rush of nausea.

Swallowing the bile, Adele scrunched her face, "Fucking disgusting on an empty stomach."

The kitchen staff stood still like deers facing the headlights, the tension was still high as the assassin squarely faced Julian Slowik, "You know, I came here for a nice, little evening. Of promising food and relaxation. And what have I gotten instead?"

Julian swallowed - touched a nerve, didn't I? - whether to hear her out or out of frustration she could only guess. His mother seemed to be happily passed out.

"Every dish we've had tonight was some intellectual exercise, there were at least three direct attempts at my life over the course of a few hours and I am, honest to God, tired."

...

"So I am calling it quits. And I will take Margot and Ms Liebrandt with me, with or without your permission."

Rising to her feet, she felt the first guard approach and before he could grab her she clawed at his arm and slit his throat with practised precision. The man fell unto their table, gurgling and clutching desperately at his throat. The cooks stopped working.

People screamed and Adele's wild eyes searched for the chef's, her old self peeking through the cracks of her murderous persona. A beast cornered. Before he knew it, another guard hit the ground, painting the floor dark red. Nothing stood between her and the exit now.

The other guards didn't stand idly by and abandoned their posts to intercept her, "If you seek an early grave then I suggest you stay away," she said darkly. Her tangible bloodlust kept them at bay.

Lifting the scathing knife between her and the room, she beckoned Margot to come to her side promptly. The redhead hesitated momentarily before snatching her purse and stumbling behind the towering woman. Adele did the same to Anne, but after one look at Richard, she waved them off.

Hmpf, suit yourself.

Looking around one last time, she noted the petrified look the other patrons send her way. Seeing a volatile beast instead of a white knight was fine by Adele. Backing up towards the exit, she sent one last harsh glance towards Julian Slowik, "I pity you, chef. I pity you all. Giving your life and all of your talents to a man whose talents have slipped."

Without turning back, they escaped the lion's den as victoriously as the day Herakles killed the Nemean lion.

But did it feel like it?

No. Absolutely not.

They narrowly escaped certain death, and Adele Cole had utterly failed to fulfil her last mission. Winston wouldn't let her retire after this, or would he? What would she do if he did regardless? She was so lost in the soft crunch of their agitated footsteps that she almost knocked the shivering redhead clutching at the sides of her naked arms.

Without thinking, Adele took her jacket and threw it over Margot's petite shoulders, earning a small thank you. At least she managed to keep her from harm's way, if no one at all. Still, she couldn't help but feel as if something was keeping her from leaving this accursed island.

Even as they began to rev up the engines of the Coast Guard's boat, the thought of leaving felt so wrong. Her stomach rumbled. Nothing seemed to set her mind straight, and when she caught the first whiff of smoke, her eyes looked far away into the trees in sudden realization.

So this was to be the final course.

"Go get help, I will try to look for survivors!" The engine roared to life and the boat began to move when Adele jumped over the ship's railing in one swift move.

Margot looked at the control to stop the boat from moving away from solid ground, "But-!"

"GO!"

And without looking back, the assassin was right where it all began, with no other means to escape, running towards the now blazing restaurant.

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zutraeumen · 9 months

Text

The Sixth Course

The diners were led out to a beautiful al fresco dining setup. The evening air was indeed beautiful, and a series of torches lent an almost primaeval atmosphere to the proceedings. The patrons murmured to each other and while Adele didn't grasp some of it, she didn't care anymore.

Fuck the mission and fuck Winston for sending her into this.

Last mission, yeah, sure.

The hitman had other plans than to die on this stupid island to this fucking cult. Even if the chef had his reasons, they didn't involve her. What else did you expect from a hitman? That she would save the day? Like a hero or something?

Other than Margot, these weren't the type of people she would regret not saving. A bunch of assholes, the lot.

They were huddled together when Chef Slowik spoke again, "Ladies and gentlemen, our next course will be presented by sous-chef Katherine Keller."

Nobody except for Tyler clapped, that kid was sick in the head.

Katherine stepped out of the darkness. She smiled amidst the exquisite silence, her face lit by torchlight, "Good evening, everyone. Three years ago, Julian Slowik tried to fuck me."

What a way to start a conversation.

Chef Slowik nodded slightly but remained impassive. Elsa looked longingly at chef.

His staff wasn't devoted to him. No, they were competing for his acknowledgement.

"I refused his advances. A week later he tried again. And again, I refused. But he didn't fire me. He kept me in his kitchen and refused to look me in the eye or speak directly to me for eight months. He can do that. Because he's the star. He's the man.

Chef Slowik looked away, a bit pained.

"Our next course is called 'Man's Folly'.

Katherine was approached by Chef and stood very close, looking him right in the eyes. She pulled a small pair of scissors from her apron and stabbed him in the thigh. He accepted it with a wince and a nod.

Katherine and Chef Slowik shared a long, meaningful hug. Theirs was a deep understanding that we'll never know. Elsa glowered at the two, jealousy burning behind her eyelids.

"I am sorry," he whispered.

They parted, and a few seconds later a veiny hand grabbed the sharp instrument by the base and pulled it from his tight without much of a flinch. A bloodstain was already forming and it appeared he would walk the rest of the evening with a limp.

"To our male diners. We now offer you the chance to escape. You will be given a 45-second head start, at which point members of my staff will try and catch you. If they do catch you..."

Soren immediately made a break for it and didn't wait for the chef to finish his statement.

"Okay," said Slowik, unbothered, "45 seconds starts now."

At this point, all the other male diners make a break for it too. Readily abandoning the female patrons to their fates with half-assed promises to send help. Slowik laughed to himself as he watched Richard's nearly 70-year-old body approximate a run.

Adele herself bit the inside of her cheek to avoid breaking character, that was funny as hell.

As if any of them truly had a chance to escape their captors.

Tyler was the last to leave the group (thank god for small miracles), but only after Slowik ordered him to. He would fit well into the cult if the chef didn't have such ardent disdain for the young man. The darker corners of Adele's psyche hoped he would have any sort of incident, as long as the hitman wouldn't suffer any moment longer in his grating presence.

