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Just a regular conversation about Khan #startrek #khan #crazyfangirls

Translation - Play: "Death of the Roses" [Khan and Andrey Dialogue/Conceptual 'Analysis' of the Polyhedron]

From a play I was writing about the Lilich sisters, the Mistresses and the Polyhedron

Andrey followed Caspar into his father’s study, his head tilted to look at the boy directly. “Don’t be like that, boy. You’re still young but there has to be somebody that interests you. Life is about more than just studying all day, or whatever it is you do. The best thing about being human is other human beings.”

Caspar grimaced. “Every time you visit I remember why my mother likes you and my father can’t stand your company.” He spoke with complete disregard to how Andrey smirked at his words.

“Ah, but I left a strong enough impression for them both to speak of me. Did Miss Maria comment about me, by any chance?” 

The young Kain hesitated, lips thinning. “Yes… But I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

They stopped before Victor’s desk, prompting him to look up to regard them both with an even stare.

“Father. Mr Stamatin wanted to speak with you.” The glacial formality of his tone and stiffness of his posture seemed unsuited to the occasion. Andrey elbowed the boy, spiting the seriousness he bore around himself. “How many times have I told you to call me Andrey, pipsqueak.”

Victor completely disregarded the clash of personalities happening before him with the ease of a man married to what would arguably be the biggest personality in town. “Thank you for bringing him here, son.” A subtle dismissal.

Caspar started to retreat before Andrey settled his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The boy can stay, he’s big enough to listen to us talk shop.” He disregarded the boy’s wide eyes and stiffened shoulder.

“Very well, then. What brings you to the Crucible, Andrey?” It was hard to discern if he spoke with apathy or resignation.

Andrey cracked his neck before speaking, making his present company wince. “I thought I ought to warn one of you, and I’m aware your brothers are more deeply invested in this, but decided to check in with yourself.” The way he explained himself seemed to be to nobody’s benefit, perhaps just to extend the exchange. “The Polyhedron is almost complete and ready to be erected.”

Victor spoke evenly, but his eyes reflected reticence. “It’s hard not to be invested in a project the scale of the Polyhedron, but proceed.”

“I’ll take that as a taciturn adherence to my brother’s ambition.” The architect’s tone indicated he took pride in that fact, even as he deferred credit to Peter. “Now, before I continue, I’d like confirmation on how much you’re willing to invest in this.”

“A lot, according to our expenses.” Victor spoke flatly, just enough subtlety not to seem rude.

Andrey’s expression remained pleasant. “Yes, of course, and Peter and I are grateful, but my question possesses a more… Metaphysical meaning.” 

“Metaphysical.” Victor echoed.

“Metaphysical.” Andrey repeated, perhaps only to be vague.

The men stared at each other at an impasse, Andrey with a slightly smug smile. Caspar turned to him after avoiding his gaze since he arrived, a sort of childish spark of curiosity in his eyes. “What metaphysical price could a construction have?”

The architect broke eye contact with Victor to clap a hand on the boy’s shoulder again. “Good boy, great question. Let’s say that a building in this scale had immense potential for mutation. Its mere existence is a crime against nature, which brings me great pride and completes my curriculum of illicit activities in this life, for now.”

“Your point being?” Victor asked, rubbing his forehead with a sigh.

Andrey tilted his head down, making Caspar feel patronized. “What does the younger master Kain think?”

The boy seemed pensive. “Everything that rises, falls. If the tower won’t, it isn’t going to follow the laws of physics.”

“Precisely!” His voice was excited, not a hint of indulgence to be found.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “This is absurd, Andrey. Honestly, I thought you were working within the parameters of the realm of possibility.”

“An anecdote from the life of a charlatan, Victor: if the rules don’t favor you, change the game.” He was fully serious.

“What you’re doing isn’t a change of game, it’s cheating the laws of physics.”

“And I tell you, as an architect, that it’s entirely within our capacities. The circumstances around here seem to favor the strange and absurd.” There was a joy in Andrey’s aura that was rarely witnessed in the Kain home.

Victor spoke slowly, as if dreading what he would unleash. “I suppose you would know a bit more about the strange and absurd than me.” A sigh. “Very well, proceed with my tolerance, but don’t exaggerate.”

Andrey chuckled. “I think you maybe should’ve said that before my brother invented an inverted tower that cannot collapse.”

“As if I didn’t know.” Victor seemed to age as the conversation went on. “Make yourself at home, I need to speak to my brothers about this matter.” He waited for no reply as he took a sheaf of notes from his desk and walked out of the room with even strides.

Caspar relaxed noticeably and took his father’s seat, leaning back on the chair and crossing his legs, feet resting on the polished surface of the desk, fishing a travel-sized book from his pocket and opening it with the smooth motion of someone who took such a posture frequently. Andrey thumbed through the stacks of paperwork on the desk lazily, humming.

“When my father said to make yourself at home, I hardly think he meant ‘Of course, Andrey, please suit yourself to my personal documents with no regard to the privacy of the family’.” The boy spoke as if it were an absentminded thought but with an authoritative tone.

Andrey chuckled. “I’d take your criticism more seriously if you weren’t sitting pretty in his chair without lifting a finger to impede me, boy.”

“I don’t involve myself in the affairs of adults.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand if you want to be a contemporary Peter Pan or if you simply can’t wait for the moment you obtain the authority of seniority over others.” Andrey spoke as if he himself didn’t believe what he said, and it was only for the sake of responding.

They looked at each other for a moment, sizing the other up. “The Polyhedron will be ruled by the rules of which game, in the end?”

“We’re not sure yet. Peter says the tower will sustain itself like a flower, following biological precepts and forming its own lifelong fibers. He was always more creative than me, after all, he was the one who devised the Rose.” Andrey looked out the window, a grounded wistfulness tainting him.

Caspar narrowed his eyes at the avoidance. “And what do you think? You’re the architect who put the idea into practice.”

Andrey waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t know, but if pressed I’d say it’s a process a bit less organic. No, perhaps it could be organic, but certainly not natural. Let’s say I’m of the opinion that a sort of alchemy is possible in this specific case. The ascension of an object to a standard unreachable in nature itself, but at a cost.”

The book in Caspar’s grasp was closed audibly, and when he spoke, it was with intrigue. “Alchemy? Chemistry, you mean. The Polyhedron will suffer a transformation mediated by a sort of energy exchange?”

“Someone’s been studying.” The man said in lieu of an answer.

Caspar mirrored the prior dismissive hand gesture. “I’m surprised you have any interest in chemistry as an area of research.”

“How do you think I discovered the best ways to produce alcohol at home, squirt?” 

Caspar’s eye twitched. “You’re a questionable individual.” He firmly set his book down on the desk. “What could the Polyhedron possibly lack to become an edifice, then?”

Andrey rubbed his chin in consideration. “It lacks nothing, necessarily, only time. Let’s say we want to catalyze a process that is already in motion.” 

“I thought you said it wasn’t a natural process.” Caspar countered, slightly bewildered.

“Not yet, but given enough time everything becomes possible, and therefore impossible. Your uncles wanted the tower to be constructed in our time by our hands, and I admit I’m interested in seeing it in our lifetime. Lucky for us, my brother and I were born in the right place at the right time.” Not a trace of smugness could be found in his demeanor, only sincerity. 

Caspar tilted his head. “And what’s the catalyst?”

Andrey sat down on the desk and crossed his arms, settling in for a long conversation. “We’re not sure.”

“Your reticence points to the contrary.” The boy got up from his seat, eyes narrowed.

“Do you read the dictionary for fun, punk?”

Silence. Caspar crossed his arms and stared into Andrey’s eyes. The architect threw his hands up exasperatedly. “Bah! You’re persistent like your mother, and your dad’s dead eyed stare doesn’t help the matter.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I find it helps a lot.” Caspar spoke with a straight face, but he exuded smugness.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about, you have her sharp tongue and his obtuse determination. Unbearable, a union straight from Hell.” Andrey was clearly more peeved than actually unsettled.

Caspar raised his eyebrows. “Yes, and you’re intimately familiarized with Hell, seeing as you came directly from there.”

The man paused before guffawing good-naturedly, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Speaking to you is always a pleasant surprise, kid.”

“Pleasant enough to incentivize you to tell me what the catalyst is?” He didn’t even try to mask the cloying in his tone.

“You know, if there’s one thing we have in common it’s that when I was your age I was a lot like you, despite the precocious sense of humor. You’re clearly not going to give up, so I’ll tell you our hypothesis, but this stays between us and you’re not going to make any smart comments.”

