Work Text:
look out for that one
When Anacostia first lays eyes on Necro Cadet Ramshorn, her only thought is, That girl has the smile of someone who died long ago.
It's somewhat lucky, really, that Anacostia even notices her at all that day. Necros all have to go through Basic like any other, of course, but they’re the only designation that doesn't fall under Anacostia’s jurisdiction and responsibility. They don't require Units, they get only the bare minimum amount of physical training, and most importantly, they're not Anacostia’s problem. Goddess knows she doesn't need another fifty plus Cadets all thinking they know what's right.
But even though they're not her responsibility, Anacostia still takes it upon herself to at least attempt to learn their names—she likes to learn the names of the outliers, at the very least (she's learned it's usually them who will excel), and by the looks of her file, Scylla Ramshorn is nothing if not an outlier.
She comes from a now-deceased Dodger family, which alone makes her someone to watch. Anacostia has no love for Dodgers, but she understands why they do what they do, and undoubtedly any child of theirs understands doubly so. But the girl’s here now, and she probably hasn’t come of her own accord.
Then there’s also the fact that her scores on the initial testing for Necros — held before even the Conscription Call — are higher than anyone else in her year. She’s intelligent, certainly, and she’s talented.
That combination makes her dangerous, so Anacostia approaches her.
Ramshorn’s not the only Necro student Anacostia speaks to that day; the fourth, in fact, but while the other three had all been wide-eyed and straight-backed when she came near, Ramshorn doesn’t seem to much care at all, though she watches Anacostia’s every step closer with a steel eye.
“Welcome,” Anacostia greets, once she’s within earthshot. “Private Ramshorn, is it?”
Ramshorn raises her eyebrows. “It is.”
She doesn’t look like she plans to elaborate, so Anacostia goes on, trying to get a feel for her. “It’s always good to see more talented Necro Cadets joining us,” she says, honestly. “You’ll make your country proud.”
That elicits a response, at least. “Of course!” Ramshorn says with a tone that is clearly faux bright; takes her eyes off of Anacostia in order to survey the campus around her with a cool glint in her eyes. “The Army . Exactly where I wanted to be spending the most formative years of my life.”
So she’s a smart-mouth, too. That’s fine for now—there’s always a few. Still, if she were part of Anacostia’s new platoon coming in, she might’ve put some sense into the Cadet right here and now. But she’s not, and it doesn’t fall to Anacostia to correct her. Not yet, at least.
“You’re going to have to have a better attitude than that during Basic, Cadet Ramshorn,” Anacostia warns instead. “If you want to learn to be better, that is.”
Ramshorn doesn’t respond, just looks back up at her; eyes tracing up and down and lingering on her Scourge before traveling back to her face. For a moment, just a half of a millisecond, Ramshorn’s eyes flash with something that looks startlingly similar to hatred, burning and electric blue, like she’d very much like to sing Seed twenty-three and watch the flesh slowly melt from Anacostia’s bones. Like she’d enjoy it, were she able to.
Then the moment passes, and Ramshorn’s eyes are clear once more. As if it’d all been Anacostia’s imagination.
Anacostia’s—not sure if it was or not.
“Yes ma’am,” Ramshorn says finally, clicking her heels together in an almost sarcastic way, if movement could be considered sarcastic. “Permission to be dismissed?” She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes.
“Dismissed, Private.” Anacostia watches as she walks away, eyes narrowed. There’s always a few in every year, the ones that believe they’re above the Army, their country. The resentment will be knocked out of them eventually. It always is. And yet…
“Checking on my students, Quartermaine?” Izadora approaches her cautiously, likely having witnessed the interaction.
On the other side of the courtyard, Private Ramshorn is waiting in line to receive her dorm key and number. Her gaze swings around the area, steely and calculating. She makes no effort to talk to any of her fellow Cadets, and when the one behind her nudges her to move forward, she doesn’t even spare them a glance.
Izadora follows her line of sight and settles on Ramshorn’s back. “Is there something wrong?”
“Keep an eye on that one,” Anacostia says, and—ah. She's offended her.
She’s aware she’s offended her, because Izadora’s mouth twitches, once, before she nods in assent, and Anacostia decides it's time for her to go. She knows from experience Izadora does not appreciate meddling of any kind in her affairs, and Anacostia understands. Talented — legitimately talented — Necros are rare to find, and getting rarer still as their bloodlines slowly dissipate. She doesn't blame the good doctor for being defensive over an unusually exemplary student.