"Now, ladies, if you would please follow Katherine back into the restaurant."

The group reluctantly followed the jolly woman back to the restaurant until, "Not you, Miss Cole."

The hitman froze. The other ladies stopped as well, Slowik was quick to placate their worry, "Miss Cole hasn't been feeling well lately, so she will not be joining you for this course."

Her client's eyes darted repeatedly to Adele as he spoke of her absence, which the assassin purposefully avoided. Slowik knew of their connection, no need to give him reasons to suspect more. But out of all of them, it was Margot's worried gaze that got to her the most. The redhead feared for the only person she could consider an ally.

The women knew better than to challenge Slowik's dismissal, even at the cost of another patron, and they finally did something rational. Their continued presence would only hinder the hitman from confronting what Chef truly had in store for her.

The Sommelier held up the timer, the servers got ready to hunt the men on escape. It was only a matter of time and eight servers ran as if they would be getting a reward by the end of it. The only ones standing outside were Adele and Chef with his Sommelier. A single man was kept guarding the door, her chances appeared to have tilted for the better.

The only thing unexpected happened when the chef addressed his Sommelier instead of her, and excused himself with an 'I'll leave you to it.'

As a professional, you would learn to discern the minuscule tell-tale signs someone was about to kill you.

Slowik's meaningful glance was one of those signs.

She watched him walk away before the cheery Sommelier offered her a stroll through the dark forest. Hoping the fresh air would calm her tumultuous stomach. It was eerily quiet around them, not even the wildlife was active as they walked side by side deeper into the thick trees, the canopy hiding away the very stars.

They were a fair distance away from any lights, and Adele's eyes adjusted quickly to the change of contrast. She was home in such darkness and blended in seamlessly with the environment. But the scheming Sommelier wouldn't know that as he marched on, not even recognizing when Adele threw a stone from behind him.

Other senses were heightened in the dark, the Sommelier was no different as he suddenly jerked in the direction of the unexpected sound. Momentarily distracted, Adele struck. She had him fall right into her chokehold as she kicked his knee in. Quickly covering his mouth, she fiercely pulled him back so he couldn't help himself with his feet. His body thrashed, fighting to get air into his lungs, but the hitman had him in an inescapable hold.

The Sommelier lay dead seconds later.

Spitting the gum out, she rummaged through the corpse's pockets, finding nothing but a pocket corkscrew. Huh, might come in handy.

What to do now?

Now that she was free, nothing stood between her and the exit. Nothing but her own conscience - Margot was still at Hawthorne AND her client was there as well. Leaving them to inevitably die wouldn't look good on her resume.

Adele decided that she would take that risk, and venture once again into the lion's den, but this time, on her own terms.

Fearing she had stayed in one place too long, the assassin moved throughout the pitch-black forest like a ghost. Hiding behind thicker tree stumps if there were speedy footsteps in the distance, she had taken out a couple of servers that ventured too far from the group on their search.

Maaan... Charlie was going to have a lot of work to do searching for all those bodies. She would lose a whole stack of coins because of this stupid mission. Checking her small Nokia 3310, there was enough connection to send for all the services she would need later.

Don't judge her. The phone might have been severely outdated, but it was the safest option, and all that she needed to stay connected to the underworld community. Hell, she had even killed a man with it at some point! She would always choose that brick of a phone over any smartphone with a touchscreen so brittle it might shatter at any given inconvenience.

And believe her, there were a lot of inconveniences to look out for in her field of expertise!

Now that all of the male patrons were found and dragged back to the restaurant, the assassin moved at greater speed towards her objective. It wasn't difficult to navigate back to the smokehouse, following the large trail of white gravel. The wooden door was locked, but not chained. Adele used the Nokia's flashlight sparsely as she picked the lock with the corkscrew, but it opened eventually, with a satisfying click.

The door swung open, Adele had to wave away the smoke that infiltrated her nose, looking out for something sharp. There were many unused hooks that would have done, but the assassin looked for something not quite so crude. This was a mission where she was severely outnumbered and open confrontation would not work in her favour.

Aha! This one would do!

Adele spotted a scaling knife and held it against the light of her flashlight, running the tips of her fingers against the edge.

Incredibly sharp. Relatively good in hand.

Armed and lethal, the assassin took off confidently towards the beach, passing Slowik's cottage illuminated perfectly by the moonlight in the distance. The sounds of waves and the salty air were comforting. There should have been a small boathouse here somewhere, but despite knowing the island's layout from photographic memory, it had taken her a good trek further to the east to actually get to it.

It hadn't been locked fortunately, but the small victory turned irrelevant when she discovered there was no boat inside. Somebody from the escaping men must have taken it, because the fisherman left his gear behind.

Fuck!

Plan B then: housebreaking.

Slowik's house was a mere two minutes away, she had already lost ten at the beach. Time trickled by terribly slowly on a mission, but every second counted in a life-or-death situation. Her bug channel had gone dark, even though that could mean she was just too far away, it worried her still. Margot seemed like a decent young woman. Adele liked her.

The lights were off. Seemed, at first glance, like no one was home, but the assassin kept her feet light and movements slow. One crucial thing to notice was that the front door wasn't even locked, so no kicking in then.

A shame, the assassin always felt such a rush coming in with a bang, a penchant of her past life. Inviting herself into the cottage, she waited for a second or two if her ear would pick up something, then proceeded to vaguely reach for the light switch.

"Motherfucker."

Chucked the phrase: 'Don't take work home' right off the window. That man had his kitchen replicated down to the last detail. Even the tables looked the same! Just like in that devilish restaurant. To top it all off, on the far side of the dining room sat a cot. A small table with a lamp and a Bible stood right next to it.

Please don't tell me this was actually where he slept.

In the DINING ROOM of all places! This dude had no chill, as the teens would say.

But it was so quiet here, so clean. Pristine.

Processing, Adele realized something. Sure enough, she found an exact replica of the silver door she had glimpsed earlier in the evening. She tried to open it, but this time, it was locked. No problem for a child from the streets.

