Backstory time! :)


Despite the fact that Morgan had 'accidentally' let Victoria sleep for three hours instead of one, it was still nowhere near enough to make her feel anywhere close to well rested. Reluctantly, she drags herself downstairs to find Michael already in the kitchen, puttering around, looking annoyingly well rested and at ease in someone else's home. Being a traveler, she supposes that he must either think of the road itself as home, or fabricate the feeling of home wherever he lands.

He glances up at her arrival and smiles. She growls, "What?"

Completely unfazed, he chuckles and remarks, "Grouchy riser, eh? I think I liked you better before your nap."

Before she can respond, he picks up a mug from the table and hands it out to her. When she gets a whiff of it, her ire goes temporarily forgotten as she looks up at him, surprised. "Tea?"

"Don't sound so surprised. You're the one who bought that box of it earlier, no?" he replies, eyebrows crawling up in humor. "And don't fret, I haven't poisoned this one either. Or spit in it." With a vague wave at the threshold to the living room, he adds, "The others are having lunch in there, and then we'll leave for Quinn's and head straight to the tavern afterwards."

He hands her the mug quickly enough that she has to take it to avoid dropping it. With that same surface smile, he winds his way around her, languid like a cat, and into the living room, where she can hear the low babble of mingling voices. Now that he mentioned lunch, she can smell food, too, and her stomach decides to loudly declare the fact that she never had breakfast either. Giving into its demands, she follows Michael.

With nowhere near enough intact chairs for everyone, they've simply set out a cloth on the floor to use. To her mild surprise, Ann has made an appearance and talks animatedly with Elizabeth, probably about her research or the academy. Meanwhile, Morgan, Mime, and Kaidan are poring over a list while they eat, with the woodworking supplies organized around them in piles.

"What are you lot up to?" Victoria asks, sitting down next to Morgan. At least the pain has all but gone, leaving just sore muscles. It hardly compares to those years of Demon Hunter training, during which she'd wake up with fresh bruises every day.

"Oh, hi, Victoria!" Mime chirps, though the backwards tilt of her ears betrays some of her lingering skittishness. "We're trying to make a plan for what to fix up in the shop first. Kaidan's helping."

Morgan nods, looking over the list with downcast eyes that don't appear to be taking in what they're reading. "It's a lot…"

Victoria can't help but wonder how long this shop has been home for Morgan. As far as she knows, the alchemist lives here full time, and Elizabeth, as stern as she is, seems like more to Morgan than just a teacher. Now, this whole ordeal with the demons has uprooted both their lives, and Victoria feels a pang of sympathy for them both, especially Morgan.

Aside from Mime, the young alchemist is the only one who never asked for any of this, who wasn't prepared in the slightest, who has the least to gain and the most to lose. Kaidan came here with a plan, intending to solve the issue, even if it backfired. Michael, while he might not have known what he was looking for, can call on his wild magic to protect him. Ann at least has a thesis and a future to get out of this mess, and she has her own defensive magic. As for Victoria herself, this is her job, and while demons are an enemy she didn't think she'd have much to do with after leaving the Hunters, her training remains ingrained in her muscle memory.

"We'll all pitch in," Victoria declares firmly. "One way or another, we're all here to see this whole mess through to the end, and that means setting your shop to rights again as well. I'm sure Alethea can expedite the process of getting another alchemy table and other magical items that need to be replaced."

A slow, grateful smile spreads across Morgan's face, and for the first time since Victoria saw that enigma of a spirit locket doing magic that shouldn't exist, she feels like something is going right.

That taken care of, she turns to investigate the food but instead sees Michael staring at her with a strange look on his face. It disappears behind his surface smile the moment he notices her noticing him, of course.

Irked by his mask, she resolves to ignore him.

o0o0o

As far as taverns go, this one is nice, in Victoria's opinion, and she's seen taverns, pubs, and inns that run the gamut in terms of atmosphere over her years of missions. Of course, she's rarely alone for any mission, and although this one is no exception, she could do with a change in the current company.

Michael strolls in through the front door without a care in the world, his vibrant clothes looking like a paint job gone wrong amidst the neutral and dark colors of the other villagers. This leaves her to trail after him, mourning the unfortunate fact that she is unable to pretend that she doesn't know him. Adding to the insult is that it's just them for now—Morgan and Mime are busy being poked and prodded at by Ann, while Kaidan is on alchemist-mandated house arrest back at the shop.

