Pain in the Time of Love - Pistols at Dawn Chapter 22

 Forgive the clichéd title. It is the month involving love and devotion so I figured I'd make a homage to it. 

Where are we at in this story? Well, last chapter we had a bunch of dialogue that didn't move the story along, a murder plot, and Arno putting on a leotard and dancing with an Austrian/Polish girl. 9,000 words for that chapter, and this one has 11,000 words. The wordcount for this month stands at 210,433. We might be halfway through this story.

Weirdly enough, this chapter title is 'Requiem for a Dream'. It happened to be one of the most overused songs on YouTube when AMVs and other related music videos dominated the scene. Fitting.

Being a baker had its responsibilities.

Stealing grain even more so. 

Orfeo’s set schedule accustomed his body to wake up before the first light. He cleaned the ovens with a tough brush, worked his hands through the freshly-made, shit-free dough for the day, and braided them effortlessly from decades of practice. But being alone for so long brought undesirable reflections.

You're buying dough with shit on it? Guess you're not that good at stealing grain as I thought you were. After all, you seized those shipments with your on-and-off girlfriend in...what was it? Chapter 4? Nothing like giving your customer base E. coli.  

His brutish digits dug in the supple mounds of mixed flour and eggs, and there he would see the unforgotten speckles of dirt and blood that seeped along the ravines of his palms. A mephitic aroma that grappled his insides, and wrenched his sight to a long, forgotten dream. He tells himself to ignore it, rounding the dough to its form and scorching the tops with a knife to purposely disrupt their sleek exteriors.

I thought Orfeo was described as having nice hands, or ones tapered enough to be claws on their own. Now he's baking bread with dirt and blood in his hands, which will contaminate the whole batch. Before you rail into me with the whole, 'Well everyone was doing that back then, they were filthy!' Orfeo is supposed to be a holier than thou immortal, with advanced knowledge. You mean to tell me he can't use soap?  

Orfeo gets the oven prepped, yearning for a task. He needs to be doing something or else the thoughts will bleed out; the memories will try to make him remember.

'Did I read the right tattoos today? Hard to tell.' 

“Corvus—”

 

Why the hell is he thinking about this now?

He’s been fine until now—

It's your local crow friend trying to tell you your girlfriend is trouble and ruins the lives of everyone she comes into contact with. Don't worry, though, she's protected by that PeeOhCee card, so even a fellow anime immortal can't criticize her.

Orfeo’s knuckles blister white from how hard he’s gripping the paddle. He didn’t notice how out of tune he was until he’s suddenly inhaling a plume of ash. The logs burn wildly inside the masonry oven, setting a fine layer of soot along the stone flattop and into the air. His fingers twitch momentarily as he sets the bread inside.

This guy has inhuman strength, just like Elysia, yet can't break a wooden bread paddle. Maybe he should eat some more eggs.

Orfeo’s wiping his face roughly to deter whatever sensation of liquid he feels there, and he’s suddenly hearing droplets from the ceiling. A carved corridor with the useless candles set about the murky aisles. There’s a chill as he feels the eyes of murderers set their sights on him.

Not a good idea to hallucinate when you're baking bread with grain that's already scarce in the country. But that's just me 🤷

It was centuries ago when Orfeo was Darcio, under the forced apprenticeship of the remarkable Matteo Scappi. From jail to a baker, still an expected death sentence to work in the fumes and ashes for hours upon hours (at some point, he must’ve died and woke up with a new set of lungs). It’s all a blur, a mirage of sorts in this prolonged life sentence he was cursed, or blessed with. His memories are jumbled, he’s unsure why. The one memory he clearly sees is this one, and the way she tested his eyes.

You're immortal. You don't need to worry about it. As for dying from smoke inhalation from traditional wooden stoves, evidence can range from strong to anecdotal. The worst occupation to get black lung and early deaths from lung cancer is mining. But we know Orfeo and his girlfriend wouldn't break a nail over that kind of job.

The restrained curiosity and cautiousness of a fox, with the sense of hopelessness that would have been laughable. He hates to admit it: he was allured by her blood-red locks that were long and untamed, a fire in their own right and one he always found himself destined to. He had never seen that color of eyes before, almost feline-like if she happened to look at him from the corner of it.

You know you're dealing with a Mary Sue when her hair, eye colour or skin colour is described as larger than life or even god-like, and manages to have more personality than the character itself. 

To know she was one of them, a fox that prowled alongside the monsters underneath the streets of Paris. Still, he flirts with whatever low chance he has because it’s quite obvious she has this wall up (it’s nothing new to him) to protect herself. He’s curious too…it bites him in the ass. He’s trapped, with no shadows to hide in and no windows to fly through. Left to face the real terror he had been unwittingly running away from.   

She had no problem kissing you, and didn't hesitate to share a bed with you. She also undressed in front of you. I think that ice has already been broken. The cliché of the strong feminist melting when a hunk comes into her life has already been firmly established.

His hair is gripped, and he urgently thrashes. He fights with every inch of his immortal being. The ropes burn his wrists, and his spit is flying from how much he’s crying out.

“AUGUSTINE!”

The tears swell in his eyes, and they fly from his last, upright movement.

“I’ll never forgive YOU!”

The giant figure turns, and the crowd roars as Orfeo is slammed down.

So when he says he’s sorry-

Am I supposed to feel pity for this guy and his run-of-the-mill pity me backstory? He's immortal. He's likely seen and experienced everything under the sun. Yet he's worried about getting black lung from baking and has memories involving a guy named after a Saint. 

It must be a lie.

Because Augustine didn’t turn back.

He left him to rot.

Is Augustine the immortal Japanese vampire or nah?

So what connection did Elysia possibly have with him?

With someone like that?

With a monster like-

Whoa there, buddy. Don't go lecturing others about monsters. You're so worried about Elysia hanging around literal demons yet she can kill her own recruits without a second thought as well as tear apart Assassins when she enters Beast Mode. 

As the saying goes, it takes one to know one. 

THUD!

Head meeting my desk visualized. 

“Blast it, Orfeo, the bread!”  

Orfeo inhales sharply and bolts, pulling open the iron slab to unleash the hellish smoke. Through his coughs, he jabs the pike to pull out the loaves of bread. Damn it.

Imagine hallucinating so deeply you can't even smell the 'hellish smoke' or have it sting your eyes. The guy is dedicated, I'll give him that.  

Orfeo abrasively rubs his face when he feels Maduka silently and diligently examine the damaged bread alongside Pierre who sighs with a puff that makes his mustache flap. Oya is on the other side of the table, her dark hands holding a lump to test its durability. 

These immortals really do deserve a pat on the back. They manage to collectively screw over their businesses and make rookie mistakes, while expecting everyone else to clean up the mess. Elysia had the Café she nearly bankrupted, and Orfeo burns bread when it's rarer and pricier than gold. 

They're centuries old yet can't even watch food baking in the oven...too rich. 

I feel the need to point out this tidbit again: Les doesn't know how many black people there were in France. Like others, she assumes the demographics of the time mirror today. There is a slim chance two Nigerians would ever have success working in a bakery in France. Then again, we have black actresses playing Anne Boleyn and other historic European queens, so who am I kidding?

“It’s not all burnt, thankfully,” Pierre, thank his newly-acquired-wonderful-delighted mood, takes to saving what he can. “Hmph…we’ll have to make these ones cheaper today.” Orfeo pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes a curse in, glaring at one loaf that was better left for charcoal then to admit his humiliating mistake.

It's own thing to burn something. It's another to char the damn thing, and you must've been hallucinating really, really badly. Orfeo is supposed to be inhuman, with superior senses and agility, yet can't be driven out of his stupor at the smell of smoke. Amazed he's lasted this long, honestly.

A wasted loaf of bread isn't just wasted money. It's wasted food. Not everyone had food in this time period. I think the word you are looking for is 'privileged'.

The older owner presses a hand against his side, sizing Orfeo up with a small lean, “What’s gotten into you? This hardly ever happens—”

“Can it, Pierre. You’ve been driving me insane for the past two days,” the immortal flattens his hand, and jerks it in front of him to make a slicing motion. Orfeo’s glare wanes to a warning, “You don’t get to criticize me.” 