You know, for someone this rich his security measures were rather lackluster.

Stepping inside, a lovely room greeted her. A private haven. Warmly lit and beautiful. An actual life. A desk. Leather chair. Stacks of recipe books. Framed photos all along the wall. The assassin couldn't help her intrigue and glimpse at a few of them.

They seemed to be from different points in his life:

A preppy, affluent, young Slowik in a school uniform.

A photo of Slowik, his mom, and a meek-looking man that bored semblance of the recently drowned Doug Verrick.

But there! Adele's attention was on one framed photo in particular. She walked closer and closer to the photo, refusing the urge to take it off the wall by hand and gaze at it for a long beat.

Hamburger Howie's

EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH - AUGUST 1987

- JULIAN SLOWIK -

The raved-haired woman smiled as the zealous Slowik did in it, his cute smile was addictive as he flipped those burgers in that 'Kiss the Cook' apron. He looked so different among the normal folk, so down-to-earth... so... it suited him. Joy, she meant. Impassioned by his craft. The assassin couldn't imagine finding something so worthwhile.

After all, there were many facets in her life that she didn't get to choose.

She didn't choose to be a street rat.

She didn't choose to be abducted and sold into slavery.

She didn't choose to be bought by a crime family.

She didn't choose to become a trained assassin.

She didn't... the past should stay in the past.

Adele Cole was her own person now, pragmatic and far too young to be this cynical but she was what she was.

She was by no means a psychological Sherlock Holmes, gifted with a complex understanding of the human psyche. But those pictures did offer her some clarity or rather an insight into the esteemed Chef's deepest parts. The man behind the icon.

And even if she couldn't comprehend the full spectrum of Julian Slowik's complex nature. Adele understood now that he had been a good man at some point in his life.

Let a criminal be the judge of that.

He belonged to the many men and women who had lost their way, being extremely driven to what they do or what it took to get it done, with no way to escape.

Her old self had only found her way through John Wick.

If only Julian Slowik would have had such a person in his life.

#romance #horror #the menu #julian slowik #chef slowik #julian slowik x ofc #margot mills #john wick #john wick chapter 4 #keanu reeves #john wick 4 #winston scott #eventual happy ending #eventual romance #eventual comfort #eventual relationship #enemies to lovers

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zutraeumen · 9 months

Text

Palate Cleanser

Another chair scraped against the floor, slower this time, as Richard Liebrandt got up.

"We're leaving. Now."

An expression of confusion settled over her client's face, who was frightened by the recent events enough to hesitate.

"I-I have to get my wrap."

"Forget your wrap. Get up."

"But-" Despite her reluctance, the woman abided by her husband's wishes and together they rushed to the front door, but the guards wouldn't budge.

Elsa ran to stand in their way as well, "Mr Liebrandt?"

"We're leaving."

"Is something wrong?"

"We're leaving."

Everyone else watched to see how this went but none were as conflicted about it than the hitman, who could predict something foolish from a mile away.

"There is no boat to leave on."

Ms. Liebrandt shook like a leaf, unsure if she should convince her husband to back down or not, "Then I'll call a helicopter."

Elsa smiled patronizingly, seemingly enjoying the power she held over them, "That would be very difficult without phone service."

Adele checked her smartwatch discreetly, she was right.

Some bravery chipped off of Mr. Liebrandt when another guard came to block the hallway, reinforcing the futility of his plan, "Fucking move!"

He shouted against the sternly looking guards as if that would shoo them away like pesky birds. That was enough intimidation for her Anne, who clung to his shoulder to harshly whisper something in his ear.

"No - no! I can- I will handle this just..." he ushered his wife off his back.

A dangerous flicker passed through the maître d' that spoke of nothing but ill-intent, if anyone would have noticed, it would be her.

"With which hand?" Elsa asked pointedly.

"What?"

"With which hand will you 'handle' this Mr. Liebrandt? Left or right?"

"What the fuck are you saying?"

"Shall we choose?" She looked over at the kitchen and as if summoned, a cook walked in their direction.

"Choose what?"

"Very well," she nodded to the guards, "left hand. Ring finger."

He chose nothing. She chose violence.

The assassin remained in the shadows even as her client sent her a pleading glance. What would she have her do? Drop the cape and save the day like a knight in shining armour? Fight six grown men in one go?

It happened in a flash, how that guillotine of a cleaver fell straight down his finger. A warning was sent to those who realized they weren't playing any games, or any theatrics. Julian Slowik revelled in the faces of shock his diners portrayed, reminding them that it was all part of the menu.

Richard writhed in pain on the floor. Two servers gently wrapped a linen napkin around his bleeding finger stump and tied it with a decorative ribbon. Elsa picked up his finger from the table, and retrieved the fallen wedding ring to offer it to the open-mouthed Anne.

"Thank you," Anne whispered softly, on the verge of tears.

"You're welcome."

Most of the patrons were too taken back to listen to their surroundings, but Lillian and Ted still managed to come up with an explanation, "I honestly think that this whole thing is just for our benefit. I mean us, that's why he texted me. And this," she pointed at the meal with her fork, "is incredible."

Ted nodded approvingly to the critic, as if there couldn't be any other explanation for the horror, then leaned heavily across the table towards the movie star's table, "The acting is astonishing."

Unbelievable.

George looked at him strongly, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

It almost escaped Adele's notice that Margot was being led into the kitchens by Madam Elsa. Unmuting her smartwatch, Adele checked if she was clear of anyone's eyes, then observed the scared but brave Margot as she walked until she stood face-to-face with Chef Slowik. He looked her up and down and shook his head.

"No. No, I am sorry but you're all wrong." The man said while he tinkered with the next dish.

"Why are you doing this?"

"You're just, simply wrong," he persisted.

"What are you talking about?"

"Who are you?"

Adele turned her head away as the Sommelier sashayed nearby.

"I am Margot." The fiery redhead asserted in a last-ditch effort to keep her real name to herself.

Slowik wouldn't relent, "I've served many Margots. You are not a Margot. No."

