^ Peep this or you might be confused
Art by @cherry_berries !
Special thanks to Drakosar for telling me my attempt at writing French sucks and offering to beta read and assist with making it more accurate!
Hello everyone! This is Pixei, with an “i” as in I am incredibly surprised by the amount of positive feedback this has gotten! As promised, here is the second part of AM I IN THE WRONG?! Please enjoy!
Unfortunately, her little “victory” over Stendhal did not last.
Because after Harvest Island, Stendhal kept showing up. At first, Vivian assumed it was merely a freak coincidence. The second time, she thought perhaps fate was mocking her. The fifth time, she began actively checking rooftops, trees, and suspiciously large bushes before pursuing a bounty. Scouring her surroundings like some sort of paranoid lobster.
It never helped.
Whenever she found someone she intended to kill, Stendhal somehow was always there. Sometimes he talked the bounty into running. Sometimes he hid them. Sometimes he simply distracted Vivian until the target escaped. And sometimes he was so blatant about it that she wondered if he was purposely trying to drive her insane (he was).
One particularly memorable encounter involved an illegal doctor hiding in an abandoned warehouse. Vivian had finally lined up a perfect shot after they were finished treating their last patient.
Her spirit-infused arrow flew, but it never hit its target. Because halfway through its flight, a hand—followed by an entire body—appeared from absolutely nowhere and caught the projectile out of the air like it was nothing. As if catching deadly spirit-infused projectiles blessed by the gods while they were whizzing through the air at lethal speed was a completely normal thing that normal people could pull off.
The “entire body” in question—Stendhal—examined the arrow for a moment. Then looked up at Vivian from across the warehouse. "Ya’ dropped this, Ma Chère."
Vivian bit back a frustrated scream.
The worst part about it all was that she could never catch him. Every encounter always eventually devolved into the same infuriating dance: a dance where she attacked, and he dodged. So she’d attack faster. And he’d dodge faster. Then she’d get angry. And he’d start smiling in that idiotic way that made her stomach twist. Occasionally he’d flick her forehead and call her something along the lines of Ma Chère or Tête Dure or Fishsop.
Once he stole her lunch. Twice he stole her bounty posters. On one particularly terrible occasion, he somehow replaced every single arrow in her quiver with flowers.
(And then proceeded to return them to her as if he were presenting a bouquet. The bastard even had one between his teeth).
Vivian still had no idea how he’d done it. But what she did know was that no matter how hard she tried, she never managed to land a single meaningful hit on the man. Not even once. And the man himself never made a single move to touch her (Unless it was to playfully flick her forehead).
Eventually, the frustration became too much.
During one encounter that brought the two of them doing their usual dance atop the rooftops of Rasna, with a multitude of confused onlookers, Vivian finally snapped.
“Why. Are. You. Always. MOVING?!”
Stendhal blinked. "What kinda question is that, Ma Chère?”
“Stop dodging!”
"Ah,” Understanding dawned across his face. “Nah. I don’t think I will.”
Vivian’s eye twitched. “No?”
“Nah.”
“WHY?”
“Because,” Stendhal pointed at himself with his usual overly dramatic bravado. And for the first time, his grin looked almost nervous. “You do not wanna hit me.”
Vivian frowned. That was… certainly an odd answer.
It wasn’t a “You can’t hit me.”
Not even a “You’re too slow.”
Just: You do not wanna hit me.
The statement lingered in her mind long after Stendhal inevitably ran off again, and slowly, an idea began to form.
A terrible idea.
A dangerous idea.
But also a glorious idea.
Commodore Lucian Arginteum was having a wonderful day. This was notable because Commodore Lucian Arginteum almost never had wonderful days.
Most days involved paperwork, patrol schedules, training exercises, meetings, and other meetings that should have just been paperwork. As the Grand Navy’s distinguished youngest Commodore, Lucian had spent the last several years trapped beneath a mountain of responsibilities that seemed to grow every time he managed to clear some of them away.
But today? Today was different.
Because today he was off duty. And absolutely NOBODY could stop him.
That tip about that one criminal skimping away in Sameria? Not Lucian’s problem.
Dealing with that one Captain who showed up to his shift drunk for the umpteenth time? That’s the Commander’s problem now.
