A/N: A Latvian gambit is a chess move made by Black. Rather than detail what the move looks like, I'd like to quote someone who explained the kind of reasoning that makes you do a Latvian gambit:

"What is required to play the Latvian Gambit with any degree of success is a sharp eye for tactics and a mental attitude of total contempt for whatever theory has to say about it."

Refs to ch: 31, 77, 79, 88, 90, 93, 94, 96-99, 107.

I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.

It was unclear exactly how Faust Mansion connected with Mephisto's office in the Academy; why was obvious, considering how much he seemed to dislike travelling like common humans, but how… Well, transition between the two was possible, at least. With the right key and the right… patience. Shiro knew well how long office hours lasted, and how long after that point Mephisto could be expected to stay in his office to finish the day's paperwork. By using this knowledge in junction with much exploration of the mansion, he arrived in the principal's office when Mephisto was the only one present.

"I'll do it."

Mephisto looked up from his papers with that expression that said he would consider becoming curious, depending on what next came out of the speaker's mouth.

"I'll do it", Shiro repeated in level tones as he strode solemnly past the set of Baroque furniture. "I'll go to Rome and get you your Cardinal."

A lone eyebrow quirked upwards, but that was the sole change on the principal's features.

"If the offer still stands?" Shiro added, coming to a stop before the desk that boasted its weight in solid wood.

"As I recall, you preferred to watch the game from the sidelines?"

"I do, but you don't always get to pick what you prefer", he replied wryly. "Still interested in a single-move checkmate?"

"Always the wrong questions, Shiro", Mephisto drawled, leaving ample room for the smug response that would come. He wiped his reservoir pen clean and corked it. Placed it back into etui and put it aside, aligned perfectly parallel with the chessboard. "The only relevant one being, 'what do you ask in return?'" Mephisto braided his fingers together on the desk and finally raised his eyes to meet his gaze.

"I want Kasumi's face returned to what it was."

He didn't want that kind of scrutiny right now. Every second Mephisto spent on measuring him, he expected the old goat to turn the offer down. Or say that it wasn't balanced; that somehow seemed to be vital for forming contracts. Equal value. Can't pay for less than you get – and conversely, it appeared demons couldn't charge for more than they sold.

"Lovers give each other offerings for three reasons", Mephisto spoke distantly, still holding Shiro contemplatively with his eyes. "As tokens of affection, as pleas for forgiveness, or as parting gifts." His head tilted sideways, the way Midori's did when she was trying to make sense of something that she almost-but-not-quite grasped. "You aren't asking her to forgive you", he murmured to himself. "You're enamoured with her. And you're saying goodbye." The demon heaved a pleasant sigh, bringing with it a sappy smile that Shiro recognised from evenings when they watched some particularly cheesy anime. "And they say the days of chivalry are past? Truly, a knight the Order will be able to pride itself on. A deal it is."

A deal it was. The desk was soon swept clear of papers, and covered by a large, unmarked sheet of parchment summoned by Mephisto.

"Parting gift… Yeah, something like that. I'm sorry, Kasumi. Seems I'll be playing chess after all", he thought grimly, eyes falling on the glossy chessboard. If he were useful there, Mephisto would keep him in play. He would ensure that the Order didn't detain him. It was the best option out of several bad.

There was only one piece moved on the board: a black pawn. One piece that would ensure no others had to be… sacri… ficed…?

we all make sacrifices from time to time

Kita's voice echoed in the back of his head; overlapped by another voice from long ago, in this very office.

in chess there is always sacrifices

Sacrifices were part of the game. Part of the strategy. Part of luring your opponent into the trap. As Mephisto tugged the fingers of his glove to remove it, Shiro traced the pattern of skilful strategy with dead heartbeat.

He couldn't see them. The strings. Humans rarely can see such things: see the strings that connect one thing to another, beneath the surface layers of the world. But, even if you can't see them… sometimes… you can see the pattern they weave.

Pinky…

When he was going to date Kasumi, Mephisto had offered him succubi

Ring finger…

When he'd promised to spend the day with Kasumi and Shizuku, he'd almost missed it because of the hangover from celebrating his exam with Mephisto; before exam results were officially announced

Middle finger…

When he'd taken Kasumi to the cinema, Mephisto had bought up all the tickets

Forefinger…

When Kasumi and Shizuku had dropped by for a surprise-visit, Mephisto had been introducing him to the Misses in the beauty pageant

Thumb…

Kasumi had forgiven him for the attack, made him promise not to sign any contract… and somehow Kita's grandparents had found out that he had been involved in the Deep Keep incident

The pattern was there. Consistent as clockwork. And though Shiro couldn't see them, he felt them: soft, soft strings, gently snaring his limbs into submission and binding his tongue with secrets that kept others from interfering as the spider slowly wove its web around him.