Orfeo does have a point here. All Pierre has done is get drunk and bemoan his wife whose taken his house and his inheritance. He's given how much money back to the business? None. He hasn't stuck his foot in the door except to see how much money flies out of it. At the same time, Orfeo doesn't have the right to act Holier than Thou. He and his girlfriend have done shady things to enrich themselves. Going back to the earlier chapters, you'll recall they stole grain for the sole purpose of profit. Orfeo and his magic brown girlfriend are dignified robber barons. 

IF you can use the word dignified. I'm using it very loosely.

Pierre puffs and putters in place, his round hands fidgeting to grasp his collar to his front buttons to then settle themselves securely hooking his trouser pockets. “Well, whatever it is you’re dealing with, we’ll have to work hastily to recover for the loss! The shop is opening back up for the afternoon rush and Giselle should be here any minute,” he finishes.

The man has to be in such a good mood he’s not even faking his accent anymore. The faint roll of an English born son to a seafaring English man and his French wife.  

This is an added twist, no? Another enemy of France casually lounging around speaking his real accent. This wouldn't go over well historically, and any Englishman worth his salt would've fled the country already. 

But that's using logic. Three people are writing this, and the main author hasn't cracked open a book in her life. It shows.

“…So the baker man burns his bread.” Orfeo takes a small thrill from hearing the man’s thick accent. “Doesn’t seem like he’s all that concerned.”

It's not his money or his life he's gambling with, so no. 

“Hmph, it’s not the first batch to, nor it will it be the last,” Orfeo looks at the separation of bread ranging from well done to the chances of it having been licked by the devil himself. He takes a knife and cuts off the burnt edges of one that he plucks, and slices it thick, taking a piece for himself before gesturing to the other two. Maduka does the same, and hands Oya her piece before he indulges himself in his. They eat in a mute silence, greedily and without concern of the next time they may find time to eat.

One loaf I'd understand. But Orfeo torched an entire batch. That's a lot of money and food to waste. There is no way he couldn't have smelled the smoke. Hell, I get immediate headaches when a bagel gets stuck in the toaster or popcorn is burned in the microwave. Did he have cotton shoved up his nose?

'Without concern about the next time they may find time to eat'. Some writing. It should be 'without concern about the next time they will eat'. Adds a bit of urgency.  

“Are you okay, Orfeo?” Orfeo looks down to Oya’s attentive gaze, her hair tied back into a high bun with a red bow.

That's not a weave, is it? Getting Gorilla Glue memories here.

Orfeo licks his thumb of the specks of crumbs left, “I’m fine. Got a little distracted. Happens time to time.”

“Does it happen to all older men?”

“Do you think I’m an older man?” Orfeo meets her gaze with a challenge of his own. The little girl pauses, her brows knitting together hard. She counts off her fingers and Orfeo wonders how many times she’s done the math now to attempt to take the guess. Maduka pointedly scrutinizes Orfeo with his hooded eyes. A warning.

Dude, you're immortal. Even if you haven't said it outright, people know you aren't exactly human. They know from Elysia alone she's more than just a 'Gypsy'. Her ears and eyes are inhuman. This dude gets glowing eyes like a cuttlefish and is a cardboard cutout of a Van Helsing villain.  

Orfeo wanes on his taunting nature and sighs deeply, rolling his eyes, “Yes, it happens when you get older, Oya. I was merely teasing you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Oya fires back and there’s a twitch flaring in Orfeo’s eye at that.

Jaq is rubbing off on her and he’s not entirely sure how to feel about it.

The annoying anime brat is making the black woman sassy? Better teach her to shut up for eight minutes.  (Yes, that was meant to be a dark joke.)

Maduka seems entirely pleased by it instead, a chuckle brewing deep in his chest that has Orfeo flatly staring at him to stop. Their break is short-lived when the bell of the café rings again, and the three attempt their best to get back to work. It’s when Orfeo hears the frantic rumble of Jaq’s feet that he relaxes and heads to the front of the café.

If this kid doesn't get a Ritalin he needs a meat pallet to the skull. That is how fucking annoying he is. His only purpose is to play the 'totally relatable, annoying as fuck' kid to humanize the stuck up adults.  

Jaq’s barely intelligible with a greeting to him, hurriedly rushing past him to enter the kitchen, “I only slept for four hours!” The door flaps closed behind him and even through the thick wall, Orfeo can hear Jaq brightly greeting Oya and Maduka. The baker turns to Giselle instead, who’s dressed in fine purple-silk and her natural hair held up with an ornate hairpiece.

It is a miracle you have not been robbed yet. Wearing ornate hairpieces and purple silk? In the middle of Revolutionary Paris? Where entire houses were ransacked for goods? She must be packing heat. 

“Giselle.” Orfeo greets casually, “How are things at the other café?”

“What makes you assume I stopped over there?”

“Obviously you have that look of when money is pouring in,” Orfeo wisely cracks at her. Giselle doesn’t laugh but she smiles at the attempt of his joke. She goes around the counter, and rests her purse behind the showcase of bread and out of eyesight.

Of course When Elysia isn't in charge, things naturally assume their proper role. Arno saves the day once again, but that Fucking White Male is in the way of our glorious PeeOhCee. Leave it to another PeeOhCee (?) to fix it.

“Do not twist that narrative onto me when your eyes are the ones that light up at the sight of money,” she wags to him briefly. Orfeo kneels with her, watching her press a hand to the well-hidden floorboard to check what money they were willing to pull out for the day. He doesn’t count much, but they’ll have to be wise with the coming days. They stand, and it’s there that Giselle meets his gaze curiously and smiles. 

You burnt an entire batch of bread. On purpose. That is lost revenue. How can you expect to be careful with money when you are careless with your own thoughts?

“A play?”

“Mhmm, I was supposed to go to this but something has come up. Perhaps you may find a better use to these then me.”

Orfeo makes a face, fanning himself with the tickets, “Not sure if you really know me Giselle but…I’m not exactly interested in these types of things.”

Look, at this point all of these subplots are just bread and circuses. They don't move the plot forward. 210,000 words is plenty of time to establish a plot, your characters, and your climax. Yet nothing has happened. It's hard to write 11,000-14,000 words of absolutely nothing. More so as you have two other authors reading it though. It's shameful. 

The pitfalls of affirmative action. 

Orfeo curls the stubs in his palm over again and reads the name of the play. Repeats it. Thinks over it.

Her flame locks come to mind and now he’s quirking his lips, uncertain. He doesn’t really know if Elysia’s the type to like this sort of thing…but then again he hardly knows a thing about her. For two hours, sitting in a chair watching people acting it out on stage. Hmph, sounds painfully boring, but…..

He smiles faintly and tucks them into his front pocket, “Perhaps I will.”

I would understand this sentiment if Elysia were a genuinely interesting character. As it stands, Orfeo already knows her moods and how they'll flip like a light switch. She's just not that interesting to build a romance around. 

The play’s performance was fast approaching.

The minutes indented themselves into his bruised toes, and every second tested his memory to fully incorporate the choreography into his muscles. He had to get a second pair of boots from the Creed, having worn down his previous ones from both his dancing and the Assassin missions he had been carrying out for Bellac. Eventually, those too started to create blisters on his toes and ankles.

He has been with the Creed for two years. He should be at his peak physical prime. Parkouring is not an easy sport. Arno may not be as big as Connor but is still very well built. He should have no issue with dancing. Then again, these are all traits to make him lesser than the usurping PeeOhCee.

“You’re dancing like you’re stepping on shit all day!” the director wagged the notes to her as she leisurely stood.

To be fair, everyone is stepping in shit in this story.

The music crew took this as a sign to stop their melody, and furthered the humiliated silence. She quietly tucked a lose strand behind her ear, her eyes at the ground. Arno felt his chest inflate.

“I expect more from you, Fran! The delivery of the play falls on you, and I’m not going to let this be a laughing stock considering we already had to cancel the last performance!” the director wagged the notes again.

Almost against her face.

Stop. 

This director should be happy he at least has his business but it looks like he's just your quintessential asshole director cliché. No personality or rhyme or reason to who he is or what he does. He's just there to serve as a catalyst for the murder plot. 

