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Chapter Text

It had been 89 days since the end of the war. 

While protesters still fought to regain control of what was once their nation, the people of Blackspyland were slowly being assimilated. A country in chaos could only go on for so long before requiring foreign aid, and the neutral lands could only do so much. He wouldn’t say it was an easy task, but after a couple months, things were finally starting to calm down. Perhaps their people were simply too loyal to accept the loss, delivered with such finality that those who were asleep awoke to a new world.

The stench of cigar smoke had slowly weaved its way into the cloth of his trench coat throughout the start of this new era in history. Sluggishly, White took a break from the ceaseless stream of paperwork to stretch his wrist—bones creaking like a rusty door hinge. If he had unknowingly developed arthritis, it would not have phased him at this point.

Glancing at the clock half past 2AM, he got up with a sigh, feeling his joints ache from the position he’d held relentlessly time and time again. The pop of vertebrae, a roll of his shoulders, and he was on his way to the bathroom.

He was reluctant to look at his reflection as he brushed his teeth half heartedly, gurgling the foam before watching it sink down the drain like cotton candy in water. In a few days at the start of fall, the great performer Louis Valgener had announced a carnival to be held in celebration of the recent negotiations—a fun way to ease the tension amongst the citizens and foster bonding through meaningless games and frivolities. 

Black would’ve loved it.

White turned off the lights before slumping into his bed, too tired to change. With how busy he was, there was no point wasting time.

“Cheater!” Black accused, waving his fist in the air angrily. “Did you fuck with my rings!?”

Twirling one of the many hoops around his finger, White scoffed at the man in black. “I think I’m just better than you.” Sure, he did sabotage them, but he likely would’ve won either way.

Black grumpily tossed his rings at White, which he slapped out of the air before any could strike him on the nose. White followed his rival, throwing taunts at Black as he stormed off. White nearly ran into the other man as they paused before a giant apple bobbing bucket. The fruit floated on the water, moved only slightly by the two men shuffling about.

“Think you can beat me in this one?” Black challenged, putting his arms behind his back as if White had already agreed.

“You look like a chicken, but yes,” White declared haughtily as he clasped his hands behind him. “Time me.”

With that, he brought his face down. The water in the bucket was impossibly deep, expanding into nothingness. It disturbed him, but he tried to focus as eyes locked onto the nearest apple, mesmerizingly scarlet in color. Surging forward, he plunged the target and his mouth into the water for stability before sinking in his teeth. Satisfied that the apple was securely caught in his jaws, he whipped his head back up with a cocky sneer.

White spit the fruit into the palm of his hand, wiping his sunglasses with his sleeve. “I know for a fact that that was only 2.1 seconds, so don’t lie to—”

As he opened his eyes, he realized that his rival had drowned. Black’s entire head was underwater, body limp with his nails embedded in the wooden rim—as if he had been clawing at it.

Goosebumps rose on White’s skin as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened. The two were just having fun together, and he didn’t set this trap—was it a trap? Did someone hold Black’s head underwater? His eyes darted around, and the world suddenly drained of color and warmth.

A sudden touch startled him as rotten fingers pulled at his clothes. Eyes wide with terror, his lips quivered as he tried to plead with the lifeless yet accusatory sockets that glared at him hollowly. The world seemed to collapse on itself as the corpse of his rival pulled White into the water with them. He watched as the dim light from the surface faded into but a pinprick before Black’s eye sockets eclipsed his view.

White woke up with a strangled yell, thrashing as his hands reached for his throat. He whimpered, quickly surveying the darkness of his room. There was no one there.

Checking the clock, he could see that it was merely 3AM. There would be a few more nightmares to endure before morning came.

Chapter Text

The spies’ rivalry had concluded paradoxically climatic, yet underwhelming. 

Stale air dominated the atmosphere, heavily contrasting the smoke and gunfire blazing above ground. Despite his confidence, White kept his footfalls silent as he traversed the winding hallways of the underground tunnel system. The leaders had fled below like cowards, leaving their men on the surface to be decimated slowly but surely as the White Faction claimed the last foothold it needed to win. 

White was the only one to catch on to their desertion, and he quickly gave chase lest those weasels succeed. It was a rash and dangerous decision not to inform anyone, but time was limited and being the hero to end the war was appealing; he could never say no to one more statue or medal of honor.

The sound of the Black Faction rats fleeing their sinking ship echoed through the hall, causing him to charge forward like a warrior into battle. His heart pounded, gun close to his chest as he rounded the corner ready to aim.

SLASH!

A sharp pain ran across his forearm as he barely avoided getting his wrist slit open. 

Letting out a yelp, White flailed out of the way of Black’s flurry of knife swings. He wanted to shoot them, but he’d dropped his gun in pain. White swore as he glimpsed the tail ends of the fleeing leaders.

Black roared, his dagger cutting through the air between the two violently. No quips, no cursing, just malicious intent.

White’s eyes watered as the metal tip scraped across his glasses. Losing his balance trying to retreat, he kicked Black in the chest to gain some distance as he fell. Black dropped his dagger, tumbling backwards to the floor as well. The man in black recovered hurriedly, erratically fumbling for his pistol.

Knowing there wasn’t a moment to spare, White drew his own blade and advanced just as Black pulled out his weapon. A gunshot rang out as White grabbed Black’s wrist, having aimed it towards the floor to have it ricochet towards the back wall. Black kicked at his chest, but he was too close to make it land right. 

Black struggled, trying to aim his shot while also keeping White’s blade at bay. His grip on White’s own wrist quivered, the cold metal descending in slow increments—inch by inch to Black’s chest. His rival’s eyes started to widen in that unmistakable fear and panic White loved to see.

“I win,” White crooned, watching the cold steel contrast against Black’s heaving torso. “I don’t have time for this, how about you let go?”

“I… I need to buy them time!” Black choked out. It was admirable he could still utter words when he was fighting with all the strength he had.

“A loyal lap dog till the end,” White scoffed, pressing just that tiny bit harder—he was biding his time for when Black got tired. “You really are a good spy.”

His nemesis held their breath as the tip touched their front. Black ground his teeth, eyes scrunched shut as if it were all just a nightmare.

White had seen Black bite the dust countless times, but the stakes had never been higher. A black pawn trying to block the white knight from killing its king—a valiant last line of defense for a dying kingdom. He wondered if Black would be considered a hero by their country, or simply be noted as cannon fodder.

Black hissed as the knife pierced through his clothes, whispering threats to the skin underneath. His hold trembled, and by now he had stopped trying to shoot White in order to focus on survival. 

The slow deaths were always the most intimate. 

“S-stop!” Black pleaded, grasp weakening. The gun in his other hand clattered to the stone floor as the blade penetrated through the first layer of flesh. “I surrender!”

“Liar,” White sneered, calling his rival’s bluff. The moment he let go, Black would stab him in the back like all the other times. “See you after the war.”

With Black all tuckered out, White wrenched his wrist upwards out of their grip before driving the knife back down like a stake to the heart. Black writhed under him, hands clenching in agony as blood darkened their black coat. They cursed, they cried, and they slowly died while White retrieved his own handgun and ran off.

Of course, his rival’s sacrifice was in vain. White hunted down the pigs that fed Black to the wolves, forcing the commanders to submit as he waved his gun at them. He grinned as they all put their hands up in defeat, though it irked him when one muttered Black’s name with ire rather than respect.

It had now been 90 days since Black’s final death.

Autumn leaves stained the ground orange as White’s shoes crunched down the path. The childhood whimsy of doing so had naturally dulled over time, but he felt especially numb to such past joys as of late. The same went for reading books—he already read so many documents each day, he needed a break from literary analysis.

The Black Spy Cemetery had become a familiar spot to visit when he was particularly stressed and wanted some peace. White would come here, where the man that plagued his mind for years was buried, and sit next to their modest grave. It was no different from all the others besides the number; the only thing that made it stand out were all the flowers left behind.

He could recall how he’d acted when the grave was first installed. By then it had been a few weeks since his rival’s death, and the reality hadn’t yet sunk in. Medals, interviews, another statue… but no Black. White had waited for their return, but chalked their absence up to them lying low—he didn’t sweat the idea of just hunting them down later to rub salt in the wound. Besides, Black was no stranger to faking his own death.

On the day of the funeral service, he had worn his best suit decorated with as many medals as he could without looking gaudy. After a bit of consideration, White had selected a bouquet of red roses to bring—thorns and all.

Confident and boastful, he had lovingly written a mocking eulogy for the second best spy there ever was. If Black was attending in secret, he hoped it made the man’s blood boil to the point he blew his cover and came out of hiding. 

He’d driven to the cemetery in his car, strode out with the swagger of a war hero… and slowly deflated as he gazed upon the funeral attendees. There were a lot more than he thought there would be.

Black spies—some of them sporting injuries—took their seats at the back while what he could only assume to be Black’s family lined the front. There were a few kids he guessed may have been cousins or nieces/nephews accompanied by their parental figures. The kids that bore resemblance to Black interacted quietly with members of Black’s Fanclub, who were also in attendance.

Then there, in front of the open casket, stood Black’s parents. His stomach sunk with a wave of guilt.

The poor mother sobbed under her mourning veil, handkerchief quivering in her hands. Her bushy gray hair was tied in a low bun under her hat, which was exactly like the black spies—perhaps she was a retiree. The same went for the frail father, who still nonetheless kneeled before his son in prayer.

At that moment, he knew he did not deserve to attend. He was not there to mourn, he was there to scorn.

Before White could leave, something was launched at his face. He stumbled back in shock, looking up to find all eyes on him. A member of the Black Spy Fanclub held their slingshot defiantly, “YOU KILLED MY HERO!”