Besides, Izadora wasn’t appointed to her — admittedly impressive — position for nothing. If anything ever goes wrong, well. She’ll be the first to know. So Anacostia walks away and washes her hands of it all, and she doesn't see or hear of Cadet Ramshorn again—that is, not for a full year.
That's when things start to get messy.
—✬—
Perhaps it's overly paranoid to think, having only interacted with the girl twice in two years, but there's just something about Ramshorn that makes Anacostia worry. Her instincts don't usually fail her, and that's the only reason she does it. “Stay away from her,” she tells Ramshorn, taking care to add an inaudible Seed of… convincing to properly convey exactly how serious about this she is. Anacostia Quartermaine is not someone who is used to being defied.
(She has a sneaking suspicion, however, that Ramshorn will defy her. That perhaps Ramshorn is ungovernable. The thought is… worrying.)
—✬—
(“Who can tell me,” Anacostia begins, “the three-Seed combination that could be used to repair and access the memories of floral life?” It’s an unusual Work, but it can be incomparably helpful in certain situations; Anacostia’s used it herself in order to track days-old Spree footprints, the dead leaves below their boots having given them away.
For a moment, there is silence. Not even her usual go-getters stand up just yet.
This is a question that is supposed to stump her Cadets, have them be able to think on their feet. There’s an answer, certainly, and it’s one that the well-studied of the group will undoubtedly be able to find their way to by using common sense and their preexisting knowledge of the canon Seeds, but the question is designed to make them think about it. It’s one Anacostia loves to unleash upon her students; she enjoys seeing them scrunch their faces as they try to work it out. The shortest time it’s ever taken for one of her classes to find the answer was twenty seconds.
This time, someone stands within seven.
Raelle Collar.
She looks uncaring—she probably has no idea that this question was a test in disguise, and she pays no attention to her Unit’s synchronized glances. Bellweather’s hand twitches, like she wants to grasp Collar’s uniform and pull her back down, but she manages to restrain herself.
Anacostia raises one eyebrow. “Yes, Private Collar? Which Seeds would you use? Three of them, please.”
Collar shrugs. “It’s Seed fifty-nine — uh — Restoration, first, and then slowly bringing in Seeds thirty-four, Memory and fifty-two, Connection, at the same time.” A beat; Collar finally seems to realize that she’s the only one who seems to know what she’s talking about, and Anacostia sees the unsure mental backtracking she does. “Uh. I think, at least.”
She sits back down.
Bellweather can’t seem to close her mouth. Craven beams, reaching across Bellweather to deliver a gentle blow to Collar’s arm, which Collar barely even seems to notice. Anacostia herself smiles stiffly, careful not to let the way her stomach is turning stop her, and says, “That’s entirely correct. Well done, Collar.”
…A Necro girlfriend and Work that involves the Seed of Restoration, Anacostia thinks, exasperated and concerned and irritated all in one. Of course.)
—✬—
Anacostia does not, as a rule, participate in Beltane. She understands and respects its reverence, feels the pull as well, but does not share General Alder’s complete surety that there would be no attacks during, so she prefers to keep a clear mind. As clear as one can have, that is. She keeps watch over the proceedings as many line up to join the dance, the General included. No doubt she’ll be paired with the Witchfather like she has been for the past five years. Sometimes consistency is comforting.
Anacostia scans the participants of the Reel, almost absentmindedly. The entire Bellweather Unit is participating, though Collar comes in at the very last second; it’s something she seems to be making a habit of, not missing things just by the skin of her teeth.
Ramshorn does not seem to be anywhere near, though, and Anacostia looks for her specifically.
It is… rare for those who are dating someone to not both join the dance. Teenagers love to be proved right about who they're meant to be with—Anacostia’s seen countless pairs matched up, and, of course, countless who were not. Beltane is a happy event and a happy event only, but the aftermath is sometimes not so consistent.
Anacostia asks Izadora on a whim a few days later. “Did you have any of your students on an assignment during Beltane?”
Izadora frowns, looking fairly scandalized. “Of course not,” she says as if it is very obvious, because to be fair, it is. “Beltane is sacred. I would never be the reason one of mine could not attend.”
Hm, thinks Anacostia.
—✬—
The first time Anacostia attempts to Link with Ramshorn — now a prisoner — she immediately finds herself in the vast landscape of the girl’s mind, Ramshorn herself standing just before her.
Anacostia blinks. “You’ve been taught to summon your own subconscious?” she asks, grudgingly impressed. It was a survival tactic designed specifically to resist any attacking Links, and it’s a disgustingly tricky thing to do, even for seasoned Army Sergeants. There’s something to be said about the talent of the Spree, but she clears the thought from her head.
