Chapter Text
It's been two months since Letta agreed to work with the Creators.
Two months since she reunited with Marlo and Finn, and two months since she discovered that Miss Pepper of all people was a desecrator.
Miss Pepper, who kept doing what Carmina had colloquially described as 'majorly eyeballing' her whenever she saw their little trio.
Miss Pepper was the main member of the Ark branch of resistance, and the only one who regularly came to the base aside from Letta.
Therefore, she’s also the only other person from Ark aware of the bets.
The joking ones, placed on her and Marlo, the will-they-won't-they couple of the resistance. A real-life romance to distract from the desperate struggle for Nicene. The not-so-subtle pushing them together. Finn always pairs them up with a subtle smile, Carmina volunteers to patrol alone and frequently suggests that Marlo teach her to dance…
Does Marlo know? Surely… but then again, she only knows because Miss Pepper told her.
Because Miss Pepper is the only one who knows the full extent of her double life.
"Wordsmith task," she always tells the gavvers, traipsing down to Tintown to access their secret hideout.
"Wordsmith task," she tells the kitchen workers when she takes food with her to share with the extra-hungry.
"Wordsmith task," she tells her husband over dinner.
Her husband. Her stupid, stupid husband.
Letta knows she can't dance around the topic forever. She knows that if it came down to it, she'd choose Marlo in less than a heartbeat. But it's not that simple, is it? It's never that simple.
Damn it, she's married. Married and miserable but by many accounts she's been told that's par for the course, though in not so many words and punctuated by a weary, worn-out laugh.
She loves Marlo. She doesn't love Werber. It should be simple.
But it's not.
And she knows, knows Marlo loves her too.
She knows because he looks at her the same way Werber does, but softer. There's genuine passion in his eyes, unlike Werber's jealous, possessive black holes begging mine. Knows because every time she pulls away from Marlo to prevent a mistake she can't take back while her metaphorical ring still sits on her finger (Noa outlawed marriage rings before she was born, a ‘waste of resources') he has the same confused, veiled frustration on his face that Werber does when she says that she doesn't want children yet.
(Not with him, never with him, maybe with Marlo but never with him.
An irreversible tie, physical proof she can't take back, a responsibility she can't juggle alongside war and wordsmithing and Werber.)
By day, she works at the shop, creating cards bound with twine.
By evening, she grimaces beneath a smile at her husband's droll anecdotes over their rations.
By night, she sneaks out to live. Dances hand-in-hand, plans side-by-side, hides beneath the shadows with him, arms pressed together so warm she feels like she's burning but maybe that's just the burning shame.
Whenever Miss Pepper catches her eye, Letta's stomach drops.
The pump house, inevitably, becomes their target again.
Bittersweet memories of Leyla and Hugo float unsaid through the air, Letta gripping her skirt so hard her knuckles whiten.
"We'll need to access the inside somehow," One member mutters. Finn hums in agreement.
"But where would we get the keys? Pepper?" The woman shakes her head.
"Hate to say, but I no access water area."
Her non-list is improving, Letta idly notes between the crashing sounds of her worlds colliding.
"Any other ideas?” Finn asks, eyes lined with exhaustion.
Maybe that’s why she takes the risk. The site of such a jovial man, downtrodden and tired, doesn’t sit right with her.
"I can get you the keys," She says, the words lead-heavy and equally poisonous on her tongue.
"Are you sure you can get them?" Finn asks.
(Letta feels as if she's on a tightrope hovering precariously between her two secrets.)
"Positive," She responds, mouth dry as bone.
(And the rope's beginning to snap.)
Across the table, Miss Pepper's gaze burns like an accusation branded into her skin.
She shrinks in on herself, readjusting her hood and blames the cold when Marlo asks.
His kindness hurts as he wraps an arm around her to ward off a false chill.
Werber, the fool, doesn't notice a thing when she perlions his work keys.
(Perloin: steal something. Another fun word Carmina taught her.)
When someone asks how she got them, Letta smiles blandly. "Off someone who works at the water tower."
"Will they notice?"
Her chest feels hollow.
"No."
She's glad Miss Pepper isn't here.
In the days approaching the attack, her tightrope wears thinner by the minute.
"I go work now," Werber announces choppily after breakfast.