He leads them to a table upstairs, off to the side and a bit hidden away, where they can watch the incoming folks while staying unobtrusive. Someone comes to take their order—a glass of wine and a coffee, with sugar.

"So I'm confused—are you a coffee or tea person?" Michael asks.

Victoria narrows her eyes at him, wondering if he's trying to make small talk or get at something else.

"Tea," she admits. "I don't like the way coffee tastes, but it keeps me more awake."

"Makes sense. What kind of tea? No, wait, let me guess." He holds one finger up, pretending to think as a smirk tugs at his lips. "Ginger?"

She glares at him to let him know that he's not as clever as he thinks he is, even though he's right. Their drinks arrive, along with a small container of sugar. When she empties nearly a third of the sugar into the coffee to make it palatable, he laughs at her, because of course he does.

"I think you and our little spirit friend Mime have more in common than you think you do," he remarks from behind his drink, the glass doing little to conceal the smirk on his face. "I wonder which one of you has the bigger sweet tooth."

"Shut up, Michael," she mutters into her mug. "Just focus on the mission."

"Right, right. None of the people in here are mine workers, though."

She narrows her eyes. "How do you know?"

"Little bird told me that they recently opened up a new vein, so Mesere Goldner has them working overtime this weekend," he explains, carefully enunciating the mine owner's name with a tone of marked disdain. "They have an hour before they're out for the day, and it'll likely take them another half hour to make their way here." At the unspoken question on her face, he smiles and says, "Remember that girl we asked for directions earlier? Her name is Brook. Her uncle is a mine worker. Sometimes it pays to talk to people, you know."

Ignoring the mild jab, she asks, "So what do we do with our time until then?"

"Whatever you'd like," he replies easily, still smiling. "I'm all yours for the night, dear Victoria."

"Spare me."

With a chuckle, he produces a set of cards from his pocket. "Can I interest you in a game of poker, then?" Seeming to sense her reluctance, he adds, "We should probably try to be doing something so that we blend in. It'll look more suspicious if we sit around doing nothing."

"Because your ridiculous fashion sense doesn't make us stand out like a sore thumb already," she sighs. "Fine, I suppose I'll bite. We're not betting any money, though."

"Have it your way, but we have to bet something if we're playing poker," he says reasonably, shuffling the cards with a practiced hand. "If we're not betting money, I propose we bet information."

Stiffening in her seat, she asks suspiciously, "What kind of information?"

"Relax," Michael laughs, by contrast totally at ease, "no need to get defensive. Winner gets to ask a question, any question, and if the other person doesn't want to answer, then that's that. A different question can be asked. The only rule is honesty."

A non-answer can still be an answer, and both of them know that. Victoria takes another sip of coffee, trying to think. Is he simply bored and looking for a way to make things more interesting, or is he trying to dig for more information about her? If so, why would he add the clause of being able to deny answering a question? Perhaps he's simply trying to protect himself; they all know that behind his surface smile hides things that he doesn't want to talk about, just like everyone else.

"Fine," she repeats reluctantly. "But I'll warn you—I was the best in my cohort."

Michael just grins and starts dealing. She watches closely for any sleight of hand or foul play, and they pick up their cards. Keeping one eye on the game and one eye on the door, ears pricked for any mention of Goldner or the mines, they start the game.

"First round goes to me," Michael declares triumphantly. "Let's see…how old are you?"

Victoria can't help but ask in disbelief, "That's what you want to know?"

"I don't believe it's your turn to ask questions," he teases.

Eyes rolling in her skull, she sighs again. "Twenty-four."

His eyebrows go up. "Funny, I thought you were older. Must be the wrinkles from all the frowny faces you keep making." She scowls. "Like that one."

"My turn to deal," she says flatly, reaching for the deck.

The second round goes to her. Too tired to have prepared any questions, she asks back, "How old are you?"

Amusement twinkles in his eyes. "Twenty-eight."

"Funny, I thought you were younger," she mimics, deadpan. "Must be your way of treating life like one big joke."

He tuts, putting on a truly ridiculous pout. "So harsh."

If he's that age, then he must've been four or five during the Empire's destruction of history records that he told Kaidan of last night in the mines.

He wins the next round and asks, "How long have you been training with Gingersnap?"

Victoria prickles with embarrassment at his casual use of her sword's name that she hadn't meant to reveal, but it's a benign enough question. "Gingersnap was forged for me when I…" She hesitates, having been about to say when I finished my Hunter training. "When I was eighteen."