"You… No…"

At the sound, Mephisto looked up at him, wearing that same face of naïve ignorance he pulled on the Order during hearings. The face he had used for pledging innocence with the blood of ninety-two orphans on his hands.

No, it couldn't be… It couldn't…

"You wanted this…" he whispered, barely audible above the numb disbelief echoing inside him. "You wanted me to- You tried to make me…"

The right to move is yours alone – how noble that had sounded. How magnanimous of the demon to let his game piece leave the board. How generous to offer him the illusion of choice when he dangled like a fucking puppet at the end of his strings…!

"You son of a bitch…!"

Fuck the games, fuck the rules: Shiro pulled him out of his chair by the cravat, forced him to bend forward and practically bow over the desk to meet him face to face. And the demon grinned – fucking grinned – at the scorching fury that burnt in his veins. As if this was the best part of it all.

"You're gonna tell me one thing", he snarled through his teeth, "and you're gonna tell me the truth. Did you send the demon that possessed me when I attacked Kasumi?"

Because if he did; if he risked her fucking life for his plans…

in chess there is always sacrifices

…then Shiro would walk up to the Grigori and tell them who their Honorary Knight was, and what he had done. And that would be the end for both of them.

"I have done no such thing", the demon smiled sweetly.

Lies. He'd told lies before, he would do it again. Stone cold, Shiro pierced the green eyes with his own, quietly demanding the truth.

"You wish it were my doing, do you? Would ease your own guilt if it were me, hm?" he suggested agreeably, idly meeting the glares with unwavering confidence. "It's such a bad habit you humans have, blaming your faults on demons."

Something snapped. Cold flames burned through his restraint once more and set loose a mind capable of anything; next thing Shiro knew, something wet and warm was trickling down his fingers. The switchblade was in his hand, and its tip was buried in the soft flesh under Mephisto's chin.

"I have many things I could blame you for", he spoke coldly, "and the Vatican would be eager to hear them."

He could go further. No problem at all. In this state of mind, he could do anything. Mephisto was held fast, bowed down, bleeding… And no matter how much Shiro was capable of, he could do nothing against the demon that was held fast, bowed down, bleeding… and smiling.

"Such spirit~" Heavy eyelids lowered pleasantly, centimetres from Shiro's face. "I thought you would have learnt, from the incident with miss Honda, not to let emotion obstruct your judgement, Shiro…?"

Playing. The bastard was still playing with him, toying with him…!

As he had done all along.

Inside Shiro… something broke.

Something he'd never felt until it impaled him on the shards of shattered illusions.

The world teetered before his eyes, suddenly black and white in the garish light of his stupidity. He had trusted Mephisto. Against all reason and common sense he had trusted him, teased him, defended him - and Mephisto had been playing him the whole time. Herding him towards this moment, this parchment, this contract.

A tool.

One that Kita had willingly handed to the demon, not knowing where the information about the Deep Keep incident came from.

Walk away. That was his first impulse: walk away, and deny Mephisto the tool he wanted. Walk off, slam the door behind him and… And what? Let Mephis- Let Samael play him for another round of cat and mouse? Let him drag more innocent bystanders into his mad games?

know your enemy, and you can predict his actions

He knew Samael: fool or not, he knew how that demon's mind worked. And Samael knew him.

predict your enemy's actions, and you can lead him wherever you like

He knew there was only one way of making him stop: Samael knew that, too.

to the true master, the enemy is but another game piece to be played

"I'll sign your contract", he hissed, letting go of the demon's cravat with a harsh shove. "And next time you feel like playing games, you play with the ones who chose to be on the board."

No more sacrifices. No more collateral damage. No more foolish illusions.

Bastard.

"The mettle of one who commands hellhounds." His tone seemed to say 'good dog' as he seated himself again. He readjusted the cravat delicately and produced a cerise handkerchief to wipe blood from his throat. "No need to involve others now that all the pieces are assembled, hm?" He offered the handkerchief to Shiro with an easy smile; Shiro ignored it, and wiped his knife and fingers on his own shirtsleeve. Unperturbed, the demon tossed the cloth over his shoulder for the wastebasket to catch. "First things first~ I'm assuming you want to read the contract and make sure it's to your satisfaction before you sign?"

Not waiting for a reply, he tugged off his other glove and pulled up the tailcoat sleeve a few centimetres. One sharp, purple claw cut into his wrist, and a single red drop fell onto the parchment: it scattered, like ink dripped into water, and wove its smoky tendrils out over the surface to inscribe what he promised to do.

Shiro flipped the parchment around unceremoniously. There could be catches hidden in any nook of a strange or non-exclusive phrasing… He sifted the words through, turned them over and inside out, but found nothing suspicious. All was in place, nothing noteworthy.