"What the fuck does it matter?"

Good question, why did it matter to him? Why was he so persistent in knowing her identity?

"It matters because this menu, this guest list, this entire evening, has been painstakingly planned. And you were not a part of that plan and it's spoiling everything. In order to proceed, I have to know where to seat you: With us or with them? It's really very important."

So it had been as Adele suspected it to be all along.

Curse her precise intuition.

Margot gulped, "And then you'll- let me live?"

"No, of course not. That would ruin the menu. We're all going to die tonight," he turned to his staff, "Isn't that right?"

"Yes, Chef!"

"So the question is: do you want to die with those who give or with those who take?"

Oh, he was messed up.

"But I die either way. It's arbitrary." Margot reasoned one last time.

"No, it's not arbitrary. Nothing in this kitchen is arbitrary. Please pick. These decisions are important."

He exposed sharp canines so far did his jovial smile stretch, then he went around to grab at something - a timer.

"Our menu is strictly timed. In 15 minutes I'll have a break between courses. And that is how long you have to decide. It's our side or theirs. In the meantime, please return to your seat. The next dish is exquisite. Plating in five!"

"Yes, Chef!"

"I love you all!"

"We love you too Chef!"

Mass psychosis.

Tongue-tied, the redhead returned to her seat. Adele's orbs followed her as she returned to a wide-eyed Tyler, asking her about something before she gave him a resolute slap that rang pleasantly in her ears. Insensitive bastard.

"So, so, what's the play here? What are your options?"

"The door is locked and guarded. The windows - ?"

The techno bros quietly conspired at their table. The movie star overheard them and joined in, "Hey guys, we've gotta do something. We can't be cowards. This shot in a movie I did 'The Assault': when they bring the knives and forks we just storm the kitchen."

"You think we have better knife skills than them?"

Suddenly Soren sprung to his feet, picked up his chair and hurled it at one of the big bay windows. It bounced right off of the thick reinforced pane. Furious and desperate, he kicked the window a few more times before his strength left him. Nobody intervened, the kitchen was unperturbed. Realizing there was nowhere for him to go, he just screamed.

"GAH!!! FUCK!!!"

Elsa perfectly placed Soren's chair back at his table after his little tantrum was over.

Adele jumped as Chef placed a silvery tray in the middle of their table. Slowik's mother hung, the alcohol must have put her to sleep. On it: a glass kettle with two tea cups. One, he took for himself. The other well... she hoped he wouldn't have her drink it in front of the whole restaurant. She would rather he had a psychotic episode and smashed it against her head, at least she would finally be free of this stupid mission and this cult.

But of course, he planned neither of those things for her, opting for another long-winded monologue, "There's a saying: Sometimes all you need is a good cup of tea. I learned that growing up in Bratislava."

Didn't he say he was from Iowa?

He took a sip, "I've found that not only does tea cleanse the palate, but it offers a soothing balm when facing some hard, home truths."

Elsa spied on how Adele rolled her eyes, her dark orbs narrowing.

Yes, yes. We're all gonna die here tonight. No need to tell it twice.

Servers fan out with bowls filled with tea.

"So, before we continue, are there any questions about me or Hawthorn? Any questions?"

This was a first. It's deadly silent. People were hesitant to raise their hands. Tyler did.

"Is this bergamot I am getting Chef?"

Some people glare at Tyler: 'That's the question you ask?'

Even Slowik rolled his eyes with an unsatisfied shake of his head, "Yes, it is."

The movie star raised a tentative hand, clearing his throat in the process.

"Yes?"

He stood up, "I think I speak for everybody here when I say that uh - I wanna know - I-I mean, we wanna know-"

"Why the fuck is this happening man?" Soren blurted out shakingly.

"Well, I'll tell you. Think of yourselves as ingredients in a degustation concept."

"WHAT?" Soren interrupted him.

"A tasting concept. Figuratively speaking. Think that's the best way to describe it. But none of this should be a surprise to most of you. Ms Bloom - Lillian, if I may - my cherished early advocate, knows the damage she has done to so many livelihoods."

"No, no, no. Now, hang on, Chef -"

"No, no. No, you don't talk." He shushed her with a hard stare.

Ted was quick to come to her defence, "I am sorry, Chef. You've submitted to an interview - WHAT? - with Lillian Bloom, and that interview created this restaurant-"

Slowik came dangerously closer and the man shrunk in his seat, "You enabled her filth. You buttress. You coddle."

Ted had the courage to look offended. Then a server approached the high-strung critic and set down a comically large container in front of her, "More broken emulsion, madam."

Lillian Bloom stared at it.

"You loved that I texted you an invitation for this evening. Me yearning for your attendance. Heh, your ego is fed but that is to be expected and you fed my ego as well."

A timer ticked somewhere.

"Please!" The chef turned his glare towards her client and her injured husband, "My husband needs to go to the hospital."

"I-I am fine, just let my wife go."

"My loyal regulars. How many times have you eaten here in the last five years?"

Mr. Liebrandt sputtered a random number. Anne was sure to correct him, "I think it's more than that, Rick...

"Eleven. Eleven times. Most people consider themselves blessed if they eat here only once. Mr Liebrandt, kindly name one dish you ate the last time you were here."

Silence. The chef sighed, disappointed.

Eleven times you take the boat out here, where we introduce every dish, every single time. We tell you exactly what we are feeding you. Please tell me one dish you ate the last time you were here. Or the time before. One. Please."

Richard couldn't tell him any dish, but his wife could, as she whispered into his ear, "Cod."

"It wasn't cod, you donkey. It was halibut. Rare fucking spotted halibut."

"What does it matter?"

To him apparently, it mattered a lot. Man took it personally.

"It matters to the halibut, Ms Liebrandt. And to the artist whose work turns to shit inside your gut."

He shifted like a professor to the whole room, "I've allowed my work to reach the price point where only the class of people in this room can access it. And I've been fooled into trying to please people who can never be satisfied."

Sounds like a 'You' problem.

He pointed at his mother, "Starting with her."

"But that's our culture, isn't it? And my restaurant is part of the problem."