He waited for Caspar to nod before continuing. “You’re asking the wrong question, we’d been doing so for a good while. It’s not about what the catalyst, but who. Peter agrees that the Rose requires human care, but we think such an edifice can only be cultivated by the hands of someone truly exceptional.”

Andrey thumbed the straps of his suspenders as he spoke warmly. “We had a colleague, Farkhad. a phenomenal architect. You might’ve heard that he was the one responsible for a decent part of the most impressive constructions around here. The Cathedral and the Stillwater were works made by his skilled hands.”

“I never understood the Cathedral. It’s not as if it’s a monument to a specific deity.”

“Of course not, boy. Time is a transcendental power in itself. If it suits you, you can even make a statuette dedicated to Kronos and erect an altar there.” Andrey was transparently making light of Caspar.

The boy disregarded the jab with an eyeroll. “Isn’t it a bit contradictory? A space dedicated to time?”

“Ask your uncles, they’re the ones who requested it be built. They wanted a space where time doesn’t pass within, but that alters its passage without.” He closed his eyes as if he could feel the flow of time on his face.

“And the Stillwater?” Caspar tapped his foot impatiently.

Andrey cracked one eyelid open with mirth. “Ah, that’s a bit more complex.”

“Is it?” A genuine query. “Isn’t it just a hostel? I know it can function as an observatory.” The comment would almost come off as haughty, were it not blunt.

“The Stillwater could be considered a Polyhedron prototype-” 

Caspar piped up, almost excited by the prospect of having something to add. “But weren’t the staircases to nowhere also prototypes? I heard my uncles talking about it.”

“A project so big as to shelter a human soul must have at least a hundred blueprints, fifty mockups, twenty prototypes and two iterations. The Stillwater was Farkhad’s.” Andrey’s claim weighed like absolute truth, as if those were tenets he lived by. Caspar supposed at least he followed some code of conduct, albeit only as an architect and not a moral person.

The boy hummed. “I don’t see the resemblance. The Stillwater is short and round, not a single edge. The Polyhedron is made up of at least 70% sharp edges and it towers over clouds, in the right weather conditions.”

Andrey seemed nonplussed by the skepticism. “Yes, and see the ingenuity of its concept. Farkhad thought that a building with the objective of hosting a human soul and nurturing its growth and ascension should be flat, to serve as a foundation and anchor the individual. The task of ascending would consequently be left to the inhabitant themself.”

Caspar’s expression cracked, perturbed. “But isn’t that the place where nobody can stand to stay for a long period of time?”

“Yes, which is why the idea was discarded.” The architect didn’t seem concerned about the fact. “The new guest shows a remarkable resistance to its adverse effects, I hope she stays. Miss Eva Yan is lovely company.” Caspar frowned at his smirk. “But don’t disconsider the importance of the house, its influence demonstrates that there’s merit in the idea that the spaces we inhabit have a profound effect on us.”

“Does this include our estate?” The boy looked around meaningfully.

Andrey spoke with mirth. “Worried?”

“Not at all.” His voice wavered, but his stance was firmly prideful. “The house is ours, it’s under our rules.” 

“I don’t doubt the young master can command his place of residence, but you underestimate the influence of the walls that surround us.” He grinned and leaned forward. “What makes you think the way you behave now isn’t entirely the influence of your environment?”

Caspar shivered visibly, the silence amplifying the weight of the words. “...You’re just trying to disturb me.”

“And I’m accomplishing it.” Andrey seemed delighted by the fact. “But that’s your opinion, maybe I’m trying to teach you something here.”

“I’d believe that more if you had expressed any interest in my education prior to this moment.” Caspar replied, retreating into the comfortable pace of idle banter.

Abandoned: "The Rule of Threes" - [Changeling PoV]

Heads up, this is a very old work that I wrote on a whim. It does touch on the implied romantic feelings between underage character, which I would not consider an issue At All, but I thought I might mention it. I don't really care much for this piece of writing, I wrote it on the side as I was making my own longfic, but maybe someone would enjoy it.

Clara had come to learn, in all her short time in the Town on Gorkhon, that there were few concepts so prevalent as what she came to dub the “Law of Threes”; if there was something or someone of note, it would always come in triads and trinities. Three families, with their three Mistresses, three members, three brothers, or some other trio (she almost convinced herself that her prior adoption by the Saburovs was a desperate attempt at bringing a third person to their family, a fruitless effort at cosmic legitimacy); the town was split in three parts, three neighborhoods to house the families and their nuclei of supporters, with distinctly different atmospheres and layouts, planned by three architects, although one of them died a long time ago, supposedly at the hands of the Stamatins, if Saburov was to be believed; even innocuous things like the three blonde women that each lived in a very different part of town seemed distinctly mystical to Clara (she almost came to think of them as the Dames to rival the Mistresses, distinctly less powerful yet somehow notable in presence; Eva seemed a tad frightened by the concept, while Yulia found her observations amusing, and Anna thought Clara insane, which was rich coming from her.)

One could imagine this was a product of a particularly cooperative drive amidst the townsfolk in the past and that these structures, coincidental or not, would soon go out of function. And yet. Three future Mistresses, three community leaders amongst the younger crowd with three very different approaches to power. The Kin had three leaders, although Burakh was sure to upset that balance, the Kains were still mourning a third of their patriarchs, the Olgimskys had three members with wildly opposing values. It came to her attention that she was a third of a whole herself, alongside the Bachelor and the Haruspex. So, she concluded it was part of the Town's nature, a Law upheld above all else. All things, when on the Gorkhon, will come in threes. 

Armed with this knowledge unknown or unacknowledged by most, Clara resolved to do as she did best: use it to cause mischief and further her goals. She wanted to have fun. 

Clara almost kept her conclusions to herself, but she wasn't surprised when one day Capella approached the bench she napped on with unhurried footsteps. The Changeling's nap had been somewhat fruitless, visions misting over her rest and leaving her drained, but it did leave her with a premonition of a visit by another clairvoyant. Clara lifted her feet for Capella to sit but lowered them again, putting her ragged boots over her lap. Capella seemed unconcerned about the dirt smudging her skirt. “You're restless.”

“And whose fault is that?” Clara spoke lightly, yawn breaking any tension in the phrase. “I’ve made a rather interesting discovery about the nature of society in the town, quite groundbreaking in theory. I can almost feel myself becoming the Bachelor with how scientific my research is.”

Capella raised an eyebrow elegantly, smiling indulgently down at Clara with her ginger hair fluttering in the wind. Clara almost felt ashamed about how much of an urchin she looked like in comparison to Victoria. “Do go on. I felt something stirring around here, I'm not surprised it was your mind.” Mistresses were quite nosy, weren't they? “I suppose so, although if you find it bothersome you might see fit to ask me not to meddle, Clara.” 

“You contradict yourself by reading my thoughts, Capella dearest. Did your mother not teach you any manners?” Capella's eyes widened for a moment, probably due to the callousness with which Clara spoke of her dear mother. Sometimes she forgot how her directness seemed to others: offensive, provocative, disrespectful. She'd never met Victoria Sr., she felt like she was more a legend than a person, to be spoken of with no need for much delicacy. Capella shook her head and hummed. 

“You're right, that was disrespectful of my part. I'll abstain from looking into your thoughts when I can, although I'm not a paragon of control yet. Sometimes things just appear to me.” Clara knew it to be true, their abilities were unwieldy at the best of times. “Tell me, then, what have you discovered?” 

Clara clicked her tongue and sat up, practically perching on the other girl's lap with one arm around her shoulders, other hand gesturing as she spoke. “I haven't been here for too long, but I've made note of a peculiar phenomenon. See, everything around here is organized in threes.”

Capella's eyes widened slightly. “So you've noticed too. I could swear everybody knows and just doesn't speak of it, but when I asked my brother, he seemed confused!” She reached to grasp Clara's hand, unknowingly short-circuiting the smaller girl's brain. “Oh, how exciting! Maybe Maria knows, and this is just a Mistress thing. You should ask Katerina, seeing as she was the first third Mistress. Maybe it has something to do with her.” 

Clara chuckled. “I doubt it's related to that, maybe we only noticed because we're both observant.” Capella hummed in doubt. “But if every Mistress is observant, I guess your point still stands, White Mistress Olgimskaya Junior.” Her laugh sounded like a small silver bell, clear and pleasant, the exact opposite of the Cathedral's oppressive strike at that moment. 