Helping with the final preparations for that surprise birthday party for Rear Admiral Amelia? Listen, Lucian likes cake just as much as the next person, but again—not his problem.
And better yet—
His hand drifted down to the book tucked carefully beneath his arm, and he smiled like a giddy little girl as he ran his fingers over the beautifully binded pages.
The Principles of Maritime Capital Distribution
Personally signed by its’ genius author, Mr. Cutlass himself!
The line to meet him had been over an hour long. An HOUR! But it had been worth every second. He’d gotten to meet the man. Shake his hand. Hell, even SPEAK to him. Granted, the conversation had lasted approximately all of twelve seconds, but that wasn’t the point.
The point was that it had HAPPENED.
Lucian carefully adjusted the book beneath his arm. The signature from Mr. Cutlass alone was worth protecting with his life. The man was, quite simply, one of the greatest economic minds alive. An absolute national treasure. His theories on trade and commerce had reshaped economies across the War Seas. Merchants quoted him. Great leaders took his advice. Schools taught his work. Royal families hired him to tutor their children. And despite all that, he still somehow found time to run his own company. Lucian genuinely didn’t understand how the man managed it.
Books. Lectures. Research. Running one of the largest commercial organizations in the War Seas…
Honestly, it was inspiring.
The only unfortunate thing was that Mr. Cutlass always looked exhausted. Every portrait and public appearance showed the same bored eyes and polite smile, as though the man hadn’t slept in years. His long white hair—streaked with pale yellow at the tips and usually tied into a loose ponytail—only seemed to emphasize it, as did the perpetual white stubble along his jaw (Although, Lucian noted in his meeting with the man today that he finally found the time to shave today, and he looked unusually chipper… good for him!). Combined with his tanned complexion, unusual golden eyes, and habit of dressing in high-collared coats, gloves, rounded spectacles, and layered clothing and bandages that covered nearly every inch of him, he carried the air of a man who spent far more time working than resting.
Lucian respected that. Hard work recognized hard work. And those books of Cutlass’s were pearls of wisdom he HAD to get his hands on. But his dear old pal Maestro Pierre didn’t really understand. His smile faded slightly as he recalled his conversation with the assassin earlier this morning.
“Ya’ waited over an hour for a book?” The Maestro had asked.
“It’s signed.”
“It’s a book.”
“It’s signed.”
“You’re the fuckin’ Commodore.”
“It’s signed.”
“Why din’t ya’ get one of your Marines to get it for ya?”
“It’s signed.”
“Yeah. I know, boohoo. But what difference does a lil’ writin’ do for it?”
“It’s signed.”
“Lucian—”
“It’s signed.”
“Are ya’ even listenin’ to me, ya daft cunt?!”
Lucian sighed. Pierre had many excellent qualities. An appreciation for high-class literature was not one of them. The assassin was simply not a man of culture, such as he. That was the only explanation.
Still smiling to himself, Lucian finally stepped into his quarters. The familiar sight of his desk, bookshelf, and bed greeted him like precious commodities just waiting to be used. It was just he, himself, and several hundred pages of revolutionary economic theory just waiting to be dug into.
Lucian hopped on his bed and carefully set the signed copy of The Principles of Maritime Capital Distribution upon his lap, taking a moment to admire the signature one last time before settling in for what promised to be a wonderful afternoon.
It was nice to meet you, Lucian! The signature said. Thank you for supporting my work, and happy reading!
Gah! He almost squealed with delight when he read it once again for the umpteenth time. Mr. Cutlass really was amazing! But the giddiness was short-lived. Because suddenly, Lucian heard something.
Tap.
His smile fell.
Tap. Tap.
His eyes shifted toward the window.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Was… that a bird? He was eight stories above the ground. It couldn’t possibly be anything else. Lucian pointedly ignored it. He had a book to get into. But then the tapping came again.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Slowly, Lucian turned, his brows furrowed with wariness, and he nearly jumped off his bed, because nothing had prepared to see someone hanging outside his window. One hand was gripping the stone wall. The other was tapping increasingly impatiently against the glass. Lucian stared. The hand waved. A flood of recognition overcame the young Commodore. My sister!
“…Vivian?”
The figure gave him a thumbs up.
