SINS OF THE SON

[Goon 1614]

 

Spoiler

 

 

[The events described in this post are not meant to be metagamed nor are they public knowledge in any way; only to be discovered through proper roleplay.

 

SINS OF THE SON

“... same as his father, and his before that.” - ANASTASIA O’ROURKE, 1805

 

---

 

A RECOUNT OF HIS EARLY LIFE, COSIMO ANTONY FALCONE

 

7th  of  Snow  Maiden,  1805 THE IMPERIAL PROVIDENCE

 

An unsettling, unfitting silence filled the FALCONE household, that which drove a young man to a worried boredom. Sprawled lackly against a sofa with a forearm stuck against his forehead, he plan to lay watching until the flame of a hearth smoldered out to ash. And the longer he sat to stew in the silence, and the further the fire was weakened, the less he had to distract his trotting mind- leg beginning to bounce anxiously. 

 

Indiscernible from hours or minutes, they all felt the same. 

 

CLICK! The mechanisms of the door’s locks began to twist, prompting the lad to soar up from his thought-induced stupor, looking toward the source. The crack of the door allowed in these dim rays of light from the lanterns of the PROVIDENCE streets– silhouetting whomever was entering. The creak of hinges were long drawn out, only heightening the tension of expectancy. 

 

Even to an unknowing onlooker, it was glaringly apparent that he was awaiting someone.

 

But the figure only revealed to be his sister, prompting the young man to suck defeatedly against his teeth as he returned his hues unto the dwindling flames. A hand flung itself in exasperation, uttering an almost inaudible and begrudging, “Salve, Lauretta.”

“Ciao, Cosimo..” The young woman echoed in a rather solemn tone of her own, turning to secure the door behind her. Against the sounds of the mechanisms locking once more, seemingly unprompted, his sister continued her utterance, “I haven’ seen him.” 

 

“I didn’ ask.” He chided in retort, as if he wanted to sound uninterested. His swatting hand laid atop the other, resting both against his chest as feet continued to jitter. 

 

“Si. An’ you weren’t going to. I know, Cosimo, I know..” The girl dropped her keys to a clatter against the credenza, loud steps then clapping as she moved about the foyer. 

“An’ we probably won’t. You know how he is.”

 

The boy maintained his facade of uninterest, fiddling with the front tails of his shirt, offering nothing in response. 

 

Lauretta brought herself closer, leaning down to wrap her arms around him from above and behind. “Rest, Cosi. Maybe tomorrow.” A gentler utterance, offering a careful set of slaps against his olive cheek before retreating up the stairs- leaving the boy to sulk in the once-more quiet of their still home.

 

---

 

8th  of  Sun’s  Smile,  1795 THE IMPERIAL HELENA

 

SLAM– announced the entrance of two young children into a humble homestead. A young boy and his sister, no older than seven years, the both of them. What awaited them atop the island of the kitchenette was a plate of cheeses and salted crackers, lighting a true joy from the younglings.

 

“Cosimo? Lauretta?” A woman’s voice called down to the rambunctious duo.

 

“Si!” They called in tandem, scrambling to crowd around the charcuterie. 

The boy piped up further, “Uh, mama?”

 

“A second, Cosimo.” Their mother returned from afar.

 

Though he did not grant her that second, following up, “Can we have’a this cheese?”

 

But there was no response. His mother would have her second. 

A child’s impatience wheedled a frown. He would have to wait.

 

Indiscernible from minutes or seconds, they all felt the same.

 

And sounds of descending steps stiffened the now-pouty child in anticipation.

Down came his mother, gaudy colors of loose fabrics that were visible from a distance.

 

“What were you doing up there, mama?” The boy asked scrutinously, as if a soldier interrogating a thief.

 

“I was busy.” She returned in avoidance of his question, puttering about the kitchenette to prepare slices of meat for the board of finger foods.

 

“Y’always busy..” He muttered in defiance, a pout to accompany.

 

“Si, I am–” Chided the mother, finger jutting firm in his direction to quiet him with just a gesture. And once her fire had dwindled, she cooed in conclusion, “and one day, you will be, too. Too busy to call for your mother.”

 

This excited the young boy, his features churning to reflect. 

He was ambitious, much like her. Much like his father. 

He did not know what he would become, nor did he really care. 

To be “busy, too”. That was all he sought.

 

His mother knifed away at the cold cut, tossing each slice to a wet slap atop of one another– this preparation to fill the silence that fell among the pondering.

 

“Do I have to be a doctor like you?” He asked, innocence still intact. “Do I have to work with papa?”