"That's young for a full-fledged Demon Hunter," he remarks; of course he knew anyways.

"I was good for my age," she replies shortly. Not that her skills meant much, in the end. "Next round."

The next question goes to him as well. "So how long have you been in the Knight order?"

If he's trying to work his way up to asking why she left the Hunters, he's got another thing coming. "About five years." When she takes the next round, she considers her options and asks, "Are you trained in any weaponry, and if so, what kinds?"

He tilts his head but answers readily enough, "I prefer to use my magic to defend myself, but I've dabbled a bit in a few different weapons. I'm best with polearms. And I know which end of a sword is the pointy end and therefore which end I want to keep away from me."

She hums noncommittally, taking a sip of coffee before dealing out the cards again. It's been a while since she's had the chance to play a game like this. When she left behind the Hunters, she also left behind that sense of camaraderie both on and off the field. There are Knights that she is more inclined to trust than others, and plenty that she respects for their courage and resilience. Can she call any of them friends, and would any of them call her a friend? That's debatable. She's good at her job and appreciated for it, and little else.

Truth be told, she hasn't tried very hard to get to know any of them outside of work, and it was all too easy to shut them out and let herself get shut out. She didn't go through the same training as they did, doesn't know their history like they do, doesn't understand their politics and norms the same way. It went beyond just education; many Knights came from privileged backgrounds, and while Victoria's family was never poor by any means, hearing some of her coworkers talk casually about owning their own lands and estates was something she never quite got used to.

Most importantly, after her less than honorable resignation from the Demon Hunters, she couldn't bring herself to grow close to any of her new coworkers, for fear that her emotions would impair her decision making again. No matter what happens, she refuses to make the same mistake twice.

"How did you get that scar?"

Having barely noticed that she lost the round, she stirs. "What?"

"The one on your arm," he says, gesturing at her left arm.

Her other hand reflexively goes to squeeze her arm, covered by her sleeve. "Pass." When had he noticed? Earlier this morning?

Unbothered, he asks, "How did you join the Demon Hunters?"

That's a story she can tell. "It's not that exciting. Hunters were passing through on a mission, and since I knew the backwoods around our town better than most, they let me guide them to the demons' nest. I admired their work ethic and skills, and when they gave me a training sword, we found that I had a natural talent, mostly from watching the town guards train, so they took me on as the youngest trainee in my cohort." She wishes she could say she hasn't looked back since, but truth be told, these last few days in particular have severely tested her and continue to do so.

"And most modest, too," he quips, grinning as she frowns indignantly. "Oh, don't be like that. I'm sure your claims were well founded, even back then."

Indignation turning to confusion, she mindlessly picks up her cards as he deals them. Was that supposed to be a compliment?

"No wonder you make such a perfect cog in the mindless machine that is the Empire," he remarks idly as if commenting on the weather.

Victoria breathes deeply, refusing to let it bother her. Never mind.

When she wins the next round, she asks, "What else can you do with your wild magic?"

She would've certainly passed if she was in Michael's position, but he replies readily enough, "Whatever I want, mostly."

He pauses, as if leaving it at that, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth gives him away, though she can't help glaring at him anyways.

"I don't know any spells that really fit the definition you likely know," he explains. "The academies like to make it seem like there are rules, nice and orderly, but they just want to make their magi easier to limit."

"I'm sure Ann would have something to say about that," she points out archly.

Michael just shrugs flippantly with a careless smile. "I'm sure she would. Sometimes I do speak words to give myself a vision to achieve, since magic responds better when there's a focused goal." That surprisingly seems to match with what little Victoria does know of academy magic. "Most of the time, though, I'm doing something that I've done so many times that I don't need to think about it anymore, so I don't need the words. I've got some skill with telekinesis, but fire is a specialty of mine."

That was unfortunately non-specific, but she had a feeling he wasn't going to give her a concrete answer anyways. For her next question, she tries a different tack.

"When and why did you start travelling alone?" she asks.

"That's two questions, don't you think? But I'm feeling generous, so I'll allow it," he says slyly, prompting an eyeroll. "I must've left the people I called home…oh, a dozen years ago, perhaps."

She stares. Given his current age, that means he was about sixteen at that time. And the people he called home? That's a vague way to put it, and it makes her think that he is not referring to his blood family. As both a Knight and a Demon Hunter, she's heard tell of wild mage bands, little seeds of rebellion against the Empire's teachings—perhaps he was part of one? She's dealt with them herself a few times, though never alone.