“It's been lovely, Clara, but I must go. I'm quite busy today. If you ever wish to chat or have tea, you're always welcome at the Lump.” Capella gently pushed Clara's legs from her lap and daintily extracted herself from the arm that held her. She smiled at the Changeling as she turned away, and Clara was left somewhat forlorn. 

If locals could sometimes notice the Law, Clara decided she was fit to ask her own compatriots if they noticed it too, starting with the Haruspex. She followed him into his lair one day, carrying a stack of finely plucked twyre on her arms, scarf over her nose after her third sneeze. Offering to help him was a sacrifice necessary to gain his trust, even if the odor of the weeds was overwhelming. 

As the man set down a messenger bag on the table and removed his, in her opinion, absolutely hideous smock, he spoke. “Now, what do you want? I'm familiar enough with your behavior to know you're not helping me out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I'll have you know I'm very kind! I'm a saint, a healer, kindness is in my nature, just as it is in yours.” She dropped the twyre unceremoniously and sat on a nearby crate, heels rhythmically tapping the wood. “But it is true my intentions aren't the purest. See, I've made an observation and I'd like to know what you think of it.” He looked over his shoulder at her with a raised brow, hands still sorting the contents of his bag. “It's come to my attention that the town has a recurring motif of threes. Three Mistresses, three families, three healers, three sections. Have you noticed?”

His movements stilled for a moment, and he seemed to process the information before speaking slowly. “I mean, sure, I've noticed, but it doesn't mean anything. It's at most a coincidence, I'd say.” She scoffed. He lacked any sort of creativity, honestly. Did the world not dazzle him with its intricate mysteries? He was of such a simple mind. “Besides, it's always been this way, but it's such a tenuous and vague concept. I had three close friends, there are three layers to the body, it feels more like a pattern we assign to things with no bigger implications.” 

“Fair enough.” She slid down her perch and dusted her skirt, ignoring how he frowned at the torn garment. “I must be going, then. This has been enlightening, Haruspex.” She heard him mutter his own name dejectedly. Clara waved and began ascending up the staircase, brought to a halt by a blond boy at the top.

Sticky adjusted the weight of a backpack on his shoulder, looking her up and down before casually speaking. “The kids know about the three thing. Not in a mystical supernatural sort of way, more of a game made out of an observation.” She hummed, tilting her head to prompt him to continue. “There's this tradition, I guess you could call it, where kids and teenagers noticed that once you get to the point of liking people, the first is almost always one of three.”

“Wait, what? As in, when kids get their first love, it's always the same?” That was compelling. Color her piqued. “Who?”

“Not love, necessarily? It's more of a crush, an attraction. I think you could guess who, even if the list sometimes changes, but it's pretty much always Khan, Capella or Notkin.” It made sense, they were the oldest of the current children, the leaders of many impressionable kids, attractive visually and personally, in theory. 

Sticky seemed to grow nervous as Clara thought about it, fidgeting in place. She looked at him intensely, smile in place that clearly conveyed she wanted him to elaborate on something; he was smart enough to catch on and scoffed. “Why do you need to know mine? It's not relevant.” The Changeling leaned forward, noting how she was taller than him, but he would probably outgrow her soon enough. What a silly giddiness she felt as she thought that her life would go on after her first weeks of awareness; what a gift to be alive. “...It was Capella! God, stop looking at me like that!” He stomped down the stairs, huffing when greeted by Artemy. 

He'd lied, of course. It would be embarrassing for a boy as headstrong and rationally minded as him to admit his true feelings, especially since they were probably still in place, even if dimmed under the light of maturity. Capella makes sense as an easy object of anyone's affections; she was pretty and kind, trusting, patient, graceful and radiant, her manners were impeccable but her mind was sharp, and as a Mistress, she had an air of mysticism and excitement about her; Capella was very clearly a superior choice to anyone who thought it through rationally. 

Sticky knew that, and he also knew it would be somewhat shameful to admit he liked Notkin better despite it, but it was clear as day to Clara, a thread she could pull on until his feelings unraveled before her very eyes. It was adorable to witness Sticky in such a way after all his efforts at being taken seriously and acting mature. A whisper in her own voice told her she was biased, but she paid it no mind as she exited the dark abandoned factory to be greeted by sunlight. 

She sighed into the clear air, humming to herself as she thought of how this little investigation was progressing. Locals could notice these things, many of them with a variety of opinions or observations pertaining to it; the Law was known and observed, even indulged in by the younger crowd, yet one question remained: do the subjects of speculation notice the phenomenon pertaining to them? She'd have to ask the three involved, get a good sample of responses to understand this further. Scientific research was beginning to become fun and exciting. 

Capella was easy to reach, even without attempting to contact her mystically or some such, especially given the open invitation she’d given. Clara found herself in the Lump on a golden afternoon, crisp wind filtering into Capella's room and fluttering her curtains. Clara caught a stray piece of paper flying towards her as she entered, sheet music from where the other girl was playing the piano elegantly, hair caressed by the breeze and voice humming along with the ivory keys. The Changeling placed the sheet back where it belonged and promptly spoke, careless of the soothing song her voice cut. “Were you aware of how a third or so of the younger population has at one point been enamored with you?”

Victoria smiled. “Perhaps. Of course, it's not my business, per se, but I am well aware of the fact. It's become tradition at this point. It's amusing, if anything.” As expected of one as well informed as her. Clara thought of her next question with no intention of speaking it aloud. “Ah, but you must be wondering if the rule applies to me as well. I've pondered it myself, but I just can't seem to convince myself I truly find myself attracted to either of them. I think it has to do with how I perceive girls and boys differently, although I can understand how Notkin and Caspar can be seen as attractive in a distant, clinical way.”

“So then who was your first?” Clara asked, sitting on the window sill, scarf fluttering. “If you can come to that conclusion it must've been prompted by someone.”

Capella stopped playing the piano, closing the lid gently and looking at her companion. Clara felt pierced by her light eyes. “Grace, a long time ago. More recently, Maria. Although I urge you not to tell Khan about it, I'm not sure he'd take the information well.” She crossed her legs and sighed. “Regardless, I have no intention of following through on any designs. I have responsibilities above my own whims, and I have enough love to spare without a paramour in the mix.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, skin pink. “Although circumstances might change. The future is uncertain.” 

Clara felt her ears ringing with unspoken potential in the quiet room. She laughed to distract from her fluttering heart, shameful and imprecise. “If even the future White Mistress can't discern the future, God bless the poor souls of the world outside.”

The Changeling stayed a while to opine on Capella's songs, some original, some even having accompanying lyrics. She left the Lump with her hands warm and her voice humming new songs. Next mark: Khan. 

The Polyhedron loomed, as it always did, and Clara almost had second thoughts about climbing the hundreds of stairs until a Doghead standing watch spoke up. “Scared?” Maera spoke with amusement more than mockery, but Clara still bristled slightly. 

“Of course not! I just wonder how cold it must be so high up. I intend to find out.” her legs carried her up, her ascent slow and contemplative. Kids played on the platforms all along the structure, making up realities of their own make; someday they'd be put down onto the ground for the last time, and then it'd grow ever more difficult to make their dreams come to reality. Clara imagined Khan would resent the powerlessness of adulthood in the future, but perhaps the gains would make up for the losses. 

At the top of the Tower stood Khan, profile backlit by the coming sunset, posture regal and distant; Clara thought she wasn't imagining the small group of kids huddled nearby was whispering while watching him. She had her answer, but it'd be nice to get it from his mouth, so she stood next to him, head tilted to look into his eyes from her lower vantage point. He was short, but she was shorter; it was somewhat irritating. “You have admirers.” She simply stated. 

Caspar Kain sighed, eyes drifting to her with coldness. His hand retreated from his pocket and he idly swung a stopwatch as he spoke, tone even. “I'm well aware. Why do you care?”

“It's common for it to be one of you three. Do you know why that is?” She was curious what his observations would be, being that he was someone who liked knowing and dissecting things. “Are there rules to it?”

He turned to her, and consequently to where the group was watching him; Clara heard snickering and running footsteps behind her. “It's likely due to our notoriety, children often grow attached to figures of authority. Besides that, us three are very different, so we have what could crudely be called broad appeal. It helps that we're all… genetically fortunate.” He coughed into his fist, averting his eyes momentarily before composing himself. “It's nothing mystical or magical, if that's why you're interested. People like sorting things into groups of three, it has to do with social psychology and analytical tendencies, nothing about it is supernatural.” He seemed peeved by the idea, and the way he said it pointed to this being a relatively old argument of his. Clara imagined he and Capella disagreed quite a bit on such things. 