“Not to mention I had to be stuck with a mediocre dancer, you should know the kind of pressure I’m under! This falls under MY name!” he wagged it aggressively again.

Stop it.

She cowered her head back, hunching her pale shoulders up to lessen the distance. The director followed. Arno’s eyes widened, and his teeth clenched tightly. Feral.

Oh wow, is Arno actually standing up for himself? Perish the thought. Didn't think he had it in him.  

The man rose his tone, “And one more thing-“

Arno’s hand snatched forward, and the notes were crushed in his grip where he held the director in place. Several of the other actors, and the entire music crew stopped what they were doing, and watched the scene unfold.

“Remove yourself from my sight this instance!” the director ordered. Arno took a minatory step forward, standing between him and Fran.

“Stop doing that to her,” Arno growled, his brown eyes darkening from their narrowed glower. “Show her respect.”

Amazing. He shows such bravery when he stands up for a woman against another man, yet did nothing when it was a brown woman insulting and degrading him for years. You can be shoved into a death trap in a Church and have your female mentor laugh about it, but a guy with a sheaf of papers is a step too far. 

The director scoffed loudly at this, raising his arm, “I pay you to-“

“You actually don’t pay me,” Arno solidified, yanking the paper downward to make the man jerk forward, his eyes having to look up to the Dorian. “I am here voluntarily, which means I have every right to leave at any moment…and beating you senseless before I do. If I choose to.” He let go of the rolled parchments, and let the director steel himself up, and fixing the crooked hat on his head.

Here voluntarily for a murder plot that will never move the story forward. We're looking for a crossdressing blond, one of the neo anime Templars. Can't you just play My Hero Academia to lure him in? Maybe some Kingdom Hearts music will help.  

“I will not be threatened by the likes of you, Mr. Dorian,” the martinet director tugged down his vest to straighten it.

“…Flick that paper at me one more time, and let’s see what happens next,” Arno’s straight expression hardened.

The entire building waited.

This will likely be the only time Arno will ever stand up for himself. He never has in any other chapter, preferring instead to lie down and take it like a twink. We all know he's going to be the bottom.  

The director cleared his throat a moment after, examining everyone with a wave of his arm, “Go back to your duties! You two….fifteen minute break.” He muttered something impatient and incoherent as he stormed down the aisle and to the outside. Fran was already moving herself away, and mildly swept aside the red curtain to disappear backstage. Arno looked at her momentarily before stretching his legs with a pace around the stage.

“Too much? Maybe,” he whispered to himself. He swatted his bangs to the side and let the cool air settle his humid, sweating face.

It would have been better had Arno actually broke the guy's nose. That's something in-canon Arno would do, as he doesn't like people disrespecting women. Hell, you'd think Elysia would have taught him to be a little more forward in regards to fighting misogyny. 

Pat, pat.

Her steps were so soft, Arno wouldn’t have noticed her if his eyes had been closed all the way. It was Fran, her eyes avoiding him as she sat beside him. Arno faced forward to give her space…until she held something out.

An extra pair of ballet shoes. 

Arno has Eagle Vision yet he never uses it. He should have picked up on her footsteps immediately; it's one of the first things an Assassin learns. If he can't hear her approach in a near quiet theatre, that's his fault. 

“I’m sorry, I can only imagine how much he meant to you.” She said nothing, but Arno wasn’t expecting her to answer. He rubbed the inner rim of the shoe’s opening, “I have a sister; she’s scarier than me, I’ll have you know. She would’ve made him shit his pants.”

He saw the corner of Fran’s mouth lift. He didn’t want to see to confirm. He didn’t want to scare her away.

We really need to stop with the pseudo-incest take here. Arno never considered Elise his sister. They weren't even step siblings. 

In return, Arno kept close to her side in appropriate times and studied the property of the theater a bit more during his breaks. He descried the long panel in the center of the stage, and had been meaning to ask about it.

“Where does that lead?” he tapped Rose’s shoulder, and pointed it.

She squinted, unsure of what he was pointing it before, “Oh! That’s the hatch that leads down to the trap room. We usually store extra props there if needed.”

“Does it lead anywhere?”

“To the backstage, near the alleyway door I believe.”

Glad to see we know where Vince the anime boy disappeared to. Giving away your cards this easily should earn you a trophy.  

“Ahhh…has anyone fallen into it?”

Rose giggled, and shook her head, “Not yet…but there’s always a first time, isn’t there?”

Let me guess. Elysia never bothered to check that room for clues as to where this Neo Templar went. It just 'escaped her mind'. 

The pain in his feet wasn’t as severe as it used to be, and Arno thanked Fran for that whenever he headed over to the Brotherhood for Bellac. Arno did his best to satisfy his mission obligations (that….all ended up traveling for a couple of miles every morning, thanks Mentor). He opted more for scouting missions rather than anything rigorous; this aided the Dorian in investigating nearby locations that could potentially hold a lead to Élise, if any.

Again: Arno has been a member of the Brotherhood for a few years now. Parkour is a demanding physical activity and so is sword fighting. He should not be as tired as he is. 

One morning led his search to drag, to the point he almost showed up late to his dancing session. He walked onto the stage, in full Assassin gear uniform as he stormed across the stage to head to the dressing room-

“O-Oh!” Arno stumbled, catching Fran before they crashed into each other around the bend of the curtain. He held her there, and suddenly she stared at him with doe, piercing eyes. Frozen, like she had been a caught prey. Arno quickly removed his hood, and this immediately calmed her. “It’s me, it’s Arno. I’m sorry I frightened you…”

Now this is more like Arno. Sadly the instances where he acts like himself - let alone like an actual Assassin - are few and far in between.  

Fran held her gaze, and her mouth…suddenly opened.

Was she trying to say something?

“…Fran?”

“Let’s start rehearsal! The play is tomorrow night!” She hastily departed from his side.

Either she knows what an Assassin is or she's a shapeshifter. Anything's possible at this point.

Arno couldn’t shake the feeling away. He couldn’t unsee the expression Fran had. 

You should see my expression. It's been the same since I read Chapter 1. 

Oskar said everything would be fine.

I can’t read, but I know he received letters.

They’re hidden. I still have them.

You can't read French. But you can write in French? How would you be able to know what you're writing in the first place, if you can't read it?

Rose had written these for her.

Arno looked to her, and wanted to ask.

But he knew she wouldn’t tell him.

Fran can't speak. How would be communicate? Ah yes, I forgot. Sign language. Which Rose conveniently knows.  

Fran finally met his glance, and they faced forward again.

Arno sighed, and this deep quake nestled in his throat as he spoke, “….I-I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for whatever he got mixed up in.”

It's your business to know. You mean to tell me you did no research for this? Who does that remind me of?

She stood up at this, and Arno let her pass his bent legs. Though, she faced him one last time, and handed over the last, folded note. He took it with a light pull, they shared one last glance, and Fran was exiting down the row where Rose waited. Arno heard them walking down the stairs.

Arno opened the last note, and his chest stiffened.

The woman will come back.

I will give them to you if I live tomorrow’s performance.

If not, thank you either way.

-Franziska 

Do we know why she's being hunted, or is an Assassination target? She was only introduced in the last chapter. I do not know what importance she has to this sub plot, or to anyone in general, frankly. 

It was the morning of the performance.

But of course, the early dawn beckoned the Dorian somewhere else. 

 Where? Lol you're at home, doing nothing. 

Arno finished with the book Bellac had assigned him, already yawning loud enough to draw tears to the edges of his eyes. No doubt he’ll be awake and alert when the time came, yet another part of him wanted the play to be over and done with to quell his fueled nerves. He had to keep Fran safe today; he had a heavy suspicion that this Vincent was going to make his appearance.

Calling it right now: he's going to come through the trap door where the extra props are stored. Arno is going to conveniently remember it when he's doing pirouettes with the mute Austrian/Polish girl. Someone is going to die, or be gravely injured. Cue a lot of monologues. 