Ramshorn tilts her head, smiling coyly. “I’ve been taught a lot of things,” she says, voice irritatingly light, like she’s not concerned in the slightest. “Some from the Spree—some from you guys, too. I’m not picky these days.”
“I suppose you aren’t simply going to sit back and let me take what I need then,” Anacostia says.
Shrugging, Ramshorn’s smile only grows. Her eyes are cool and emotionless, her shoulders loose and relaxed, almost. “What's the fun in that?”
Ramshorn is strong. Anacostia doesn’t often find herself in the role of interrogator, but she’s not bad at it, and even if she were, it doesn’t take a special kind of witch to use Links this way. However, even despite her best efforts, Ramshorn’s mind doesn’t break. It doesn’t even crumble for so long—and when it finally does, when her exhaustive control finally slips enough that Anacostia thinks she’ll be able to break through, Ramshorn instead focuses on—
…Ah.
She fills her head entirely with images of Cadet Collar.
Maybe Anacostia should’ve predicted this, but truthfully, she hadn’t expected that much of the relationship to have been real. And perhaps it wasn’t, but it certainly feels that way—Ramshorn focuses on Collar’s smile and the warmth of her arms and she’s able to rebuild her mental walls so quickly, Anacostia can’t possibly slip through.
Once again, against her will, Anacostia finds herself impressed.
—✬—
But everyone has a breaking point, and in her panic to reclaim her control, Ramshorn had made a crucial mistake: she’d let on what her weakness is, and General Alder has given far worse orders than the one she gives here, to bring a lucid, panicked Cadet Collar in front of their prisoner before taking her away again.
The plan works, almost too well.
Anacostia’s gut clenches at the way Collar screams when they drag her back out, but it’s over soon enough, and most importantly, it works. Ramshorn sobs and tugs at her bonds, guttural and aching and real, and this time, when Anacostia begins the Link, she feels the way Ramshorn gives in—has to give in, is forced to give in by her own tumultuous breakdown. Finally, finally, Anacostia is able to take what she needs.
And oh, she does—she claims the things the Army needs; a location, a few faces to remember, and the undeniable proof of Ramshorn’s wrongdoings. She sees and feels the mall attack, carried out in bloody glory, and she feels the rush of adrenaline Ramshorn had also felt when the bodies begin to fall. Adrenaline, not joy. Something close to it, maybe, something victorious, but there’s also fear—fear of herself and fear of so many things in that one moment, stretching on into a whirlwind of terror. It seems that murdering sixteen-hundred people all at once would take a toll on anyone.
When Anacostia begins to take her leave, straight-backed and steady as always, Ramshorn chokes out one last sob. “Was it worth it?” she barks, baring her teeth. “You’ve traumatized her. Here I thought you cared about your Cadets.”
Anacostia doesn’t turn anything but her head to acknowledge her. “You’re assuming she’ll remember any of this.” It’s an empty threat, of course — wiping memories can be dangerous at the best of times — but she doesn’t say that part aloud.
There’s no response. When Anacostia finally takes her leave and closes the door behind her, she’s surprised that Ramshorn doesn’t scream. Truthfully, her quiet sobs and sniffles that she’s trying to unsuccessfully hold back echo louder than any yelling would’ve, anyway.
—✬—
That’s just how things are. Collar loses her mind, of course, but that was impossible to avoid, and she has plenty to deal with at City-Drop, anyways. Anacostia will ensure she’s able to heal from the experience as best she can.
(The City-Drop does not play out the way Anacostia would’ve preferred, but… sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Still, she’ll never forgive herself for that one.)
In the meantime, however, she continues her visits with Ramshorn, who seems to have recovered from last time’s battle. Who, once again, looks absolutely delighted to see her.
“Quartermaine!” Ramshorn gives her a weak grin, blood pooling from her cracked lips. “I’ve missed you, where did you go? You can’t just up and leave me like that!”
Anacostia doesn’t understand how she can still act that way. She’s been chained for weeks by this point, with very few breaks, and her only source of human interaction is when she’s being interrogated. A lesser person would’ve gone insane days ago. Perhaps Ramshorn has, and she’s just good at hiding it. Are the ideals Spree hold that powerful? Or is it something else that keeps Ramshorn’s mind stable—as stable as it can be, anyway.
No one believes they’re going to get anything else out of her. Alder has already given the order to have Ramshorn transported to the Caribbean. “She’s clearly going to be of no help to us,” she’d said coolly, “and we may as well make an example of her for all Spree to understand.”
