Episode Nine: "Sonata"

In which witnessing a brutal act of vengeance pushes Ash to a defining moment.

Story by Mabel Harper and Weaver Webb
Written by Weaver Webb

For content warnings, see Episode One.

“Grenville. Hey, Grenville. Ash.”

It was Navarrete’s voice, low and tense, next to his ear. Her hand took hold of his, the one gripping his fork. He recoiled from the touch.

“Ash,” she said again. “Come on, put this down. Let’s go.” She pried the fork from his grasp.

“Where?” he whispered.

“The fucking drawing room. Come on, get up. We just have to get through this.”

Ash forced himself to raise his head, just in time to see the rasping what-was-left-of-a-man being dragged out of the dining room. His stomach gave a twist.

“Who is he?” he murmured, part of him at the same time really not wanting to know.

“He’s the reason two of Dreyfus-Meillassoux’s top guys are dead,” said Navarrete.

“Are they going to kill him?”

“That’d be the best thing for him at this point, don’t you think? Just…whatever happens in there, just fucking keep it together, okay?”

It floated through the background of Ash’s thoughts that he wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to herself.

She tugged him to his feet. He stumbled after her on autopilot, between the guards at the doorway; became vaguely aware of Betancourt walking beside them, Miles Winter’s crutches thumping behind. Dreyfus-Meillassoux, Ishaan Ram, and “Sicko Mode,” as Navarrete had called him, seemed to have already gone ahead of them.

The drawing room was dark now, except for the blinding blue light of the ever-burning fire (Burn, boy, burn! Creuch heckled whenever Ash looked at it), the alchemical globes illuminating the two shrines, and the faint scarlet glow of the runes on Dreyfus-Meillassoux’s black violin.