A movement of a body around the shelf got his attention, and for a moment—it was Clement. His back was to him where Arno could see the muscles of his shoulders work, despite the thickness of his vest. It had been a while since he’s seen his fellow Assassin, but something told Arno that Clement preferred being at the Brotherhood versus…being anywhere near him. It…slightly annoyed him…

Maybe Clement will be the top, since Stephen is the boyfriend of the immortal, time traveling Japanese vampire. 

How long as Arno been practicing for this play, anyways? Days? Weeks? That is more than enough time, and Arno can multi-task. For whatever reason, he's relegated to being a dumb ballerina. 

“You have to give Clement more time.”

He needs time to spy on Bellec more, don't you know. 

Stephen was right. Arno couldn’t be mad.

He sighed.

Okay, maybe a little.

He deserves to be. All three of them were tasked with investigating this murder mystery, and only Arno had to be chosen to be a ballerina. Clement was too tall, and Stephen is too much of a goofy English idiot. Despite the added manpower and conflicting goals, no one is getting anywhere. Is anyone shocked at this point?  

“…Hey, Clement,” he greeted with a firm smile and small wave, “Didn’t see you there.”

“Morning.” Clement acknowledged with a small nod, "What are you doing here at the Library....or at all." Had Clement always been here this early, and this was the only time they ever crossed paths?

Arno replied with a small shrug, “I’m a mule for two Masters, unfortunately.”

Assassins visit the library all the time. It's not an exclusive club. They get debriefed there and go to learn more about their targets. 

As for the third statement? Couldn't be any more true. Arno truly is a mule for two masters, and they won't stop until they whip him to death.  

"I can't imagine it being easy." Clement closed his book, turning to him, "....How's the play going?"

Being an Assassin...is not easy. Are we forgetting just what kind of physical training they have to endure, or...? 

Arno kept his tone at bay, “I probably have blisters on my heels now; a small price to pay for a well-going production. Right?”

"So long as you don't need those heels later for anything." Clement reminded, "You're going to be cursing yourself later when you have to run or climb a scaffold."

For the third time: he'd probably already be used to blisters because of parkour. Anyone who does vigorous sport or hard labour deals with them. It's not a unique or exciting thing.

“Maybe I’ll have Elysia fling me to the roof,” he suggested, giving a small grin. “She’s got a good arm.”

Clement offered only a small, breathless laugh and shook his head, "She just might."

She'll throw him to the moon like Tom Brady threw footballs at the Super Bowl.  

“Ahh..right.” There was only so much he could say to continue their natter, knowing he had to meet up with Elysia to tell her the news about Fran. “The performance is tonight, in case you wanted to stop by. You’ll see me dancing, and....on second thought, maybe I’ll save you the eyesore.” He tucked the hood over his head. Why did he get self-conscious all of a sudden?

So. These two will become a pairing. Calling it here and now. 

“Does that mean I have to wear something nice for today?” Stephen laid himself on the stone bench of the garden, tossing a small rock between his hands to occupy his hands. His long bangs swept in the petrichor breeze, the once gray clouds dividing to let the sun lick through.

Petrichor breeze, eh? There's another sign of the author (s) using pretty words improperly. 

“You’re not required to, no,” I replied over, scribbling a note in one of my documents before refilling the quill again. “But I’m not going to stop you.”

"Are you going to be fancy?" he cocked his head up, glancing at me upside-down. "If you do, we can be fancy together."

“Probably not.” He responded with a soft sigh. “The success of the mission depends on us being able to move. I can’t do that well if I’m in a dress.”

You're going to a pretty well off opera. It's required per basic etiquette that you dress nicely. As for Elysia? Women couldn't wear trousers during this period. So you will have to wear a modified dress. 

"Ah, then inconspicuous assassin gear it is for the both of us." Stephen nodded sagely, "Solidarity."

Nothing like announcing to the Templars that you are Assassins. Would have been easy pickings for Shay - oh wait. It was. 

I enveloped another letter, and commenced on the next one, “Have you visited Aki-…Antoine as of late? I’ve thought to pay him a visit soon.”

"Not too recently," Stephen admitted with a defeated sigh. "He’s been busy every time I’ve tried to stop by. Were you wanting company?"

You know, this could have been smoothed over had Elysia asked the immortal Japanese vampire who his clients were. He's not that loyal to them. Even without naming names he could be a boon to the Brotherhood. 

Then I remember that, until three chapters earlier, the Brotherhood wasn't aware of said immortal Japanese vampire as a Templar banker so who fucking knows? 

“It’s Mirabeau; he’s getting restless with his passive aggressiveness, and hasn’t exactly cheered up since my failed attempt of killing your……blood-sucking boyfriend. I need the location of the moved money.”

“Ahh, right right.” Stephen nodded with eyes closed, “You know, I’m hearing a lot shit about Mirabeau when I go to the hideout; not that it hasn’t been briefed on before, but more than usual.”

Mirabeau is a politician, fist and foremost. And he's not as dumb as you think he is. Elysia was tasked with killing a Templar banker, lied that she didn't, and lied (somewhat) about killing a socialite at a party. She's looking mighty suspicious. but of course no one dares call her out because that's making the strong Woman of Colour look bad. 

“A worrying concern of many,” I acknowledged. “We’re going to have to start making a petition about it.”

“I want my name on the first line,” Stephen pointed his hand up. “I call dibs.”

“….What is dibs,” I looked up.

“Well, it means-“

Thud.

Note: Stephen isn't your usual Englishman. He's a time traveling one. He's using modern day slang without a thought or care in the world, and in the very first chapter spoke about the Eiffel Tower, which was not built until 1889. He doesn't speak a lick of French and never bothered to learn while he was in this time period. It's fucking stupid. 

Arno straightened up in his stance, giving his leg a shake, “Good morning, fellow Assassin brethren. I see we’re hard at work.” He stood over Stephen, flapping the peak of his cowl with a swift swat.

That reminds me: what has Stephen done to help this mission go forward? Take it up the ass from his immortal Japanese boyfriend? I'd like a hint. 

"Yup, hard at work detailing the mission." Stephen sent Arno a sharp smile. "You ready for the big day, champ?"

“I either have it and the audience will be blown away by my performance and I will become an overnight star….or it will go down as the worst, rebounded play concocted in history and it was all Arno Victor Dorian’s fault. Hopefully, the first option.”

“…That’s a heavy burden,” I looked up from my paper.

Arno is taking one for the team while everyone else is botching the investigation. Of all the times I want to see Arno in a tight suit this isn't one of them.

He stared right at my eyes, “You have no idea the weight you willingly enforced on my shoulders.”

Of course she doesn't know. Her experiences are much more grueling than yours, you stupid white male. You should check your privilege.  

"Well, break a leg, Arno." Stephen remarked absentmindedly, patting the back of Arno’s thigh.

“That’s….the last thing I want to do, but thanks.”

“It’s a figure of speech-“

“I know it’s a figure of speech-“

There are conflicting accounts as to where 'break a leg' stems from. Some state that it was used in Elizabethan times, others in the early 20th century. In any case, this wouldn't be the term used for plays during this period. Toi toi toi might be used, or something similar. You never wish someone good luck in theatre. They're a superstitious bunch. 

May I ask why Stephen is patting the back of Arno's thigh? Creep. 

“…Coffee, that would be nice.” Orfeo rested the back of his hand against the bottom of his chin, tilting his head with shining, ebony eyes. “Elysia can have some of mine.” Bridgette hurried herself off, and both Arno and Stephen peeked their heads in, looking up and down Orfeo, then to me, and back to him. “…That one of your other boys?” Orfeo asked, thumbing to the duo, particularly to Stephen.

This dude has solidly black eyes and no one thinks he's inhuman? Quite a feat.

“Yes, he is,” I replied, already hearing the deep inhale from the long-haired brunette.

"Awww, I'm your boy?" Stephen said in a touched tone, one hand on his heart and the other wiping away an imaginary tear. "I'm so proud, being part of a collection, my dream come true!"

This reminds me of the Wojack meme. All Stephen is missing is the Funko Pop collection and the distended jaw. Who talks like this?  

Orfeo shot him a glance before meeting me, "I thought you said they were different from each other. I don't see it."

“Well hey there to you tooooo, Orfeo,” Arno cut in, leaning his side against the frame of the balcony doorway. “Long time no see. How you beeeen?”