The kid’s friends kept them from firing another shot at him, but the damage was already done. The gazes of the crowd ranged from fearful to murderous—except for the parents. They were scarily hard to read.

“I—I can leave!” White stuttered, putting his hands up and resisting the urge to run like a scared child.

A few black spies jeered at him, but quieted as Black’s mother made her way down the aisle. “Gentlemen, please settle down. We don’t need another mother’s son being murdered.”

That felt like a gut punch. White backed away, holding his hat along with his eulogy, “Ma’am, I can leave—“

“No need to be shy, White,” the woman chuckled mirthlessly. “My boy talked about you often. It’s nice to see that you care.”

He needed her to stop looking at him so calmly, “B-b-but I don’t think I should be here. I-I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable—“

“We’re all here to mourn dearie, don’t fret!” she dismissed, ushering him down the aisle past hostile glares. “Please do sit to join the service. I’d like to chat afterwards as well.”

Unable to protest any more than he already was, Black’s mother sat White in the middle row between associates and family. White could hear his heartbeat in his ears as he felt black spies staring daggers through him—hoping the daggers would stay metaphorical. The urge to sink underground began to sound appealing, especially once he clocked that he was also wearing white to a funeral, adding insult to injury. What was he doing here?

Many words were said about Black, and as much as White wanted to zone out, his ears were forced to listen to how much his nemesis meant to everyone they loved. 

Black’s parents went first, where the mother spoke fondly of Black’s childhood—from his first steps to when he announced he’d be following his parents’ footsteps as spies. She ended her segment on how proud he had made her, and how she hoped to see him again one day. 

The father’s segment was brief, but just as full of love. The old man described when he was medically discharged from the army, due to a severe injury that left him with muscle and lung damage. His mouth curled into a grin as he recalled how Black, as a teen, had angrily asserted that he’d join the army to “get back at those bastards!” Everyone at the funeral chuckled at that except White, as he only shrunk further into his seat.

Next was a collection of kind words from the kids. They babbled ecstatically about cool gadgets, funny gags, and epic stories Black would tell—a lot of them at White’s expense, as if he wasn’t already mortified being here. The leader of the Fanclub, who seemed to be the oldest, tied the chaotic eulogy in a neat bow: Black never failed to make them smile. White hid his face with his hat, letting it soak the tears.

Finally, Black’s mother took the stand again, warmly thanking the children for their participation before clearing her throat. “The sun is setting soon, but if anyone would like to say their goodbyes, go right ahead. We appreciate any memories or feelings you’d like to share of our son.”

White had sagged in relief that the funeral was almost over, but it turned to sheer panic as the agent next to him shook his shoulder. “Hey! I think the White Spy wanted to share!” they smirked, pointing to White’s eulogy notes. Oh no.

“No I don’t—“

“Why don’t you tell us how you felt doing it scumbag?” one shouted from behind him.

“Yeah!” another chimed in.

“White?” the mother questioned, voice cutting through the crowd. “How about you come up here?”

This felt absolutely calamitous. White was too overwhelmed to fight it as hands prodded and pushed him to his feet, his knees feeling like jelly as they took shaking steps to the front where Black’s coffin was displayed.

His rival laid unmoving, clutching a red poppy. Black had his finest suit on, eyes closed as though he was asleep, if not for the giveaway of lifeless skin. White wished he could touch the corpse and have it fall apart as a fake, showing that this was all just an elaborate scheme—that Black would show up and put him out of his misery and he could just feel angry about it later.

Black’s father was watching intently, as if worried White would desecrate his son’s body. White gnawed on his lip as he looked at his eulogy notes through teary eyes. Wordlessly, he shoved it in his pocket and clasped his hands behind him. Reading it now would have been unforgivable, he needed to start from scratch.

“Black was…” he started, fumbling for words as he anxiously avoided eye contact. “An excellent spy. I could not have asked for a more formidable enemy… nor could I have asked for a better friend.”

This drew some murmurs, both of confusion and disdain. White took a shaky breath before he elaborated, “It felt nice to be understood. Although we were on opposing sides, we were really two sides of the same coin. It was to the point that sometimes on our off-time, we would even just… take time to chat.”

His eyes wandered to Black’s face with a sad smile. “I really think… If we weren’t enemies… we would have been close.”

White had opted to sit and be quiet for the remainder of the funeral service while Black’s coffin was lowered into the ground. It was an odd feeling that for once, his rival was being buried dead rather than alive.

Before long, the funeral concluded and mourners started to trickle out after their final exchanges. No one said a word to White, but at least some of their gazes had softened. At most, a black spy spit on the ground near his feet, which caused him to flinch but he didn’t have it in him to retaliate. 

As asked by Black’s mother, he stayed until the service ended. After she thanked the final attendees for coming, she gestured for him to join her and her husband in the front row. 

White walked over timidly, shaking his head when she offered him a seat. He didn’t deserve it. “Hello…”

“Good to finally meet you, boy!” Black’s father greeted him with a hearty laugh before coughing. He pointed at White with his cane, “You sure had some balls showing up here, my word.”

“It was an ill-informed decision on my end,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Ah, Black did mention you don’t tend to apologize.” The father then tapped the bottom of his cane against White’s medals. “Which one of these was for killing my son, ay?”

Luckily the mother stepped in before White’s soul left his body, “Now now, no need to torture the poor boy. The funeral was enough punishment for him.”

The old man let out a low laugh but listened, leaning back in his chair with his eyes shut. Black’s mom turned to look at her son’s grave as she asked White an important question: “Why isn’t he back yet?”

“Pardon?” 

“Why hasn’t he revived?”

White gave a wary shrug. “I’m… not sure. I thought that maybe he faked his death and went into hiding but…” he turned to the grave as well. “He’s still dead.”

“We noticed…” she muttered, eyes behind the black veil narrowing. “We were hoping you knew something.”

“Me?” he asked, bewildered. “I was—AM! His enemy. I don’t see why he’d reveal anything to me when I killed him in the first place!”

“Too busy with politics and the press to track him down?”

That had made him feel indignant, “I have more important things to do, yes. If he wants to stay hidden, he’ll come out when he wants to.”

The mother sighed, crossing her arms. “But he isn’t. He’s just… gone.” She stared towards the grave, “And I’m starting to worry he’s never coming home.”

With reluctance, White’s shoulders slumped as he was enveloped in an awful sense of guilty obligation. “…I’ll keep an eye out for anything. I… I really am busy, but we can keep in touch.”

“Thank you, White.”

That had been the last time he’d spoken to them, because there was nothing new to talk about. No new leads, no news; nothing. 

Since then, White would just visit Black’s grave. First, it was to lure him out: dancing on it half-heartedly, taunting it, kicking it lightly—the whole nine yards without causing serious vandalism. He even considered digging up the corpse again just to see if it was gone.

Next came frustration. Riots and rebellions had been shaking the country, and he had no time to dwell on the itching mystery plaguing him like a parasite. Almost like Black’s grave was Black himself, White would switch from giving it the cold shoulder when he visited or shouting at it like he would kill Black again. Of course, no one answered.

Then came the incident.

Chapter Text

Fearing death was a primal instinct embedded in all of mankind, hardwired as soon as the concept of pain and age are known. He had never once lived without it, but he could admit that somewhere down the line, he’d grown more casual about his many casualties.

A few weeks ago, that changed.

Try as he might, White had found himself drawn to the cafe he and Black had gone to a couple times. After ordering, White lit a cigarette to smoke while people-watching. Considering the times, he’d been told to keep tabs on the general public’s demeanor. Worried wrinkles, tense shoulders, and clenched fists marred the average citizen’s body language.

“Would you like cream with that, sir?”

White turned to see the gorgeous barista delivering his coffee tray. Her delicate fingers held the pitcher daintily, highlighting manicured nails that his eyes couldn’t help but trace.

He placed his chin on his hands, infatuated. “Yes. Thanks, sweetheart.”

She giggled, pouring the cream till it turned the black coffee light brown. Instead of leaving, she stayed around to flirt with him, honeyed words purring through his ears and making his heart flutter. Feeling warm and fuzzy, he took his first sip.

Too sweet. It was too sweet.

“Something wrong?” the barista asked, tilting her head with a worried look.

White shook his head, pretending to take another sip when in reality he was letting the poison liquid trickle back into the cup. Her watchful gaze made him tense. “I didn’t realize the cream would be so sweet.”

“Aw, I’m sorry about that sir.”

“It’s alright,” he said, getting up as casually as he could feign, stomping out his cigarette. “I just remembered I have something scheduled. Could I have this to-go?”

She looked concerned but went to fetch him a to-go cup nonetheless. Each second that ticked by filled him with dread as he thought about what, who, and why he’d been poisoned. When the barista finally came back, he had to avoid blatantly accusing her on the spot. White just took his to-go cup with the evidence, thanked her, and left briskly.

As soon as White was out of sight, he ran to his car and booked it for the embassy hospital, using the car phone to contact the Poison Control unit. Whizzing past buildings and people, White had gained a new fear that day.

What if he’d lost his immortality?

“SPY POISONED” had been in newspaper headlines for a week, with a frenzy of assassination fears spreading across the faction members and the nation itself. 

Post discharge, he had been bombarded with questions regarding his health and how he planned to take action, as the barista—a rebellion sympathizer—had been jailed. He didn’t want to talk about it at all.

Even though White had spit out the antifreeze-ridden coffee, enough had absorbed through the lining of his mouth that it needed to be taken care of. Decontamination was never fun, but the oral ethanol therapy of whiskey could have been—if it weren’t for the fact it was served through a nasogastric tube. Being consistently tipsy all day with a tube up your nose was disorienting.