 

“As long as you’re happy, mi amore.” Carefree, his mother seemed, cutting perfect portions of the meats that the boy had already begun to dig into. She had her worries, but seldom did they show. 

“As long as you do something.”

 

---

 

19th  of  The  First  Seed,  1805 THE IMPERIAL PROVIDENCE

 

The walls in which the boy had now found himself were made of stone and steel, colored in a fitting shade of gray. A putrid stench of the stagnated waste stifled the already-stuffy airs of those underground chambers, coming from an overfilled bowl– a clear disregard shown for those who inhabited the cage. 

 

Leg propped up on a hard wooden bench that was meant to be his bed, the other hung loosely from the side, and the boy restlessly moved his appendages– his only means of entertainment. 

It was that, or to count the bricks, and he never much cared for mathematics.

 

For warmth, he curled himself  beneath his burned tailcoat, the gaping hole letting through an irritating draft, coaxing him to shift restlessly to maintain his body’s heat. His arm was wrapped in stained gauss, fresh marks of leaking blood; eyes hung low, shown that he had not slept proper for an innumerable amount of time. 

 

The silence of his newfound quarters would have quickly driven him to insanity had he not so much to occupy his mind– endlessly recounting what had landed him beneath the Bastille, a wounded dog.

 

Indiscernible from hours or minutes, they all felt the same. 

 

CLICK, broke the silence. The sound of a heavy iron door was brought open and slammed shut, but the young man did not spring up to see who had come for him. He did not care, least, his facade would say that.

 

Unhurried steps echoed toward the boy inside of the cage, before a woman’s voice hummed, 

“I thought Gino would have raised his children better.” 

 

“Eh?” The utterance of that name; a spark of a fleeting hope, sprung from his sprawl to look for the woman who spoke. Though he hadn’t recognized her, at least not in her uniform. 

“Oh... Probable. But 'es gone now.” 

 

“Gino’s gone?” She reticently called back, an unbelieving scowl turning over her features. She folded her clothed arms against her lightly-plated chest, idle steps closer toward the boy in his cell. By then, he had already averted his gaze toward his scuffed leather shoes that swayed akin to a hastened pendulum. “Si. I haven' seen 'em in months. Iss not like him.”

 

“Maybe he's only gone off somewhere, you know. Never could stay in one place.” Her idle steps brought her within reach of the cage, though she’d not dare to place a hand, lest the caged creature were to aggress in yet another hasty decision. 

 

The youth shrugged, lazily, but he did, retorting a defeated response– desperately attempting to maintain his indifference, “Maybe.” 

 

And once more, the heavy doors from outside of the cage swung to open, bringing forth two more uniformed soldiers, both of whom took glance toward the lad– the lad meeting theirs with ashamed eyes, guised in displeasure. 

 

One of them, an aged, overweight man. 

 

The other, a very familiar face to the caged boy. A raven-haired lad of the same middleadolescence. These two met eyes for a long moment, just before the round man spoke to the woman, 

“Sergeant, all is well here?” 

 

“For now, Sergeant.” A simple retort from the watchful woman. 

 

Despite her assurances, the aged soldier kept a scrutinous gaze toward the boy in the cage, lingering for a moment too long before remarking, “Let me know if you need anything.” 

 

The woman made a nod, dismissing the men and awaiting their departure before turning back to the youth behind bars. “So what are you in here for, kid?” She asked, resting herself against the rails of his cage. 

 

“I thought you’d already know, by now.” 

 

The woman managed a smirk upon his response– or lack of. An idle nod and an amused snort as she pried herself from the bars, opting for the desk that was at the other end of the vault. It wasn’t until she took her seat, reclining back, that she began to speak, “Well, if you can believe it, talk of prisoners is not always our first priority as soldiers.”

 

He didn’t believe it– at first, anyways. Perhaps it was his hubris that made it so difficult to believe.  

 

Nibbling against the innards of his bottom lip, the youth allowed them to fall into a momentary silence, seeking not to answer the woman’s queries, but instead to push his own, 

“My pa. Was he a good man?” 

 

She hesitated, clear the answer he sought was much more complex than a simple affirmative. As if she were debating which portion of the truth to tell the boy. 

“He did what he had to... Same as his father, and his before that.” 

 

Another silence befell the two, offering the boy time to idly nod over what he’d been told– making what he could from it. It was of no surprise, though. A truth he did not want to accept, all but confirmed. The silence didn’t last long, as he found some solace in his short conversation with the woman– the first comfort in a long while. 