 Again. Arno doesn't talk like this. Most people don't. Can you imagine talking like this in public? You'd think the person was on meth. Yes, Arno is sassy but he favours witticisms and not...whatever the fuck this is. 

".....Fine,” he squinted accusingly.

Arno squinted right back, stretching his smile, “….Splendid. Well let me be the honored guest to introduce you to my soon-to-be-friend colleague, Stephen. Stephen, this is Orfeo, the baker from the other café that Elysia partnered with.” Arno covered his mouth with the back of his hand, whispering loudly, “He can be moody sometimes, be careful.”

Everyone is moody here. Their characterizations are not consistent. 

That reminds me: Stephen is nearly a carbon copy of Steven from Steven Universe. He has all the annoying mannerisms down pat. 

Stephen covered his mouth back to answer the same, "That's okay, we've dealt with Elysia, moody is fine!"

I narrowed my eyes, “…I heard that-“

Those aren't traits you should be bragging about. Being moody will drastically impact your position as Mentor, because you won't be able to make decisions with a cool head. You won't be rational. Never forget she nearly killed Arno for telling her she made the Café go bankrupt. 

Orfeo scoffed, amused, “They’re your boys, alright.”

That's definitely a compliment. 

“….I’m just going to…” I stood in front of the younger men, giving Arno’s shoulder a light push before pushing the balcony doors inward.

“Hey-hey!” Arno tiptoed, attempting to stick his hand in to halt the barricade. I locked the door for good measure, seeing the silhouette of Arno’s arms flail. The door rattled. “Awww, you ARE moody.”

I held the bridge of my nose, “….Now I need the coffee.”

Yes. A moody Woman of Color, who happens to be a Mentor of the Assassin Brotherhood, who is tasked with missions she never manages to complete, and who gets scores of Assassins killed under her wing. 'Moody' is the nicest thing I can come up with. 

“So what brings you here?” I decided to ask first, scribbling a note down.

"You." Orfeo doesn't miss a beat, humming deliberately, "Whether I can cash in on that chance for a redo."

“…Redo? What re….oh….” My eyes fully averted to him. “The date.” I really hated the fact that I said it so formally…like we were attending some sort of Assassin meeting of our own. “Did you have an….idea, well you would have an idea, considering you’re here. To….tell me the idea-what’s the-“ I sighed, placing the quill down, and folded my hands on the table. “…I’m listening, please continue.”

Remember that classic trope of the strong feminist who needs no man becoming a puddle of goo when a man who doesn't fuck around shows interest in her? You're seeing unfold in real time. Interesting to see a powerful, immortal demi-goddess who can tear apart humans with ease and despises everyone around her get stutter like a malfunctioning diesel engine. 

Orfeo settled the coffee cup and its saucer down on my table, picking out the two tickets folded neatly in his chest pocket. He puts them on top of the saucer and with a little encouragement of his pinky, slid the plate closer.

I recognized the title immediately, “…..The play.” Shit.

Guess you didn't plan on your immortal boyfriend showing up, eh?  

“Didn’t know if you were interested in those kind of things….”

I sighed, “It’s not that.” I sat back, running my hand across my face, “We’re carrying out a mission for this play. I feel terrible if you paid a lot for them, when I could have gotten you in for free”

He could've snuck in. Like most people do. Who's going to stop him?

"Oh, I didn't pay—" he stops himself from finishing that sentence, "Giselle gave them to me. She can’t attend and thought I would find some use for them. Like I said before, I wasn't even sure you like these sorts of things, and it sounds like you already have your hands full with it."

Ugh. Why did…I feel so guilty, all of a sudden.

You never felt guilty when you drove your business - and an Assassin stronghold - to bankruptcy. You never felt guilty when you needed to tell those people they were out of a job. You never felt guilty when James died - but you sure did cry enough to get pity points from your immortal vampire friend. Guilt is for those who genuinely have a conscience. This is mere inconvenience. 

Especially when his voice got soft like that-

It really wasn’t smart of me to keep dragging him further down in this. I knew that.

You don't say? You want a rag for that dripping pussy of yours?  

“You….want to come along?” The question left me before I could stop it. “I uh…still wouldn’t mind, but I tend to gravitate you to dangerous situations with these things. I can imagine that’s not what you had planned.”

No shit? Like you didn't just kill a socialite the other day, and shared a bed with the guy you allegedly hated?  

"Before wasn't planned either. This time, it would be expected it." He hums lowly as he crosses his rigid arms, sweeping them in a fluid motion out of habit. "I'm assuming your boys are going to be there, too?"

Yes, it was. Improvised, yet still planned. You dressed for the party, you got in, you tripped an alarm, you escaped. There was a plan. 

“This time, yes,” I briefed. The more I answered, the less he looked interested. “I have two on watch, and Arno is going to be the lead in the play.”

"...............Him??" Orfeo demands, pointing accusingly. "HE’S going to be the lead in the play?"

Yes, the twink is the ballerina. You're shocked?  

"That's what I just said."

"......I have to go now," Orfeo relents with an tickled grin. "I need to see with my own two eyes."

I almost snorted, “Did Arno’s theatrical performance reel you into a date? I can’t believe it.”

"I’ve committed to crazier things with little to no reason." He turned to me again, and offers a sly, charming smile, "Does that mean you're going to wear a dress??"

“…It’s not really a date if I don’t dress for the occasion, right?” I sat back, opening my arms in a accepting gesture. “I also don’t think bloodied clothes is going to match what you’re going to wear.”

She just told Stephen she wouldn't wear a dress because she can't fight in one. Two, what's crazier than a play? Murdering a random Templar socialite we'll never hear from again? Attending a play to intercept another assassination? I don't know. I'm at a loss for words.  

He teased further, “Gonna hide some weapons on you?”

“You better careful of where you touch.”

"Is that a promise?"

I rolled my eyes, “…Sure.”

Just pack some catnip and a vibrator and you're good to go, my dude.  

"Oh come on now." He hunched forward, leaning his lower arms on the table, and curving the rest of his lean body in a dipping arch. He smiles (that nice smile) with a tilt of his head, and my mind is reeling at the sight of it, “Can't go without the dangers of finding out more."

The mental image I got from reading this was a bending Mcdonald's French fry. Not the best choice of words, friend.  

“We’ll see how lucky you get then,” I lifted the coffee cup to my lips, catching his gaze. “I’ll also make sure you live through it. Being a considerate date and all.”

"I appreciate it, but they'd have to try really hard to get me."

Easy. You know the quickest way to defeat this immortal? Burnt bread. 

“How very brave of you.” I set the cup down, “Anything else I can help you with?”

"Might have to starve off some temptation to steal another kiss from you since you have your kids around...but I can manage to wait."

My jaw set, “They’re not my kids.”

You're right. They're not your kids. They're your accessories.  

"Sorry, your boys."

I sighed.

“See you there?”

“….Yup.” I rubbed my cheeks off when he finally left. The image of his smirk burrowing itself into my mind. I took a moment, finished the rest of the coffee, and opened the door of the balcony.

Only to find both Arno and Stephen standing right next to each other….grinning broadly. My eye twitched.

Uh oh. The Woman of Colour is about to whoop some white boy ass. 

"Soooooo...guess we’re not wearing Assassin gear….entirely.”

You're supposed to be dressed as a ballerino, to protect a mute ballerina in a plot that still hasn't been explained, btw.  

Arno leaned, “Be careful where you put those hidden-OW!”

My hand met his face flatly, “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice??”

Aren't you supposed to be gathering info on Shay Cormac, bitch?  

“….MHMM,” he grumbled in my palm, withdrawing his face and giving it a gentle rub, “Ow…everyone is going to have to see this face tonight. Not after all the hard work I’ve put in. Hard, grueling hours being constantly yelled at….”

As if working under Elysia hasn't trained you for this. Can we stop with this ridiculous Naruto choreography? Real people don't do this. 

“That doesn’t explain why you’re not at practice,” I emphasized with hands gripping my hips.

Doesn't explain why Clement is there, but he doesn't get nearly as much heat as Arno because he's special.  