Anacostia… does not agree with this decision.
But Anacostia is a good soldier, and Alder is centuries smarter than she is. So Anacostia nods in assent like she always does and goes off to get a head start on the paperwork. And if, while doing so, she still takes some time to visit again, well. She’s allowed.
She asks about the idea that all Spree stand on, and, well, Ramshorn’s never shied away from talking about that.
It’s the way she says witches with an almost reverent tone, the way she talks about the injustices their kind have faced since the beginning of time; there’s a fire in her eyes that Anacostia’s seen in herself, is the thing. She cares so much about witches that it burns at her, she cares so much about the people who found her, saved her, and—despite herself, Anacostia can understand that.
“Alder wants to send you to our prison in the Caribbean,” says Anacostia; mostly to see if that will get a reaction out of her.
As soon as she says it, she knows—Ramshorn knows full well what being sent to the Caribbean means. Emotions flit across her face in a second, but they’re quickly swallowed up by that infuriating smugness that seems to have survived even the Army’s greatest interrogators. All Ramshorn has to say is just more nonsense. She babbles on about sunburns, swimsuits, anything she can think of, and nothing actually important, nothing like she cares at all.
Like she’s already accepted her own death.
She asks, “Then why am I still here?” and it doesn’t mean anything, she’s just making more useless conversation, but Anacostia doubles down.
“I want to know how someone gets to be you.”
It’s startlingly honest, coming from herself, and she senses Ramshorn’s confusion from it. Still, she gives yet another non-answer, still smiling. “Lots of practice.”
Then—but then something on Ramshorn’s face changes. She tightens her jaw, unconsciously shifting her body as an idea comes to her. Anacostia waits; it takes a moment, neither of them wanting to back down, but then Ramshorn speaks again.
“Let me see Raelle one more time.”
The question is so simultaneously sudden and expected that Anacostia has to laugh, but Ramshorn is deadly serious.
“Do you have any idea what I would risk by doing that?” Anacostia asks.
Ramshorn doesn’t seem to care; her chains rattle as she instinctively tries to lean forward, and she hisses irritably at her restricted movement. “If you give me this,” she says slowly, “I’ll tell you all about the horrible things that made me who I am.” A beat. “Please.”
Perhaps, without the last word having been tacked on, Anacostia wouldn’t. But there’s something about the way Ramshorn says it—an honesty and desperation that rings true in Anacostia’s chest.
She shakes her head even as she acquiesces. “I can’t promise anything,” she says, and then, just in case, “she might not want to see you.”
A wry grin tugs at the corner of Ramshorn’s mouth. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she snarks, but even she can’t seem to completely hide the vulnerability in her voice. Her eyes are wide and wet, and Anacostia can no longer meet her gaze. “Just ask?”
—✬—
It doesn’t go well. Collar leaves even worse than she’d been before, and Ramshorn seems to crack entirely, but even so, even so—
“She’s not all bad,” Collar insists, even now, and Anacostia thinks, I know.
—✬—
When Anacostia breaks her out of prison, Ramshorn asks her why. Why she cares, why she’s doing it, why she’s potentially betraying everything she ever stood for. Anacostia doesn’t know. “I see something in you,” she tells her, because at least that’s the truth.
“People see a lot in me.” Ramshorn tilts her head. “That’s never stopped them from hurting me before. Never stopped you, either.”
“Yes, well.” Anacostia gives her a scrutinizing look. “Perhaps we can stop hurting each other one day.” She knows they’re running out of time, but she extends her hand anyway. “Ramshorn.”
Ramshorn makes a face. She crosses her arms, pointedly ignoring Anacostia’s offered hand, and says, “My name’s Scylla. I’m no Cadet of yours, Quartermaine.”
Fair enough, Anacostia thinks, right before she’s knocked out.
—✬—
After a few weeks of following her, Anacostia deduces that Scylla’s been assigned to keep track of the Camarilla and possibly even infiltrate them — the irony isn’t lost on her — and Anacostia makes an executive decision to reveal herself. The enemy of my enemy, and such.
They get a lot of downtime, somehow. A lot of sitting in cars and watching and waiting, and Scylla’s not the most annoying stakeout partner Anacostia’s ever had, but she’s pretty damn close. The girl can’t seem to sit still for anything longer than five minutes total before she’s fidgeting in her seat, flicking the lighter she always has somewhere on her person up and down—likely without realizing it herself.