And of course, his leaders were worried for him. All the interrogations in his hospital bed were irritating, but it was better than being left alone with his thoughts, especially when nightmares of Black were the only company he had otherwise. 

White was no stranger to dreaming of his nemesis, but usually Black would just kill him in those. This new generation of subconscious torment would start off oddly normal—the two spies doing something mundane or amusing—before turning into some horrible abomination he didn’t want to analyze.

Following his discharge, White put in a formal request to be benched for the time being, and instead be given more clerical work than field missions. Hiding behind walls of paperwork gave him both shame and comfort.

Chapter Text

Louis Valgener really knew how to host a carnival. The Sky Wheel served as the backdrop for a dazzling spread of rides and attractions. Rollercoasters scraped the sky like metal mountains towering over droves of citizens in attendance. Sugar and laughter colored the air as brilliantly as the vibrant paint of signs adorning the booths. It almost made White glad he came. Almost.

It wasn’t the worst field mission to be on, he supposed. His leader, like a parent telling their child to get out the house more, insisted that he go for both his own sake but also to keep up appearances. The country’s greatest spy “cowering” after a assassination attempt was not a good look for their show of dominance. As the embassy’s paragon, many wanted to see their hero again. More importantly, White should be there to look out for his people.

And so, White stood in the middle of the carnival, between the screaming children on the Tilt-o-Whirl and the young man failing to win his girlfriend a stuffed bear. For once, he felt like a wallflower as he leaned on the outer wall of the restrooms, smoking a cigarette while faintly listening to toilets flush through the chatter.

He’d been informed that there would be fellow white spies with him as additional security at the carnival, as well as personal bodyguards for himself—all of them in civilian attire to prevent hostility… though ironically that just meant all of it would be concentrated on him.

As The White Spy, there was always a sort of distance between him and his coworkers. Somehow, the thought of them watching him be a recluse made him worried that they’d report his odd behavior to the higher-ups and he’d be forced into mandatory therapy—which would benefit whoever got a promotion. White took another drag to calm his nerves.

“There he is!”

White had to avoid gritting his teeth on the cigarette as paparazzi advanced on him like flies to rotten meat. Still, for the sake of his reputation, he donned his charming smile and greeted them like he hadn’t been having an existential crisis as of late. Handshakes (for his safety he wore gloves today) and questioning ensued regarding his lack of presence since the assassination attempt.

Keeping a calm demeanor despite wanting to strangle someone, White simply attributed his absence to an increased work load and excused himself to the bathroom after snuffing out his cigarette far too early. Infuriatingly, some of the male members of the group followed him inside, though they stayed at the entrance. As he tried to sneak through a stall window, he noticed the female members camping the spot below it. 

Slowly, the annoyance morphed into worry. Were they always this persistent? White looked at his gloves, noticing parts of the palm dirtied—did they try to contaminate him with something? Was this another assassination attempt?

Sweating buckets, White hurriedly opened the window, jumped over the startled women, and made a mad dash… somewhere, anywhere else honestly. 

His satphone rang, likely from a coworker, but he ignored it. Faces passed by in a blur as he scrambled through the crowds, and suddenly the bright happy decor felt overwhelming like a million floaters in his vision. The screams and metal clanging and music he’d managed to tune out came back with horrendous clarity in his pounding eardrums.

He wanted to go home.

White let out a scream as he stumbled on the loose ropes of a tent and crashed into an Old Mill ride utilizing the lake nearby. His head dove into the cold water, sending a shock through his body as he flailed, scratching his gloved hands on the pebbles lining the guideway. As his head resurfaced with a deep gasp of air, he felt in control of himself again despite being soaking wet on all fours.

With as much composure as he could muster, he got to his feet and climbed out of the water while looking around, flexing his cut fingers. This part of the carnival was strangely isolated, with just the crudely-made Tunnel of Love and a few empty booths and tents. Where was he?

“Hey handsome!”

Eyes widening, he gawked as Gray Spy emerged from the entrance of the ride with a coy smile, “Good to see you, White.”

His heart fluttered at her words before he quickly started to dispel those thoughts. He can’t afford to die. 

The last time he had seen Gray was back around the initial negotiations. Obviously he belonged there, but she was also there as an advisor for the neutral zone leaders. The Gray Faction, an independent third party military group from some of the neutral zones, had been at odds with the White Faction in the past. Though of course, the White Embassy was far more powerful.

“What are you doing here?” White questioned, not breaking eye contact as he took off his hat to wring the water out of it. 

“I figured you’d show up to the carnival, though I didn’t realize you’d come to me first!” Gray replied, opening her arms. “I’ve been worried about you, dear.”

White felt his face warm as he averted his eyes. Was it really that obvious he’d seen better days? “Thank you, but I’m alright. I have to—“

“Come on this ride with me?” she suggested, gesturing to the empty boat. “Yes, you should. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Nervously, he pulled out his satphone, “Actually, I need to go—“

“Don’t you want to be immortal again?”

He paused. “…What?”

“I said,” Gray drawled seductively, “Don’t you want to be immortal again?”

White bounded over to her like a prisoner to the exit, “Yes! How!?”

“We’ll talk about it during the ride,” Gray assured, getting herself situated in the snug seat and tapping the spot next to her. 

This could be a trap, but high risk, high reward he supposed. Unfortunately his satphone wouldn’t be able to connect when inside, so he just prayed he wouldn’t have to call for help. Steeling his resolve, White hopped into the boat with the lady in gray. She flinched a bit from his wet clothes but didn’t say anything else.

With that darling smile of hers, she yanked the lever and their tiny boat went off at a gentle Lazy River pace. White tapped his foot on the wood with impatient trepidation as the darkness swallowed them whole.

It took a bit of time for his eyes to adjust to the low lighting. While this was supposed to be a Tunnel of Love, it appeared Haunted House themed instead. Fake spiders hung from the ceiling of the cave-like walls, littered with various alcoves housing hopefully fake skulls. Eerie music played a discordant tune that only made him want to criticize the composer.

As he was about to start interrogating his odd informant, one of the ride animatronics jumped up and almost made him capsize the boat if Gray didn’t counterbalance it, grabbing his heel. Sputtering in the shallow water, White only found himself mortified as she pulled him back up—sopping wet once more—and laughed at him. 

“Oh, you two were always so jumpy!” she chortled, covering her mouth with her hand. “It’s been awfully busy lately, but I always had fun back then.”

That got a growl out of him, patience wearing thin. “Well I’m awfully busy lately too.”

“At a carnival? Clearly.”

“Were you bullshitting me or not!?”

“Honestly with that attitude, you seem like you’re in a rush to die.”

White’s eye twitched, using all his restraint to not just pull his gun out and threaten her. “Quite the opposite. It’s actually been great not dying every other day, I just want my safety net back.”

“How about Black?”

His eyes narrowed, “What about him? He’s dead and I don’t know why, but that means I could permanently die too.”

“And that scares you?” Gray needled, still with that pearly white smile on her features.

“If you lost your immortality, it wouldn’t feel good either!” he barked out. 

“Well, then you live like you did before you knew you were immortal,” Gray shrugged, grinning smugly. “The rest of us do it every day, dear.”

Before White could answer, he realized he couldn’t remember when he first found out he’d been immortal. The first death was a mere footnote in his miles long obituary. How had he acted before then? Was it scarier to know you only have one life, or scarier to realize you’re on your last? 

“…I don’t want to die,” he grumbled, perturbed.

“Most people don’t,” Gray agreed. “Though I was never particularly worried about getting in a scuffle with you two—my plans are always flawless.”

He rolled his eyes at that. “So what’s your plan this time around?” White inquired, crossing his arms and legs to hide the shiver of moist clothes. This would be hard to explain to his embassy, but he had bigger fish to fry.

Gray smiled, pressing a hidden button on the side of the boat. Then from the eyes of the ghastly figurehead up front, beams of light enveloped the far wall as the boat stopped moving. The carousel projector showed a slide featuring a few photos of Black’s corpse postmortem, eyes wide open. White’s stomach lurched.

He was on his feet in an instant, gripping the rim of the boat, “How did you get those!?”

“Found them, whatd’ya think?” Gray responded sarcastically. “Anyhoo, as you can see, these photos were taken by White Faction personnel following his body’s recovery.”

“They took photos? But there was no need for an autopsy,” White mumbled, scratching his chin.

“I believe it was a personal trophy for the informant.”

While he was certainly being a hypocrite, White couldn’t help but feel his skin crawl at the idea that someone in his embassy would do such a thing. It also made him bristle with personal offense that someone did that to his rival.

The projector made a few clicking noises as Gray switched to the next slide showing an interview transcript. “Speaking of the informant, they told me a few interesting details. Have you ever smelt Black’s breath after he died?”

“WHAT!?”

Gray chuckled at the little joke before growing a bit more serious. “According to the informant, it smelled unnatural. As they put it, it smelt ‘like a pile of rotten, burnt corpses.’ It also emitted purely from Black’s mouth, and was nauseatingly pungent.”

There was a pause as White studied the transcript, trying to pick up on any quirks that could identify the speaker, though he supposed that was a nonissue. “That’s… That can't be right. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Exactly!” Gray grinned, switching to the next slide. “Therefore, I think that’s relevant to the question of your immortality. Think about it: Why did Black die permanently, and smell like a bunch of bodies despite it being a fresh kill?”

Something crawled—slow and slimy from repression in the back of White’s brain. A memory from a nightmare that felt far too real, and yet unreal at the same time. 

