The World's A Stage

[Latin For Dragula]

((Vahka Basayev continued from Good Life Decisions))

Snapshot.

He'd twisted his ankle pretty bad. There was no way in hell he was hauling up in all of that armor, but the rest of the team hadn't caught on to the mistake yet. Through his visor, he could see just the slightest look of confusion on his opponents face as he leaned down to check on him.

"Fool," he growled loud, fueled by the pain in his leg as he drags the boy down under him and presses the blunted sword to his throat. "We're makin' a surprise exit," he murmured hollowly within the helm, "I'll explain later."

With a roar, he rose up and threw his armored captive over his shoulder. Over the next 30 seconds, he stumbled out of the padded performance room, pausing only to drop the sword by the exit, tear his helm off, and throw the audience a huge grin. It didn't fade until he's well out of sight.

He undid his armor alone within a locked dressing room, and ignored everyone who came knocking. The ankle will be seen to later. All that mattered was rescuing the performance. All that mattered was that he left them with a smile.

Snapshot.

The motel fan whirred above his head. Reggie's long asleep beside him by now, but he couldn't seem to drift out. He kept coming back to why he's here, and it won't let him rest.

It's not a normal hook-up. It was, but it wasn't at the same time. It meant more, because it covered for something. A moment of weakness. Sadness. Moments people aren't supposed to see.

She saw one, so he flew to the opposite end of the spectrum. And now they're here.

He settled back to sleep, and just in case she beat him up, he forced out a smile.

Snapshot.

Ronnie had him on equipment duty tonight before heading home. Making sure everything was sterile and operable was a big deal to him, even though someone else would pick it up again in the morning. He took pride in his thoroughness. The autoclave was just about ready for him to start sterilization when Ronnie poked his head through the door.

"Hey, kid? You did good today. Real good. I'm startin' to think you might not be a complete waste of my fuckin' time, y'know?"

Vahka shot him a grin. "What's that? Cuz it sounds like you're complimentin' me, and I know you can't be drunk enough for that yet."

"Nah, stone cold sober. I'm serious; you're makin' me proud."

The wiry man sauntered over and leaned up to ruffle his hair. "Who knows? Maybe some day you'll be runnin' this place, or one of your own, eh? Now get back to work, I'm not payin' your ass to slack off."

His lips were frozen as Ronnie walked away. He didn't speak, because there were no words to explain how much he wanted that, or how unlikely it felt. Nothing to explain his responsibilities, his commitments, his chains.

So he smiled.

Snapshot.

Strands of pink hair draped over his bare shoulder. She was close. Closer than Reggie had been. The thought made him groan. Part of this, whatever it was, was to prove that everything was still normal. Just another hook-up. That's all they both were.

Why am I still here?

He should leave. Maybe wake her up first. Give her some excuses for cutting out, work or school or some family shit. Normally he'd just leave, but he knew her. She deserved something.

She stirred awake beside him, and the words caught in his throat. In the vulnerable silence, he smiled.

"Hey."

Snapshot.

"Mmm. Yes. I suppose it will suffice. You'll eat tonight, boy."

Danilbek's begrudging acceptance barely veiled the joy in his face. In that way, he was a lot like Ronnie. They both pushed him hard and gave him as little as they could while still showing him how proud they were. It was endearing.

It also made choosing between them hell.

The acid-etched metal plate was set aside for packaging later. His father had drawn him outside for a celebratory cigar. Two Griffins came out of his private humidor, into the miniature guillotine, and back out into their mouths. Smoke and flame flared up as they puffed together in silence.

"You do well, Vahka..." Danilbek murmured around his cigar. "Your grandfather, he would have been proud to have you at his forge. I wish he could have seen you."

"I wish he could have too, Dad. I woulda liked to have met him."

A sad smile filled his father's face. "I know. He was...many things. Not all of them good. He would have loved you though. It would warm his heart to see you taking up our trade."

Vahka looked back in silence. He knew what was coming.

"Some day, my boy, you will sit outside your own forge. Perhaps this one, perhaps one you built elsewhere. And you will smoke with your own son, and if we're lucky, you won't have to explain what a miserable bastard I was. He'll know by experience, eh?"

The words sank like a lead weight into the pit of his stomach. They added to the mass he already felt. It was always there, holding him back, tying him to this place. He could stretch its tether, work around it, even bend it slightly, but never break it.

It wouldn't be hard to break. Just a few simple words. Even one. No.

He could never say it, though. Not because he feared Danilbek's anger, but his acceptance. He was afraid of how his father would encourage him to seek his own path if it would bring him happiness. How he would drive him forward with as much support and energy as he could. How he'd smile and pat him on the back with each accomplishment. How he might even show up at his shop to get ink as a sign of his approval. How through it all, the only indications that this wasn't what he wanted all along would be the slightest tinge of sadness in the corners of his smile, the occasionally nervous flicker of his eyes to avoid direct contact, the barely noticeable slump in his shoulders.

Vahka was his father's son, right down to the details. So he shifted his eyes away. Slumped his shoulders. Smiled.

The pain didn't matter. The doubt didn't matter. The show went on. He left them with a smile.

((Vahka Basayev Pre-Game Concluded.))