“You say that, yet you live in a Tower that Cannot Be. You lack imagination, Khan, sorry to say.” She was not sorry in the least, and by his raised eyebrow she knew he could tell. “But I concede that it may not be anything especially magical beyond the quirks of the Town.”

Khan pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing, moving to sit on a chair nearby. Clara perched herself on the arm of his seat, clearly too close for comfort, but she only gestured for him to go on. He hesitated for a second before relenting. “You asked about rules, but I wager you mean tendencies. Rules are enforced while tendencies are followed naturally; in which case there are some observable tendencies. Almost always it's one of us three, very frequently it'll be the one who's closest to the person, say, one of my Dogheads for me or a Soul-and-a-Half for Notkin, it's common for it to not last long, those sorts of things. Really, it's all quite pedestrian.” he spoke with an air of indifference, which would fool anyone who wasn't paying attention to the amount of thought he clearly put into this. He looked at her with irritation. “Stop looking at me like that, you're just like Capella and Maria.”

She raised her eyebrows in faux surprise, smiling lightly. “And if everyone's aware of it, are there any enforced rules?” 

He glared at her and spoke with a tone of voice too serious for the subject at hand. “Only one that you need to be aware of, in my opinion. Don't tell Notkin.” There was a story behind that for sure; Clara grew giddy at the thought of uncovering it. 

“Ah, so he's clueless. To what extent? If we suppose even you three went through it once, does he not know of his own inclinations? Does he not know he's involved?” She paused, laying her chin on his shoulder and speaking impishly. “Or does he not know he was yours?”

Clara retreated as he stiffened, standing up and stretching as the final rays of light shed their last warmth over them. She looked over her shoulder and snickered at his flushed cheeks and scandalized expression; Khan avoided her gaze and retreated into the safety of his domain, waving a hand at her in dismissal. He hadn't denied her claim, though. Only one more person to visit. 

Night falling was usually indicative that one should avoid the Warehouse district, clutch their own coin purse and be on their way home. Seeing as Clara had neither good sense, a coin purse, or a home, she strutted right into the lantern-lit alleys in the direction of the home of the Soul-and-a-Halves. The door was skewed open, so she knocked lightly and entered, greeted by the sounds of critters and the chatter of children; the cacophony would be disconcerting if she didn't find it endearing, and she whistled as she approached the back of the warehouse, turning the corner to see Notkin holding Jester with one hand and a potato in the other. 

“Now what might be going on in here?” Clara asked, voice colored with amusement as the boy separated his arms farther apart, much to the apparent dismay of his Half, who yowled and flailed uselessly, pitifully caught by the scruff. Notkin glared at the cat before very aggressively taking a bite of the potato, crunch audible even in the loud warehouse. The potato was raw. Jester stilled and Notkin let him go, the cat's tail dragging on the floor as it wandered away disappointedly. 

The boy sat down on a crate, chewing through his sentence. “What brings you here so late?” He took another bite of the root, which made Clara laugh. “Don't laugh, this is my hard-earned meal! Jester, the little imp, tried to take away what's rightfully mine.”

Clara nodded sagely, gloved hand covering her amused smile as she spoke. “Of course, the raw potato of kings! A luxury compared to what I've had to eat to stay alive before.” Their eyes met with the solidarity of street urchins, shared experience and struggle. “But that's not what I'm here for.”

Notkin gestured for her to sit before him and go on, sitting himself down behind a crude desk. “You always come around at weird times, ya know? Makes one suspicious.”

“Whatever could you mean?” He rolled his eyes at her. “It's not my fault most times are weird around this town, there's always something interesting going on.”

Notkin huffed, tossing the uneaten half of the potato to her. “Tell that to the Bachelor, he seems to think this place is boring.” He took out a knife and a crude lump of wood, seemingly to resume a whittling project of some sort. The silence was indicative of how she should be filling it.

“Khan or Capella?” If she ought not tell him, perhaps she need only ask.

Notkin chewed in thought before speaking. “Capella's kinder, Khan's smarter. She's nice, he's cool. She takes too long to make decisions but he doesn't think too far ahead. They're both pretty.” The boy kept mumbling before tilting his head. Clara bit down on the potato and almost choked when he said, with an air of finality. “Why not both?”

Clara could see the issue. “Fair enough.” When her friend only clicked his tongue impatiently, she offered “Personally, I'd choose Capella.” with a shrug. 

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Khan I]

The Stone Yard no longer seemed a fitting name. With the Rose gone, what sort of garden could it hope to be. Only weeds could grow, bolstered by the wreckage of the only thing of significance that lay as dust scattered around the stone and dirt. The smell of gunpowder was akin to brimstone, the light unobstructed as it fell to earth, caressing where once projected the shadow of a dream. The world seemed too bright for such a somber occasion. 

Caspar Kain was now truly alone, perhaps for the first time. No family’s legacy to haunt him, no enemy to fight against, no soldiers to command. His battles were over with no input of his own, torn away from his fingers by the cruelty of an indifferent existence as he tried fruitlessly to cling to a single aspiration, now made meaningless by gaping holes in the world’s make. 

Not a single shard remained of his Polyhedron, paradise made tangible, the last of his mother but for a tomb bearing a likeness too human to ever truly represent her. He stood between the Crucible and the Cathedral, cornered by the only remains of his name that could be considered whole. Not living. Living was too high a bar to clear for the Kain name, now.

His lungs felt constricted, not even a sigh or a sob could escape him. Khan wondered if he’d just die right there, where it seemed more appropriate. A thrum in his veins manifested discordance, the primal impulse to cling to life, bolstered by a cure he had not wanted to consume, living inside him like a parasite of the world he’d renounced only to be cast back into. The Earth’s maw greeted him with the warmth of a mouth ready to swallow him whole.

He would not give Her the satisfaction of his corpse in Her grasp. 

The thought bore heavy in his shoulders, like a mantle. A tapestry of interwoven thoughts, tangled emotions and puppet strings. Khan looked to the Crucible and imagined ink stains on unfinished paperwork, a slumped over figure in the study, no longer fit to gaze upon the paintings in the hall, no more accounts to be made for an empty house; visible clockwork on a grandfather, discarded tools for hands bigger than his, gears forever waiting to be put into place, mechanisms never to be finished; unsewn garments, no thimble to be found, red thread unspooled, waiting to be cast into the eye of the needle of oblivion. 

A toll, heavy and dissonant, coming from the bell of the Cathedral. A stray thought like a feather in the wind brushed by him; mourn, regroup, rebuild. He had made a paradise out of a glass cage, he could make it again. 

Caspar Kain took his first step into his old home for the first time in imagined eternity.

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Khan II]

Khan barely felt real, drifting through the wings of the Crucible with aimless frustration, as if somehow one of the empty rooms would reveal to him something left unturned, an undisturbed memory, a fragment of sanctity in a wretched wasteland. Houses had never been a place of comfort for him, much less his own. He locked the door to Maria’s wing like one would seal an envelope with wax; no longer was it for his hands to open.

“A shame, the amount of empty houses left in the Plague’s wake.” Musical like a songbird, but weighty as befits tragedy, the voice of the Changeling came from the steps. The girl was looking at Maria’s Throne with the gaze of a usurper, unbecoming of a saint and undue given the vacancy of the position. “Do you miss them more now that you know they won’t be here when you come back?”

Khan tightened his grip on the ornate keys he held, as if her words brushed his skin in an attempt to coax the locks open. “Mourning is not missing.” He took a breath that made his core waver. “I don’t know what it is. There are no more Kains, so who is to miss them.”

Clara conspicuously didn’t move, still like one who is scrutinized by a skittish cat. “Do I not see a Kain before me?” Caspar froze, feeling the metal on his palm frost over, as if his hand had no warmth, as if his touch was no longer real. “It would be a shame for nobody to be left to mourn the Kains, to miss them as one miss would family.” The girl gestured with her hand lightly to the Crucible, as if the wind puppeteered her limb. “There is shame in empty houses. Shame in unborne names.”

He stood as a dead tree would, seemingly steady but for a creak in his bones. The wind whistled past him as if he were poked full of holes. “And what will you have me do about that, cursed Changeling?”

“Nothing at all!” Clara walked up the steps until they were only an arm’s length apart. “Not if you don’t wish to. I actually come to bargain your burden.” She plucked a small chain from her pocket, as well as a handkerchief. On the end of the chain was a signet ring, humble in make, a blazon of the army adorned with the epithet ‘Ashes’ engraved on the inside of the band; the piece of cloth was gray, creased from what could be presumed had once been meticulous folds, the corners bearing white lace, one of them glinting with a silver thread embroidered in the design of a KS. “I am nameless once more. Give me a keepsake and I shall bear yours for you.”