At least he had enough sanity to self-reflect.

"You said it's your restaurant. But if we're all just being honest tonight, like you say, it's not," Bryce said, face sweaty.

"You're right. Doug Verrick is my angel investor. He owns this island and this restaurant. And since Hawthorn is my entire life, I would have to say that Doug Verrick owns me. Except, now things are a little more complicated and I own Doug Verrick."

Chef Slowik looked to Elsa, who flipped a switch on the wall. Outside, spotlights reveal Doug Verrick, about 100 feet away, suspended by a contraption above the water with angel wings on his back. Margot gasped. The Sommelier laughed.

A round of 'holy shits' and 'oh my gods' went around. The tech bros grew even more desperate and fearful as their boss hung like Jesus on the cross. Negotiating with the chef with money (wrong tactic), he, unsurprisingly, rebutted every single one of their attempts.

Dave made a sudden rush to the door but he was quickly bumped to the floor by a large guard. He splayed out pathetically.

Bryce stood up and yelled like he owned the place, "He kept you open through COVID, you prick!"

"Yes, he did. And he questioned my menu. He would even request substitutions, despite the fact that THERE ARE NO SUBSTITUTIONS AT HAWTHORN!!!" Slowik screamed at the man behind the window with unbridled anger, it sounded as if it had been festering in him for quite some time.

He reigned his fury in moments later, and gestured for Elsa, "Fallen Angel please."

Outside, the contraption slowly lowered Verrick into the bay. Like a teabag being lowered into a pot. They can just barely make out his panicked screams.

"You are a fucking maniac."

"Shh. Just listen." The chef even closed his eyes, as one would listen to music.

"This is -"

"I said listen."

They watch, pained, as Verrek was slowly lowered into the water, down, down, down, until finally, he went under.

"And..."

He waited for total, serene silence.

"Quiet..." he whispered contentedly.

Eyes remaining closed, Chef listened a few more seconds. Tyler mimicked him like a child.

"Do you hear that silence? Listen. Can you hear it? That silence means... I'm free."

A fly could pass by and it would be the only noise heard. Only Tyler babbled on and it infuriated Adele immensely - BEEP BEEP! - the kitchen timer went off.

"Time's up, Miss Mills," Elsa put the timer in her pocket, "Chef will speak with you now. In his office."

"May I speak to the Chef as well?" Tyler asked innocently, though there was an underlying jealousy in his expression.

"You may not."

She was guided by two cooks toward a door that led to Chef Slowik's office. And Adele once again tuned in with her bug.

"You've made your decision," Slowik began.

"I have. I-I've decided you're right. I shouldn't be here tonight. And I say this with respect because I'm sure you're quite brilliant but all of this - it wasn't meant for me."

Ah, now she was trying to butter him up.

"You're not sure I'm brilliant, so don't say it. It's false."

Margot inhaled, "Fine. I am not sure that you're brilliant."

"Oh, I was expecting more." He sounded disappointed, but Adele knew he was just playing with her.

Margot was less inclined to games at this moment, "Fuck you."

"I guess I have to make your decision for you: You belong here, with your own breed."

"And what breed is that?"

"With the shit shovelers. Oh, you thought I couldn't tell? I know a fellow service industry worker when I see one."

...

"Mr Liebrandt. How do you know him?"

Margot didn't answer.

"You've been eyeing him all evening."

Adele thought she was to only one who noticed that.

"Oh, I think you know."

"No, I don't. So, he paid for an experience. And I can tell, from one provider of experiences to another, that you don't rattle easily. So how did he rattle you?

Margot shuffled somewhere, "It didn't rattle-"

"Margot." Slowik enunciated pointedly.

"He told me to agree with everything he said, and continue eye contact while he jerked off."

Disgusting. Slowik made a noise, "Specific."

"Not really. Pretty unoriginal. What rattled me was that he told me to tell him that he was a good man, and that I was his daughter and that I loved him and-

The chef cuts her off, "So he's a romantic."

They shared the smallest chuckle. Adele's expression darkened. Like John, even she had principles and preferences which bounties to accept. But even without a contract, she held no qualms about killing the scum of society for free. Honestly, she had cases where she felt she did the world a favour.

"I don't need the details. I know what a bad customer is."

Not for the first time, it felt like a connection was established.

"Do you enjoy providing your services?"

Margot took a second to think about it, "Yes, or I used to. Do you enjoy providing yours?"

"I used to. I haven't desired to cook for someone in ages. And one does miss that feeling."

Beat. The slightest opening in his chain mail.

"Come with me," he told her and moments later, they exited his offices together. When they came back, tension and dread hung in the air. Exhausted diners flinched as Chef walked near, like beaten dogs.

He clapped, but the diners were too numb to respond.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for our next course, let us take the evening air."

They all sat there. What is he talking about?

"Come. Come." He encouraged them.

Elsa was standing by the now-open door to the outside. The escape hatch had been opened. But what awaited them outside?

#romance #horror #julian slowik #chef slowik #margot mills #the menu #john wick #john wick chapter 4 #keanu reeves #john wick 4 #eventual happy ending #eventual romance #eventual comfort #eventual relationship #enemies to lovers

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zutraeumen · 9 months

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The Fourth Course

HE KNEW.

Her mind panicked.

BUT HOW MUCH?

Her mind reasoned.

Taking a calming breath that betrayed her rising restlessness, she looked herself dead in the eye through the pristine bathroom mirror.

The woman before her wasn't the same one who was known after a terrifying fable.

Bloody Mary was a woman of violence, tough as leather hard as steel, precise and lethal in her criminal dealings. A product of an unfortunate childhood, shaped and misguided by people who held her leash and operated in the shadiest corners of the world.

Adele Cole was the polar opposite, a small-end assassin of the High Table. A good friend to the manager of New York Continental and his concierge Charon, living in the shadow of much greater assassins.

All things sinful came into her life before she knew how to tell between right and wrong, and set her on a soulless existence. One where a person has been robbed of everything they would never know belonged to them, or anyone else for that matter.

