satin birds — marcus & yan
Jun 18, 2023 12:06:08 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 18, 2023 12:06:08 GMT -5
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Mother,
Time passes quickly here. The strange tedium of routine makes the days short. I try to fill my free time with useful things, less I grow stagnant in pattern.
I think I'm the only person who actually reads at OCS, at least beyond the compulsory peacekeeping doctrines and field manuals. Lately, I've been interested in books written by commanders of the First Rebellion, and I'm becoming extremely proficient in land navigation. It is never enough to only know your enemy. Terrain is always the third force in any battle. I have dissected the treatise on the rebel invasion a dozen times now – the failure is always in the route they chose.
Nine is as abysmal as ever. It rains with torrential fury, as if even mother nature despises the district like a stubborn stain on her earth. The streets have been sludge for weeks, and I can't imagine a season reminiscent of the delicate spring I grew up with. The academy is nice of course, but there's a perpetual shabbiness that seems stitched into the fabric of the district. I have the most indescribable ambition to leave, but not without what I came for.
These days, they only send special forces or graduates of colleges to the Capitol. The academy informed me that I'll be eligible to continue my studies there as an officer if I graduate high enough on the merit list and keep myself competitive.
I know you are worried for my well-being, but that is why I stay at Nine now instead of stationing as a private in One. I view this not as a setback but as a method to further distinguish myself from the hoi polloi. (Some laughable thing from Twelve gawked at a computer on his first day here. Archaic. I have no idea how he passed the examination.)
I know my father has been busy after the industry change. I haven't heard from him recently, but I hope the conversion of the refining factory was successful. I imagine he must be under tremendous stress with business, but let him know that I am available to call in the evenings on Sundays if he ever needs me.
Mother, I hope you are well. Give my best to Phil. You can rest assured knowing I am doing excellent at school and training.
Yours,
Marcus
♦
Spring is ugly in Nine.
When the snow finally melts, the buildings are rust-bitten from the lick of frost, metal corrugated, the windows streaked with a black film of dirt. Like everything else in Nine, it's terribly drab if not murderously unpleasant. The sharp new peacekeeping academies look brutal in the decrepit landscape, hulking in concrete.
They go over the same narrative, the same conversations in old bars on their nights off, the irritation of being stationed in backwater Nine that borders on something treasonous but never quite. It's a benign displeasure. Their complaints never veer into criticism of the Capitol.
Because it's Nine itself that Marcus hates of course, and it's their corruption that made it entirely impossible for the Capitol to not intervene. They were here, not because of the fault of the High Council, but because of Nine's criminal citizens.
Still, it's fucking awful.
In April, the smog finally relents to a splinter of blue sky as the factories shutter. The same night, Marcus sees Yan Li on stage. He's dressed in a rippling cerulean silk, dazzling in jewelry, face painted like a flower. The old warehouse washes clean in the glow of him.
He feels his stomach lurch painfully as the light becomes pure and blinding, and it's strange how he suddenly, unquestionably feels like Yan's presence could turn all things precious silver.
There is a viciously simple feeling. He wants him. And like all things in his life, what he wants, he gets.
Spring in Nine.
♦
First, it's a dozen red roses.
And then two dozen the week after. But a stagehand simply takes them after the show, and Marcus never catches that elusive glimpse of Yan Li after he steps off the stage.
The third week, he chooses a bunch of teal carnations wrapped in gold paper.
The interior of the opera house resembles the luxury he knew in Two, albeit faintly, but the exterior has none of the architectural flourishes of a true palatial space. He observed this the first time, how they dressed it up with soft velvet and fine wood, filled it with well-dressed patrons and expensive décor. And yet, in it's foundation, in it's beams, it remains a warehouse. He doesn't care for it. Nor does he really care for the arias or the costumes.
This time, he makes his way towards the backstage with a singular intention, dressed in his pristine peacekeeper uniform, bored of waiting for acquiescence. The rest of the peacekeepers pay him no attention, already heading towards the bar, stretching their limbs from the long sit. Soon, they would get drunk and forget all about his absence.
Warily, the other guests clear a path for him. A stagehand collects the flowers; he looks at him expectantly, arms outstretched to receive the bouquet. But Marcus rolls his shoulders back slightly with a lazy, tilted smile.
"I want to deliver these to Mr. Li myself."
The kid stares at him, stuttering to a stop.
He glances slightly to the left of him, before returning his gaze with palpable nervousness. "Sir, let me ask, please wait a moment –"
And Marcus smiles a little wider, showing teeth. He speaks with an idle kind of drawl, the Two accent just barely perceptible. "Funny. I don't remember asking." Two years in boarding school with the esteemed elite hides his spitefulness behind leisure, casual until it feels like a blow to the stomach.
The stagehand pales, eyes furiously darting between his left and Marcus. Another man finally materializes into the empty space the boy had been staring it.
He watches this new person appraise the situation. Somehow, this man feels even easier to bully, hunched over without being hunched over, as if his spine is perpetually wound-up from stress. Something about him resembles a skittish creature. He watches how his eyes brush quickly across his chest, but the bouquet willfully hides the officer candidate insignia on his uniform.
"Sir," the man attempts, tries the title, and Marcus makes no indication of acknowledgement or correction. Instead, he laughs lightly. "The backstage seems to require more security clearance than a Capitol building." He clasps his hand on the man's shoulder, becoming impatient, smile nearly a sneer. "I'm sure there's no reason a peacekeeper can't see one of the civilians he's devoted himself to protecting?"
There's a satisfaction in watching his face flush, that heavy, filling smugness. He very badly wants to laugh at the bug-eyed expression on his face.
"Oh, no sir, of course not," he manages, tense underneath his hand. But Marcus is feeling generous today, he allows for the briefest moment of interlude, loosening his grasp, and hastily the man gathers himself and shoos the stagehand away — "Inform Yan he has a visitor." The words are hissed between a laboured smile.
A sheen of sweat coats his forehead. Marcus gives his shoulder a pat, turning pleasant again. He's somewhere between boyish and wolfish, polite and ill-tempered, a terror beneath a burnished gold surface. Now, he tilts up his chin and flashes a grin.
"Good, I'm glad we got it figured out."
He's led through a colourful mess, but hardly pays attention to it. Nothing catches his attention in the disorder, largely ignoring the brief tour as the troupe leader, which he introduced himself as, gives snippets of information about the various operations of the opera ("We've been performing since before the war! Recently revived, but peacekeepers have always been welcomed"). It's tiresome honestly, boring, and Marcus says nothing until they reach a marked door.
"Yan Li is our first dan, as you know," Cao (Carl?) comments and he looks so tense that Marcus wonders if he'd shatter if he was touched again. He's itching to test this theory, when the man carefully turns and knocks lightly at the door.
"Mr. Spencer is here," he calls out.
It's not really a lie. He's almost guaranteed to graduate, and none of his seniors are around to scold him. Besides, it isn't like any of these people were going to dare correct him. He smooths out his uniform, squaring his shoulders pointedly.
"Officer," he interjects. "Lieutenant."