“Absolutely marvelous weather, Sliva.” Duncan’s sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a knife. Ber, who had nodded a silent greeting to the witch who neither of them knew very well, winced slightly and took a long sip of water. The other soldier finished wringing out his second sleeve and flicked his hands over the floor in an attempt to dry them off. “I think there might be a square inch of me somewhere that didn’t get soaking wet.” There was a pause as Duncan eyed the newcomer. “You got drenched as well. Why are you so fucking happy about it?” Then he looked around. “Ber, what did you say they were serving today?”

“The usual,” Ber answered, lightly swirling the cup of water as it rested on the table. “You wouldn’t be missing much if you just went home and ate there. In fact, I would recommend that course of action.”

Duncan heaved a sigh. “Yeah, well, I’m already here though, aren’t I? And I’m hungry. Might as well eat the free food – if you can call it that.” He put both hands on the table and made to stand up again, before looking over at Zahra Sliva. “You coming, Sliva? Look like you could use something to eat.”

But Duncan hadn’t even made it out of his seat when one Lieutenant Warren Woodwick walked in through the door.

It was amazing how suddenly and completely the generally pleasant atmosphere of the mess hall evaporated. Ber, as he was looking in that direction, was the one to notice his arrival, though the abrupt silence that fell across the room a moment later was a reliable indicator for the less observant. Immediately the young soldier looked away, ducking his head in case the man cast a cursory gaze around the room. Beside him, he sensed Duncan looking around, confused, and elbowed him in the side.

“Don’t look,” He muttered to both of them, not wanting the extra movement to make them stand out from the sea of soldiers sitting at the tables. Apart from a few foolish souls who dared to scurry away, the entire hall suddenly seemed fascinated by their food. Tentatively, after a few heartbeats of silence, a handful of conversations started up again, but they stayed at a low volume. Very few men could quiet a noisy hall so thoroughly. Fewer still would intrude upon the area that was implicitly understood as one of the soldiers’ places to relax with minimal oversight. As to who the offending officer was this time— “It’s Woodwick.” Ber had only had the dubious pleasure of interacting with the ridiculously strict Lieutenant a couple of times, and in his opinion, that was a couple of times too many.

A low hiss from Duncan. “Shit.” He made to get up again.

Ber grabbed his arm. In a hushed tone: “What are you doing?”

“The man’s a nightmare, Ber, you gotta run while you can. You too, Sliva.” Even as he whispered his response, Duncan was already halfway to his feet. “That’s the only way.”

“No, you hide,” Ber insisted quietly, trying to pull Duncan back down into his seat. He glanced around again. A lifetime on the streets had taught him when to run and when to hide, and right now, there were more than enough soldiers still seated that they would be able to blend in, if Duncan stopped moving. Activity was dangerous; it drew the eye, especially eyes as keen and unforgiving as this man's. “Sit down. You’re gonna get us caught.” Woodwick had a reputation for exacting retribution upon those who broke even the smallest, most inconsequential rule, and Ber was painfully aware of the fact that he was not supposed to be here right now.

Duncan Bayle, however, could only be cowed by two things: pretty ladies, and the threat of extra physical activity. With Quick Wick in the room, the likelihood of the latter increased exponentially, and he was not about to stick around and take his chances. As Ber hissed his displeasure, Duncan tugged his arm free and began hastily making his escape.

When Sliva started to get up with him, Duncan cast Ber a knowing look, as if saying, ’See? She knows what to do.’ Then the witch opened her mouth, and his moment of solidarity with her violently shattered. He stared at her, speechless for all the wrong reasons, eyes flicking from her to Ber, who could also do nothing but gape back at him. Every day, they were surrounded by plenty of soldiers who made poor decisions, but there were poor decisions, and then there were poor decisions. And then there was this kind of decision, which both men thought ranked somewhere so far beyond ‘poor’ that neither of them had a word for it.

“You’ve got a death wish.” Duncan was the first to recover. There was another brief pause, in which Ber thought that his friend’s statement sounded accurate. “There’s no way that’s happening. No one just talks to Quick Wick.”