“So,” Anacostia begins after a few minutes of this, patience having stretched thin. “Have you always known that Willa Collar was alive?”
Scylla stiffens.
“What’s it to you?” she asks, shooting Anacostia a suspicious look.
She doesn’t seem to know how to interact with Anacostia anymore, which is understandable, but that uncertainty can also be irritating at times. Scylla’s always wore a smug smile just as easily as she literally wears other faces, but now the smugness that Anacostia’s come to expect is inconsistent—only really used as a defense mechanism. Anacostia wishes Scylla just realized that she doesn’t pose a threat to her.
“Well, I figured it was a pretty big coincidence,” Anacostia points out. “The woman who trained you for your big undercover mission was the mother of the girl you would eventually be sent to find.” There’s more underlying, of course, but she doesn’t dare touch that.
After a moment, Anacostia sees her shrug. “I had no idea,” she murmurs, and it’s the truth. “Not until you broke me out—she told me, then. Though I might have figured it out myself even if she didn’t. They have the same smile.”
—✬—
“Why didn’t you participate in the last Beltane?”
This time, they’re holed up in a tiny motel room Scylla’s managed to score for them—there’s been talk of an anti-witch meeting taking place a few hours from now not far from here, and they’ve got nothing to do until. They could always begin to watch early, but the earlier they arrive, the more likely they’ll be recognized.
Also, the question’s been bugging Anacostia for a while now, and she’s not sure why. She doesn’t really expect an answer, anyway—if someone doesn’t join the dance, they usually have a very personal reason, and Scylla seems to have very personal reasons for anything and everything she does.
Scylla looks at her through the mirror’s reflection, a cold smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “You really want to know?”
“I’m curious,” Anacostia says. “I would’ve thought you’d jump at the chance to spend a night like that with her.” She purposefully doesn’t say Raelle’s name. She’s aware she’s being hypocritical right now; going from discouraging Scylla from asking about her former attachment and then bringing her up herself, but she wants to know.
The smile goes from cold to downright cruel. “I had a school thing,” Scylla says flippantly, after a beat. “You know how run ragged us second-years are.”
“No, you didn’t,” Anacostia pushes back, disregarding the deflection. “I asked Izadora. Nothing was assigned during that time. It never is.”
Scylla goes quiet. “Ah,” she says, voice faltering. “Done your research, apparently.”
She takes a very long time to speak again, but Anacostia doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence herself. If that’s all she wants to divulge, then fine, they can sit and be uncomfortable together.
“It was the Reel,” Scylla says, finally, not meeting Anacostia’s eyes. “That’s what scared me, y’know? The age-old power that brings people together, brings them to the person they need in that moment. I—” she swallows, looking out her window to further avoid any contact. “I don’t think the Reel would have liked me very much. I wouldn't have gotten paired with anyone, and certainly not Raelle.” She gives a sharp laugh. “I'm not an idiot.”
Anacostia gives a short hum. “Did you still feel it?”
Now Scylla sends her a look . “What do you mean?”
“You didn't go to the dance,” Anacostia begins gingerly, “but any witch with a potential partner or partners participating in it still feels something at the time. A tug towards the Reel, though never an overpowering one.” She pauses, creasing her brow. “Didn't you feel a pull at all?”
Silence. When Anacostia looks back at Scylla, the girl’s eyes have gone glassy. “I thought that was just me,” she confesses, voice faltering. “You're telling me that meant I had someone…?”
“Someone.” Anacostia snorts, though not unkindly. “I have a pretty good guess as to who it could’ve been.”
Scylla doesn’t say another word that night until they leave.
—✬—
The rally happens; the General isn’t attacked, thank the Goddess, but the police seem to go mad with power — Camarilla plants, she’s guessing — and with the way they’d reacted, handcuffing and arresting every citizen in sight, the Army’s going to have to do some serious media groveling for the next few weeks. She suspects that’d been the plan.
“I wouldn’t say that was successful, but it worked out somewhat,” Anacostia says once they’re both in the car and already on the road, finally allowing herself to breathe again. She gives her companion a short glance. “No one saw you, right?”
Scylla blinks. “Um.”
Anacostia’s heart stops. “You didn’t—”
“I didn’t do anything,” Scylla snaps back, instantly defensive. “It’s not my fault, the whole area was in chaos! I just—” she trails off, curling her hands into fists just to do anything. “I froze, okay?”
Anacostia heaves a sigh. “Guess that answers the question of who saw you,” she mutters, ignoring the sharp glare Scylla sends her. She lets out a sigh. “I suppose I’ll be fielding questions from the Bellweather Unit this time tomorrow, then.”