A nearly inaudible knock sounded from the door behind him. He could imagine Maria’s pendant swinging like a dowsing chain from where he’d hung it on the doorknob. What an idea, to let such a valuable piece of jewelry weather the elements, soon to be stolen easily by a thief in the night. “You speak cryptically, it makes me wonder if you truly are the Plague made manifest as some said.”

Clara smiled indulgently at him. “When have you ever listened to common opinions, Khan of the Dogheads.” There was a sharpness to her eyes that he hadn’t seen in very long among the weary survivors of biblical punishment. “Will you deny me this?”

Caspar fidgeted with his keyring, uncoiling the Throne’s respective key from its place among the polished metal of its peers. Perhaps it ought to be free instead, like he once had. Unburdened by its similars. “No. There’s no use coveting dust and solitude.” He took the necklace from the doorknob and hooked the key alongside the pendant, the metal clinking with innocence he hadn’t heard since silver bells adorned one of his deceased sister’s dresses on his birthday. “The Throne is yours, Clara Kaina. Make use of it as my kin would. She’d hate to see it rot.” With that, he tossed responsibility for his sister’s legacy to someone he couldn’t trust. Somehow, the decision stuck true in his heart, unlike anything else he’d experienced in weeks. He wondered if the wind would forever sound like her laugh from then on.

The Changeling caught the pendant and key with a laugh, light as dandelion seeds. “Given my new name, I certainly shall.” She stepped past him to fit the key into the lock, clicking it with ease he had not felt in the same position; the seal was opened, too soon for his liking. “Well, I presume you’d rather adopt me as a sister than a bride. Or daughter.” She closed the heavy door before he could formulate a response with his addled mind, crippled by loss and melancholy for so long, jolted into action by a thief of names. This moment felt like a lit match in a dark cave; light, but fleeting.

Abandoned: "Pain & Pleasure" - Continuation

warning for mentions of wounds, surgical procedure, death and all that shit. this is being deleted on my drive because i don't care to continue this fic anymore

Notkin awoke to voices and the sound of shifting grass and singing crickets. He cracked an eye open only to be assaulted by the light of a lamp swaying with the movements of whoever held it. He groaned and closed his eyes once more, shifting a little and wondering what was restricting his movements.

“Shush, you two, he’s waking up.” A low voice rumbled from above him, and he could feel the thrum of it on his side, where warmth radiated. He discerned very astutely that he was being carried bridal style by Artemy Burakh, the slight sway indicating not only that he was walking but also that the man was indeed goddamn strong. He was a growing boy, so it wasn’t as if his weight was negligible, yet the menkhu gave no indication in his hold or gait that the added weight mattered at all. “Notkin, stay awake, for Boddho’s sake. It’s better not to risk sleeping.”

He opened his eyes hesitantly again, feeling sore and groggy. “You’re so fucking lucky, Khan. We’d be right to just kill you on the spot.” The voice sounded like Sticky, coming from near Notkin’s feet, where he could see the top of his friend’s head bob as he walked. “I mean, even if he lives, you fucked up so bad, you should be thankful if you only end up getting lynched.”

“Spichka, settle down. I’m sure it’s more complex than that.” The sky was still dark, and the air felt like the steppe, but Notkin imagined they were close to the lair. “If we were going strictly by what’s right or not, I should also be executed.” He was sure Burakh thought he sounded very reasonable, but it was hardly a convincing platitude.

A third voice had Notkin jolting in Burakh’s hold. “I don’t need to be defended, least of all by you.” Notkin couldn’t see Khan, as he was walking on the other side of Burakh, behind his head, but he did catch the man frowning at the words. “And I’m sure you’d love to be rid of me for your convenience, Sticky, but I’m afraid your personal grudge against me isn’t reason enough not to hear what happened.”

“By all means, Khan, explain in depth what possible excuse you have for trying to kill someone.” The lamplight dimmed, presumably because Khan held the lamp and shifted his position to glare at Sticky. “What’re you gonna do, stab me too? Fuck off.”

“Boys, you’re giving me a headache.” Burakh grumbled, looking down at Notkin. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” He held back from saying he was really fighting the impulse to poke his wound again. The man looked ahead but tapped a finger on Notkin, clearly wanting him to elaborate. “In Khan’s defense, I did ask for it.”

“You mean you provoked him?” Sticky piped up, clearly feeling his righteous rage was justified. “Just because you can be annoying doesn’t give him a free pass to stab you.”

“Listen here, you nosy brat-” Notkin decided to cut Khan off for his own sake. Abrasiveness did not a serene environment make.

“I literally asked him to stab me. It’s fine.” The resulting silence was deafening. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but it’s not a problem.” He gave into the impulse and poked the hole in his side, slightly fascinated by how warm the metal of the shiv was, as if it drained his own heat. The flesh around it throbbed. 

“Unbelievable.” Sticky grunted before presumably striding ahead to avoid them, his footsteps growing faster and more distant.

Burakh sighed, looking weary beyond his years. “I hoped our conversation was purely hypothetical, but I guess I should’ve expected you to be, above all, impulsive.” He tilted his head to the left, facing Khan. “Although I never would’ve expected you to go along with something so blatantly foolish, Caspar.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child!” Notkin could imagine him bristling.

The doctor stood before the lair for a moment. “I will treat you like a child as long as you behave irresponsibly like one.” The door was opened for them, presumably by Sticky, and they walked inside. “Oh, Miskha, you’re here.”

Murky’s small voice almost sounded like it came from below Notkin. “Aba, I’m sleepy.” He felt a light tug on his jacket. “Is he dead?”

Notkin coughed out a painful laugh. “Not yet, kid. Maybe next time.” 

Burakh pinched him and grumbled. “There won't be a next time if I have anything to say about it…” He spoke up with authority summoned from a wellspring in his soul. “Mishka, I know it's late, but could you please go home? Have Sticky take you.”

“You don't have to tell me twice.” Sticky said, apparently forgoing pretending they didn't exist and mutinously stomping up the stairs and taking Murky's hand. “I cleared the table for you, Burakh. Good luck.” Sticky looked at Notkin with a mixture of anger, concern and resignation. “Get well soon.”

“Aw, thanks, Sticky.” Notkin pretended he had been addressed with a small modicum of sincerity. “G’night, Murky. Sorry I stole your dad for tonight.”

The girl looked unbothered besides the sleepiness in her eyes. “You need him more than I do.” She said, voice small but sharp, eerily similar to Sticky's annoyed inflection. They truly were quite the pair of siblings. 

Khan stayed quiet for the whole exchange, and Notkin was slightly forlorn at not being able to see him clearly from the angle he was held. When the two orphans exited the lair, Artemy sighed and walked down to his little workshop/operating room, settling Notkin on the stone operating table. “I don't want to keep you from whatever it is you do, Khan. Although I doubt you'd listen to me either way, you're free to go home. We'll talk about this later, and don't think I won't go to your family with this if you avoid me.”

The boy in question stood proudly, leaned against the wall and looked directly at Notkin as he replied. “I want to stay and watch.” His voice was even, albeit tinged with a bit too much vehemence to be considered adequate. Notkin's blood burned and his nerves flared as he considered he was being looked at like a particularly vulnerable beast of prey presented before a ravenous tiger. 

Burakh was readying tools on his workbench, back turned to them and in complete ignorance to the heated exchange of stares they were partaking in. “This isn't a show, Khan. Your family must be worried. Go home.”

Notkin barked a laugh. “Do you hear yourself, old man? Khan doesn't give a rat’s ass what his loving family thinks. He hasn't been home in years, you know. He's as good as dead, where his dad's concerned.” He was sticking needles to see what hurt, watching his rival's muscles tense, his fingers tighten, his nostrils flare, his jaw clench. 

“The Polyhedron in my home.” He gritted out, finally breaking eye contact to glare at Burakh. “Not that it's any of your business, much less my father's. I'm staying.”

The man turned back to them, eyes flicking from one to the other with a kind of exhaustion he seemed to always carry. Notkin could tell, he was a tired man; strong, but gentle, a bull whose yoke bore too tight and too heavy for too long. “I'm not unused to working with an audience, given my more ritualistic work. Still, I'd rather not have to worry what your reaction will be.”

Khan scoffed and stood straight, hands in his pockets. “I'm familiar with violence, Burakh. No need to coddle, especially those not under your jurisdiction.”

