Interlude: Flowers of Evil (2/2)

He shouldn’t have. It wasn’t part of the mission.

But he’d wanted it. It had reminded him of home. Of that Starbucks on the corner, the smell of coffee and overpriced scones, and laughing with Tina and Lou, and that time that Fred had come in wasted, and tried to do tarot. He had been so damn drunk, and they’d laughed at every slurred prophecy.

But this one had been on point. And though she hadn’t even known the question, she’d brought things into stark relief in his mind.

“No warmth. No light. The game is rigged against me, my victory here is hollow and meaningless, and the two of rogues is my enemy. Two of rogues. Two rogues in one body. Does that sound familiar to you, buddy?”

“What?” The Operative was clueless, of course.

Daffodil considered the long, empty road ahead, turned to look at the noisy, alarm-filled city behind. “You don’t know. No reason you should. You’re just a mob after all.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t beg,” said Daffodil. “Just don’t say anything. Unlike THAT poor bunch of bastards, you’ve earned this.”

And he hurled the soulstone against the nearest boulder.

With a crash and a pop it shattered, and the Operative winked into existence, see-through and glowing... and already fading.

“What is this? What does this mean?” The man’s frantic eyes searched him, as he looked down at his suited form and back to Daffodil, over and over again.

“It means I’m done being strung along for a ticket to a train that isn’t coming,” Daffodil said, crossing his arms. “And if the entire game is rigged against me, well, it’s time to flip the table and play my own game.”

“You’ve gone mad,” the Operative said, as he faded away to nothing. “The Patrician will end you for this treachery...”

“Yeah, well,” Daffodil tucked his hands back in his pockets, turned, and walked back toward the city. “Pat’s welcome to try.”