Until her path crossed with Baba Yaga, a phantom of her previous life that served as an acute reminder of what she had lost in the first place.

Her rival, her idol, her partner, her friend - the journey of change had been long for her.

She only didn't realize how long after she had a chance to look in the mirror and see herself after 49 gruesome years...

Stop your pity party and go to work.

Good advice, she was getting senile with old age.

She retreated into the bathroom because he knew something. The fact that he knew each and every one of his guests wasn't anything remotely unusual, but the lovely tacos were a sign that he dug too deep for comfort.

Slowik was aware that she was here at Anne Liebbrandt's behest, and that Doug Varrick wouldn't have denied one of his regulars such a menial request (especially an extra bill to pay). That alone shouldn't have caused her any worry, but did he know that she was hired as a guard?

Because from that email alone, there wasn't a reason to suspect he did. But he somehow must have, otherwise, why would he want her empoisoned out of anyone else? She didn't see anyone else having oleander floating around in their wine! Why was she to die first? Would the rest follow after?

There wasn't much that speculating would reveal for her other than the fact that he had different plans in store for her than the rest - even Margot.

Either way, his resourcefulness posed a greater threat to her than she initially thought.

The Chef was not one to be underestimated, he knew more than he let on. Hell, there may be a chance he knew even more than she did, and with the sneaking suspicion that there was more to this evening than anticipated, it left her at a grave disadvantage.

So, she would continue on as she did up until this point, hoping it would give the impression that Adele was none the wiser about all of this, just as the rest continued to be. Let the Chef hold the reins of power for a little while longer, Adele would use this time to figure out a way to switch the situation in her favour, just as she had done countless times before.

It would only be a tad more difficult this time around, without a real weapon at her disposal, but nothing she couldn't handle so far.

Her eyes perked up imperceptively as they registered aggravated footsteps nearing the bathroom. The door swung open as Margot entered the bathroom, then stilled abruptly, taken aback by Adele's presence - good to know she still had a silent step - she did not let it stop her from entering the stall and seeking some privacy.

Adele had kept her gaze on her hands all the while, washing them in the sink to appear as if she had done anything else but gaze at her own reflection for the few past minutes. Margot ignored her, too encapsulated in her ire (must have been because of Tyler) as she opened the small window to let in some fresh air, the flick of a lighter almost bypassing her ears when the door opened once again.

The air suddenly became denser as Chef Slowik casually invited himself in, looking as intimidating as a drill instructor at boot camp. Adele pushed the gum under her tongue.

Dulled, light-blue eyes sought out Margot first, then carefully landed on Adele, "Miss Cole, may I ask you to give me a moment of privacy with Miss Mills?"

Never one to lose her cool, Adele levelled her dark-brown orbs at the Chef. She thought nothing could slip past her control, but the Chef saw a flicker of apprehension escape her nonetheless. She was reluctant to leave Margot alone.

Her womanly senses tingled in alarm. The bathroom was a sort of safety point for women in public. Every woman knew it was part of the code to look after another fellow woman out in the streets, after all, their strength resided within numbers. Especially if it was against men - if you weren't Adele, that is...

Just kidding... (but actually not.)

Margot's timid shuffling made her realize it might be a good time to stop her staring and offer the expectant Chef an answer before he became suspicious, "As you wish, Chef Slowik."

He thanked her with a prideful nod once she brushed past him but not before throwing the redhead a reassuring glance. Chef Slowik caught onto the unspoken words between them, and locked the door from the inside.

She'd have to trust the man's honour not to try something funny with Margot while she waited outside. Adele was prepared to jump to her rescue in case.

But of course, the rest of the staff wouldn't be satisfied with that. Already hearing Elsa's heels clicking against the floor, ready to lead her back to her seat, Adele tried to appear busy by interacting with her smartwatch and hoped for the best.

Adele considered it a success when Elsa didn't approach her, discreetly adjusting her earpiece to her smartwatch until she heard the first traces of audio, "I would like to know specifically what it was about the last course that you did not enjoy. You've barely eaten your food. Why? I need to know. Why don't you eat?"

Adele straightened against the wall, straining intently for Margot's voice as it replied after a moment, "Why do you care?"

"I take my work very seriously and you're not eating. That wounds me."

It did actually sound like it pained him. The assassin thought it strange for a world-star chef to admit something like that but if his monologues taught her anything, then it was the fact that Julian Slowik was a most peculiar individual with motives just as ambiguous. Another tense silence followed by a bit of rustling on the side.

The next time the redhead spoke it was much stronger and clearer, "I guess I am just not that hungry."

Margot sounded wary, Adele knew she wasn't the only one who could sniff out that something was going on around here. If not from their confrontation earlier, then by the time the third course happened. If only she knew what the evening held in store for her.

"I told you who I am, I am Julian Slowik and I am a chef here, now who are you?"

His voice might have passed as soft, but there was a strong demand thickly laced within. So he had no clue about Margot's strictly hidden identity, the one hidden behind her profession as a high-end escort. Though she wouldn't put it past his cunning to find out eventually.

Adele could feel Margot's distress through the locked door as she meandered from the sink to the serviettes, "I am Margot Mills."

He wasn't buying it at all, "So where are you from, Margot?"

"I am from Grand Island Nebraska. Now does that make you feel better? You want the address for Mom's trailer-park you asshole?!"

The redhead fired back boldly, almost as if the Chef offended her. He must have struck the wrong cord in Margot for her to react so clearly upset. Adele tutted at the woman regardless, she shouldn't poke a dragon. Men in such situations were dangerous, but men with fragile egos were even more so.

At any rate, until Adele had this shit here figured out, Slowik looked like a man not to be crossed lightly. For all she knew he could be a cult leader or something. And the girl was currently writing her own death warranty if she kept that tone up.

"No, not who you want me to think you are. Who are you?"

Even though her usual game wasn't working, and they both knew it, she insisted regardless, "I am Margot."

"You shouldn't be here tonight."

Thanks for the heads-up.

"Please get the fuck out of my way."