Ber was inclined to agree with that as well. “Woodwick” and “nice” were not spoken in the same breath unless there was a “is not” or a “does not understand the concept of being” between them.

But more than that, he wanted both of them to get away from him so that whatever stupid trouble they got themselves into with their sheer idiocy did not include him. Clearly neither of them had a single shred of common sense or a functioning survival instinct - Sliva, especially, was deficient of the latter. At least Duncan, who had since pulled free of Ber’s shock-slackened grip, was wise enough to try to escape any notice, even if he was going about it all wrong.

To the witch’s question about food, he silently jerked his head in the negative, willing her to just leave on her foolish quest for something that had never happened in all of Nevermere’s history. With his head low as if extra effort now would make up for the attention that Duncan and Sliva had likely garnered him, he stared at the half-empty cup of water on the table in front of him as he listened to the latter depart for the food line and the former make his escape.

Duncan learned fast the futility of trying to sneak past a predator who was not yet distracted by different prey. At the sound of his name, the young soldier paused as his heart sank to his feet before straightening up and looking over at the man who had addressed him. “Sir?” Woodwick gestured him over, and with a final, longing glance toward the door, he followed the implicit order and tried not to make it too obvious that he was dragging his feet. “I… have food to eat at home, sir,” He explained weakly, even as he fell in line behind Sliva. The Lieutenant’s declaration of intent to join them for lunch did not thrill him, but not about to express exactly how much his company was not quite alright, he only swallowed and begged for silent forgiveness from his friend. As he gathered his dishes, Duncan cast an apologetic glance over at…

Ber, who had instinctively glanced up at the sound of the bark that Woodwick had used to thwart Duncan’s flight, quietly eyed the trio now receiving their food. With the naive Sliva and poor Duncan, not to mention collecting the meal itself, occupying the Lieutenant’s attention, the street rat thought that now might be a prudent time to make his own escape. Movement in a room full of statues was foolish, but only the mice that ran while the cat was distracted lived to see another day. And if that meant abandoning his less fortunate companions to the cat’s tender mercies - well, that was the law of the street. More often than not, compassion killed. Ber would make a strategic retreat while the man’s back was turned, so, quietly, he began to get to his feet—

Right as Woodwick turned around, locked eyes with him, and made his way directly to their table. It was as if the man had known exactly what he was planning.

Fuck.

Did he dare leave while the Lieutenant was staring him down? The street rat said yes; the soldier said no. Ber wavered - and just like that, the opportunity was lost. Another lesson from the streets: indecision was just as dangerous as compassion.

When the Ber had first joined the military, he had known that the institution would likely have its fair share of assholes. He had hoped, perhaps rather naively, that the words and ideals that their commanding officers liked to throw around - duty, honor, respect, responsibility, etc. etc. - would be internalized by most, and that he could simply avoid the rest. This, he very quickly learned, was not always the case, because while he could keep his head low all he wanted, it was very hard to avoid a Lieutenant when the man seemed to actively seek him out. And harder still, when those he was around made it impossible to hide.

By the time Woodwick sat down across from him, Ber had settled back into his seat, hands once again around the cup that he had been about to abandon. For a moment, the two of them simply looked at each other, with the younger one, feeling like a mouse pinned by the cat’s paw, refusing to be the first to look away. The Lieutenant broke the silence with a statement that sounded far more like an implicit accusation than a neutral observation. Ber knew this game; he was not about to incriminate himself on suspected transgressions that could be otherwise explained away. “We decided that team building activities inside would be more prudent today. Sir.” His mind raced. “Since we were going to be doing group exercises today anyway.” It was true, from a certain point of view.

When Duncan and Sliva returned, Ber glanced toward the former, acknowledging the apologetic grimace. While Woodwick took a bite of his meal, the soldier swirled his cup, taking a sip, and wondered if he might use his lack of food as a way to excuse himself. After all, he’d already eaten, had no reason to stay when Woodwick himself had astutely pointed out that he was supposed to be elsewhere, and did not feel any more guilty about abandoning the other two now than he had before.

Having finished his bite, the Lieutenant turned his attention to the other two, accusing them of being entirely too wet when he’d just faulted Ber for being too dry. Ber gritted his teeth. This is why everyone does their best to cease existing when Quick Wick enters the room. And why Duncan and Sliva should have just listened to him in the first place - so they could avoid being subjected to the man’s infuriating arbitrariness.