Scylla stays silent. It’s almost disturbingly uncharacteristic of her, so much so that Anacostia spares her a glance just to ensure she’s not injured. She doesn’t seem to be, thankfully — that’d be a hassle to deal with — but her expression is sad and shadowed. It doesn’t take a Link to know what she’s thinking about, and this time, Anacostia can’t blame her. It must’ve been hard, coming face to face with Collar again after all this time.
Anacostia slows down for a red light, taking a deep breath. “Do you have a message you’d like me to pass on to her?”
A scoff. “What could I say?” Scylla sneers. “She won’t want to hear from me. It’s already bad enough that she’s seen me. I don’t—” she swallows, clearing her throat and turning to look out her window in order to avoid Anacostia’s gaze. “I don’t want to bother her any more than I already have.”
She’s dramatizing it a little, maybe, but Anacostia acquiesces with a tilt of her head, respecting her choice. “If you ask me,” she begins slowly, “I think she’ll be upset, yes. But,” she adds, seeing Scylla flinch, “she’ll also be glad you’re not dead or rotting in a cell somewhere.”
“Yeah, well, that’s just how she is with everyone, practically,” Scylla grumbles, and this time, Anacostia can’t resist the urge to roll her eyes. “She’s the kindest person I’ve ever met,” Scylla goes on, slowly steadying herself. “I don’t want to ruin her any more than I already have.”
Anacostia only hums in response. She thinks, privately, that it might ruin Raelle more if Scylla doesn’t reach out, but she decides to keep the thought to herself. It’s not her place to meddle, and she’s stuck her nose in their business far too often already. If Scylla doesn’t want to show her face to Raelle again, then Scylla won’t show her face to Raelle again, and it’s not up to Anacostia to tell her she should.
Still… she is not looking forward to the conversation she’s going to have to have with Raelle soon.
—✬—
“So what’s your story, Captain?” Scylla asks one day. Honestly, it’s a wonder she’s waited this long to ask.
Anacostia sighs. There’s been no sign of their mark for the past two hours since he disappeared into the sleazy-looking bar they’d pulled up to, and by this point she’s sure he’d either spotted them and has long since slipped out the back (unlikely; they’re not that bad at tailing people) or he’s just getting disastrously drunk at — she checks her watch — two in the afternoon on a tuesday. Anacostia would bet on the second.
“Why do you care,” she asks dryly, not looking away from the doors. Maybe the man will make lucky timing and reappear right this second to delay the sure inevitable.
She has no such luck. “I mean, you know everything about me by now, and I don’t think that’s very fair of you. I just thought I could learn about you in a less invasive way,” Scylla goes on, and Anacostia can hear her grin. “Unless you want to Link with me again…”
“What do you want to know?” Anacostia asks. “I’ve already told you about how I grew up — a conversation which you seemed to enjoy immensely, might I recall — what else do you want?”
Scylla just shrugs, an easygoing smile curling across her face. “I dunno. What were you like in Basic? Who’s your best friend? Aside from me, of course. Have you ever been in love?” To Anacostia’s chagrin, something in her face must flicker, because Scylla’s smile turns dangerous. “You have! Who? Do I know them? It’s not—” she cuts herself off, sticking out her tongue. “It’s not Alder, is it?”
“No, it’s not Alder,” Anacostia snaps in response, resisting a shudder.
But Scylla’s completely unphased, her grin coming back with a vengeance. “Then who?” She leans closer, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “It’s not like I’ve got anyone else to gossip with.”
Anacostia sighs again, pointedly, but ultimately doesn’t see the harm in it. She’s not ashamed of what happened with Sterling—they’ve always been on the same page, and they both knew that their careers came first no matter what. Still, she misses him.
So, pushing back the hesitation, she tells Scylla as much. The girl listens as she talks about Sterling, almost uncharacteristically quiet. She does snort, though, when Anacostia gets to the part about why they’d ended up separating, and it rubs her the wrong way. “What? Don’t tell me that you’re going to give me love advice.”
The jab at Raelle is low, but for better or worse, Scylla seems relatively unaffected. “At least I’m not guilty of choosing something else over my person.” She raises an eyebrow at her, almost looking offended. “Boring much?”
“You don’t know him,” Anacostia argues, “it was amicable. More than, even. We both understood that.”
Scylla shrugs. “If you say so. I think it’s sad that the Army was more important, but that’s your decision, I guess.” Perhaps sensing that Anacostia’s irritation is becoming more real, she drops it. “I hope I get to meet him, one day.”