“See, you calling it violence just tells me you haven't the slightest clue what you're getting yourself into. Surgery is not violence. Being able to stomach blood doesn't necessarily translate to being at ease watching surgical procedures, else women would easily be the more skilled surgeons.” He spoke evenly as he put on gloves and tugged his sleeves up, forearms toned and scarred. 

Notkin looked between his two present companions with words sitting on the tip of his tongue until he finally spoke them, just to have a say. “If it's up to me, he can stay. It's only fair he gets to see the damage he did.” He grinned with confidence he did not feel, focusing on taking his jacket off his shoulders to distract from the discerning looks he received both ways. 

“Don't encourage him.” Burakh said, at the same time as Khan hissed: “Your opinion hardly matters.” They looked at each other as if they had a lot of words to say but little desire to start this conversation. 

Burakh sighed with great weariness, seemingly reticent to give in his stance and essentially concede to Khan, which was fair. Khan had the effect of maintaining persistence while effortlessly chipping at his opponent's own resolve, all the while making it crystal clear that if he was given an inch, he'd ruthlessly take a mile. The man pointedly looked at Notkin before pointing to the boy's feet and gesturing at the table, so he obeyed and turned his hips to sit on the operating table the right way, resting his elbows on his knees. 

Metal clinked from Burakh’s workbench behind Notkin, who resolutely avoided meeting Khan's eyes boring into the side of his head. “If you insist on staying, make yourself useful, Khan.” The man sounded thoroughly exhausted, which was fair, given that he was woken up in the middle of the night to treat an entirely avoidable but possibly lethal wound. “Notkin, lay down. Khan, fetch me a bottle of antibiotics. The small glass vial with orange liquid will do, it has a drawing in the shape of a drop on the label.”

He could lay down, but his abdomen hurt with the throbbing of his bleeding wound, and he was interested in watching Khan when his back turned, if only to unsettle him; a reversal of action, if you will. His rival walked languidly to the bench near the machinery opposite Burakh, the name of which he couldn't hope to recall. It was funny to see him ponder the tools of a menkhu’s trade, even from the back; his head tilted slightly, and he raised his left hand to his face, probably tapping his curled pointer finger against his lip in thought. 

Khan's posture was always stiff in a formal way, not uncomfortable, but certainly posing an air of superiority; it rarely changed drastically, but shifts in the way his spine settled could tell a lot about his thoughts. Pondering the lair, he bore his weight on his right leg, tapping the heel of his left boot on the stone ground as well as his right pointer finger against his left bicep. The Kain boy was examining the machines and bundles of dried herbs as if they'd tell him something about the practice of medicine, a detached sort of clinical examination, as if he'd be mildly interested in unraveling the skill for himself. Notkin didn't know if he should be frightened to imagine Khan was more than capable of learning medicine if he saw fit to try. 

Too bad Khan wasn't applied enough for such things. 

The boy in question turned, taking the requested vial off the table with a sweep of his arm, almost as if it were an afterthought. He approached Notkin and tapped his nail on the glass, eyes tired but vigilant. “Drink. Doctor's orders.”

“Too bad I don't follow orders anymore.” When his response was met with narrowed eyes he continued. “I wonder whose fault that is, eh?” 

Khan clicked his tongue irately, setting the flask down hard enough to convey irritation, but softly enough not to be chastised for it. “Fine. If you intend to make pain and infection an accomplishment, who am I to take it away once I give it to you?” 

He drew close, their stares unbroken as Khan rested the tips of five fingers on Notkin's chest with force, pushing him back until he gave into the pressure and laid down, looking up at Khan. “Stay down. Play dead.” His pinky drifted to hover over the open wound, slowly lowering to enter his flesh shallowly, flaring the pain to a wildfire. Notkin drew a sharp breath only to let it go through his clenched teeth, eyes closing. “Good dog.”

A cough rang out from Artemy's general vicinity, startling Notkin and making Khan tense, consequently shooting another flare of fresh pain through the Soul-and-a-Half’s core with an aborted groan. “Caspar Kain, I realize you've grown used to saying and doing what you want, which is, I'd wager, a hereditary trait from your mother's side, but I want to make something very clear…” Notkin felt Khan retreat, taking back his hand and leaving invisible prints on his skin. Burakh approached and took the boy's hand, one finger stained with fresh blood; he looked stern, more so than expected for someone with the heart of a bull. He was showing his horns, figuratively. “I will not tolerate your rancid behavior. Not in my presence, and certainly not when it's directed at someone under my protection. You want to forfeit your place under my watch, fine. From now on, you're at best a nuisance, and at worst a threat.”

Khan seemed impassive, but the subtle twitch of his nostril and his widened eyes gave away how startled he was. His posture stiffened, as if someone had stuck a pin in the base of his spine, his shoulders tightening and his hands clenching. The Doghead leader was surprised and afraid, but when he spoke, a thick undercurrent of wondrous bafflement tinged his voice. “...I didn't think you had it in you, Burakh. I suppose my assessment of your temperament was wrong, you're hardly a soft-hearted pushover wearing a bull’s skull.” His frigid eyes were calculating as they roamed over the man. “I'll behave.”

Something about the docility of his tone sent shivers up and down Notkin's spine. He'd never seen Khan so submissive and pliant; it felt like a particularly hazy fever dream. It reminded Notkin of a cat picked up by the scruff of its neck. The satisfaction he felt at the sight was dampened by Burakh’s gaze pinning him. “And you don’t have the luxury of vetoing treatment. Take the antibiotics, Notkin.”

“...Can I opt out of the painkillers, though?” He felt the pressure on him double as Khan, previously looking away in chastised shame, turned to him with entirely too much discernment behind his eyes. Paired with Burakh’s waning patience, Notkin figured it was only a matter of time until someone in the room snapped, himself included. 

WiP: Witness Marks

Public execution in TOG, a witnessing, a clash of ideals and morals - prompt

obs: in lieu of a context, i suppose i am free to take the liberty of taking inspiration from the rp for the context of the execution, given that it works out as a mutual point of interest of the characters depicted whilst being a scene that will never actually be witnessed by them since they’ll be doing something else at the time of the execution anyway. this way i won’t be stealing a scene away from the rp but don’t need to make up an entire context - C

Children would always find a way to witness the parts of the world adults claimed to be improper for their eyes. A son staying up too late and overhearing the business of his parents, slinking back down to his room and making it a gravesite for the memory. “It’s part of being a child. It’s part of staying a child.” For undisturbed memories which you could relive endlessly and violations of the taboos of the society of men did indeed come most frequently in youth. It was a reality most common for a boy to watch grownups warily through cracks on the roofing or slits on the windows, observing the chasms of impropriety hidden from impressionable eyes during most hours. “More than actually growing, it’s collecting secrets that’s the biggest part of becoming an adult.” A child perhaps is like a lockbox of adult secrets until they themselves became the adults whose secrets they bore. 

It was a matter of perspective if the hidden worlds of children and adults collided or were of mutual exclusivity, if one witnessing the other was a trait of self-determination or a sign of transition. Caspar Kain would say children are defined in opposition to adults, that to adhere to the rules of adults was to be integrated, perhaps even consumed, that it was exclusively a child’s place to witness the affairs of their elders in spite of custom. Notkin, on the other hand, always in opposition to Khan, intentionally or not, found intruding on the world of adults to be the sobering experience that matured a child into one, a slow corruption, though childhood wasn’t a virtue in itself. 

Khan perched on the steady arm of the statue adorning his family home’s courtyard, feeling the docile breeze of a low altitude, wistfully wishing for the bite of whistling winds, such as those that ran by the Polyhedron’s peak. Indifference touched the surface of his skin from within as he watched laborers toil in the construction of a stage, preparing for a spectacle with no encore, the closing of the curtains of a life. Thinking of it so poetically left Caspar cynical, wondering how one could sanitize an execution into an affair of entertainment. It was mere necessity that tied ropes around men’s necks, it was pragmatism that pulled the trigger. Any satisfaction gained from such business was entirely up to the mind of the beholder or executioner. 

The workers spared by the theater director worked much more efficiently and animatedly than the men of the watch, chatting amicably as they hammered nails onto what may as well be a coffin, following the familiar motions of stage maintenance and construction. The Inquisitor’s men simply supervised silently, looking like carrion birds in their expectant stillness. Caspar wondered if the Polyhedron was built in such mundane circumstances by such menial labor. 