Once again the subject of Woodwick’s scrutiny, the young man in question, who was still dripping sadly into the puddle that had formed on the floor, hesitated. He couldn’t very well claim hunger now that he had suggested that he had been intending to return home for a meal. “No, sir,” was all he offered before spooning soup into his mouth instead of elaborating. Duncan looked at Ber, then followed the other man’s gaze as they both glanced over at Sliva. They were of the same opinion: if she wanted so badly to talk to the Lieutenant, then she could be the one to entertain him.

There was a long moment that seemed to stretch on for a lifetime. Ber could quite literally see the other man weighing his response, and while the Lieutenant glanced around at the soldiers nearby, the street rat remained unwavering in his resolve to sell the slightly twisted truth. Irritation at having even been put in this situation in the first place smoldered low in his chest, fueling his determination, and he forced his fingers to unclench around the cup. He could salvage this, perhaps even spare them all the hours of extra work that could befall them if everyone kept their mouth shut like they were supposed to. Ber had provided a perfectly reasonable explanation given the current weather outside, and because he wouldn’t put it past Woodwick to demand a reason for why one would not want to step out into a downpour - as if the obvious wasn’t good enough - he had even begun thinking of subsequent justifications too.

But the first one was good enough.

Woodwick nodded, laid down his sentence, and the room around them seem to breathe again. Or perhaps that was just Ber. He didn’t visibly relax - as a point of pride, he did not want the keen eyed Lieutenant to know just how concerned he’d been that the other man would force him into the downpour - but he waited for a moment, just in case there would be more to come, before he nodded, once, his understanding. “Yes, sir,” He said, not happy but willing to accept it all the same. Ber mulled over the verdict while Woodwick ate his food.

The demand to clean the ballroom afterward was less than thrilling, but at least the man had only seen fit to assign them their allotted work as opposed to any extra work, as he was reportedly all too fond of doling out. Besides, he thought mutinously, as an officer, Woodwick was likely too busy to stick around to ensure the room was properly cleaned, let alone check its condition beforehand for a comparison, even if he thought to stop by after. They could probably get away with a cursory sweep that would leave the hall neat enough and leave the rest to the servants who likely cleaned there everyday anyway. And who knew, maybe they would get lucky and some rich, stuffy noble would be using the ballroom for something infinitely more important, and they wouldn’t have to do anything at all.

And the clouds will part over Skia. Well, one could dream, anyway.

Judging from some of the relieved looks around him, a number of others seemed to have come to a similar conclusion as Ber, whether about the lack of extra work, or the potential way to get around the deep clean no doubt expected of them, or both. Everyone else just seemed rather irritated that he had been the one to catch the Lieutenant’s eye, as if Ber hadn’t done everything he could to avoid it. The dark looks sent his way were surreptitious, though, lest the man himself think they were directed toward him - or, more likely, object to them purely because they existed, as he was wont to do.

Moments earlier, Duncan was also looking around as he and Sliva walked back. The witch offered her apology, and he just looked at her and shook his head. “What did you think would happen by inviting conversation with him, then? Look around you.” He gestured to the downturned heads and pointedly averted eyes of everyone around them, even as conversations tentatively increased in volume now that the cat had found some mice to play with. “There’s a reason literally no one else wanted to talk to him.” He pressed on forward and reclaimed his seat next to Ber, giving his two word answer to Woodwick’s questions and shoveling soup in his mouth to avoid the obligation of speaking further.

Unfortunately, Duncan couldn’t just sit there until the end of time with a spoonful of soup in his mouth - nor did he really want to, as it insulted every other soup by trying to claim any relation. He swallowed and only sat there, focused on his soup, while the Lieutenant continued verbally lashing him for every decision he made in the past half hour. Even if the questions weren’t rhetorical, which he suspected they were, Duncan was not going to interrupt the man when he was clearly still gaining momentum for what the soldier suspected would be an altogether unpleasant penalty for making a puddle and then trying to attempt a hasty retreat.