Letting out a breath, Anacostia thinks of Sterling, where he might be nowadays. She thinks he’s probably worked his way up to the big leagues by now; a bodyguard for a diplomat, probably, or something like it. “I haven’t seen him in a while,” she admits, “and I’m not sure introducing him to a former terrorist is his idea of reconnecting, but sure. Why not?”
Another grin spreads across Scylla’s face, but this one feels more genuine. “I’ll hold you to that,” she warns, winking.
Anacostia believes her.
—✬—
The Bellweather Unit needs help. President Wade means well, Anacostia believes that for certain, but right now, she wouldn’t trust a single court in the world to treat her three Privates with anything even resembling fairness. Not while the Camarilla’s such a big threat—Goddess only knows how far their reach has gotten by now. Anacostia gathers their allies and tries not to think about how few those have become; she gets Adil and Khalida ready and prepped, and then she calls the Collar household.
Scylla’s brought to the phone, and there’s already an undercurrent of panic in her voice. “What’s happening? I saw them on the news, Anacostia, is it bad?”
There’s hardly any time to explain, but Anacostia tries her best. “It’s worse than you think. They’re in a kind of trouble that the Army can’t fix, not right now. Can you be ready and on the road in five minutes?”
For a moment, silence. Then, as if she’s steeling herself, Scylla hums an affirmative. “Quinn can take me there—she’s a friend of the Collars. She’ll want to help, too.”
Anacostia nods. “If you think she can be trusted. I’ll Farspeech you the extraction point. Get there as quickly as you can; there’ll be others, too, but any Work you can bring with you will be appreciated.”
“Gotcha.” No one speaks for a second, and Anacostia is about to hang up when Scylla speaks again. “Anacostia?” Her voice wavers, just for a second. “Um. I wanted to thank you,” she says, almost painfully awkward. But there’s something else underneath—a genuine, almost shy-sounding tone. She means it. “For everything.”
If only because no one can see it, Anacostia allows herself to smile. “Go get your girl, Scylla.”
—✬—
As the war against the Camarilla drags on, they lose contact entirely. They have to; Scylla’s with the most wanted Unit in the entire country, and Anacostia can’t risk reaching out to them unless she knows for a fact that it’d be safe. Which it wouldn’t be, even if she really wants to know if they’re okay. She works from the Army and Scylla works alongside her Bellweather Unit and for a while, it’s enough that Anacostia can see them in the ruins of old Camarilla buildings. It’s enough, knowing that they’re safe.
The war drags, but all wars come to an end eventually.
Not a week after the war’s end, Scylla approaches her at the wedding — her and Raelle’s, they’re having a wedding, Anacostia still can’t believe they’ve managed that one — and she’s glowing, looking happier than Anacostia’s ever seen her before. Contentment is good on her, Anacostia thinks.
“I know you’re here with Sterling,” she begins slyly, raising a single eyebrow in such a way it makes Anacostia roll her eyes. “But if you’re able to pull yourself away from him for two seconds or so, would you be willing to, erm…” Scylla clears her throat, her smug face crumpling to reveal a startlingly vulnerable expression. She doesn’t meet Anacostia’s eyes when she goes on, “Would you be willing to walk me down the aisle?”
Anacostia stills. Her chest feels tight, suddenly. She opens her mouth to respond, but she doesn’t know how; this had never even crossed her mind as an option, and she realizes, somewhat irritatingly, that she’s touched that Scylla would even ask.
Apparently she takes too long to answer, because then Scylla’s backpedaling furiously. “Sorry, you don’t have to, and I don’t want to pressure you to do anything—I just thought maybe since you—nevermind, this was clearly a stupid thing to ask, sorry—”
Unable to stop herself from smiling, Anacostia grabs Scylla’s shoulder in an attempt to ground her. She’s never seen her like this, all nervous and babbling, even through all they’ve been through together, and it’s almost endearing. It works, in the meaning that it gets Scylla to stop talking. She shuts her mouth still doesn’t meet her gaze, ears turning pink.
“Scylla,” Anacostia says; quickly, this time, so that she wouldn't spiral again. “I would be honored.”
And so she does.
—✬—
They don’t get another chance to speak again until the reception afterwards is finally beginning to wind down. The sunset has come and gone, and though there are still a few people out on the dance floor, the majority of them have migrated to eating and drinking instead. The two couples of the hour have been mingling — though they’ve also both been known to disappear for a few minutes at a time — and the last time Anacostia caught a glimpse of her, Scylla had looked tired, but happy.