“Oh, right.” Arno cleared his throat, fixing his hood properly, “I managed to break through to Fran. She revealed to me that her brother met with an Assassin.”

“….An Assassin?” I narrowed my eyes.

“She doesn’t know who specifically it was, but she recognized him when she saw me in my gear.”

You know, this shouldn't shock anyone if they had done proper intelligence gathering. Elysia is an Assassin Mentor and she doesn't know the ins and outs of her network. When she's not acting like a wannabe badass, what is she doing? She's looking at papers and notes other people gather for her, and then she promptly forgets or disregards what's on them. This is why James died. 

Stephen lifted a finger, "Could it have been Shay? Mirabeau isn't dumb enough to have non-Templar citizens killed off, surely."

“I…I don’t think it’s Shay. I truly believe it was an Assassin who met with her brother, and this Vincent person caught wind of their connection. That then resulted in Oskar’s death.”

So a Templar is killing non Templar citizens to send a message. Not sure why anyone is acting shocked at this because Templars kill civilians all the time. Likewise for Assassins. 

I pressed, “Did she tell you anything else?”

“She said there were letters exchanged between Oskar and this Assassin, but she doesn’t know what they say.”

No shit because she can't read or write, and she's mute. Next to useless.  

“Is she willing to part with them?” I urged next.

“No. She believes the perpetrator from before will come back tonight for them. She said she’ll give them to me if she manages to live through the performance,” Arno frowned.

Why are you frowning? You knew Vince would come back. You knew his job wasn't done. Why haven't you planned for this outcome? Or are you this stupid? I'm going with option B, because any competence the White Male has is overruled by the power of the Epic Brown Woman.  

Stephen grimaced at that, straining his lips back to expose the uneased clench of his teeth, "We'd best make sure she lives, shouldn't we?"

That's quite graphic, I must say. Is he mimicking Jerma?  

“We’re counting on that,” I answered. Arno’s troubled face remained. “What is it?”

“I don’t…I don’t understand why an Assassin would be involved in any of this, and be the cause of death for her brother? That’s so unfair to her. I hate that something so tragic happened to Franziska just because it had something to do with….us.” He exhaled tiredly at that. “With Assassins. You should’ve seen the look on her face when she saw me wearing my outfit….”

Buddy. Buuuuuudy. Are you forgetting Shay Cormac was once an Assassin? It's against the Creed to harm an innocent yet it happens all the time. Arno has been with the assassins for two years and can't comprehend this? Le sigh. 

 “It may have to do with Assassins, but that doesn’t mean we’re directly responsible for what happened.” He met my eyes at this, and I nodded to soothe his heavy frown. “We’re going to find out what happened, and give her the closure she deserves.”

“….Right. You’re right.”

She's literally not. Remember, she didn't tell anyone about Shay because she didn't know who he was. even when faced with dozens dead due to his actions, she decided not to inform her recruits. She is directly responsible for James' death. She's a murder machine, alright.  

“And we’re going to be there to make sure nothing else happens,” Stephen hooked an arm around Arno’s waist, giving him a teasing shake, “You can trust in us!”

Maybe he can use his time traveling gay vampire boyfriend as backup. 

Arno chuckled, holding onto the arm for support, “Alright then. I have to get going, or else the director is going to have a heart attack.”

“You’ll be doing everyone a favor,” I joked. “We’ll be there soon, blended in with the rest of the crowd.”

“Good luck on your date,” Arno grinned deviously.

My eyes squinted, “…Maybe you will break a leg.”

I'm hoping that in one of these chapters someone is going to break yours. It'll be mightily entertaining.  

“This is so exciting!” Charlotte practically dug herself into the pile of dresses, checking each individual one to inspect its condition. Unsatisfied, they were dumped nearby at her feet while the potential ones were flatted out on a crate beside. It didn’t take long for her to catch wind of my upcoming evening with Orfeo, and something told me Arno mentioned it right before he left because the next very second-

“And this one, and this one!”

What I've noticed about these NPC characters is that they all have the same character mannerisms, behaviour, and body language from a Kingdom Hearts game. The adults do not act like adults. The kids are grating to the point you'd gouge out your own eyes, and the men are cucks. Charlotte Gouze does not act like this. She's a weathered, mature middle aged woman. She is not going to squeal like a teenage girl over Magic Woman of Colour and her boyfriend. 

Charlotte had pulled me to the attic to look for a dress the second the café slowed down in business, Stephen in tow.

“She’s definitely getting into it,” Stephen grinned, seating himself near the makeshift cushioned couch near the windowsill.

I like how the Café managed to keep all those dresses yet Elysia couldn't save it from failing as a business. 

After much deliberation did Charlotte and Stephen decide on a piece, Charlotte aiding the back threads of the corset. The top section was striped red, and fastened with two columns of coffee buttons aligning down the center of where the fabric met the lower, beige-cotton skirt of the dress. Around the neckline were rounded flaps, and the ones on the shoulders particularly curving to sharpen the dress’s silhouette. The cuffs were pulled back and buttoned, and a rare, silky puff emerged from beneath the squared lining of the bust.

A shame the costume has more personality than the character it's covering up.  

After strapping several weapons along my legs, waist, and the hidden blade in my usual placement did I depart with a casually dressed Stephen. A nice, old-fashioned jacket tightened around his waist, and his slender figure was enough to slip in these news trousers Charlotte had bought the week prior. Funnily enough, we matched the dark reds so well it could’ve been mistaken that Stephen was in fact, accompanying me for the night.

That isn't acceptable attire. He'd need a waistcoat, vest, undershirt, the whole shebang. You simply wouldn't wear a tuxedo. 

Note on 'slender figure'. He's really the bottom, isn't he? 

“You ever went on a date before?” he asked curiously.

“A long time ago,” I answered, making sure the ends of the dress didn’t drag across the ground. “You could say I’m out of practice. Any advice?”

I'd suggest 'don't be a cunt', but that ship has sailed.  

He tapped his chin, "Be yourself. If your date doesn't like you at your worst, then they're not for you even at your best."

“…Huh.” I wonder when my worst will be then- 

How about:

- Nearly driving your employees to bankruptcy and poverty all because you couldn't look at profit ledgers. 

- Sending your recruits to suicide death traps, and insulting one more than the others so he could 'learn a lesson'.  

- Be an Assassin Mentor yet know nothing about its history, and promptly kill dozens with your incompetence. 

As an added bonus: the 'If you can't handle me at my worst, you can't handle me at my best' is peak e-girl rhetoric. 

“Hey, is that Clement??”

Indeed, it was.

His bulky arms were camouflaged by a dark, emerald tailcoat, and his thick neck hidden with white linen that covered the opening of his blouse. He too sported similar colored trousers as Stephen, and accompanied by his Assassin boots that had been polished clean for the occasion. And, last but not least—

Clement seems to be more accurate for the occasion, yet I can't shake the feeling they're dressed in more modern attire than the attire worn at the time. But maybe that's just me. 

"Thank you." Clement cleared his throat, rubbing at the inside of his wrist while craning his neck slightly forward, Eugene eagerly attempting to crawl out for more pets. "I wasn't...certain if I had anything really to wear. I debated whether to attend or not."

You've got money for Assassin attire but not civilian attire. OK.  

“Now that you are, you’re going to witnesses Arno truly in his element,” a chuckle emitted from my lips. “And provide further cover.” I briefed our plan: Stephen was assigned the right side of the theater, and Clement would take the left. That would leave Arno in the backend of the structure, and I would cover the exit area.  

You gotta love the continued snubs. Not as if he's been with you for two years, doing anything. Ah, I forgot: he's just a mule for you and Bellec.  

After further explanation, “We keep an eye out for anyone fitting Vincent’s description. Any questions?”

“And if this Vincent doesn’t show?”

I looked to Clement with a slanted smirk, “Then we all came to morally support Arno and his theatrical debut. Like the good team that we are.”

Easy. He's a cross-dressing blonde anime Templar. Just look for the raindrop emoticon. And if you're not sure he's going to be there, this really was a waste of time, no? Shows you didn't plan ahead. 

"His first and last performance, how tragic," Clement teased, patting Eugene's head down.

