No Such Thing As Civil

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Bralen, despot Drench King

Boots beat a rhythm against the enclosed alleys, a solid thu-thump from a relatively small frame, purpose doing more than the draped jacket to fill the stifled space and send others scattering. Not that many know the ways into this place, snaking through the bowels of the Neon Alley like a parasite.

Bralen knows exactly where they’re going.

There’s no warning before the door they stop in front of us unlocked and opened, copies made long ago, though for the drama the youngest Drench King doesn’t open the door fully, just enough to (probably) not break anything when they kick it open. “Hey! Old man!” The door is kicked closed again, silent footsteps carrying them closer to the man sitting on the other side of the room.

“I need you on my side.” All of that intense purpose is suddenly focused, nearly cutting, Bralen not even blinking until they get an answer.

Silas, pod Drench King

He’s in the middle of something he, at the very least, deems important. So when the door kicks open, Silas is on the other side of the room, papers scattered about his desk, immensely unused to people barging their way in. The pen on the paper streaks across in a line as his heart thunders, hand clenching for a hidden compartment on his desk for a gun when his dark gaze lifts.

Immediately, the thought of protecting himself is gone in an instant as he surveys them — not unlike a disappointed dad. “I told you to fucking knock next time.” He grits out, exhaling a sigh, sliding the paper he’d been writing on off to the side to give them his full attention.

“What do you want?” He asks, tilting his head, hands folding in front of him on the worn wooden desk.

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Bralen, despot Drench King

Rolled eyes and a scoff are the first answers to the chastisement, Bralen’s arms crossing over their chest. Their chin lifts and their back straightens ever so slightly, despite the carefree attitude they try to project. There is a reason they’ve come to Silas first. “Next time. This is this time.” It’s splitting hairs, a game they play with each other often.

“I want you to stand with me and talk to Serkli.” Adjusting their flowing jacket, Bralen looks down at themself then back up towards Silas, a determined frown pinching their lips. “If it’s just me she won’t listen, but if it’s me and you it looks better to her, right?” At least, it looks better than just Baby Bralen going and making an appeal.

Silas, pod Drench King

Silas regards them with a quiet curiosity (and exasperation, if he’s being completely honest with himself), and lets his brows pinch in an air of confusion when they announce that they want to talk to Serkli. For what exactly, he doesn’t know just yet. So he runs a hand through his greying hair, leans back in his seat as the wood creaks.

“Talk to her about what, exactly?” He needs the details if he’s to help them with this endeavour they seem so passionate about. Maybe it’ll be something easy and he can get back to work? He can only dream. It doesn’t help that the determined frown on their face seems to point at everything except easy.

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Bralen, despot Drench King

A long sigh lifts Bralen’s shoulders, their head tipping back as they release it. “What do you mean?” A quick hand snapping up stops their hat from sliding off their head, and their chin drops again. “Keep up! Lifting the lockdown!” What else would they be talking for? Especially to Serkli?

Their jaw works, something twitching in Bralen’s neck while they try to control the strained excitement. “Things are getting worse. I dunno if you’ve been out lately, but people are sick. We’re supposed to be helping them.” Sharp eyes flick to the papers on Silas’ desk, suspicion and the faintest edge of disappointment in the specific set of Bralen’s features before their eyes return to the older King’s face, a new hardness in them.

Silas, pod Drench King

Brows pinch further as their voice lifts, as if he hasn’t been aware of what’s going on outside the walls of the Drench equivalent of a penthouse. Even though he isn’t in the muck and mud, he is aware, and it’s the sole reason for the piece of paper he’d been writing when he got interrupted by them storming through his door like they owned the place.

So Silas snorts, lips twitching into a small smile. “Yeah, I have been out lately.” He says, filling his voice with equal amounts of near taunting, as if their guilt tactic wasn’t working. (It was, though, somewhere deep within the stone walls of his chest).

“The question is, how are we gonna do that without Bratena and Kusund getting further up our asses?” He pauses, deflating a bit as he stands and moves to the front of his desk, as if to block their gaze from anything that sat on it that might have POD sensitive information. Not that he didn’t trust them, per say… But he lived with a certain care of secrecy regardless. “Let alone Serkli. We need to make sure the argument’s a good one.” He leans back on his desk, arms folding across his chest.

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Bralen, despot Drench King

“Thats why we need Serkli too.” Bralen looks away again, staring down at their boots as they dig one toe into the threadbare carpet beneath their feet. “Any one of us can be ignored, but if it’s all three of us at least one of those fucks has to listen. And if one listens, the others will hear about it.” Not unlike the system they have down here, with a lot more unnecessary fronting getting in the way of the power to actually meaningfully affect people’s lives.

Their head comes up again, eyes searching Silas before they continue with a confident assurance. “It’s not like we’d be asking for the whole thing gone either. Just between here and there. Highways causing more issues for them anyway.” Ideally both would go, but… well, ideally it would never have started.

“Besides,” Bralen continues, “Serkli’s already thinking about it, all she needs is a push. And both of us? That’s a pretty good one.” If only because all of them knew Serkli did not want to deal with the combined harassment from them.

Silas, pod Drench King

He listens, jaw working silently as he plays out the conversation in his head, getting Serkli to listen to what they had to say and hope that it was enough that Kusund didn’t approve of sending all of Unk’Kotoll’s forces bearing down on the Drench Kings. He doubts that they would, but again there’s that careful line they toe, one that he sees Bralen nudge up to with their admission of not fixing everything. Perhaps it’s enough of a middle ground that they’d work together for once.

Besides, what would the precious Platers do without their grunt workers from down below if this ended up killing them all?

Silas rubs at his face again and huffs a weary sigh, nodding an idle agreement. “Alright, well, for my sake, I’d like a detailed list of what we’re going to do.” At least it’ll make it seem like he’s a part of it all and not just on the sidelines with a face to help push the motive in the right direction.

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Bralen, despot Drench King

“Well,” it’s clear Bralen is surprised to be being heard out, all their righteous indignation slowly fading out of them, “they’re not going to listen to reason.” Obviously. Why would the Plater’s – and especially the nobles – listen to any idea if it didn’t come from their echo chamber? “I think we shut down the lift.” The idea is said with a burst of pride, Bralen bouncing up on their heels and beaming.

They take a step closer, moving some of Silas’ papers to the side to lean against his desk. “We let them have a taste of life without us. All the shit jobs we go up there to do, left undone.” Just the thought of it is enough to make them grin. “Then when they’re desperate, we offer to fix it. So long as it stays open for us.”

Silas, pod Drench King

Silas listens, shoulders relieving with the way they seem to calm down their righteousness. He’s patient and calm as the words leave them, allowing Bralen all the time in the world to explain their plan, refraining from interrupting them. And while it seems like a good idea on the surface, Silas harbors some reservations.

“Don’t you think they’d miss their workers enough to have their fancy techs work on it?” He asks, tilting his head. But he isn’t quite done, and just in case they start to butt in, he lifts a hand. “They’ll claim their technicians are smarter than us. Probably claim to have it fixed by the following morning shift.” He rumbles, dropping his hand and lets them respond.