The morning hours were soon to end, bringing the town closer to the moment of Artemy Burakh’s fated demise. The apathy with which people passed by the makeshift site spoke to the widespread sentiment about the man himself and life in general in recent times, although whichever conclusion he was pondering was cut short by uneven footsteps at his blind spot, strides languidly coming to a halt at the base of the statue. Caspar looked down to see Notkin crack his fingers before heaving himself up the pedestal, sitting with his bad leg dangling. Only when he settled comfortably did he look up at Khan, tired eyes still bearing some levity, though it was clearly insincere. “Mornin’.”

Caspar’s breathing stuttered a bit, caught between the casual greeting and the visible signs of injury on the other boy. “...Lovely day for an execution, don’t you think?” His tone of voice was flat, not dignifying the event with the weight one would expect. Notkin’s eyebrow twitched, but he was otherwise silent, seeming exhausted beyond what should be reasonable for someone not bedridden. “You look like you had a brush with death yourself.”

“Astute observation there, Khan.” The boy sighed, posture relaxing not in comfort but a resigned concession, like an animal going limp in the grip of a predator. “How about you don’t  comment on things you know nothing about?” With his eyes closed and fists unclenched, the lines of his body and face seemed soft, maybe even refined. Caspar wondered for a bit where the delicate grace came from before realization struck him with the memory of his reflection, a foggy mirror in the hallway of a home he only recently returned to. This was fragility, like hollow china, a person drained of what had once made them greater than whole. He knew those slightly curled fingers, shaking almost imperceptibly; he was familiar with slightly parted lips and lidded eyes; all signs of dulled senses and blunted intentions he saw in himself ever since losing his everything were present in this boy sitting just below him.

Khan flexed his fingers, knowing the circulation would never return to them the same way. “I know better than you think.” Notkin seemed to almost willfully ignore him, but the fugue of mourning was dispersed momentarily by a real flicker of emotion in his eyes, widened in reaction.

“The Dogheads…” Notkin spoke with not a drop of old grudges in his tone, pausing the syllables as if dragging them back, as if the effort would somehow stop them from leaving. They both knew better than to expect to keep anything they ever loved at this point.

Khan crossed his legs and leaned forward a bit to maintain eye contact, feeling somewhat relieved to have someone else’s problems to concern himself with. “Then the Souls didn’t fare any better, did they.” There was no point in phrasing it as a question. “My condolences, Notkin.” Caspar hoped the honesty shone through, though he felt shame for the real strain in his voice.

His rival’s expression pinched, a complicated cocktail of reactions fighting over predominance. “...I’m sorry about your Dogheads. I bet they put up a good fight.” Caspar considered almost hysterically how they seemed to be adding to each other’s grief but paradoxically comforting the other.

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there.” ‘I was with you’ went unspoken, but it weighed like a mantle soaked in blood. 

Notkin’s eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lower lip, looking like a child that had yet to ever process a new emotion. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t regret it.” Caspar himself wasn’t sure if he meant that, but he would fight for it to be true. “I’m ashamed, perhaps even humiliated, but I don’t regret it.” He’d wondered what it said about him, late at night, lying on his soft bedding and imagining the best of his wards in rough cots, at worst on their deathbed. It was painful to come to terms with how readily he would say he’d let it happen again, not out of a sense of predetermination, but merely due to the logical conclusion that he would still choose to have consulted with Notkin while his domain was violently ravaged. He considered it may be cowardice to so easily accept powerlessness in this situation. 

The other boy let go of his lip, now red and torn at points, withdrawing a pathetic few raisins from his pocket and practically inhaling them. Notkin swallowed with his eyes tightly shut, and perhaps Khan was jumping to conclusions when he imagined that the boy’s throat must be ravaged, thirst and sickness worsening the condition of where he’d likely shouted until he could no longer summon his voice, one boy crying for dozens of his silenced friends. 

Caspar was broken out of his reverie by movement on the square before the Cathedral, a small crowd slowly expanding while officials of differing ranks and authorities bustled lifelessly, exchanging papers and curt orders. Aglaya Lilich stood on the improvised stage, murmuring lowly with Daniil Dankovsky, both of them pensive but focused. It was a matter of time before the event started, and his companion seemed to draw the same conclusion. Neither of the boys looked at each other as they spoke, too busy surveying the spectacle to come. “Out of all the things anyone with the Inquisitor’s power could be doing while we all die at the hands of this fucking plague, they’re wasting resources to kill a person instead.”

Khan wondered if Notkin was reaching an emotional breaking point or if this topic of discussion seemed to him like a worn debate, perhaps even a source of comfort. It said much about their situation that gossiping about an execution was a refreshing break from the circumstances of their lives. “It’s about morale. Besides, the man is partially responsible for the death toll, given his responsibility and how he butchered it.” 

Notkin looked at him over his shoulder, an askance expression that somehow didn’t convey the weight of a debate about a man’s life. “Killing him won’t solve anything.” The way he looked at Khan conveyed all the old arguments he’d ever given before, though now there was an edge of desperation, as if he wanted to revive his convictions for the sake of his sanity. “Burakh may be incompetent at the worst times, but his attitude and failures don’t mean he deserves death.”

“His few virtues don’t mean he deserves life either.” Caspar’s apathy was genuine, though a part of him did find Notkin to be within reason to protest. “The man was careless and volatile, his intervention did very little to assist those in need.”

His rival glared up at him, and the restlessness of his posture pointed to a coiled urge to move, maybe tug on Khan’s leg, if only to let out some of that bottled energy, childish though the gesture was. “He saved your life! You’d-” Notkin interrupted himself, clearing his throat with a grimace and pinched eyes. “You’d be dead twice over if it weren’t for him.”

The gentle breeze had stopped a while ago, leaving the district in a miasma, as if the world itself held bated breath. “He was only doing his due diligence.” The open air almost paradoxically muffled their conversation, the only real witness of it the sky and perhaps the statue upon which they perched. Two birds on a wire, two boys of very different feathers. “If anyone did more for me than they ought to, it was only you.” His eyes shifted away from Notkin, wandering the faceless crowd, up the buttresses of the Cathedral, catching on crows and doves roosting on the eaves. The sky was clear in the most unfortunate way, completely smeared with a homogenous steel gray.

Caspar could feel Notkin’s eyes still on him, perhaps even more intently than before. “...What does that even mean?”

“Whatever you make of it.” He shifted sideways, lying cradled by the statue’s arm, still following the horizon with his gaze. “Burakh’s death, deserved or not, will serve a purpose. Isn’t that more than can be said for his pathetic attempts in life?” 

The cruelty of the statement seemed to quell something stirring behind Notkin’s eyes. “Nobody gets to decide who lives and who dies, much less for their own purposes.” 

Khan shrugged, spotting a group of Saburov’s watchmen escorting the governor and a hunched figure he was all too familiar with. “It’s what happens. Those in power will manage it as they see fit, and the pawns fall accordingly. The Inquisitor, Saburov, Fat Vlad…” Caspar tilted his head slightly to indicate the oncoming procession.

“And you.” The boy’s response was flat as he stood up, biting back a groan, leaning on the body of the statue for leverage. Caspar didn’t think Notkin had any real affection for Artemy Burakh, but the way he pursed his lips revealed a vulnerable sympathy that some would call naive. He himself wasn’t sure if that was the case or not, despite disagreeing inherently. “You’re neither a judge nor an arbiter, life and death aren’t tools for you to wield so callously.”

“Neither are you, so you can’t decide what I can or cannot do.” He looked at Notkin’s clenched jaw out of the corner of his eye, seeing something similar to a powerless frustration one might feel upon seeing a bull be led to the slaughter, which seemed an apt metaphor. “I don’t know about the Inquisitor, but I don’t expect everyone to agree with my choices. In the end, I sleep better at night knowing my actions are lessening the violent and insidious disorder that runs amok.”

Notkin met his eyes evenly, crossing his arms. “I’m happy for you. At least you can sleep at all, knowing the consequences of your actions.” There wasn’t much to tell apart sincerity from irony, it was as if Notkin himself spoke without knowing how he felt.

As Burakh was led onto the stage, Aglaya and Saburov met eyes with a respectful nod, some satisfied solemnity straightening their postures before the governor raised a hand to dismiss his men and allow the Inquisitor’s peons to take their place. The gathering onlookers spoke in hushed whispers, roiling like the currents of the river in a steady rumble, and though nothing could be heard above the lilting comments, a charged exchange seemed to take place between Dankovsky and Burakh in the periphery of the Inquisitor and governor’s succinct conversation. Khan couldn’t help but shift to sit properly facing the event, sneaking a glance at Notkin. He couldn’t describe what exactly passed between their gazes as their eyes met, but it had a drop of kinship otherwise unknown previously.