“That’s show biz for you,” Stephen sighed, giving a nonchalant shrug. “It was never meant to last. Let’s go in, Clement, get ourselves ready.”

If you had suspicions the Templar wasn't going to show, why stage this whole thing? It defeats the purpose. But I guess you needed that additional word space, right? 

“Already?” Clement raised a brow.

Stephen cupped his arm, and swept him toward the front door packed with the awaiting audience, “Elysia’s got a date! Don’t want to get in the way.” He purposely turned to face me one, winked and gave a thumbs up. I could’ve sworn I saw Clement’s eyes widen, unsure if he heard right.

He whispered urgently, “In the middle of a mission???”

You're shocked the Mary Sue has a guy ready to dick her? I'd be surprised too. Anything's possible.  

Questioning many things, many instances of how everything leading up to right now came to be. Of being again in France. Of seeking something more with Orfeo. I had to make the motions. I had to start somewhere.

'Again'? Well that's the second time you don't know jack shit about it. 

The flicker of Darkness emerged from the distance, streams of wisps blending into the air when Orfeo came into better view. His night bangs framed his obsidian eyes, and they gleamed of hidden constellations when they caught my look.

So he's a literal black hole, sucking everything into his ultra-dense core. Makes sense.  

His jacket looked much like a uniform, but the edges were embellished in dark-gold, floral forms; the cuffs of the sleeves almost gleamed when the sunset’s slumbering light hit them, especially on the metal buttons that fastened upwards on the right side. A much cleaner ascot of ash-color was tucked to further brighten the embroidered, folded collar. Beneath, a tighter, snowy blouse was slipped in his black pants and accompanied with tall, ebony boots.

It would be a lie to say I wasn’t impressed with how he looked. He was a good-looking man.

It’s in the genes, I bet.

The word 'gene' didn't emerge until 1909. Is Elysia a time-traveler like Stephen or is the author just a dumbass? I'll go with the latter. 

“You sure like to make a statement,” I greeted, seeing the surrounding women looking to Orfeo’s way when they had the opportunity.

"It's not every day I have to dress up willingly." He returns the sentiment, studying my outfit before his gaze curved up with mine, "You look stunning, possibly devastating if I knew everything you had hidden from the naked eye."

“That’s very nice of you to say,” I replied calmly a moment after, resting my hands on the front of my corset, thumbing the tight thread there. “….Thank you.”

Mark this down as the pivotal moment when the strong, 'I can do anything I want' and 'Don't need no man' Mary Sue starts getting wet for a man. You hate to see it. 

"The pleasure is all mine," He pressed his arm to his chest, and bowed ever so slightly. My jaw almost dropped at his genteel, courteous manner. He straightened up and extended an arm out to me, smiling lightly, "So, shall we?"

I felt my cheeks smear pink….and I took his arm kindly. Soon, the doormen allowed the attending audience inside one by one, checking everyone’s tickets and most particularly, the men who fit the description we gave them. Easily, they let both Orfeo and I inside, and we took to the staircase that led to the balcony above.

See what I mean? Ultra feminists hate men but they love it when one that doesn't take their shit acts nice to them. Panties get dropped, nipples get hard, headboards get broken. You love to see it.

“I heard the main actor died on the stage! Due to jealousy and rage!” one, white-wigged woman fanned herself with her straw hat, her accompanied guests gasping at the reveal.

“Completely absurd,” her date crossed his arms with a huff. “They merely wanted to sell more tickets for this one performance, I’m sure.” Naturally, Orfeo and I ignored them.

Maybe you don't know this but opera types thrive on drama. It's part of their culture. And it would definitely sell more tickets. Would've been integral to pay attention.  

"....Not exactly these theaters." Orfeo took a look around to examine the towering draperies and the murmuring guests below, "I prefer the ones outdoors...where they used to hold comedies or tragedies. Might've not been a hundred percent invested but they were a good way to pass the time."

You're hosting plays? Since when? You nearly fired everyone with your bullshit.  

“Then I’m surprised you haven’t come over to the manor in the middle of the day; Charlotte loves to hire those constantly,” I noted, crossing my leg over the other and fixing the dress to slip over my adjustment. “Then again, you’re working all day. Does that mean they let you go early because of today’s play?”

Probably because he fucked up his orders and it was decided it would be better if the black women did his job.  

I looked back, “You’re right.” Gods, he looked good.

God, I can smell you from here.  

The chamber continued to fill until all tickets were accounted for. The blood-red curtains of the stage remained stone-like. I could catch the pitter patter of rushing feet behind it, the upstage being set in its final preparation. I exhaled out, eyes shifting along the crowd. To find the attacker named Vincent.

To make sure he didn’t claim another student in the name of Shay.

Didn't bother to check the floorboards, did you? Or the hidden rooms where the costumes are held? That would've saved you the trouble.  

“Hey.” Orfeo’s palm held my tightened fist, and I didn’t expect his rough thumb to circle my tight veins caressingly. “You okay?”

I loosened my grip, and swallowed, “….Thinking.”

“About?” he eased in.

“James.”

"So Arno." Orfeo translated to me, "Secretly hoping he doesn't fall in the same path as your former student?"

“None of them. Not again. I….” My eyes shut. “I can’t do that again.”

You will. You have. James is dead all because you didn't learn who Shay was, and once you did, you downplayed the threat. You spent all that time doing nothing. James died because you didn't warn him and promptly blamed it on Arno, who did learn what he was capable of. Spare me your crocodile tears. 

Orfeo remains largely mute, gazing out towards the stage before sighing softly, offering me a small squeeze, "That's why we're here...it won't happen again. 'Sides, Arno's a little too lithe to get taken down. I should know, I saw how fast he ran from you."

Lithe but never muscular, because we can't have him overpower this Mary Sue. 

That lifted the pressure from my chest a bit, “Very funny.”

He offered a small smile, “Always.” What a nice smile it was.

It's enough to get your pussy wet, for all the trouble you've caused. 

The conductor arrived in the center of the stationed podium, and the seated orchestra beneath him stood up to attention. The light on the stage remained, and the conductor faced the audience, giving a low bow. The attendees clapped, and finally the conductor turned toward the stage. He tugged his sleeves down, tapped his wand against the podium, and raised his arm.

Hope these lights aren't electric. It's a major detail that cannot be overlooked.  

She was gorgeous, and the dancer I saw before had almost evolved to this woman who almost looked beyond human. Her hair was once again in this tight bun, sleeked back where a long ribbon flagged behind her with each movement she made. The sleeves of her outfit were thin enough to reveal the silhouette of her long arms. Her lands were silent. Born for this, made for this.

They didn't wear skin tight suits at this time. There'd be a lot of poofy skirts. 

"Relax, it's just intermission." Orfeo reminded, "Do you need to go check on your team? See if they saw something unusual?"

“No. They would’ve signaled something.” I laid back against the cushioned seat, trying to fix the curls underneath my hat. “I wouldn’t want to raise suspicion this far in.”

Here's what I don't get: Elysia and Orfeo can see the 'Twilight'. They can detect evil at the drop of a hat. Yet they can't detect a blond Templar who's glaringly obvious in a crowd. You know Arno has Eagle Vision, right? 

"Makes sense. You said you're looking for the guy that was at the party Pierre's wife was hosting?"

“Yes. He’s part of the group we’re after, currently. There’s more to it but maybe I shouldn’t discuss it openly here.” I fiddled with the cuff of my sleeve, eying his own, “You always have that? Or did you borrow it like mine?” 

You didn't bother telling Orfeo that the socialite you killed in Chapter 20 was a Templar, did you? Guess that would give away the game too easily.  

His smirk fell apart, replaced with a genuine smile, "You look good in red."

“The red hair might have something to do with it,” I relented with hot cheeks.

OK who brought the Summer's Eve?

It smelled nice, “Something like that.” He smelled so nice. Of ash and coffee and something musky. His hand was so hot and tender. Was this how he normally was? No, the same man who threatened to kick me out of his shop multiple times was now caressing me like we had always been this way? That he always smiled like that? 

He's got that Old Spice whiff. Be sure to smell deeply so you can forget the reason why you're there.  