Lucian was already moving before he’d fully processed it. He crossed the room in seconds and threw open the window. “Oh my gods, Vivian!”
For a brief moment, neither spoke. Lucian simply stared at her, and she at him.
It had been a long time since they had last spoken to each other. Far too long. Long enough that Lucian had stopped expecting visits, or even letters for that matter. Long enough that every time he heard a rumor about a particularly ruthless Proxy Knight somewhere in the War Seas, he’d quietly wonder whether she was safe. Long enough that part of him had begun to suspect she simply didn’t want anything to do with him anymore.
And he was already starting to accept that he’d never see his sister again.
But now she was here: Hanging eight stories above from a Grand Navy building for some reason. Relief washed through Lucian so quickly it almost hurt. Then his brain caught up with the situation.
“Vivian,” he said carefully, as if speaking to a fish that might spook at any moment. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
"You’re hanging eight stories above the ground…”
"I know.”
“You could have used the door?”
“Your Grand Navy loons wouldn’t have let me in.”
“Vivian… Some of those ‘loons’ used to work with you, and would’ve loved to see you again.”
“That doesn’t help my case.”
“It absolutely DOES help your case.”
“Not anymore.”
Lucian sighed. "Well—You could have told me you were coming and I would have gladly—”
“There’s no time for that.”
“But still—! I thought I made it clear to you that you are always welcome here.”
“You did.”
“So why did you feel the need to SNEAKILY CLIMB ALL THE WAY UP HERE?! THIS PLACE IS RESTRICTED!”
Vivian shrugged. Then, before Lucian could object further, she kicked herself through the window and landed neatly inside his quarters. Lucian stepped aside just in time.
His older sister looked exactly as he remembered, and yet completely different. The same dark hair. The same stubborn expression. The same tendency to carry enough weapons to usurp an Assassin Syndicate’s stronghold. But there were also those fins where her ears were supposed to be. Those dotted scales across her desaturated skin. Those scars. Those physical reminders of a day neither of them particularly liked thinking about.
Lucian felt a familiar ache settle into his chest as he took in her permanent dark, vengeful expression. She’d had that face since that day. “…How have you been?”
Vivian looked away almost immediately. “Ffffine.”
She wasn’t. Lucian knew that. Vivian knew that he knew that. Neither of them acknowledged it.
His eyes drifted briefly toward the portrait sitting upon his desk. The portrait of their fathers. Vivian’s gaze followed his. For the briefest micro-second, he saw her expression soften. Then it disappeared. She folded her arms.
“I need your help.”
Lucian blinked. “…With what?”
“So there’s this man…”
His shoulders immediately relaxed and he nodded, following along.
“He’s rude, annoying, never shuts up, and is so ridiculously immodest that looking at him gives me second-hand embarrassment. He walks around half-naked and speaks gibberish.”
Lucian’s nodding slowed down and he slowly quirked an eyebrow. Vivian continued.
"He keeps interfering with my work. Keeps showing up and stopping me, and he keeps running away afterwards. He’s too fast for me.”
Lucian—now looking slightly disturbed and no longer nodding along—looked his sister up and down. “Is… Is he hurting you?”
“No. Not at all,” Vivian’s gaze darkened. “But he’s getting in my way.”
Lucian frowned faintly. "Well… if he’s giving you trouble, perhaps I can arrange for a Grand Navy unit to help you capture him and we can maybe—“
"No. I intend to kill him myself.”
His smile disappeared. Silence settled between them. Lucian looked away. “…I see.”
“You are the only person I know who can outspeed him. I need you.”
Lucian’s eyes drifted almost instinctively toward the signed copy of The Principles of Maritime Capital Distribution resting on his bed. Then they wandered back to Vivian. “…Do we have to do that today?”
Vivian frowned. “What?”
“I mean…” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “You haven’t visited in… well…”
He laughed awkwardly.
“It’s… been a while.”
He looked up at his older sister.
“I was actually hoping we’d just…” He gestured vaguely around the room. "…catch up? Have you been doing well? Did you meet any cool people? Has… work been alright?”
Vivian’s silence almost made him wince.
“I just… I haven’t seen you in so long. You just… illegally barge in here asking me to help you kill someone I don’t even know the name of, and up to this point, I honestly thought I’d never see you again.”
