[ti]private[/ti]It's a kindness, Highness

Angelo hadn’t expected much that day. He finished a round at the arcade, witnessed the demos he’d been interested in (the WorldScreen Lite looked extremely promising, and he may have gone a bit overboard with the questions), and now he was taking a break at the Dream Kingdom Lounge with Silvermoon, viewing his new GARDENER stamp on his phone.

Someone approached. The stranger had in him a grace that rang familiar and a face that should put Angelo at ease, but only made him more aware of himself. Angelo sat straighter and stopped fiddling with his phone, regarding the gentle smile with a polite nod and a wary stare.

“You’re… Lacrimosa?” The name slotted the pieces together, two similar pictures joining into one. The reminder of Mistra should horrify him, send him running out of the lounge, but he’s locked down by the intrigue – a thrum of anticipation.

“If you’re looking for Saint, then you’ve come to the right place.” He smiled sheepishly. “It’s, uh– yeah, this is– this is it. I’m Angelo.” He ducked his head a little, his glasses tapping the bridge of his nose, unsure of what to do. Should he offer to shake his hand? Lacrimosa was as ethereal in person as he was in game, except this was real – polished. He was untouchable, yet never has he been more in reach.

Dr. Caldwell. Angelo’s eyes grew at the title and the offered handshake. He took it, of course—and where the doctor’s grip was steady, an elegant clamp, he had to fight to keep his own from shaking too hard. His heart could not decide whether to be seized by fear (an honest to God doctor— someone that reminded him of his professors) or admiration.

“Ah, it’s nice to meet you too, si—Sarthor.” Right, to the garbage chute.

He’s given a little reprieve, though he does nudge a little closer to Kasey once it becomes apparent they’re just as bewildered and nervous over the encounter. But things were civil. Sarthor was a well-mannered professional.

But he’s asked for his time, which is amazing as Angelo values it to about one corn chip. It’s only at the mention of something to discuss that he’s reminded—the golden banquet. The caisson ceiling. The knife in his hands, on his throat.

“Could you—please promise me, that you will tell me what you’ll find after this?”

Lacrimosa’s smile. “i promise you, saint.”

Angelo shot up from his seat. “Ah! Of—yeah, sure, of course…” He gave Kasey a small smile as he slid from the table. “Sorry, I’ll be right back, Kasey.”

Angelo did his best to keep calm as he followed after Sarthor. An effort that goes to waste, as he breaks open at the mention of his education. “I… technically am…” His voice grew quiet.

When Sarthor asks for his school, he can’t maintain eye contact. He knew this question was coming; it always does when people find out he’s pursuing medicine. “Cleveland State. I used to—I transferred there a few years ago.”

What good would it be to mention his old school? It would be the same pitying smile, the same ‘Oh, that’s just as good!’, and he’d accept it all to spare their feelings, like swallowing a box of nails.

Or maybe the doctor would be honest with him, and he’d taste a sword instead.

Angelo spent a better part of his life bracing for it; had accepted shame and etched it into his atoms as inevitability—but life had incredible aim, and by sheathing the words in the mouth of an esteemed professional, it created a blade so sharp he could feel it sink between his ribs.

“Johns Hopkins would be a dream.” Studying and graduating from a top private university would basically ensure his future. It would fulfill the promises he’s made.

It would make something out of him.

“But I know my capabilities, Dr. Caldwell. I make do with the cards I’m dealt.” He was keeping his voice level, his hand behind him, to hide how he clenched it. Lashing out at his betters has never worked out for him.

He raised his eyes and finally met Sarthor’s. “I… apologize, if I’m not what you were expecting.” He didn’t understand why the man sought him out, why he had an opinion of what was beneath him. They had only met twice in a game, and both times ended disastrously.

He searched the still depths in Sarthor’s gaze and wondered what he saw. All he saw was his reflection, tinged red.

The squint of the doctor’s eyes stung—the blade sinking a little deeper in his chest. Angelo fought to maintain eye contact.

He fell short of the willpower needed to hide how his expression twists at the mention of Mistra, the cruel casualty of how Sarthor brings it up. It nicked a well-hidden pocket of doubt: that the events taking place in UNOVR, no matter how horrific, where just that—events in a game. That the guilt he bore for the man had been for naught; that it was only in his eyes things felt so visceral.

But that didn’t make sense either. Because he’s seen how it affected Silvermoon—and now he was seeing the sharp print of a business card.

“You… what?” His eyes were wide, and it was only through muscle memory that he managed to accept the card, holding it with such a light touch as if it could disappear at any moment.

Angelo had been raised religious, but this may be the first time he’s ever experienced a miracle. (Or at least, the second.)

His fingers press into the card, thumbing the serpentine curve of Sarthor’s initial.

“But I didn’t... do… anything.” Among the emotions he expected to feel if handed everything he ever wanted—anger had not been one of them. And yet it bubbled forth, slowly encasing him.

“I’m sorry, I just—I don’t understand how my performance in a videogame could translate to potential in the medical field.” This is the opportunity he has spent countless nights wishing for, but he knew what happened when you jumped blindly into opportunities. Look before you leap.

“What I did in Mistra wasn’t a mistake. I knew what it wanted and I chose the solution that made the most… sense to me.” He licked his lips, choosing words carefully. “You have been investigating it far longer than I have. I trusted you would be able to decipher the results.”

He looked up from the card. “You promised you would tell me. What happened when I died?”

Self-consciousness had one benefit: keen eyes. Angelo sees the blip in Sarthor’s composure like shark detecting blood in deep water.

Just a drop. Sarthor moved and spoke no differently, as if he’d react the same wading through a shallow pool and vat of acid. It kept the distance between them a wide berth, but there’s now a little pile being fed. Angelo filled it with these tidbits—the frown, the strange phrasing of his answers, as if these could help humanize the doctor in his eyes.

“A feast?” A scrunch between his brows. His first thought was of the golden dishes—perhaps they had shed their luster when blood touched the giant serving plate. Perhaps something else had appeared—dropped from that strange ceiling formed like a puzzle box.

Corruption. Parasite. The image in his head shifted, and the look in his eyes seemed to brighten with something.

“It talked to you? What did it say?”

It was relief. It was eagerness. It was hunger.

His sacrifice hadn’t been in vain, and he’d been right—this man held the answers he craved. The doubt that usually plagued his brain appeared to part, overwritten by a burgeoning curiosity.