“You took the effort to dress up. It’d be a shame to not compliment you.” I pressed my lips together faintly, exhaling through my nose. “You don’t do it often?”

“Do you think you’ll be happy, choosing this path?”

“…No, I don’t,” I confessed.

“What made me so special?”

It's a shame that these characters are not as special as the authors insist they are. It has to be shown. So far the textual evidence proves these people are horrible protagonists. Not even worth the shit under my boots.  

“You look…much better like this.” His hand never left mine. “You actually look like yourself.”

I swallowed roughly, brows a tad furrowed underneath the shade of my hat, and the darkness enveloping the theater, “…Who do you think I am, Orfeo?”

A bitch. 'Nuff said. 

"Who do I think you are?" Orfeo repeated as if trying to pick apart my riddle. "That's a gambler's bet. Could be a lot of things since I don't have the whole picture yet..."

Easy way of saying, 'I don't know.'

“But you have a gist of it,” I reminded him. To move away his curiosity.

He chuckled deeply, “I’m not satisfied with only that.” His fingers hooked, and they intertwined with mine. Locking them together.

Oh…..dear.

Oh dear is right. The gist of this character, in 200,000 words, is a selfish, one-dimensional bitch who only gets what she wants because she's brown. There, I said it. She takes away from other characters because she's an entitled brown bitch.  

“There’s always something more to you then meets the eye.” He didn’t backdown. “I want to know what’s going on inside your head…”

You sure that’s a good idea?

I said nothing, but my blush was enough to tell him I didn’t have any sort of comeback to that. Instead, he settled on easing himself in his chair, and continue to brush my hand with the motion he was doing before (how undeniably good it felt).

What's going on inside her head is a whirlwind of emotions, and all of them are involve self pity. She never takes accountability for what she does and never views herself as a problem. She ruins lives and abuses her power but hey, she's an epic brown character! Don't criticize her! Look at how she gets wet for the hot guy! 

Fran turned, and this relaxing expression settled along her once, cold face. A forbidden smile enveloped there, and it increased when Arno and her finally circled each other, both of them on their toes and endearingly gazing at one another.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Orfeo whispered beside, almost covering his mouth and staring bewildered.

They took each other’s hands, and the music swelled.

I suspect this has to do with Orfeo 'knowing' Arno is really gay. That or he didn't think men could be good at ballet. Who knows.  

Creak.

The violins picked up louder. They spun faster and faster; Arno’s face locked onto Fran. Fran onto Arno. 

“Excuse me, I’m trying to watch-“ a movement below.

“Do you mind, sir??”

My eyes widened, and I stood up.

This is what I don't get. Elysia, and by extension Orfeo, have superior hearing. Yet it is at this moment, when the orchestra is at its loudest, that she can hear a nearly inaudible creak. Yet she couldn't hear Shay sneaking up on her, and she can't use this unique ability.

Makes absolute sense. 

“Will you sit down?!” the woman behind be whispered urgently, following with another hushed protest beneath.

“Elysia-“ Orfeo’s voice followed after me as I ventured out. The dark hallway became visible when I blinked once, turning my eyes to silts. Orfeo tried to follow—

Here's another unique ability: she can see in the dark, yet couldn't see or hear when guards were sneaking up on her when she was assassinating the socialite in Chapter 20. She has never used this night vision before.

The violins reached their climax, and Arno kept his eyes on Fran….and slowly looked over to the individual raising his arm. Fran was out in arm’s reach. Arno’s face contorted, and his voice was muffled in the strings of the violins. Fran’s face paled. He didn’t hesitate, and tugged her immediately behind him.

CLICK-

My arm raised, and the dagger was flicked with precision. The trigger finger retracted-

CLANG!

Gotta hand it to pseudo John Wilkes Boothe: nothing like going into an opera house, announcing your presence, for an assassination and using a weapon notorious for poor accuracy. 

The broken pistol shot out of focus. The music fell, and the crowd gasped and shot their frustrated glances over to our positions as the lights of the theater brightened.

And then you kill someone with the ricochet.  

I straightened up, pulling out another weapon in hand, “Turn around, Vincent!”

The tall figure slumped their embedded shoulder down, grunting as they reached back, plucking out the dagger I had thrown. They gave it a good look before dropping it to the ground, murmuring gently and kicking it away.

“Oh, this happens occasionally.” The cloak covering them dropped to the ground, revealing their true identity to the perplexed crowd of naïve spectators. My eyes narrowed dangerously, readying my stance. The woman released her long, blonde braid and clutched the axe that had been strapped on her back, “Vincent is actually my twin brother.”

Ain't that a twist? At least I got the cross dressing part right. But that reminds me: when I was going back through this post to fix some editing issues, I noticed this: when Fran is passing the notes to Arno, she mentioned that it was a woman, not a man, who visited her dead brother. Arno never mentioned this to Elysia, even though this is within his character to notice minute details. They could have learned then and there that they weren't looking for a man, but a woman. This is a pretty big detail to overlook. You just gave your subplot away; that is, if you even remember what it was to begin with. 

Arno, supposedly, had Fran’s notes. Why didn’t he refer to them or use them? It was obvious they weren’t dealing with another Assassin. It says right there in her notes, ‘The woman will come back.’

About this Black Swan ripoff subplot here: it took around 20,000 words to set this up. We don’t know Fran’s importance to the crime overall, but it’s suggested her brother Oskar did something noticeable for the Templars to act action. There was no investigation to determine what Oskar’s worth was; it was just assumed he was important.

Elysia is in charge of the operation yet she hasn’t done any background research. This is par the course for her. She wasn’t aware Fran could not read or write French, and she wasn’t aware of the hidden passages beneath the stage where Vincent’s twin sister could’ve emerged from. That detail was overlooked as well. The John Wilkes Boothe impersonator opted to take the front and centre stage, giving herself away, and leaving her open to be attacked. It’s the worst form one can take for a hitman.

Speaking of terrible form: this kind of twist is soap opera worthy. When you run out of ideas, or need to redeem or introduce another villain, you make someone a twin or introduce a twin. Then we see how dastardly evil they are before they get their inevitable redemption plot. I’ve watched enough General Hospital to know where this ends up.

The thing is, this didn’t need 20,000 words. It could have been done in under 5,000. Introduce the crime scene, and then set up the confrontation. Les doesn’t know how to accurately plot or choreograph her story. She thinks writing details that ultimately don’t matter or introduce Assassinations that have no greater effect on the story is fine. How much of this work could have been slimmed down, had she taken someone’s advice to cut the bullshit?

I managed to skim through her first story, as well as peek at the ending. It’s filled with nothing but teary eyed monologues and dialogues, prolonging it will past its expiration date. She doesn’t realize scenes like that don’t need an entire thesis posted on the screen. Never go to greater lengths when you don’t have to.

This applies to this work as well. Was anything accomplished? In one paragraph we discovered the murderer was really a twin, but the detail and set up was already there when the mute ballerina told Arno a woman met her brother. This could have been solved without Arno training to be a ballerino – which will just serve as a bad memory and as a front step to his eventual gay degeneracy – and without the romance plot Les is shoehorning with her terrible Mary Sue and the anime boy.

This is clocked at 210,000 words. There have been very few mentions of canon characters like Connor or Aveline, who were introduced in the first chapter and have not been mentioned since. All other notable French figures and politicians come second to the whims and desires of the Magical Woman of Colour. Her struggles aren’t human, aren’t sympathetic, and aren’t genuine. She cries to get pity for herself, rather than genuinely want to change. She doesn’t mature, she just gets older. She doesn’t extend her skills to the Creed, she just acts as if she’s better than everyone else.

It’s the worst case of projection I’ve ever seen. It’s the case of a Latina who desperately wants to be insightful and honest with her work. Sad to say no one bothered to tell her that she’s got barrels of smoke up her ass, and that her lesbian identity sure isn’t applying here with her Mary Sue. I really do wonder if she re-reads this and understands what she’s doing.

Then again, if her idol, AOC, can craft a story about being sexually assaulted and attacked in a building she was not even remotely within a block of, we can get something like this. Expect 20,000 more words of an insensible murder plot – among other things. 

What you can't outright steal, you bastardize. It's the way she blows, boys.