Before he could utter a word, the two heard shouts outside echoing down the ends of the tunnels. White felt his heart skip a beat, “My colleagues! They must have tracked me down.”

“Worry not, I have a plan for that too,” Gray said, promptly hopping into the water so she was wet from only the thigh down due to how tall she was. “Get in the water, we need to capsize the boat,” she ordered, switching off the slideshow.

Considering how he was already wet anyways, White obliged and jumped into the water as well. The two spies capsized the boat and he followed her lead as they led the boat down the guideway.

As they got closer to the exit, White found himself asking quietly, “… Why are you helping me?”

Gray only smiled, the white of teeth glistening under crimson lips in the tunnel’s dim lighting. “I’m just very interested in the answer.”

It wasn’t a satisfying response, but White would have to press her about it later. Gray started to giggle in a way far too innocently following their conversation. He nearly jumped out of his skin as she placed her silky glove over his wet glove, shooting him a look to play along. White wore a smile to match as the two emerged into the light.

A couple coworkers spotted them and paused as Gray finished laughing, “Oh, seems like we have company.”

White pretended to look flustered, waving to his coworkers. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Just went on a little date.”

“Are you kidding me!?” one of them scoffed before another elbowed them to shut up.

Gray gave White a kiss on the cheek, leaving behind a clear mark of red lipstick. “Let’s meet again soon, dear.” Despite being temporarily lovestruck, he nodded enthusiastically as he read between the lines.

As she walked away, one of his coworkers congratulated him on his catch. White thanked them, pretending to look at Gray wistfully. The coworker apologized for ruining the date and didn’t question White about anything, much to his relief. 

His satphone was waterlogged, so he could use that as another excuse for his lack of communication (though he had to spin his running as rushing to the date and being clumsy). The rest of the time spent at the carnival was much more pleasant, as the paparazzi were kicked out for being a nuisance and the festivities had successfully lifted many spirits. Whitespyland and Blackspyland citizens really weren’t so different; it was a shame it took so much bloodshed to show it.

Still, when he got back home, White got to searching for Gray’s address and the memory that’d been buried in his brain. He had an unnerving certainty that it was another lead.

Chapter Text

Withered from its time outside, White retired the old bouquet of roses he’d left to put a fresh one in its place. This had been a cycle he’s maintained the last few months, something he wouldn’t even do for his own parents. He wasn’t sure what that said about him.

Locating his favorite patch of grass with practiced ease, he sat down next to Black’s grave and leaned against the warm stone with his eyes closed, taking a drag from his cigar before letting the smoke hang in the air above them. 

“...Black?”

He waited, as if the dead man could respond. It was still embarrassing whenever he talked to himself like this, but that was the least of his problems. White continued, “I need help jogging my memory. Do you remember my firing squad execution?

A breeze answered, with the smoke curling around the brim of his hat curiously.

“Gray Spy and I met the other day, so we’ll be working together to figure out why you haven’t revived,” White took another drag, blowing the fumes out morosely. “She gave me a lead, but there’s something else—something important. I don’t have enough details to warrant telling her yet, but I can’t scrounge any up myself.”

The smoke wavered in the wind, distorting like a faded memory. White closed his eyes in turn, trying to focus. He went through the series of events again.

It happened a few years ago, earlier in their rivalry. White had been working on a blueprint within his base when Black and some neutral zone mercenaries burst into his lab. A harrowing death for sure, White remembered being manhandled and forced against rough bricks before he’d been gunned down mercilessly. This was where his memories grew fuzzy, like slogging through molasses trying to find a rope to cling to. 

Usually in between a death and a revival, there was simply darkness—which was terrifying in of itself because he prayed there was an afterlife. Regardless, that made this death strange. 

There had been darkness, yes, but there had been something in the darkness with him—something enormous, something slithering.

Then when he had come to, he realized he’d resurrected about a week later. That was the longest either of the spies had ever been dead… until now.

White scrunched his eyes shut tightly, his hand grasping Black’s grave as if holding their hand. Grasping for something in the darkness. Hands—were there hands? Too many hands. Were they reaching for him? There had been a light in the darkness, something golden and glimmering.

Deeper, it’s within reach. The smoke enveloped his nostrils and pores with chemical enlightenment, eyes watering from the pressure of his lids. The cigarette’s exhaust cupped his cheeks and whispered in his ears the knowledge he needed.

It was God.

His eyes snapped open as he scrambled to his feet, clutching Black’s tombstone for leverage as he coughed the smoke from his lungs. White stared at the cigarette smoldering on the grass before killing it under his shoe. 

“B-Black?” he quavered, staring at the grave. “Was… was that you?”

There was no answer.

Chapter Text

“If you weren’t proof of the supernatural, I’d have you sent to the looney bin.”

White watched awkwardly as Gray sighed, rubbing her forehead before taking a puff from her long cigarette holder. Still, her eyes lingered on the smoke, as if waiting for something to appear.

He coughed, fidgeting with his still-full tea cup. It was getting cold. “I don’t know how to replicate it, but that’s all I have to report.”

“I suppose it makes sense if your powers come from ‘God,’ but,” she stirred her cup a little too loudly, “That doesn’t sound like God.”

“Maybe it’s a demon,” White muttered, crossing his legs as he thought about it. “… That isn’t a good option either.”

Gray, without her usual gloves, started chewing on her manicured nails in frustration. “None of this makes sense. I’m a spy, not a kook.”

“My ex wife is a witch, but I don’t think I can ask her for help.”

She gave him a look before face palming, “Whatever. Let’s get back on track.” Gray picked up her pen and started writing more notes. “Black has been dead for about 3 months now, but there was a time you were dead for a week. What’s the connection?”

The two sat in silence, brows furrowed in concentration. This time White had killed Black with his own two hands, but before, Black let the mercenaries do the dirty work. If it wasn’t the method of murder that mattered, perhaps the circumstance then? 

His lab had contained critical intel for the White Embassy’s plans during that period of time, with dozens of files regarding outer space and nuclear bases. The cleanup had been a total catastrophe before they were able to regain stability. Apparently, Black had killed himself during that time—White didn’t know why. 

Meanwhile with the latest death, Black had been protecting his leaders but ultimately failed, leading to the White Faction winning the war. 

A lightbulb went off over White’s head, “Eureka!”

“What?” Gray giggled in bewilderment, leaning in from the other couch.

“The connection,” White exclaimed, scribbling his idea on the page with his own pen. “Back then, Black’s faction almost won the war with the intel Black stole from me. This time, my faction won indubitably.”

“So it’s a matter of winning the war?”

“Yes,” White drew a diagram to illustrate. “Which faction wins determines which of us stays dead.”

“Then how did you come back last time?” Gray asked, twirling her cigarette holder playfully, the smoke forming a question mark.

“Oh, well it’s likely because the Black Faction didn’t win.”

“And not just because Black died?”

His stomach lurched as he shook his head vehemently, avoiding Gray’s implication. “Surely not. Surely it has to do with who got the last laugh.” White scratched the back of his head nervously, gesticulating with his hand, “Maybe since the war is over definitively this time, Black is just… never coming back.”

“So I suppose you’re mortal permanently now?” Gray reckoned, taking a long sip of tea, eyes scanning his face intently. 

He felt hot, tugging at his shirt collar to let off some steam. “I hope not. I’m surprised that when I’d been dead, Black hadn’t been more careful to stay alive until the war’s conclusion.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“I don’t know, I never found out,” he lied.

“Now that you have access to Black Embassy files, can’t you?” the lady in grey encouraged, exhaling a bit of smoke from her lips. 

White’s eyes slowly widened. “Oh. Oh!” he grinned excitedly. “A different team has been processing all their files, I can ask for copies from that time frame if they have it!”

With newfound enthusiasm at having found a break in the case, White trotted over to the door before Gray cleared her throat. When he turned around, she gestured to the tea set and notes he didn’t help clean up. Feeling embarrassed, he went over to assist in awkward silence.

As he helped hand things to her in the sink, she quietly mused aloud, “You didn’t drink any tea?”

“Last time a pretty lady gave me a drink, I was poisoned,” White explained tersely. 

“Former Blackspyland citizen, yes?”

“Correct.”

Gray hummed lowly in response. “I’m sure you already know I’ve been keeping tabs on you; you’ve been looking worse for wear.”

White was about to interject before she put a finger to shush him. “I’ve also been giving your embassy information regarding the rebellion. Have you heard any of the propaganda?”

His brow furrowed in concern, “No, I haven’t.”

“Black is like a martyr to them you know,” she warned, turning back to the sink. “And you’re the Horseman of Death.”

“… Noted.”

“White, can’t you keep up?”

White huffed, leaning against the tree. Black had way more endurance than him it seemed, or perhaps their bag was just lighter. “Fuck you, we’ve been hiking for hours.”

Black giggled, holding out a hand for him, “And I’m clearly still fine.”

All he could do was grumble in response that he needed endurance training before he grabbed Black’s hand to climb up the rocks. The trees loomed above them like towers towards the dimming sky as the two men ascended the mountain.

There was a sudden whimper from White’s bag that made him jump. Before he could inspect it, Black let out a cheer as he charged forward out of sight. Alarmed, White followed with a disproportionate amount of worry. 

“Black!? Black, wait for me!” White cried, stumbling over the rocks and through the hanging vines. 

It felt like he had wandered into a cave. His hands desperately scraped against the rough stone walls for navigation as he had to resist the voice in his head screaming to go back. The splash of something wet staining his pants made him groan in irritation as he trekked onwards.

Finally after what seemed like hours, he exited the cave and gawked at the stunning view of the sunset on the tip of the cliff.