 

The two carried on cordially, eventually prompting the youth to ask the woman for her honesty in something, a grave sounding nature to his request. His eyes turned to the shut iron doors before a beckoning hand summoned her closer.

 

And obliged to his request, she brought herself from her desk and into his cell, folded arms and watchful eyes as she called, “What is it, kid?”

 

 For this one, the youth sat himself up proper, reaching his arms to grab against his leg, as if to tuck it closer to himself for subconscious comfort, 

“You think Ophelia was tellin' the truth about him?”

 

---

 

12th  Grand Harvest,  1805 THE IMPERIAL PROVIDENCE

 

Indiscernible from months or days, they all felt the same. 

 

Guards to make their wellness checks, though never enthusiastically. They brought food to the youth, but only what little nourishments one would need to stay alive. Seldom did they change the buckets for waste. 

 

Parched lips cracked and a roiling stomach pled, but no longer could he smell the stench of captivity. 

 

The boy had finally begun to accept the fate he chose for himself- and not an utterance to the GOD he so claimed to love. There was nothing GOD could have done, if it were not to free him from the cage he made home. No justified anger could be given to the deity, only a chilling acceptance for the way of men. For who he was did not resemble who he saw in a glass reflection. 

 

“Iss the way things are.” He recalled, his father’s voice telling him. 

 

“Iss the way things are.” He echoed quietly to himself. His voice was hoarse, as if to clear his throat of mucus that simply was not there. A tongue sought to wet his chapped lips, as effectively as bailing a ship with pronged silverware.

 

He counted now. His breaths, the bricks, the soldiers, the cellmates– how many times he could ask for water before he was scolded, though never for the sake of keeping track. 

Only to pass the time.

 

He couldn’t have expected this to be the last night he spent in that cell.

 

He had become accustomed to the amount of times the heavy doors would swing open and shut, the amount of men he heard sentenced to ‘The Hole.’

But never him.

 

He did not always look. 

He liked to guess, as if the next guard to come would be his executioner. 

As if the next cellmate was to be his combatant in ‘The Hole.’ 

As if this time the door had opened, it was the lawmen who would have him tried; 

to remain hostage in that stone prison.

 

“What is it you’ve done, Cosimo? Speak directly.” A young voice asked, cutting through the quiet contemplation the caged boy had made for himself.  

 

This voice called for him by name– of course he was eager to see. Pried up from exhaustion, he was now eye-to-eye with the raven-haired boy in uniform from a month’s passing. 

An old friend from the outside.

 

The second comfort in a long while.

 

“Viktor…” 

 

---

 

 

Spoiler

I started writing this over a year ago when I first thought the character was going to meet his end.
Then he didn’t, so I saw no reason to see this through.

 

It’s been almost two years now, and that same character has been through so much more that I almost forgot how fun this jailbird era was. Felt a bit reflective so I went ahead and finished it.

 

For those who care about the character, I hope it offers a little insight into who he was as a pre-adult.
For those who care less, I hope it was a good read.

 

Big ups to everyone involved in every sector of the roleplay that made these moments so enjoyable, even the guy who bashed the character’s head open during an ‘advanced interrogation.’

 

Maybe we’ll get that back.

 

[Melpomenne 2032]

Reserved

[Hephaestus 1326]

The moon is, indeed, as often desolate places are, lonely. A place for old men, consigned to oblivion. Old men who have failed. 

 

Much in the fashion of the wretches which participate in this walk of life—more accurately, unlife—Vittorio moped, pace by pace printing the outline of his bare, talc-dusted toes on the lunar body's stony surface. Would that he frowned, but the space between heaven and earth had cooled his mind, destroyed the impulsiveness that had led him to here, and made him aware of the too obvious pointlessness. 

 

For many minutes a day, he walked and would fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way, ticking away at the moments which made up his day and the rest of his dull, dull days. And from many miles away, he thought on the life that could have been.

 

"Boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretched far away." — P.B. Shelley

 

[Benjikhei 698]

Whilst a conflicted baseborn whines and laments; conundrums that plagued his rationality - and the mystery of his former patriarch was among them. He was a practical sort- and held a passive disposition that could erode stone with that fickle patience. These traits he had sought to inherit.

 

Along with a certain hereditary facade, the man had equally gained the ideals- the goal of his father. Not out of simple familial obligation, no. Far too blunt for that merry-go-round of falsities and deceitful assurances. But he had followed a certain path, and done as his patriarch had; exceeding and expanding on some small success of his. But now that folly had elapsed, run its course... and he was but a scholar, tending on conundrums...

 

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