“Think we’ll ever be in that position?” Khan couldn’t help but ask, looking intently at Dankovsky’s affronted expression, the tension in the man’s frame like a coiled serpent readying a strike. 

Notkin huffed, gesturing between the actors onstage. “Which one? I doubt either of us would be an Inquisitor. Seems I'm the likeliest candidate for cadaver. Thinking about executing me, are you?” Burakh looked solemn, nodding along and murmuring interspersed comments to Dankovsky, though his deadened eyes scanned the crowd, a man looking back at the people he swore to protect, now apathetically watching him be sentenced to capital punishment at the hands of the Capital dandy. The irony was scornfully delightful, though only a cold dread remained when Artemy’s eyes met Khan’s for a moment.

Caspar looked sideways at his rival, feeling a levity foreign to the ongoing context.”If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here.” To think casual death threats during an execution would be the most relaxed he felt in such a long time. 

With a final nod, Saburov stood back with his hands behind his back, looking the picture of a dutiful governor, though the sallow skin and creased clothes told of what town he was governor of. The Inquisitor stood taller, chin raised and chest puffed, projecting her voice between the tall walls of the Cathedral and Crucible. “Artemy Burakh, by order of the Governor and with the acquiescence of the Inquisitor, you have been sentenced to death by execution. Your crimes of violence, malpractice and neglect speak for themselves. Have you anything to say for yourself, knowing it will not change your fate?”

Having little interest in the event itself, Caspar slid down from where he sat and leaned on the statue beside Notkin, scrutinizing his companion’s pensive expression. He mildly kept track of Burakh’s response, listening to the deep rumble of the man’s disused voice. “I didn’t commit those crimes, so I have no excuses to give for acts I don’t claim. As for my failings as a healer, I admit I did not accomplish the miraculous, but neither did any of my colleagues. My only hope is that this will change after I’m gone.” The man turned to Dankovsky, melancholic regret clashing with bitterness in his expression. The Bachelor was impassive but for a sharpness in his eyes, venomous and unforgiving. 

Notkin’s breathing quickened ever so slightly, chest rising and falling with a few stutters, minor grimaces passing over his visage in moments of pain. Caspar wondered what wounds would be painted on him underneath his shirt, how painful it must’ve been to walk to this place just to witness the tail end of a tragedy. Aglaya hummed shortly before cutting the silence. “I’m sure your colleagues appreciate the hope. One of them deigned to request a direct role in your death, however, so perhaps your conscience shouldn’t be so clear. Daniil Dankovsky, at your discretion.”

The Bachelor stepped forward, putting himself side by side with Burakh before quickly turning and pointing a revolver at his head point blank. His lips moved, though no words could be heard above the murmurs of the crowd. Burakh fell to his knees, facing Dankovsky with clear eyes and parted lips. The anticipation made it clear the executioner was seconds away from pulling the trigger, and Caspar felt Notkin’s fingers twitch next to his hand, touching him like static electricity. Khan felt the need to keep his eyes straight ahead, unblinking, observing the execution with full clarity, so he could very clearly distinguish the next words formed soundlessly by Dankovsky’s lips. “Vade in pace.”

The gunshot didn’t startle him as much as Notkin jerking his head aside in anticipation, and he was keenly aware of the head that fell onto his shoulder, the shaking of his rival’s lips with each unsteady intake of air, the fingers clenched in his from an overlooked movement. Silence finally settled upon the street once the body fell with a dull knock on the tainted stage. Caspar wondered why he felt as if the blood splashed on his face from this distance, an impossible sensation, though he reached with his free hand to wipe his cheek, looking down and seeing his fingers clean as they were before. If his body was clean, then that meant it was his soul that was tainted. He exhaled, feeling as though he’d let go of his last memory of Artemy Burakh, a man he had no lost love for. 

Caspar felt the time pass, in his mind and at his fingertips, holding his pocketwatch and feeling the ticks. In the courtyard of the Crucible he could allow himself to relax, letting the surroundings fade away and simply processing the events of the past while. They sat close together for long enough that the stage was almost completely disassembled by the time Notkin moved again, though it was only to unfold his bad leg from where it was bent in his crouch, letting it lie parallel to Caspar’s own outstretched leg. He was completely still as he paid attention to Notkin, picking at all the reasons he could imagine for the boy to shut down so easily, especially in his presence. Exhaustion, pain, shock, fear, anger, sadness. All the terrible feelings in the world didn’t explain why he’d allow himself the vulnerability to be in such a state with Khan, but he realized that pondering it any more would only serve to stick needles in his own heart as if the source of the bleeding wasn’t the whole.

“Khan… What’s real?” He felt Notkin lift his head, hooking his chin on Caspar’s shoulder to regard him tiredly. “What do we have left?”

Caspar gazed at him sideways, expecting brokenness and being met with resolve. This wasn’t a question coming from a place of despair, but a tangible gathering of thoughts. Khan had refused to consider his losses as irreversible, yet here was Notkin facing the abyss with wit and determination. “...You shouldn’t be asking me this. I was never taken with reality, was I.” Either he’d lost circulation in his fingers and was getting phantom sensations or Notkin tightened his hold, and it was impossible to tell which possibility was more real. “You tell me.”

His companion licked his lips, hooking the fingers of his free hand with his thumb and cracking the joints. “...Do you think you could get your Dogheads back?” Caspar felt his breath catch before he could consciously react, a sting behind his eyes giving little warning before he felt a warm tear intersect the phantom bloodstain on his cheek. Notkin reached out to wipe it away with gentleness Caspar hadn’t felt in a lifetime, and the action was entirely self-defeating, prompting him to weep more, feeling a bone-deep shame for how the touch finally seemed to remove the stain of death from his face. “Then we’re reduced to equals again. I have you, you have me, nobody has us. Not even Burakh is here anymore, nothing ties us together.”

“No longer bound, are we.” Caspar felt more unmoored by this than when he had willingly left his place in the Kain estate. No love was lost, but the finality of Artemy’s death brought into question every other loss sustained thus far, leaving little room for doubt as to the conclusion. There was nothing left of the futures they had built themselves. “What will you do now?”

His rival sighed, lifting their joined hands in accident, as if he’d forgotten they were held, and something in the gesture gave him pause. He brought Caspar’s hand to his chest, covering it with his own, looking down at them in thought. “Wait for it to stop, I suppose. Same as always.” The rhythm of his heart was faster than Khan’s, and to him it felt as if it were restrained by the ribcage, an irrational sort of thought, and Caspar wondered what it would feel like to hold that gentle but steadfast heart. It took him a moment to realize he already was, in a way. 

Caspar didn’t know what else was left of his dreams, so all he could bring himself to say was “I’ll wait with you. Always.”

I forgor to share this lil thing-

Before you leave… just hear me out… these three could be a very chaotic group of friends… ready to cause problems or something…?

Anyway… have a nice day/night :v

Preliminary sketch for my Star Trek Into Darkness poster. Working on the painting now. 

So for my own amusement I have been messing around with a concept. What if Loki fought Khan? Who would win? Of course I know who would. But if there was a movie I would be a happy camper. 2 masters of their craft set against each other. Here are three poster ideas. You pick who will win and which poster you like most. 

looks at this meme: it’s free art inspiration

Paradise aquatic aquarium and pet shop vidisha Madhya Pradesh 9109548738

Unpopular(?) Opinion. Khan can fuck off. I just don't like him at all- I don't want him to get any screen time,idk why,I just- no.

The coolest Mongol EVER.

Picture from the spectacular Kate Beaton.

KHAN “I’m Your Girl ?” M/V

khan “i’m your girl” teaser

Strangefrost is one of my favorite ships as I adore Loki and Dr. Strange. So I was very happy when Star Trek Into Darkness let me enjoy the lovechild of Dr. Strange and Loki in the character of Khan. Benedict plays that character so dark, mischievous, deliciously evil, and with a Loki-swish of black hair…mhmm! Yes, yes, yes! And Star Trek Into Darkness is a great blend of the old TOS episode and Wrath of Khan movie with a few added twists.

Recuerda este Jueves 06. Función especial en @cineplanet_chile de Star Trek 2: La ira de Khan. Llama al Número que sale en la Imagen, para Adquerir Tus Entradas. Jueves 06 de Diciembre 21:00 hrs #cineplanet Costanera Center. Valor entrada $4.500 #startrek #khan #lairadekhan #cine #trekkie #startrekchile #amigostrek #atrekchile #amigostrekchile #largavidayprosperidad🖖 #costaneracenter (en Santiago, Chile) https://www.instagram.com/p/BrAfTWqADh-/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1eptg74v6pho9