Black sat on the edge, shadow stretching far behind him from the angle of his body to the light. He turned, eyes beaming as if White were prettier than the sun in front of him. White’s heart skipped a beat as he walked over, like a moth drawn to a flame.

Quietly, he sat down next to Black and stared at the sunset looming over the horizon. As he did, he gazed at the liquid that muddied his pants and marveled at how it was the same red that matched the sunset. Huh.

“White?” 

“Yes?” White responded, anxiety building within him but unable to be expressed.

“Didn’t I tell you this was the best spot?”

Like a charm, White felt himself relax as he sighed, “Yes, it’s quite scenic.”

The two men continued watching in comfortable silence, fingertips inches apart. White caught his eyes focusing on it, and looked away accordingly. 

Once the sun bid the two adieu, they both got up and went towards the center of the cliff to set up camp. He helped Black set up the tent, feeling his face grow warm at the thought of sleeping in the same one. It was agreed upon purely for convenience.

“I’ll grab firewood and start setting up the pit,” Black announced, already wandering off to the edge of the woods. “Be right back!”

“Alright!” White called, waving to him as he disappeared. He went to his bag to start unpacking it, before it whimpered again. Apprehensively, he approached it and undid the zipper.

Black was cowering inside. He peeked at White from his fingers, eyes frenzied. “Aren’t you happy?” he sniffled.

Holding himself back, White zipped the bag up again just as “Black” returned from the forest with firewood. Without another word, he helped them build the fire before he woke up. 

White would’ve said no.

Chapter Text

Thanks to his position, he’d easily gotten clearance to see Black’s files during that one week. The bad news was that it wasn’t useful.

White only knew Black had died because their body had been reported on a park bench before revival. It was an apparent suicide, but White found such a thing hard to believe—why on Earth would Black die just as his faction was on the brink of victory? The problem was that if it was a assassination by a fellow White Embassy member, why wasn’t it reported? And it’s not like he ever discussed it with Black himself.

Nevertheless, White had more sources to draw from now. Having finally found a semi-concrete lead after months, he shook off his nerves before knocking on the door to Black’s parents’ house.

Of course, he’d sent a letter ahead of time, so he wasn’t visiting unannounced. Black’s mother opened the door with a kind smile, though she was far more enervated than when he’d last seen her. Giving him a short but polite greeting, she invited him inside. With an odd sense of relief, he entered, glad she didn’t offer him tea or refreshments.

The father was reclining on the couch taking a nap before the mother awoke him with a few gentle kisses and murmurs. All the while, White stood there feeling both warmed and uncomfortable as the happy old couple spoke for a bit. Once the old man had fully woken and everyone was sitting down, White pulled out his papers.

“Ooh, right to business—I like it,” Black’s father commented, putting on his glasses to look at the notation.

While they got to reading, White let himself observe the foreign surroundings of his rival’s second home. Flowery curtains draped over the windows, filtering a perfect amount of sunlight through their thin material. Family photos dotted the wall, sporadically telling the story of Black’s childhood as the images jumped through different time periods. He wondered if the photos brought the parents comfort or made them mourn more. The thought made him self-consciously sink into the soft lace couch covers, breathing in the scent of sweet floral perfume. Being here was crossing a boundary into something far too personal and tender for his presence to taint with the smell of his cigar smoke.

“My… this is…” Black’s mother finally spoke, hand rubbing her face tiredly. “This is a doozy we’re all in, to put it lightly.”

“That's all I’ve got so far,” White said, spreading his arms. “I just hope this isn’t as far as we get.”

”What step are we heading towards next?”

White tapped his foot nervously, as that was something he was afraid to ask. “… First, how… How have you two been?”

The two paused, expressions turning expertly unreadable once more. Thankfully, Black’s mother spoke softly in response, “We’ve been holding up alright. I’ll admit, things aren’t much different than before, since our little boy has been independent for so long. Now we’re just waiting for something to happen.”

“How about you?” the father inquired gently, placing his glasses on the table.

White found himself caught off-guard, scratching his chin. “Er, I’ve been fine,” he lied on instinct. “Been keeping busy as usual. Maybe I’ve been a bit more tired lately, sure, but otherwise things have been calm and smooth sailing.”

“There’s no need to lie, sweetie,” the mother assured, opening her palms.

“… What do you mean?”

“It’s ok to mourn.”

“I didn’t really mourn—“

“We know you’re the one leaving those bouquets, White.”

Heat rose to his face, “How did you—“

“You brought roses to the funeral too silly, thorns and all,” the mother laughed, holding her husband’s hand as the two nuzzled their heads together. “It was a rather heartwarming display. Thank you.”

Maybe death wasn’t so bad right now. White covered his face in his hands, ashamed of himself for his attriage. “I don’t know why I keep leaving flowers! I visit his grave when I’m the one who killed him a-a-and I—I don’t deserve to do that! And I know that but I still go because he makes me- Because I feel!—I!…”

A jolt ran through him before he registered Black’s mother handing him a tissue. Heart hammering in his chest, he took it gratefully as he tried to calm down. He dabbed the tissue on his wet face. “Sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Now now, this isn’t something you have to apologize for,” the father muttered, giving him a small shaky pat on the shoulder.

The next few minutes were filled with an embarrassing amount of sniffling and blubbering on White’s end as he struggled to speak through his tears. Bless their hearts, they didn’t pressure him or comfort him more than a few words of encouragement, lest he flood their wonderful home with liquid sorrow. In a general transcription of his vulnerable state, he explained to them how he’d been scared; something he thought he’d only admit under torture.

The nightmares, the assassination attempt, the political climate, his Schrödinger’s immortality—everything unleashed all at once after months of being kept under wraps. Usually he never had to talk about his feelings, and other times Black somehow already knew what they were. His rival was rather attuned to White’s emotions, sometimes even more than he was. Oh, seeing Black lose never failed to put a smile on his face even when times were tough, and White’s own failures just meant focusing on the next new method to defeat his nemesis. It was a formula so perfect that he rarely felt truly miserable for long, but even then there would be quiet moments of camaraderie in between the routine bloodshed. 

A gentle arm draped over the shoulder, a shared giggle fit, and maybe a drink or two to soften the oncoming blows of the next day. Keep your friends close and enemies closer, but sometimes you just get a little too close. 

“Wasn’t it nice to get that out of your system?” Black’s mother sighed lightly, setting the nearly empty tissue box aside. “Sounds like you don’t have a lot of people to talk to.”

“I suppose…” White lamented, wiping his puffy eyes under the sunglasses. “I’m worried about seeing a shrink though—I can’t trust they’re not secretly affiliated with the rebellion.” He left out that the last time he saw one, it was actually Black in disguise. The thought that maybe Black was in fact alive and waiting for White to come to him for therapy made White chuckle internally.

”We’re not psychiatrists, but we’re here if you need anything,” Black’s father offered. The mother held her husband’s hand and nodded in agreement.

“Thank you…” White sniveled, on the verge of crying again. He felt the sudden urge to call his own mother, but she’d probably say she’s busy. “I’ll keep it in mind. B-but uh, I know I was vague in my letter, but I need a bit of info about Black.”

“Of course, how can we help?” Black’s mother asked curiously.

How in god’s name was he supposed to transition smoothly? He just had to rip off the bandaid, “Back in the early 80s, when I spent a week dead, it was reported that Black committed suicide. I was wondering if you had any context behind why, or if you knew the aftermath behind the scenes, because it doesn’t make sense to me.”

Their expressions were openly distraught, and White immediately started to apologize before Black’s mother put up a hand to stop him. “If… if this information can be of help, then we can tell you about it. I… I simply need a moment. I’ll be back.”

The mother got up and went to the kitchen, getting a glass of water by the sound of it. That left White alone with Black’s father, who was studying him—not with cold calculation, but rather a worried interest.

“Say, what’s the end goal with all this?” the old man questioned, coughing slightly.

White’s head swam with the worry that the smoky smell on him was too much. Hastily,  he removed his trench coat and placed it on the rack in the corner of the room. “As I said, I’m scared of no longer being immortal.”

“Then why not just live like you did?” Black’s father asked carefully, as if leading White down a trail of thought. “I don’t s’pose you were a reckless lad before. Keep living like a spy—and if you die and come back, then that’ll be your answer.”

“It’s not that simple… I’d have so much to prepare for before I go, I can’t take that risk.”

The old man chortled, pointing at himself, “Take it from an elder, boy. I’ve had all my ducks in a row ever since I joined the military. Why, I rewrote my will just 2 weeks ago!” He only laughed and coughed at White’s concerned look, “When you get to my age and Death is lurking behind the corner, it really loses its punch.”

“Now now, don’t say that honey. Makes my heart ache when you talk about that stuff,” Black’s mother tutted, coming in with a tray of cookies that White quickly declined while Black’s father snatched some eagerly—now he knew where Black’s appetite came from. “White, sweetie, it’s not poisoned.”

His lips pursed before he shyly took one for himself to try. It never failed to amaze him when old ladies managed to bake better than him—perhaps he could ask for her methodology. For a moment, he forgot the discussion they were about to have.

“Hmm, oh how to put this?…” Black mother mumbled to herself, taking a sip from her glass. “Black called our house late one night to plan a visit. Of course, we were delighted at first, but he was acting off.” Her frown deepened, “When he came over, we’d never seen our boy so upset.”

White felt dread wash over him as Black’s mother described the state his rival had been in that day.

His eyes had looked frenzied and scared, the hold on his luggage trembling profusely as he entered. Black had sat heavily on the couch with his head in his hands as he simply broke down into sobs, apologizing for his own suicide over and over—absolutely inconsolable. 