"I want to make an addendum", Shiro declared. Following the cue of Samael's cocked head, he spoke again: "Your part of the deal won't come into effect until I'm out of here. Until I leave Japan."

That way, Kasumi wouldn't know he had broken his promise until he was gone.

Coward.

That way, she might curse him to hell and forget about him.

"Certainly." With a sigh eerily reminiscent of disembodied voices, the blood seeped another smoky line of kanji into the parchment. "Will that be all…?"

He sounded like a bloody shop assistant over the counter.

Wordlessly, Shiro rolled a sleeve, same as he had been instructed to do one year and four days earlier, in this very room. He poised the tip of his knife over a pale blue vein, and blood swirled into words his end of the deal. Just like one year and four days ago.

One year…

He watched Samael hum to himself in an unconcerned fashion as he read through the document in its entirety. No regret. No emotion played over his features, not even gloat.

As if one year had meant nothing.

"Well, then." The blood flashed blue, the colour of burning sulphur; and when the light died down, their agreement was branded into the paper. "All set and done~" At two rapid claps from Samael's hands, the parchment rolled into a scroll and bound itself together with a pink, polka-dotted ribbon, before it disappeared in a burst of pink smoke.

"It's the same as last time, I guess?" Shiro rolled the sleeve back down, not bothering if the fabric stuck in the bleeding cut. "If I break the contract or fail to complete it, you'll have my soul."

"No need to look so grim about it: I want you to succeed, Shiro~" Samael threaded his gloves back on, taking care that the seams all aligned impeccably on the sides of his bony fingers. "Nothing is impossible with the right mind and the right means. The mind you have; and the means", he smirked, "I will provide. So! Without further ado, I will explain to you how to catch the fox in his own den."

There was a plan.

Of course.

Hadn't there been, all along?

…Shiro wouldn't admit that he was amazed, but… Damn. Damn.

He had pictured a stab in the back, a dagger in the shadows – the kind of manoeuvre Tanzi had tried to pull, but smarter. In retrospect, he didn't know what he had been thinking. Stealth? From one who dressed in pink silk stockings and billowing opera capes? Samael's soiled pride demanded Revenge, glorious such, and it would march in through the front gate to obtain it – red carpet, spotlight and all.

"There's no way you can kill Tanzi under those circumstances", he murmured, going over the plan in his head in search of weaknesses and question marks. "You weren't going to, either, if I remember correctly. What are you gonna do once you have him?"

He forced himself to look at Samael when he spoke, hoping to see… difference. A change in the way he sat, the way he looked at him; anything that could set him apart from the Mephisto he had called friend, hoping it would be… easier? Was betrayal ever easy?

"I'm going to offer him a deal", the demon replied.

There was no malice in that statement, no looming shadows or chilling threats; it was simply that. A statement. Nothing more, nothing less.

puppets and playthings

He was the same Mephisto, same as he had always been; nothing different and nothing changed, save that Shiro saw him for what he was. What he had been all along, behind playful smiles and gaudy clothes. What Shiro had refused to see, despite all the warnings.

little by little, he will burn you to ashes

Something stirred inside, as if the calm he'd maintained was that of an ocean sucking in breath before unleashing a tsunami. Something was stirring in the ashes, and he did not want to be around Samael when the waves hit.

"That's that, then." With nothing more to say, he turned and walked.

Part of him still stood before the desk. Parts of him clattered to the floor with every step. Bit by bit he fell apart, suffocated by the hollow void opening in his lungs. He was numb at the moment, but that would wear off soon enough.

Damn if he would let Samael have that last victory.

"One more thing, if you don't mind?"

He did mind – he did mind a lot... But Shiro merely turned his head a fraction, enough to meet the demon's eyes in the periphery of his glasses' frame.

"Why did your parents name you Shiro with the kanji for lion and son?" he inquired in the most flippant, casual, infuriating manner possible.

What the fuck was he playing at? If this was some new damn guessing game that- Tch… Just give the bastard what he wanted. That was the only way to make him stop.

"They lost three foeti before I was born", he responded curtly from the doorway. "Four is bad luck – they'd had enough of that, so they named me after a lion instead." Much bloody good that had done.

"Ah, good old superstition. I shall make all the necessary preparations for your task, then. Keep an eye on your mail compartment, and have a nice-"

The door slammed shut before the greeting could reach its addressee.

A/N:

"Love?! Who exactly do you take me for? Demons strive to counteract human attachment to romanticised illusions such as love, goodness me."
– Mephisto, AnE ch 44

Number four is considered bad luck in both China and Japan, because the pronunciation is similar to that of "death". As a side note to the side note, nobody wants to give birth in hospital room number 43, because the number can be literally read as "still birth".

Sulphur burns blue, yes. Exact same hue as Satan's flames, too. ;)