Goddamn, she was not making this easy. But after a moment, Slowik did let her pass and both women shared a silent, but brief exchange of glances. Margot was thankful that she had her back. Adele stayed back to mute her smartwatch, it had been a brilliant idea to bug Margot's dress while they were within arm's reach.

The assassin acted dismissive of the chef that followed after the redhead. Perhaps he wouldn't notice her if she stood still enough, but that wasn't the case.

"You are looking pale, Miss Cole, is everything all right?"

He was testing her, checking if the oleander was slowly doing its job, and in hindsight gave her a perfect excuse to have gone to the bathroom, "I do feel a bit queasy after the boat ride, perhaps the oyster didn't sit well with my stomach. So much in fact that it refused to let me taste any of your exquisite dishes, I hope I have not offended your cooking, Chef Slowik."

The brunette man tipped his head up slightly to appear as if he was looking down at her, even though they were technically around the same height, then subtly sneered, "It's perfectly all right. Now, if you could please return back to your seat. Perhaps the next dish will suit your delicate stomach better."

There was a joyful tilt to his voice that unnerved her more than the pure contempt he tried to hide behind a mask of professionalism.

That precarious feeling from before came back, stronger than last time. The storm was near, something was about to happen soon... very soon.

Heeding his suggestion, she moved slowly back to her seat, catching a few furtive glances, Margot's among them, until she sat down. Slowik's mother was busy gulping down the last bits of her white wine and Adele prepared for the worst.

The patrons silently watched two servers methodically unrolling a tarp across the middle of the floor and smoothing out all the wrinkles. Other servers arrived with decorative baskets and proceeded to cover it with sea fennel and edible flowers.

Ted and Lillian were already deconstructing the whole prep work, "Theatrical. But minimalist, like in the Japanese minimirasuto style."

"Mm. They were being playful, yes? With the tacos?"

To the hitman, it looked like a crime scene.

She had seen a lot of those in her career. Caused most of them actually.

The chef stood in waiting, feet planted and arms crossed behind his back, unmoving like a statue. Now that she carefully looked around, everybody, even Madam Elsa and the Sommelier stood still and out of the way.

Here it comes.

Chef stepped up, right in the centre of the rectangular tarp and clapped, but this time, nobody jumped for they were all done eating and observing the staff for a good while anyway, "I am excited. We're ready for our next course, which I think you will find-"

A chair scraped quite loudly on Adele's right as Soren swiftly rose from his seat, with Elsa already walking up to him from behind, "Excuse me. But what the hell is going on?"

Adele was expecting the man to be met with another withering glare just as Tyler had been. However, the chef's authentic, and quite sudden, enthusiasm couldn't be tampered down even by this transgression.

"Yes, if you would let me finish?" he motioned for him to sit, "Thank you."

Elsa calmly re-folds the tech bro's napkin for him. It did have a certain calming effect or maybe he was just more intimidated by the small maître d' rather than the Chef himself that he sat down.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please meet sous-chef Jeremy Louden."

A chef around thirty strode out of the kitchen and stood where Slowik had stood. He stared straight ahead, stoic. Adele's table was the only one that had a proper back-view of the scene, so she was the only one to notice what the man had in his hands crossed behind his back - a gun.

An actual, real fucking gun.

The alarm bells were blaring in full alarm now.

Her survival sense kicked in full-time just as her reflexes were all primed for any sudden movements.

"Jeremy created this next dish. It's called 'The Mess'. Originally from Sparks, Nevada, Jeremy studied at the Culinary Institute in Hyde Park. Jeremy's goal, as he wrote in a heartfelt letter, was to work for me here at Hawthorn. Isn't that right, Jeremy?

"Yes, Chef," Jeremy agreed obediently, like a soldier would to his sergeant. Like a loyal son would a father.

Adrenaline spiked as her fists clenched under the table. Would it be fight or flight?

"Jeremy is talented. He's good. He's very good. But he's not great. He'll never be great. He desperately wants my prestige, my job, my talent. He aspires to greatness, but he'll never achieve it. Correct, Jeremy?"

"Yes, Chef."

Suddenly all the pieces fell together.

The island. The barracks. The ridiculous regime. The collective mindset.

This wasn't a restaurant anymore. This was a fucking CULT.

"Like me at his age, Jeremy has forsaken everything to achieve his goals. Like mine, his life is pressure. Pressure to put out the best food in the world. And even when all goes right, and the food is perfect, and the customers are happy, and the critics are, too, there is no way to avoid the mess. The mess you make of your life, of your body, of your sanity, by giving everything you have to pleasing people you will never know."

Slowik turned directly to his cook, but Jeremy continued to stare right ahead.

Placing a concerned hand on his shoulder, the Slowik asked him softly, "Jeremy... do you like this life? This life that you dreamed about?"

"No, Chef." Jeremy's voice broke at the end, revealing how much the emotional strain the chef was pushing him through with his words.

She couldn't see the shame, despair, and then hopelessness that passed through this young man's empty eyes. Perhaps if she had seen it with her own eyes like the rest of the patrons, she would have dropped the facade and prevented what was about to happen.

But that was not how the Ruska Roma taught her.

"Mmm-hmm. And do you want my life? Not my position, nor my talent. My life."

"No, Chef."

The gun in his dominant hand trembled. And it dawned on her then, he was going to kill himself.

Chef Slowik nodded a few times, as if resigning himself to the fact that his follower was really going through with it. Then he went in front of the sous-chef to look him directly at him, eye-to-eye. He leant into the younger man carefully, pecking each cheek with tenderness, then stepping away.

White curtains were drawn to shield the kitchen but she was sure nobody even noticed as the air became charged with anticipation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your fourth course, sous-chef Jeremy's The Mess."

Everyone held their breath, Tyler clapped excitedly.

The next moments played out fast, but for Adele it might have already been an eternity as the young man bowed and then shot himself through the head, blood splattering into the curtain and some even landed on Adele who was probably the only one who hadn't flinched from the gunshot.

The bubble was popped.