“And there was something else,” Black’s mother said, gingerly plucking White’s notes from the table. “He said he’d made a deal.”

“A deal?” White repeated, perplexed. “With who?”

The mother simply pointed at the description White had written of the thing he’d seen in the darkness. “The devil.”

A shiver ran down his spine as he clenched his fists in his lap, unnerved. “A-and what was the deal?”

“We never found out,” Black’s father grumbled, leaning forward in his seat. “Too concerned about our son killing himself to bother over shady dealings. By the time we managed to calm him down, it’d left our heads as if it was never there.”

“I only connected the dots because of your notes,” the mother mentioned, grasping her husband’s hand for support. “I’m sorry we don’t have more details for you.”

“No no, you’ve given me another lead, I just need to figure out what it means…” White assured, relaxing somewhat from his rigid posture. “Did Black kill himself in some kind of ritual sacrifice?” he mused to himself.

The parents gave each other a glance, as if unsure about letting White in on a secret. He warily raised a brow, “… Am I missing something?”

”We can assure you, that wasn’t the reason he killed himself,” the mother said carefully.

“Then what was the reason?” White asked with long-buried curiosity. “He very much could’ve been like me right now if he played his cards right! What could drive a man to give up on glimpsing the glory of his country’s victory?”

“… Love.”

Chapter Text

Something stirred in his bed, causing White to turn his head on the pillow. Warily, he opened his eyes, meeting a pair of poppy flowers under the warm sunlight streaming through the window.

“Morning,” Black breathed softly, the flower petals of his eyes closing in quiet contentment.

White was petrified, unable to move. As his mouth opened, he felt something needly work its way out of his esophagus. The scratching in his throat was agonizing as he coughed up a stream of thorn-ridden roses. Black only smiled serenely at his suffering, purring words of praise as he gagged through blood and crimson petals.

“Please…” he sobbed, the world swimming in his vision. “S-stop!” Another plume of flowers ejected from his mangled lips, choking out his scream.

In a blink, he was back in the tunnels.

There was a gurgle next to him. White lurched over like a starving animal, spotting Black struggling to breathe with the knife in his chest. Their eyes met before White started to claw towards the man in black.

“W-White?” they coughed, too weak to crawl away.

“You,” White growled, throat raw and eyes bulging in fury. “This is all your fault!”

“What… are you talking about!?” Black snarled, trying to reach for his gun.

White smacked it away before scrambling on top of Black like a madman. His rival didn’t have the strength to scream as he wrapped his hands around their throat and squeezed. “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!”

Black sluggishly writhed under him, eyes scrunched shut in pain. Roses and blood from White’s mouth splattered across his rival’s face as White hovered over him, breathing raggedly.

“Take it back,” White croaked, using his fingers to pry open his rival’s gasping mouth. “Please, take it back.”

White leaned down to give Black his roses.

DING-DONG!

The sound of the doorbell ringing repeatedly startled White awake. Bottles of liqueur clattered on the floor as he shakily rolled out of bed, his room still dark due to his curtains being drawn. He tried to wipe off the cigar ash but the black soot stubbornly stained his white garments.

“Stop fucking ringing!” White called, surprised by how horrible his own voice sounded. 

Ever since he met with Black’s parents the other day, he’d been drinking and smoking as if trying to prove the theories of Spontaneous Human Combustion. Self-immolation wasn’t a method he preferred.

“Then open the goddamn door!”

Eyes widening, White scrambled to open the door for Gray Spy. Without hesitation, she pushed through the doorway, shut the door behind her, and then scowled at White’s appearance. “You haven’t answered any of my calls, and you’ve been cooped up in your house with the curtains drawn. For all I knew, I was gonna start seeing flies decorate the windows!”

White could only give her a tired shrug.

“Unbelievable,” Gray grumbled, stomping into his domain. He realized it’d been a long time since he saw her with her award-winning smile; she looked exhausted. “If you’re so worried about your immortality, how could you live like this?”

Only a dejected grunt came out of him. Gray, looking furious, stormed off into his house, opening curtains and cringing at the messes he’d made. It would have been embarrassing if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t care at this point. Groggily, he flopped on the couch and curled up with his splitting headache. His dreary eyes fell shut in surrender as he tried to see Black again.

The lady in gray shook him awake just as he managed to doze off, “Wake up! I need an update! What happened at Black’s parents’ house? What did they do to you!?”

“Nothing!” he snapped, upset that she’d imply they’d do something malicious.

“Then why are you like this?”

“Because I learned that Black killed himself because of me!” White choked out, on the verge of hysterics.

Gray’s eyes widened in surprise before she raised a brow in confusion, “Why does that bother you? You murdered each other all the time.”

“This is different!” he clawed at his face in overwhelming guilt. “It was during the gap week, Gray—he could’ve won the war and just left me behind in the dirt, but he wanted me!” His heart hurt, vision swimming with tears as he cried hoarsely, “He missed me, Gray! He missed me so much he killed himself!”

“… So what?”

Tears ran down his face as he looked at her, bewildered. “W-what?”

“You killed him, White,” she stated hollowly, eyes narrowed. “He was your enemy, so why are you upset?”

“… Get out.”

Her eyes widened in shock, “Do you miss—“

“I SAID GET OUT!” he shrieked, pushing her away.

The lady in gray recovered hurriedly, assuming a defensive position. He did not advance, he just sunk back on to the couch. “Just leave me alone… I’m tired…”

As the two stayed in silence, he could almost hear the gears in Gray’s head turning as she analyzed the situation. 

He wasn’t even mad as she crouched down and started speaking in a gentler tone, trying to console him. “I’m sorry dear. How about we talk about it?”

Exhausted both mentally and physically, he regurgitated the thoughts and feelings he’d mulled over in his head for days. Throwing Gray a bone, he gave her the information she’d been waiting for. And just like that, she nodded and stood up to start brainstorming. 

“I wonder what the deal was,” she mused aloud, pacing around with newfound enthusiasm. 

The sound of her heels clacking against the wooden floor made him bury himself into the couch cushions. “Probably to revive me…”

“Then the question is what his end of the bargain was,” Gray chirped, a pearly white grin on her face.

She prattled on about various possibilities, ranging from Black selling his soul to secretly using White for ritual sacrifices. White let her run wild with her imagination as his eyes, heavy with the urge to sleep, stared blankly at his cigar box. With one left, he pulled it out and lit it in his mouth. 

Gray stopped momentarily to watch, but the smoke gave no answers. Disappointed, she clicked her tongue. “The real question is what to do now…”

When White gave no answer either, she sighed and yanked him off of the couch, to his dismay. “First we need to deal with you.”

To her credit, Gray spent the rest of the day helping him clean up his act. Bottles were gathered while the soot-covered bed sheets were washed. She then took him outside where she’d lined up all the bottles on the stone wall of his backyard. There was a small smile on her face as she handed him his own gun—he didn’t question when she took it—and invited him to shoot with her as she pulled out a small handgun. 

It wasn’t surprising that considering the poor state he was in, his aim had worsened. She giggled, shattering bottles one by one while he missed half the time; but he had to admit it was fun. He could only imagine what fun he and Black would’ve had at a shooting range together.

The last bottle popped from one of his bullets, and Gray clapped gleefully before the two cleaned up their mess.

Hesitantly, White popped the question once more, “Why are you helping me?”

“I’m just very interested in your immortality,” Gray said, rehashing her old answer stiffly.

“Be honest with me, is that really it?”

“… Do you think we could bring Black back if we solve this?”

White let the glass clatter into the bucket, “… I hope so.”

“Me too.”

“Why?”

“… I miss him too,” Gray said hollowly.

The two spies continued to clean in mutual silence, dumping all the shards in the bin before heading back inside. Feeling guilty about his previous outburst, White offered to give Gray some refreshments, but she declined before handing White a letter with a seal from his embassy.

“Oh no…” he muttered, using a letter opener to tear it open.
 
“Your leaders aren’t exactly thrilled that you went dark on them dear,” Gray expressed, lounging on the couch. “There was only so much I could cover for you.”

“You covered for me?”

“We’re partners,” she winked, sending butterflies to his stomach momentarily. “We need each other to crack this mystery, just the two of us.”

“And Black’s parents,” he added, pulling out the letter. 

Gray frowned in disapproval, but knew better than to start an argument she couldn’t win. Instead she relaxed in her seat, cigarette smoke mixing with White’s cigar smoke to make the room smoggy.

White read through the letter, relieved it wasn’t one of termination, but stressed by the firm reprimand to essentially get his shit together. In his days-long bender, he’d neglected to perform his clerical duties or report his status to the embassy. His leader reiterated how important White was as a figurehead for their country; and if he continued to be unreliable, punishment or demotion would need to be enacted.

With a sigh, White put the letter down and got up. “I think I should… take a shower and shave before visiting my embassy,” he put his cigar out in the recently cleared out tray. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Gray nodded, getting up to leave. “Contact me if any new leads come up.”

“I will,” White assured, walking her to the door.

As she stepped out the door, she turned to smile sweetly at him, “Take care of yourself for me, alright?”

“… I will.”

Late at night, White stumbled into one of his embassy designated homes with some of his belongings. It’d been a long time since he lived like this, and he would have to figure out groceries for his new base of operations tomorrow. With a huff, he embraced the couch, which wasn’t as comfy as the one at his house. 

He had made himself presentable before greeting his leaders, who weren’t mad, just disappointed. When asked what his issue was, of course he couldn’t explain that he was mourning his late rival, so he had to pin the source of his behavior on the assassination attempt. He was merely told to man up and get his head back in the game. After all, he would simply come back to life. He didn’t say anything—perceived immortality could be one of the few reasons why he was still employed.

