Work Text:
Just another day at the lakeside. First thing’s first: pick the perfect bait.
Reyna stared down the scope at the clearing ahead. Perhaps “clearing” was technically the wrong word, given that it was the flattened foundations of what had once been a large government office. But framed as it was by half-obliterated apartment buildings, looted shops, and twisted beams of metal in the urban forest of ruined Garlemald, “clearing” was appropriate enough.
In the middle of the clearing, by a charred desk covered in snow, lay the lure that would bring her target here. A cache of documents that, according to the rumors she had circulated through Senatus, contained top-secret contingency plans prepared by Emperor Varis zos Galvus himself for the eventuality that he was deposed and Garlemald was occupied by its enemies. Plans that only the most trusted could be allowed to see. The exact type of bait that would attract a high ranking lord with minimal escort.
Breathe the air. Lake air is different from sea air is different from river air. Every puddle is different. Feel the rod in your hands. Strong, sturdy, weathered. Pick the perfect place to cast. Set the hook. Flick.
She tested the heft of the rifle against her shoulder, feeling the frigid Garlean air penetrate her scarf and enter her lungs as she took a deep breath in. Firearms weren’t her usual weapon of choice, but the employer had been insistent, her gil pouch had been light, and after a bit of practice she had become a good enough shot. Job opportunities in Reyna’s particular field had dried up when the Telophoroi’s towers first appeared, and only now that the so-called “Final Days” were over and done with had requests begun to trickle in again. The employer had wanted a weapon that wouldn’t stand out in the frozen wastes of Garlemald, and while this rifle was a unique state-of-the-art device of Ishgardian make, the sound and projectile would not appear that different from those emitted by the hundreds of magitek warmachines that still roamed the razed urban ruins. Certainly less conspicuous than a poison arrow at the very least.
He stares down at me. A fisherman’s vest hides old scars. Long purple hair and a cheery grin. I always say one day my hair will be even longer. He always laughs. “You’ve got a lot of growing to do ‘fore that, girl.” A tug on the rod and we snap to attention. Tattooed fighter’s hands come up behind mine and grip the handle tight. “Careful, careful, let it tire itself, don’ forget.” The tugging gets weaker. Slower. Weaker. Slower. HEAVE!
The target walked into the clearing, slowly and cautiously but with the unmistakable gait of a proud oligarch. A Garlean, relatively elderly, with short white hair. His face matched the rough sketch the employer had shown her, albeit lined with more wrinkles and the skin under the eyes far more sunken in. He looked tired.
The man was followed closely by two Garlean soldiers dressed in the uniforms of the Ist Legion, who were carefully watching the streets around them for signs of approaching machina. It was a small guard, which is what Reyna had expected. Two experienced soldiers were more than enough to protect him from a lone roving warmachine. Not enough to protect him from her though.
One of the guards was close to the target now. She would fire two shots in quick succession to take those two out, and have time to adjust her aim to hit the third before they could flee the clearing. Accounting for distance and a fresh burst of biting wind, Reyna took aim and put her finger on the trigger.
“Aye, ya heard what I said, girl!”
“But why?”
“Ain’t many of ‘em left, poor things. A decade or so back, clueless fools who ain’t fit to call themselves anglers got greedy and caught ‘em by the hundred, ‘till there were barely enough left to make more. This is the first I’ve seen of one since, truth be told.”
Pout.
“Look, you wanna be a real angler? Lesson one, only a fool makes a catch that denies a hundred men theirs.”
The moment she started to apply force to the trigger, movement caught the corner of her eye. She paused. Two figures had run into the clearing behind the Garleans. Two young, twin Elezen, nearly out of breath, waved over to the first group, who returned the gestures with nods and appreciative smiles. Judging from the singed, still smoking edges of their clothing, it seemed to Reyna that they had likely just been in a dangerous battle with some warmachina. The twins had nearly identical faces, although their dress and vastly different weapons distinguished them.
She had heard of these two. The Leveilleur twins were assisting in the Ilsabard Contingent’s reconstruction efforts. Were they escorting the Garleans? She had considered that the target might decide to send a trusted subordinate instead or bring a larger guard with him, but to bring foreigners, let alone ones with as much influence within Eorzean politics as the Leveilleurs? To all but give them direct open access to the Emperor’s secrets? That didn’t match what she knew of this man at all.
I look at it. Glittering silver scales, turning all colors of the rainbow in the light. It flops again, desperate to leap free. Its unchanging eye stares into mine. A promise of a life, no, a generation, yet to live in that eye. A new future, seconds from being snuffed out. Desperate. Pleading. Hopeful.
A bittersweet smile. My belly grumbles. I toss it back.