Stupid Revenge Fantasies

Cerise never thought the day would come that she actually wanted Ruben around, but it didn’t change the fact she was extremely bored and, honestly, genuinely worried about her situation now she was isolated from her best help.

Before she became a “university researcher”, she unfortunately had been a known quantity to some of the Guards in the district. Fights, after all, were liable to break out at any time in her vicinity (and certainly not because some fighters or betting men were sore losers), and a younger, dumber Cerise had allowed herself to get caught a few times.

Granted, the number of times thus far could be counted on one hand, with charges on the level of “disturbing the peace” or “being a public nuisance” (when Cerise had discovered alcohol). But most citizens feared even the mildest slap on the wrist, and while a record was a mere formality for a career criminal.

Just like everything else, Cerise lived in that weird liminal space where she was neither respectable nor dangerous, merely acknowledged.

Simply put, it was a little mortifying to overhear “oh, now this is a rare sight” when she was marched into the Guard Station, though Lucretia seemed to delight in having one over her.

There went the refreshed copies of her fingerprints, her name, mug shots, and another round of “I don’t have an address” – her office was in a dead end alley, she had been slumming it all her life. Her weird vials and potions would be confiscated once more, either to be returned or destroyed as “perishables”. Nothing to it: some things just had to be remade as a matter of course, day in, day out. They even took her damn hat, and she felt bald with the way her pink hair was touching the open air instead of being properly sheltered in its own temperature-controlled pocket.

Finally, Cerise was dumped into a holding cell, with a clay cup of water to keep her company and from drying out. It couldn’t be used as a weapon – it’d sooner shatter into powder and pebbles before it could be honed into a sharp edge.

There she was: bored. But safe for now. The past few days had been a frenzy of panic and battle – fruitful, perhaps, but impossible to comprehend with shot nerves. With the adrenaline wicking away from her and nothing to occupy her except the thoughts in her head, Cerise had to worry about the situation on her hand.

Ruben, Andrew, and Damon could be trusted to warn whoever they could about the Black Dog-derived toxin, his say-so meaning more than hers. Which was more than one could say about “scorched earth” Mary up above, out to slam the hammer of justice down on whoever she thought was behind this.

And that left Cerise to assemble the bits and pieces on her own.

It was without a shadow of a doubt that Turmenese had developed a poison. It intended to be used on someone important.

The missing piece was “who”. Even with two consecutive raids by the Guard, it seemed whoever was behind this wasn’t deterred; their weapon was still in some safe place ready to be unleashed, even without the manpower and base of operations the Grand Wolf supplied. Things seemed to be headed towards a “no matter what” sort of conclusion – the sort of desperation to ensure the target would be eliminated, even if it had to be a mutual death.

Cerise sat on the wall-mounted bench, tried to make herself comfortable as she straightened her back against the white plaster brickwork and stewed in the complete silence of the long row of holding cells. If there was anyone else, they were asleep, and if there was any guard, they were satisfied enough by the situation that they didn’t feel a need to patrol the hall.

That left Cerise replaying the last words of the Grand Wolf’s captain, a man who was clearly in the know about what was going on.

“Don’t you know!? What are you two doing here? It’s too early!”

“...keep your heads down until after the unfortunate death.”

“…Children wouldn’t have invented this plan, even if a Sant-Lumiere would be happy to–”

The witch groaned and buried her face in her hands. She should have let him talk for longer, but the moment that family name came up, a near-reflexive fear and panic overcame her, and she fed him an elbow before he could give up anything concrete.

There was at least enough to stitch together a theory.

A precision-guided death that the supposed vengeful former rulers of Arnis would gleefully support. That meant killing someone in the royal family. Just one, the way the captain worded it.

Cerise’s first instinct was that it would be the king. An obvious target that would send Arnis reeling… except the witch had a feeling the nation would survive, if for no reason than that a particularly obnoxious princess was Queen Apparent. She’d right the listing ship… and make the situation worse for Turmen.

Ruben was right. Lucretia was a bloodhound, near frenzied in search of something to bite into with full force. No dainty courses and no system of justice. Lucretia wanted a jugular.

Even if Turmen wanted to kick the legs out from under their rival, surely they wouldn’t want it to lead to outright war? Lucy would bring it.

The captain thought Ruben and she would “keep their heads down”.

Then the next most obvious target was…

Cerise stood up, and walked over to the bars cutting her off from the rest of the station, and pressed her face against them to see if there was a Guard nearby.

She could see the fiction unfold in front of her. The firebrand princess keeling over from a poisoned tart; the nation mourning, and then… the political will just getting sucked right out of it.

Whatever repatriation the king would push for, Turmen would survive it long enough, and then eventually Ruben, the little puppy, would have to inherit. What then? Someone thought Cerise would be elated to slide in as consort and take the reins? Covertly counter-usurp her ancient conquerors? Prop her up as a figurehead happy to bask in her newfound lap of luxury while Turmenese plants or someone else sent her marching orders?

It’d take a generation, but Arnis would finally take a backseat in the national struggle.

Cerise grimaced at the thought. A version of her in her head did the figurative vomiting. Some freak out there actually thought she’d just leap into Ruben’s arms like a blushing bride; give her a break.

“Oi! Someone sitting outside? I need to talk!” The witch shouted into the empty passage.

“Shut up! We’re trying to sleep!” Someone snarled back, but Cerise kept on calling out.

Before long, the holding cells had awoken to a din of shouting matches, and Cerise hoped that someone would come down soon enough.

It was all fiction, but a fiction that led to the princess’s death for the sake of some cheap insurrection in the name of the long extinguished Sant-Lumieres sat wrong with Cerise. She hated every part of it, starting with the fact she could be the impetus to murder someone else. Damn her lineage.

The only thing more worrying was that her past was being traded around as a favor, despite all her efforts to keep it from being leaked. The implications worried her, as did the challenge of trying to solve the upcoming conundrum of keeping the Arnises safe without giving them a reason to finish her off instead.

“Come on! Someone come down here!” Cerise shouted.

“If you don’t shut up, I’m coming in there to break your jaw!” Another inmate shrieked. The bars rattled around her as men and women lost their patience when their night’s rest had been thoroughly skewered.

One thing at a time, Cerise supposed. First thing’s first – get that meeting before she accidentally instigated a riot just by being loud. As if she needed that added to her record.