There would be no more hiding behind paperwork, they would be putting him back on the playing field because they needed him to serve his country. The alternative was termination.

There had been an impromptu briefing regarding the current political climate, in which the rebellion—now recognized as the Bat-tallion—had been running smear campaigns on the White Faction. Thanks to Gray he’d already been made aware of his “Horseman of Death” moniker, but he didn’t realize it’d been turning some of his own followers against him as a monster. After all he’d done for this country?

He had to resist the urge to avert his eyes at artistic renditions of Black’s martyrdom, doing his best to seem neutral in the face of his own horrific caricatures stabbing his rival. Because the two of them being immortals was known, there was furious speculation about what in the world White had done to end Black for good, hence the new title. In a lot of the depictions, Black put on a brave face as he was pierced by the blade. In reality, he died scared.

In a couple days, there would be a military parade to reassure native Whitespyland citizens while intimidating the rebels with a show of military might. As the White Embassy’s brightest star, White was forced to attend. Counter snipers were prepped, White would be in a reinforced glass box, and all he had to do was smile and wave.

As soon as he’d made it back to his car, he had to keep himself from freaking out as he laid his head down against the steering wheel.

For now though, he was in one of his homes, safe and alone.

Alone.

Digging into his pocket, he withdrew a cigarette and lit it for some much needed stress relief. It made him cough—when was the last time he’d drunk water instead of alcohol? Ah, hopefully his leaders didn’t notice his breath.

“Why did Black die permanently, and smell like a bunch of bodies despite it being a fresh kill?”

How many times had he killed Black? He laughed in sudden understanding as to what the stench was from: The spies may have been immortal, but really they were walking skinsacks full of past rot. The smell was just a peek behind the curtain.

The smoke brushed against him as if in confirmation.

“Hello?” White murmured, shoulders growing heavy. “Is that you, God?”

God answered, gray tendrils caressing him like hands on his shoulders.

White’s stared hazily, as if in a trance. “What do I have to do to see him again?”

The Devil’s breath drifted to the gun in White’s pocket.

Chapter Text

His leaders insisted he put on makeup in order to hide his eyebags from the public. Before the parade, he was set to get the dressing room treatment; decorated like a doll of the shining man he once was. There was no confidence to carry the costume at all.

“What’s got you so tense, Agent?” one of the beautiful staff members purred, adding a bit of blush to his pale, gaunt face. God, it was like trying to make a corpse look more lively before a funeral.

Usually he’d answer with something suave, but he just cast a nervous glance at the Embassy guards at the doorway. They were supposed to protect him, but it felt like he was being monitored. Maybe because he ran off at the carnival?

White rolled his shoulders in his tailored suit, which had less pockets than he would’ve liked; less pockets meant less weapons to defend himself with. His gun felt heavy in his inner pocket, causing the suit to feel unbalanced.

Suddenly, the makeup artist brushed his shoulder pads, and he had to suppress a flinch. She smiled seductively in the vanity mirror at him, “You look like you could use a massage…” Her fingers squeezed, “Let’s go somewhere private…”

Trying not to slap her hands away, he brushed them aside carefully, “I’m not in the mood.”

Luckily she didn’t stop him as he headed to the bathroom, locking himself inside before sliding down the door. He had to crouch to not dirty his pants on the pristine floor, knees shaking as he went to touch his hair—or rather he wanted to, but it was freshly styled so he couldn’t. Was he sweating too much? That might ruin his makeup. White wanted to claw at his face as an outlet for his anxieties.

Was he about to be lured? Surely she had to have been vetted by the Embassy, so there’s no way she could be an assassin right? Maybe she really did just want him, most people still did right? Did people still love him? 

Would Black still love him like this?

Don’t cry, you’ll ruin your makeup.

The leather of his dress shoes let out small squeaks as they bumped together, his body trembling and covered in goosebumps. It felt like he was breathing too loud, and his gloves felt too big—or were his fingers too thin now?

God, he didn’t want to be here. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run. He had to do this for his country—everything he ever did was for the Embassy.

White’s body finally gave out and he sank to the floor, shaking like a leaf and sniffling. He wished he could’ve gotten drunk.

“White?”

He sprang up as soon as he heard Gray’s voice, “J-just a moment!” Hastily, White checked himself out in the mirror to make sure nothing was ruined—his eyes were teary so he just put his shades back on before stepping out.

The dressing room staff were whispering to each other, with the makeup artist from earlier standing meekly by herself looking worried. 

Gray herself gave him a concerned lookover, keeping her voice low, “What’s the matter? You’re going up soon.”

“I was worried the girl doing my makeup was trying to kill me,” White whispered.

She pressed her lips in a thin line before tugging him along by the wrist. She donned her charming smile as they walked up to the guards, feigning jealousy in her voice, “What did she say to you?”

Ever the subtle manipulator, Gray’s comment made the guards step aside awkwardly to let them pass. The news of their carnival “date” had spread rumors that they were dating, which they never confirmed or denied. Sometimes ”dating” in the workplace provided good cover stories for the two to chat in private.

When they were down the hall, Gray found a storage closet for the two to hide in. She dropped the smile instantly, “Well, go on.”

“She offered a massage and suggested we go somewhere private,” White explained, rubbing the back of his neck. Even if they weren’t a couple, it still felt embarrassing to talk about something like this.

Gray made a motion like she wanted to chew her nails, but stopped because she was wearing gloves. She sighed, “Well, she shouldn’t have any more opportunities to be around you, since everyone will be dismissed. Is the makeup causing any reaction?”

“Don’t think so,” White muttered, lightly feeling his cheek. If there was something poisonous laced in the powders, he didn’t notice anything off. “Maybe I just… overreacted.”

“Perhaps,” Gray agreed, crossing her arms. “Well, since I’m your ‘girlfriend,’ I was granted permission to join the security team as your ‘personal’ bodyguard. I’ll be accompanying you on the float, so don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

That made his shoulders sag in relief, “Really? That’s… comforting.”

Gray gave him a little grin before opening the door, “Good, because we’re about to be late.”

Back when White was a child, he remembered watching a military parade from the top of his father’s shoulders. Soldiers had marched down Main Street, heads held high as badges and cufflinks gleamed in the summer sunlight. Their guns—bayonets, though he didn’t know their names at the time—moved along with the men holding them firmly without fear. 

The leaders had sat atop a giant parade float like kings upon their moving castles, chests puffed out in pride at their nation’s display of power.

And the spies, oh how the spies’ float had enchanted him. 

People were lined around on the float like dolls on a mechanical clock tower, performing mundane tasks and waving to the crowd. They were all dressed like cooks, businessmen, the girl next door—normal people. Then every few minutes, the panels of the float would rotate like a secret passage. When the people came back out a few seconds later, they had shed their disguises and would be wearing their white spy uniforms. Truly a display of espionage’s finest as they’d show off their hidden weapons and gadgets before the cycle started anew.

Tonight’s military parade was… extravagant.

The stomping of uniform boots rumbled through the street from soldiers carrying weary expressions. It was no surprise there was only enough to fill a few small squares, considering the amount of casualties and injured soldiers who could not march. Their rifles were clutched far too tightly as they led the way for the leader’s parade float.

His leaders’ float was an elaborate display, casting them as gods looking down upon the mortals of the land. There was an air of smugness to them from how they sat in their lush thrones, as if challenging any to question their power. Similar to his own float, they were also shielded behind reinforced glass.

The spy float was shaped as his own head, with White sitting in the hat like the brain. The black trim was substituted for reinforced glass, so that everyone in the audience could view him like a celebrity in the penthouse suite—or a fish in a tank. Meanwhile his coworkers merely marched around his float, some casting him withering looks. At least Gray was with him.

And like the military parade from his childhood, other sections of the military like the Navy and Air Force took up the rear, though this year they were significantly overshadowed and under-appreciated. It put a sour taste in his mouth.

“So…” White started tentatively, trying to keep smiling for the crowd and occupy himself with small talk. “Is your faction planning on a military parade or anything of the sort?”

The lady in grey shifted from her standing position behind White’s pale throne, leaning on it in boredom despite the grin plastered on her face. “It could be nice, as long as your leaders don’t become insecure and see us as a threat.”

“Your faction isn’t a threat at all,” he scoffed in more disbelief than mockery, staring out the window. “We aren’t so trigger-happy as to take over the neutral zones. Furthermore, we’re still recovering from the last war. I’m sure no one is interested in another one.”

Gray clicked her tongue in offense, crossing her arms.

“What?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” she huffed, gloved hands digging into her skin. “You don’t realize how degrading that is.”

He agreed with confused silence, unsure of how it was. Why want to be enemies with a faction far out of your league? It was a death wish—exhibit A was the Black Faction. White’s Faction was far too powerful.

As his only companion fell silent as well, White nervously distracted himself by looking back out the window at the adoring crowd. The fake hat’s brim obscured his view slightly, but the streets were lined with people as far as the eye could see. Colorful streamers and flowers decorated the roads like a wedding. White chuckled lightly thinking about the mess the street cleaners would need to take care of once everyone dispersed.

B O O M!!!

The vibrations of the bomb shook him to his very core as the world seemed to—no, actually tilt when his float took a final bow. Screams and the raging inferno forming outside roared faintly in his ringing ears as he tumbled through the platform. His throne fell with him, the crest rail cracking White’s ribs, pinning him against the splintered wood when his float nose-dived against the pavement. Blood burst from his mouth, staining his suit red.