More silence.
“I… I met Mr. Cutlass this morning. You know… that renowned economic philosopher guy…? I got a signed copy of his latest book?” He inched toward his bed and picked up the book, showing it to her. “Do you want to talk about that?”
Even more silence.
“I got promoted to Commodore a couple months ago. I sent you a letter about it but… I never saw you at the pinning ceremony… Did something happen that kept you from coming?”
And once again, even more silence.
“Is there… Anything else I should know about what you’ve been up to? Maybe I can pour you some sage tea and we can—“
“Lucian.”
Lucian stopped.
"I need you.”
“I know.”
Another silence settled between them.
Lucian sighed. “I just… You’ve only just come back into my life.”
Vivian looked away.
"And I’d rather not spend the afternoon chasing someone who…” He searched for the right words, “clearly isn’t really hurting you or anyone else…?”
For just a moment, that vengeful look on her face softened. Then it disappeared. “You don’t have to kill him.”
Lucian looked hopeful. “Oh?”
"You just have to come with me. I’ll kill him.”
“…Vivian.”
“What?”
“That doesn’t really make it any better.”
“It does.”
"No… I’m fairly certain it doesn’t.”
Neither of them spoke after that. Lucian looked at his sister. Vivian looked anywhere but at him.
For just a moment, it almost felt as though the years between them had disappeared. There were still so many things he wanted to ask. Whether she was sleeping well. Whether she was eating properly. Whether she had anyone looking after her.
Whether she was happy.
He doubted she’d answer any of them. Still… After all this time, she had come to see him. And honestly, he’d take whatever time with his sister he could get. She was the only real family he had left. One of the only other people he considered a true friend other than Pierre.
A knock at the door shattered the silence.
“Commodore Arginteum?” came a familiar voice from the hallway. "Apologies for the interruption, sir, but Commander Roland wanted me to fetch you. He requires your brief assistance with looking over tomorrow’s shift schedules.”
Lucian closed his eyes. "…Of course he does,” he muttered under his breath. “I ought to start taking my *off-*days somewhere else…”
Another knock.
“Sir?”
“Don’t you realize today is my day off?!” Lucian called back. “Go ask someone else!”
“B-But sir… Commander Roland requested you specifically, you’re the only one who—”
Lucian groaned. “I’ll be right there!” He called back. Then, cursing Commander Roland under his breath, he began turning toward Vivian. “I’m… sorry. Give me some time and I’ll—”
Before he could even finish his sentence, Vivian bent down, wrapped an arm around Lucian’s waist, and effortlessly hoisted the now bewildered Commodore over her shoulder. It happened so fast that Lucian barely had a moment to process what his sister was doing.
“V-Vivian?!”
“I need you,” his sister simply said, already making towards the window.
“And I need to stay HERE!” said Lucian.
“But I need you.”
"Vivian, I am a COMMODORE!”
“I know.”
"You are taking me against my WILL. This is KIDNAPPING. You are kidnapping ME. You are kidnapping a COMMODORE!"
“I know.”
“Vivian, I REALLY don’t want to fight you!”
“I know.”
“This is going to create an UNBELIEVABLE amount of paperwork!”
“I know.”
“Vivian! Put me down!”
“I will when I get you out of here.”
“PUT ME DOWN OR THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES!” The young Commodore borderline shrieked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Vivian replied, rolling her eyes. “You can keep saying that, but we both know you’re not going to do anything.”
“I most certainly—”
“You don’t want to hurt me.”
Lucian opened his mouth. Closed it. Vivian adjusted him over her shoulder with surprising care. “…See?”
Lucian squeezed his eyes shut. …She’s right. Hopefully I can convince the Rear Admiral to give me another day off for the trouble…
Outside the room, the Captain hesitated.
"…Commodore?! Is everything alright in there?! I’m coming in!”
Lucian opened his mouth to answer right as Vivian jumped. The Captain burst through the door just in time to watch Commodore Lucian Arginteum disappear out of the eighth-story window over the shoulder of an Atlantean Proxy Knight..
The room fell silent as he stared dumbstruck.
"Did I just…”
The Captain blinked twice.
"…Did I just watch the Commodore get kidnapped?”