Patrons sprung from their seats, shell-shocked and horrified alike. Servers and cooks rushed out to block their way, more reassuring than threatening. Heavy angst permeated the atmosphere like a plague and things became much more serious.

The kitchen staff all looked, head bowed in mourning for a second, then returned to work. The Chef just stood among the panicking hens, grimmer than the Reaper itself, but largely unfazed.

"Please. Please. Sit. Please. Everything's fine. It's all part of the menu. It's part of the show-"

"- SHOW?!" Felicity and George shouted at him in unison.

"This is what you're paying for."

As the shocked diners were corralled back to their tables by the cooks, servers approached the tables with perfectly-folded moist washcloths so diners could wipe their faces. Other servers fanned out with plates for the menu to resume.

In the meantime, Slowik walked over to the hitman's table and Adele was almost too late to pretend to gag in her seat as Slowik cleaned the still-warm blood off his mother's cheek. The assassin avoided the chef's gaze when she resurfaced and broke into a visible tremble as Slowik shouted forcefully, "EAT!"

This was supposed to be an easy-going, lovely evening with great food and without any action whatsoever, and at the end of her career Adele was thrown into this chaos.

Seriously, the gods must have it out for her.

#romance #horror #julian slowik #the menu #chef slowik #margot mills #winston scott #eventual happy ending #eventual comfort #eventual romance #eventual smut #eventual relationship #slow burn #mutual pining #enemies to lovers #john wick chapter 4 #john wick #keanu reeves #john wick 4

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zutraeumen · 9 months

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zutraeumen · 10 months

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The Third Course

Tall, spindly evergreens shivered in the cold darkness.

On the third time the Chef clapped, his aura and open posture seemed to be lighter than on the previous courses. A heavy feeling settled in her empty stomach, the calm before the storm.

"The next course is called 'Memory' and that what it's meant to evoke: a memory. So let me tell you a memory of mine. When I was growing up, a child in Waterloo Iowa, Tuesday was Taco night."

A chorus of shallow affirmatives came from the guests as if any of them knew what a generic taco tasted like.

"Taco Tuesday!" The Chef exclaimed lively, with a smile so forced that it even showed his teeth. It didn't look good on him. The guest kept laughing with him at his antics.

"And this," he moved happily over to Adele's table and reached for the madam again, "is my mother. As you can see she is rather drunk. This is not unusual."

That certainly explained things, but the assassin couldn't help but fear where he was taking this monologue. He certainly held the guests' amusement, but she suspected what he was about to tell them was quite the opposite. His expression lost all its previous shine and turned to its more serious variant.

"When I was seven years old, one Tuesday, my father came home, quite drunk. Really drunk. Also not unusual. My mother grew angry and screamed at him at which point he proceeded to wrap a telephone cord around her neck and pull it tight."

His mother reacted vaguely, continuing with her drinking. On what glass of wine was she already?

There was something about the way he animatedly enunciated his words with his hands that gave her chills. There was something deeply wrong with this man, he wore his trauma on his sleeve and that was in most cases, never a good sign. It made people unhinged. And there were no more dangerous people than the ones who got nothing to lose.

And she had seen the worst of humanity, of both men and women who had been through shit the common person could not even imagine.

Still, he went on without missing a single beat, without any stuttering at all, "I wept, screamed, begged him to stop. To make him stop I finally had to stab him in the thigh with kitchen scissors. You remember that mother, don't you? I suppose I should have stabbed him in the throat that evening but we're not so smart when we're young."

The diners exchange uneasy glances. Lillian turned to Ted with a reassuring look, "Don't worry, all part of the course."

Margot, however, watched the chef intently and with empathy, as if understanding his pain. Noticing, Chef locked eyes with her and said the next line directly to her, "It was as you can imagine a very memorable taco night."

The sous-chefs marched, side by side with two plates for each customer while the Chef announced the next course, "So, here you have, house-smoked breast chicken thigh al pastor and our own tortillas made with heirloom masa - one of Hawthorne's signature dishes. We change our menu constantly but Miss Bloom knows this has been a staple since day one. It's a- what you once said...?"

"... put you on the map." The food critic supplied quickly.

"Put me on the map," Chef Slowik repeated, "precisely what map would that be, I wonder?"

Not-so-subtle dig at the food critic, he must really despise that woman. If Adele were in his shoes, she would too, with a passion. Quite a contradicting feeling to feel for someone who essentially put the man on the road to fame and success, but as for most people, there wasn't much happiness to be found in the Chef at all.

"Anyways because we're always innovating and we fear irrelevance, an update to the classic, the images on the tortillas have been made using a laser engraving machine, it's the first time we've used it. We hope this taco night evokes strong memories for us all. Enjoy."

This was a lot to digest, in a metaphorical sense.

The others, of course, bought into that shit and wrote it off as mere theatrics of an artist. There was no way a celebrity such as Slowik would slip up so carelessly like that, it was simply incomprehensible for them with all the grandiosity surrounding their lives. Adele couldn't imagine living a life like that, distorted from reality.

George was even inspired to use similar tactics in his own show. Lillian and Ted were impressed by the chef's rebellious streak. And for the love of god was Tyler crying?! Again? Oh no, wait, it was just a trick of light this time. Adele sighed inwardly with relief.

Seriously, the kid was beginning to rub her the wrong way.

Not one to judge so soon, there did seem to be something inherently wrong with Tyler. She knew by now that he was a massive foodie and self-proclaimed Slowik expert but the way he went overboard was so inconsistent with everything that it stuck out.

The chewing gum had long since lost its flavour as the assassin inspected the tortillas. The images did make the cliff in her stomach expand as she saw photos of her in various moments printed on them perfectly. Each of them more alarming than the next.

The first one was of her waiting at the docks.

The second one was of her throwing the oyster away.

The third one was an email - her client - Anne Liebrandt had sent to the owner of Hawthorne (and the island in fact) Verrick Doug, requesting another special invitation to be issued for Adele to be able to accompany her to the restaurant.

He knew.

Cold realization engulfed the assassin. A retreat was in order so the assassin excused herself to the toilet. Slowik's mother offered very little response as always.

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