Considering the float’s anatomy, he’d become wedged in the broken funnel of the nose. Blearily, he looked up through his broken sunglasses to see Gray, dangling from a dagger stabbed through some of the tubing. Slowly, she dragged her way down to him like a cat on a curtain.

“G-Gray…” White pleaded hoarsely. Talking hurt; each movement shifting the bone fragments under his skin. “Help…”

She didn’t bother trying to lift the debris, which he didn’t think she was strong enough to do anyways. The other spy simply crouched down to observe him. “I don’t think I can...”

He let out a pained gurgle, mind wandering to whether or not his leaders were alive. How could this have happened? All that security for nothing? The rebellion had been relatively peaceful up until this point, so what changed?

Fiery tendrils licked their way towards the two of them, engulfing the air in an intense heat. Gray would be in danger if she stayed any longer. 

Wispy smoke encroached on him like a swarm of flies, making his eyes burn.

Was this really how it all ended? 

White wept, slumping further into the narrow space as the throne pressed shards into his aching lungs, threatening to give way. Crying was agonizing, with each heave of his chest only serving to make him sob in pain.

“I’m sorry,” Gray mumbled, eyeing the exit above. “… Though I suppose this lets us confirm my theory.”

“Th..e..ory?…” he asked, faintly recognizing that his words had become slurred. From the blood dripping down his forehead, he may have a head injury as well.

“I think this will bring Black back,” she surmised grimly. “Else, we’ll simply see if you come back from this.”

He whimpered at the implications, but found himself understanding that this was an optimal setup. The smoke coiled through his unbroken fingers, leading them to the outline of his gun. 

The other night, he really had considered it. For the last couple of days, he’d become entranced just staring at his gun, wondering the same question. And either as a blessing or a curse, Black stopped haunting his nightmares.

That only made White miss him more.

Now with death knocking at his door anyways, White preferred going out painlessly rather than slowly burn. He shakily pointed towards his pocket, praying Gray would understand without needing to utter the dreadful words himself.

Warily, Gray obliged the request and came over. She hurriedly rummaged through his suit until she found the gun, metal glinting against the firelight. Holding it with a neutral expression, Gray scanned his face to confirm her thoughts.

White responded with an exhausted sigh and closed his eyes, not wanting to perceive his death. He let his mind wander, trying to grasp for some form of comfort. He mused about if Black would be happy to see him, whether it be in the afterlife or when the two revived. White would probably get beaten to a pulp first but as long as they were together…

To his surprise, Gray slotted the gun in his grip. “They’ll think I murdered you. Here,” she explained, puppeting his hand to aim the barrel against his own head.

White gulped, tasting the iron on his tongue as his eyes widened in primal fear. “I—“ his heart thumped in his wounded chest. “Ca..n’t.”

She gazed at him blankly before putting on a calm smile. It was hard to tell if it was meant to be comforting or malicious. “Fine, I’ll help you.”

“1…” she put pressure on his trigger finger. White shook uncontrollably, eyes clenched shut with tears. God, he really was about to do this.

“2…” The smoke whirled around him, seeping into his pores as if ready to claim him—or rather, reclaim him.

“... 3!”

The world faded to Black.

Chapter Text

.

…

…..

Falling. White felt like he was falling.

Inky void stretched endlessly in his vision, enveloping all his senses till he was numbly aware of his own existence through layers of malaise. It‘d been ages since he was last in this familiar, yet alien darkness; not meant to be remembered, nor fully forgotten. 

White’s limbs didn’t feel like his own, as if he were suspended in immovable nothingness. His mind was too blanketed by the haze of a dead man to care.

Then something slithered.

In slow increments, his consciousness trickled back in to register in his brain as fear. The only thing White could move was his eyes, which wildly darted around in his sockets for any signs of further movement. 

He couldn’t see anything so much as feel it—underneath him. The mere vibrations were enough to reverberate through his bones without any contact.

There was a horrible rumbling sound before White found himself crashing into something solid. He wheezed, no longer sporting the broken ribs before he died, but still being in terrible pain all the same. Unsteady fingers found purchase on the invisible “ground” before he managed to stand. After getting to his feet, White could only freeze like a deer in headlights as he bore witness to the monstrosity before him.

The body was impossibly long, stretching like eons of ancient history, before the end plunged into the depths like a thorn rooted in flesh. Despite the Kingsnake-esque color scheme, the creature bore no scales, instead having something… oh god.

Bodies. Trillions of them. Even as his eyes struggled in the impossible dark, the forms were unmistakable: the white of bone, the amalgamation of mangled limbs, and the rot of forgotten casualties petrified in varying states of decay.

Every atom in his own body vibrated with some awful oppressive energy as the monstrous head, adorned in an elegant helmet of gold, turned its gaze to him. White could see no eyes, merely smell the stench of mankind’s sins oozing from beneath the visor. He fell to his knees.

Smoke emitted like prowling cirrus from the entity’s exhales, slow and winding through the space. The plumes circled him like curious sharks before advancing. White tried not to recoil as chemical enlightenment penetrated his pores like probing mosquitoes, the acrid scent of the creature’s signature making him gag.

It smelt like a pile of rotten, burnt corpses.

“What are you?” White shakily asked. What was meant to be a demand came out of a plea for answers amidst the chaos.

The monster brushed his request aside, voice rumbling through his mind like sandpaper. “Why seek a man you murdered?”

Goosebumps rose on his skin along with a slight heat to his cheeks, “Why?” he asked out loud, more to himself than anything.

The amalgam of bodies rattled against each other in a cacophony of wet flesh. It took a few moments to register that the strange undulation was, in fact, laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” his voice quavered, feeling a mix of shame and indignance.

“A Gilgamesh mourning their Enkidu,” it chuckled, a burst of smoke tearing through the helmet’s holes as if the creature was a snorting dragon. “My foolish champions with foolish feelings.”

“Champions?”

With sickening speed for its size, the monster coiled around him, forming a circumference of putrescence that he was scared to touch, “Immortality you both held, yet you reject my blessing.”

White cringed, avoiding the gaze of glassed-over eyes and empty sockets. He covered his eyes, shuddering as he felt shriveled fingers grazing him by a few inches of air. “But Black never came back. You took our immortality away, not us.”

“You misunderstand,” it snapped. The head reared over him, chunks of meat sliding off and splattering on the platform around White with wet thuds. “Mere assumptions have driven you to pusillanimity.”

That made him peek up at the beast, throat tightening, “T-then this whole time…” And it chose not to tell him?

“Cowardice is unbefitting of a war hero,” the creature mocked, echoing his leaders. “But worry not, you seized victory. Though you have served your purpose, you will continue being reborn as accustomed, till senescence takes you.”

With that, the platform White found himself on began to crumble. Panicking, he used the remaining corporeity under his shoes to take a leap of faith, slamming into the wall of bodies. The monster recoiled—with insult rather than pain. White breathed, nostrils now filled with the stench of decay.

To his alarm, broken and bloodied arms and mangled jaws came to life, grappling him against the flesh of humanity. He was met by a tearing force as each hand pulled with the intent of assimilating him to the mass grave. A pained scream came out as he flailed wildly, fingers and sharp bones clawing at his skin and clothes as if he were being drawn and quartered. Between the gnashing of teeth on his scalp and exposed skin, the dead whispered their tragedies from centuries of bloodshed.

“Ungrateful! Do you wish to throw your victory away like him?” the entity hissed as though White had committed an act of blasphemy against it. Perhaps you weren’t meant to touch a divine being, but this deity was nothing without the mortals that made up its flesh.

White trembled, feeling wet blood seep through his clothes as his words came out strained, ”D-deal! Let’s make a deal!”

“A deal?” it crooned, hands squeezing him hungrily, though they stopped their harvest. The sudden stillness made him groan in relief as his sore body sagged.

“... What deal did Black make?” White asked tentatively, killing two birds in one stone. He needed to know what bargaining chip his rival had against this abominable being.

The limbs ruthlessly swung White back on a newly materialized platform, “Gasoline for water, he revived the flames of war. A beautiful symbiosis, a loyal weapon.”

Disoriented, White rolled on his back, grimacing at the extraneous blood contaminating his own cuts. The golden helmet clouded his vision like a dull sun as the god loomed overhead. Breathing unsteadily, White tried to understand its riddle, the gears in his head slowly turning before it suddenly clicked.

Back then the cleanup had been a total catastrophe before the White Faction was able to regain stability, but after the gap week, White had managed to make light work of the cataclysm… it had felt too easy.

During that period of time, Black had frequent failures. An opportunist, White had taken it in stride, more than happy to prey on his rival’s convenient incompetence in order to salvage the mess he had caused. Files left out in the open, guns that always seemed to miss, sleeping instead of staying on guard; it'd all been on purpose.

White never figured out why Black’s embassy had fired him, but the self-sabotage had likely reflected on Black poorly. And if Black had truly defected and killed the Black Embassy leaders, ending the war would have ended the deal. Did that mean that without the deal, Black could’ve been by his side? White’s chest ached, not helped as his hand smeared drying blood over his heart.

Could White really start another war, assuming war was what this god wanted? The current political climate was ripe for it, especially after the terrorist attack. His embassy would hunt down rebellion members like dogs that needed to be put down—and if the Bat-tallion were willing to be violent now, civil war wasn’t far behind. It would only take a bit of gasoline to make the fire burn once more.

Could he secretly betray his embassy and help the rebellion restore the Black Faction?

Could he secretly betray his people, who were relieved to not send their sons to war?

Could he live with himself afterwards, knowing how many people he’s let down?

No, there had to be another way.

“I’d like to offer something else.”