it feels a futile race against the clock. she must make an imprint, shore up her defenses, provide substance to her short tenure to protect herself against FERNANDO SILPH 's retribution. and perhaps he only wants her scared. perhaps he'll leave her to her own device, waiting for her to crash and burn all by her lonesome.

if all of this is truly by his design, she is already doomed.

her office door is open, inviting. they're new hours and unusual among the upper echelon of the league, so not many know of them yet. she spends those scant couple hours to herself, most of the time, taking time to catch up on paperwork and incoming news.

now, with half of her time used for her duties, eyelids drooping, she closes the door and consents her body's need for a nap. her lashes flutter as she sits back down, but she hasn't even relaxed her shoulders before there's a knock on her door.

surprised, she opens the door and finds herself face-to-face with a king. recognition flashes and is promptly smothered.

she's learned to take care around those who may not remember.

and besides, he looks like he wants to punch something. this will undoubtedly be awful.

"here for the office hours? come in."

Caleb Harcourt

☉

and is that recognition too? hope flares in her chest, but it dies as soon as his gaze fogs over, as the brain works to lay the curtain over his watercolor dreams. the disappointment fades from her own eyes in a practiced way, whatever emotions attached to it shoved, still-struggling, into a bottle. 

"nice to meet you, caleb harcourt," she says, somewhat amused. his gaze lingers on the painting of the bluffs and she looks to it as well, tracing achingly familiar brush strokes. 

"it's sootopolis. the view from my mother's cottage."

she clears her throat and gestures to his outfit. "so what can i do for a ranger?"

Caleb Harcourt

☉

and oh, how far she's come. four years and she's found her empathy. some would call it treason. most would call it weakness. she's still not so sure where she stands. 

but she is tired of abstracts and blanket statements. people are real. people like this man before her. people like Isaac Merlo . people like Hyakkaryōran Tsubaki . all caught strangled in the wires of a battlefield strung up by decades-old predecessors, all of them cut trying to run from the real threats that plague them. 

gods and monsters and the fate of the universe and all that.

his expression darkens. the amused smile on her face dies down. that sentiment from earlier returns: this will undoubtedly be awful.

"you're not important enough for the resources it would have taken to find and save you," she says bluntly. "league-endorsed efforts to rescue even ex-head ranger annalise henderson were denied. she was rescued by a rogue team."

she rubs one eye, smudging days-old makeup.

"because we are a government body and must weigh the lives of the many over the few. and it is a terrible thing, that, but there are some here, like ollie morales, like Greyson Connors, like Eva Morales, and countless others, who are trying to do good with the hand we've been dealt."

hands lower, gray on her forefinger from the mascara.

"it's easy to be hateful. vitriol is fuel for the fire." she waves a hand to the still slightly cracked door. "but may as well get it out. close it and look at me, face of the league that i am, and tell me how i've failed you."

Caleb Harcourt

☉

the door closes. she doesn't have to sculpt her mental fortitudes; nothing he says can sink into her skin. she is not a staunch supporter, blind with faith to those in orange, emblazoned suits. corruption dwells in every corner of this building, mucking up the grounds of the careless. the weak-willed. and the opportunists. 

though he does not lash out as she anticipates. his delusions slip through his teeth, denial plastered on his face in a hurried, messy notion. his grief is wrapped tightly wound in those layers and this, she knows too well. 

this hits too close to home. 

a muscle in her cheek flicks as she grits her teeth. she prepares for her mirror, her almost-not-quite doppelganger to spit more bottled poison, but none comes. worse, perhaps, is his resolve to protect someone else. 

she leans back abruptly. the fire does not die from her eyes, but it flickers with intrigue - and a hint of amusement? 

"you don't know me very well at all, ranger, if you trust i can care for your friend." memories prod at the still-bleeding wound at her chest. she follows his gaze to the portrait, but only so he does not see the pain that knifes through her. 

"i don't feel things for people," she says. "or, i guess that's not quite right. it takes a lot for me to feel things for people. i can count on one hand those i've ever truly cared about."

she does not marvel, does not linger, on their timestrung selves. she scatters the memory and clears her throat. 

"so i'll teach you."

Caleb Harcourt

☉

the anger leaves him as she agrees to indulge him. and she feels a riotous sickness in her stomach, rising in her throat. does she have that same power he had? can she take this grief-stricken, lost man, and mold him into something hateful? bend his knee to her and coax a loyalty that will never tarnish, even through countless treacheries? 

"this weekend," she says thickly and then swallows, frowning. 

"i'm assuming you know my specialty. you'll train among the dragons. i'll look over your file, but before friday, send your skills and your weaknesses to my assistant, Hyakkaryōran Tsubaki."

she picks up a pen and writes something haphazardly down in a beat-up planner. "and hold onto that anger, ranger harcourt. you'll need it before this is over."

Caleb Harcourt

☉