Overall, Anacostia believes it’s been a beautiful day. A day they all deserved to have.
Eventually, Sterling takes his leave — he has a long flight to Washington the next morning, although he promises to call her as soon as he arrives — and after Anacostia says goodbye to him, she spots Scylla coming over once more.
“Busy day, hmm?” Anacostia says in greeting.
Scylla smiles. “But a good one. Sterling heading out?”
“Yeah, he’s got an early morning tomorrow. Don’t look at me like that,” she says when Scylla raises an eyebrow at her. “We’re going slow. Reconnecting takes a lot of work, you know.”
That Scylla seems to understand. And of course she would. “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”
For a few minutes, they just stand together, watching the people on the other side of the courtyard. Anacostia spots Tally and Raelle trying to convince Abigail to dance with them and stifles a smile at the way Abigail’s disgruntled expression collapses into a helpless grin when she gives in. The three twirl around each other, stumbling into other people and tripping over their own feet, but no one seems to care.
“Anacostia,” Scylla says.
Then, nothing. Anacostia waits patiently, tearing her eyes away from the dancing Bellweather Unit to look down at her. Scylla looks even more nervous than she had earlier, and something in Anacostia’s throat tightens.
Scylla swallows harshly, turning to face her. “I—I want to say—”
“Scylla…” Already touched, Anacostia shakes her head. “You don't have to say anything more than you already have.”
“No, I do,” she insists. “Just give me a minute to think.” A beat; Anacostia stays silent, and then, eyes suspiciously wet, Scylla breathes, “thank you. For everything,” she says. “For helping me find myself again and for putting me back together after. I owe all of this to you.” She smiles, then, and there’s still a touch of self-deprecation in there, but if Anacostia knows anything about Raelle (Ramshorn-) Collar, that won’t stick around forever. “You saved me,” she adds, and the look in her eyes is deadly serious. “I will always be grateful for that.”
Chest swelling with pride, Anacostia doesn’t know how she could ever imagine topping that speech, so instead, she just hugs her. She hopes that’ll be enough.
“Awe,” Scylla teases, smiling, when she finally pulls away. “You totally care about me, too.” She makes no mention of her own still-shaky voice, and because it’s her wedding day, Anacostia is kind enough not to point it out to her.
Anacostia lets out an affectionate sigh. “You four need someone to care about you. Goddess knows what you’d have done without me,” she says, meeting Scylla’s sly gaze. “And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you, Ramshorn.”
“Ramshorn-Collar,” Scylla corrects instantly, preening a little.
The warm feeling is back. It’s annoying how often she’s feeling it. At this rate, she’s going to lose her stone-cold reputation, dammit. “Ramshorn-Collar,” Anacostia agrees. “Right. That’ll take some getting used to.”
“Not for me!” Raelle suddenly appears at Scylla’s side, curling an arm around her waist to pull her close. “It’s already completely normal for me! I think my Pop wants to take your name, too, babe,” she adds, focusing her attention to her wife. “He’s talking you up to everyone so much, you’d think you’re his daughter instead of me!”
Anacostia watches the way Scylla’s entire presence changes when Raelle’s near; her shoulders soften, her eyes gleam even brighter than they usually do. Her smile comes natural and wide, and Raelle’s the same. Looking at them now, Anacostia doesn’t regret a goddamn thing.
“I suppose that’s just my natural charm,” Scylla teases quietly. “Edwin and I did have a lot of time to bond while you were gone.” There’s a flicker of grief at the reminder, but it’s gone quickly. That painful time has come and gone.
“Yes, you’re very good at charming us Collars,” Raelle murmurs, dropping her head to press a reverent kiss to Scylla’s hand. “We knew that already, though.”
Now feeling as if she’s intruding, Anacostia decides to take her leave, too. They’re so wrapped up in each other, she doesn’t think they even notice her slipping away, but she’ll forgive the lack of awareness for tonight. Smiling quietly to herself, Anacostia heads over to the throngs of people, intent on seeking out the other happy couple and offering her congratulations to them, too.
She looks back one more time.
Neither Raelle or Scylla have budged much; now standing with their foreheads pressed together, Raelle’s hands on her hips as they sway to the nonexistent music. Like they’re having their own private little Beltane. They must be exhausted, but neither of them act like it. Feeling a warmth bloom high in her chest, Anacostia watches as Raelle pulls Scylla even closer, gently resting her head on her wife’s shoulder.
Scylla beams when she does, and this time, her smile is so very much alive.