Letta nods, always opting to respond non-verbally to Werber to dodge his age-old habit of scolding her for using non-list words.
Watching him walk out the door, she moves slowly to gather her shoes.
Her working hours are more flexible than Werber’s, but Letta prefers to go in about an hour or so after breakfast. The commute is annoying, but she'd take it any day over living in Benjamin’s old home with Werber... especially since it's unofficially become a rebellion meeting spot.
It's seconds after entering the bedroom that she's grabbed.
A hand over her mouth muffles her alarm as she's spun around to confront-
"Carmina?"
The girl's eyes are wide and blazing. “You're married?"
She hisses it like it's a scandal… and technically, it could be considered one. A betrayal, maybe even, of multiple kinds.
Letta opens her mouth. Shuts it.
For all her words, she can find none to defend herself.
Carmina looks at her for a long moment. Finally, she sees something she understands and pulls her into a crushing hug.
"Damn John Noa," She whispers.
Letta can only sob out an agreement.
(There's another person on the tightrope now. How long will it hold?)
The pumphouse plan goes off without a hitch, according to Finn.
Perfectly for everyone but Letta.
Werber stands silently in the doorway to the bedroom, when she gets home.
Before she can ask him to move, he speaks.
"Desecrator."
Fear bolts through her veins.
"What?"
"Desecrator. At work."
"Oh," she breathes, relaxing again.
"Had keys. How get? Not know.”
“You… you pumphouse leader, how not know?” Letta struggles through the List speak.
Werber shrugs. “No one know. But find soon.”
“How?”
Her husband smiles, awful and plastic as always and sickly in the dim evening light.
“Find way.”
He turns away just in time to miss her shudder.
“They know someone took the keys,” Letta reports grimly. “Not who took them though.”
Marlo hisses, worry across his face.
“Do they know whose keys were stolen? If they do, they’ll be able to narrow down the suspects.”
Ah. Letta hadn’t thought of that.
Stupid, how could you not think of that?!
“They do,” she stops, intending to continue speaking, but finds she can’t.
Her sentence is left unnaturally hanging, a ‘but’ required to finish, an excuse she can’t provide.
‘But I’m the last they’d suspect’ is the first thing that pops to her mind, a lie so blatant even the wordless could clock it. The gavvers would jump on the chance to accuse her instantly, and no amount of favouritism from Noa would stop Carver.
After an awkward pause waiting for her to continue, Finn retakes the conversation. “Okay… not great, but we can work with it. Leon, do you…”
The planning trails on, but Letta’s heartbeat is thundering in her ears.
They know. Does Werber know? That suck-up would snitch on me in seconds, mate or not. Will he tell? Has he already? Where is he now?
Fuck. Letta feels like she’s drowning in her own deception.
Nausea pools in her gut, and she attempts to slip out into the entryway. But dear Marlo is as attentive as ever.
“Are you okay?” He whispers. “You don’t look too well.”
Nodding curtly, she mutters something about overheating and leaves, leaning heavily against the next wall.
A hand lightly gasps her wrist. Marlo. He must have followed her.
“Letta!” Carmina too, apparently. “Letta, what’s wrong?”
Letta’s eyes flick from her to him and back, hesitating for several long moments.
“I need-“ her voice breaks.
I need air.
I need to go.
I need you-
I need-
“I need to find Werber.”
Letta’s hand slips out of Marlo’s before her answer processes in her mind, and she’s out the front door by the time it does.
Hurrying along, Letta beelines for the nearest empty alley she finds, stripping her jumper off briskly. She balls it up to muffle her frustrated scream.
When the shop bell chimes, the last person she expects to walk in is Miss Pepper.
“I tell you Letta, you make mess!” She scolds. “Stealing not good. Lying worse!”
“I- um-” Letta looks down, realising in her surprise she’s landed her hand in a puddle of beetroot ink, which is sure to stain her palm horribly.
“Miss Pepper, I don’t… I don’t know what to do...”
The cook sniffs.
“You know. You heart know. How get there? That fate know.”
With that, Miss Pepper swoops out of the shop, leaving Letta to stare blankly at her stained skin.
There’s a phrase she found in a book at the hideout. She hadn’t understood it until Marlo explained it.
CAUGHT RED-HANDED: to be found during or amid a suspicious or illegal act.
She never thought it’d be so literal.