Suddenly, she's struck with the nonsensical question of whether or not any of those groups she encountered were ever ones that Michael knew. Frustrated with herself, she shakes those musings aside; what does it matter? He'll share the same fate as them at the end of the day.

"As for why," he continues, leaning back and taking a sip of his wine, "well, let's just say…" An unusually pensive look colors his expression. "I was someone else, back then."

And from the sound of it, he both deprecates that person lost to the past and mourns him, too. Victoria finds that she can relate in that regard, oddly enough. Once upon a time, she was younger, dumber, and the path ahead seemed crystal clear. To this day, part of her misses being that selfish yet brave girl in a world that still made sense.

Her coffee has gone lukewarm, but she takes another sip anyways, trying to fortify herself with caffeine. The next round is hers.

"What were they like?" she asks. "The people you called home."

He blinks, appearing surprised, before he gives a nostalgic half smile and hums thoughtfully.

"We were…quite a motley group, as it happens," he says lightly, but with fondness in his voice. "I was with them for a while—at least a decade, as far as I remember. I had aunts and uncles, cousins, siblings young and old—of course, when I was young, I was everyone's little brother, and when I grew older, I was the one looking after half a dozen midgets and thinking that I couldn't possibly have been that small once." He shrugs. "And none of them were my relatives by blood. Doesn't change the fact that they were the only family I had. And as many problems as we had, as an assorted group of magi, half underage, wandering the countryside," he continues, meeting her gaze evenly as if inviting her challenge, "I wouldn't have traded it for anything."

Refusing to break eye contact, she ventures, "It sounds…hectic."

"It was," he agrees as he sits back, his tone tinged with amusement, perhaps at her word choice. "That was the fun of it." For his next question, he parrots back, "What about the people you called home?"

The melancholy intensifies, to her irritation. "I grew up an only child in a moderately sized town. My father thought I should go into academia, and my mother thought I should follow her steps and become a socialite."

Michael nearly drops his wineglass coughing up a lung. "With what social skills?" he snickers, and she rolls her eyes.

"Yes, laugh it up," she deadpans. "They had good intentions, but I had my own ideas, and I already told you how I joined the Demon Hunters. And for a while…"

Her gaze drifts downward, focusing on the rich wood of the table, dyed in rich hues by the light of the hearth, and she could almost imagine she was sitting in the barracks again, trading chips and chatter with her fellow trainees. It'd taken some time, some attempted hazing, and quite a few sparring matches, both official and unofficial, that almost always ended in her victory once she got a grasp on her own abilities, but no longer did her blunt personality and her broad shoulders and calloused hands stand out in a bad way. Some of the older cadets who had given her the most trouble in the beginning would become her closest friends years down the road.

"For a while," she continues quietly, gathering herself, "I knew who I was."

None of them were her relatives by blood. Up until the moment she left and, if she's being honest with herself, even now when she's feeling particularly sentimental, they were the people she called home.

Lifting her gaze back up, she finds Michael staring back at her like he knows exactly what she's thinking. Maybe he does, if his makeshift family was anything like hers. It's ridiculous at first blush, having such a thing in common with a band of wild mages. Then again, far more ridiculous things have been happening as of late.

When his next hand trumps hers, he leans forward and gives her a thoughtful look, and part of her knows what he's going to ask before he poses the question:

"Why did you leave the Hunters?"

A pass is on the tip of her tongue; it has been ever since they started this game. Instead, softened by bittersweet nostalgia and regret, she finds herself saying, "I made a choice guided by sentimentality instead of reason."

Only a drop of red remains in the bottom of his glass, but his eyes remain sharp and clear as he says quietly, "And everyone told you it was the wrong choice."

For once, she can't bring herself to argue. Not all of them said so much to her face, but she knew what they were thinking—irresponsible, ignored the rules, waste of talent, letdown, disappointment, too weak for the job.

Reading the answer in her gaze, he continues, breaking the agreement of their game—one question per round—without hesitation, "Do you think it was wrong?"

No. Never. "I broke the rules."

His half pitying, half exasperated expression tells her that she's not fooling anyone, that they both know better. "Was there a right choice to make?"

Shaking her head slowly, she whispers, "I don't know."


Can you tell I know absolutely nothing about poker?