What befell him, once he swallowed down his irritation at the insult with his next spoonful of soup, lighter than he anticipated - and also somewhat confusing? Duncan, who hadn’t heard the orders given to his friend, glanced sideways at Ber, who subtly signaled that he’d explain later. The soldier inclined his head slightly, then, realizing that Woodwick was likely waiting for an answer of some kind, he cleared his throat and said, “Understood, sir.”

Ber, who had also not appreciated the jab at Duncan’s intelligence, bit his tongue before the simmering anger drive him to say anything foolish on his friend’s behalf. The man had already found a reason to hand out punishments today; there was no sense in supplying him with another, even if the expression on Woodwick’s face if Ber told him that at least Duncan had a brain would be extremely satisfying in the moment before the Lieutenant’s resulting ire would utterly obliterate him. Instead, he was forced to imagine the scene instead, listening as Sliva earned the dubious honor of joining his and Duncan’s groups in the ballroom later that day.

A moment of silence as the man ate his bread and soup. Are you done now? Ber thought, but didn’t ask. Can you leave now? As Woodwick looked between them with an expression that dared any one of them to protest, he held the Lieutenant’s gaze. A strong survival instinct stopped him from outright challenging the man, but lingering irritation kept him toeing the line.

Duncan, meanwhile, glanced over at Sliva before looking down and stirring his soup. What was there to say? He wasn’t about to argue, let alone make small talk with the Lieutenant. Reluctantly sharing a meal - sort of - with Warren Woodwick did not change what the young man knew to be true: no one just had a nice conversation with Quick Wick.

And just like that, with a slight modification and one final reiteration of his orders, Quick Wick was gone.

There was a moment of silence as everyone waited to make sure he had truly left before the tension seeped from the room with a collective sigh of relief. Ber let out a slow breath and directed his irritated stare at Woodwick’s vacated seat as he tried to calm the adrenaline that raced through his veins. Every interaction with the man left him itching to punch someone - specifically the one someone who had just exited, but also possibly the two someones still seated beside him - as if he was in a brawl rather than in the military wing. A battle of wills was still a battle, though unlike the scrappy skirmishes on the street, Ber wasn’t confident that he ever actually won against the Lieutenant. This outcome, where he walked away with no extra work, was as close as he’d gotten and perhaps as close as he’d ever get, given that he was ultimately obligated to follow the man’s orders whether he liked them or not.

Beside him, Duncan, who had turned to watch the man leave, looked back at Ber, hesitated, then glanced at Sliva. “Do you think he knows how much no one likes him?” He asked of the group, before answering his own question. “He has to. It’s obvious. But he acts the same anyway.” A pause as he shook his head. “What a fuckin’ asshole.”

Barely listening, Ber clenched his jaw. All of this could have been so easily avoided. He could have watched another poor sod get accosted by the Lieutenant and banished to a ballroom to go exercise, while he had a pleasant meal and free afternoon with Duncan and maybe Sliva. There was no reason the three of them had to endure Woodwick’s company and disapproval except that— Viciously, he yanked his thoughts away from that path, for he was doing the exact opposite of calming down. He couldn’t sit here - he needed to move, to get away from the two people who had gotten them into this mess in the first place before he said something he would likely later regret.

But first, he owed his friend the promised explanation. Turning to the other soldier, he said, “Right. Duncan, my group was supposed to do group exercises outside today, so that’s what he told us to do in the ballroom. Afterward, we’re supposed to clean it.” He paused, glancing over at Sliva. “I doubt he’ll check, so we don’t have to be too thorough.” Unless the man himself was standing there looking over his shoulder, Ber had decided that he certainly wasn’t planning on doing more than a cursory sweep. “I’m going to make sure everyone else knows. I’ll see you both in an hour.”

Duncan silently watched Ber go before turning back to his soup. He shoveled the last few spoonfuls of soup in his mouth before getting up as well. Even if he didn’t appreciate the way Woodwick had pointed it out, the wet clothes truly were uncomfortable, and it made no sense to tempt illness by staying in them any longer than necessary. A thought struck him: if he’d changed before going to the mess hall, could he have avoided this punishment? Not likely - it was Quick Wick, after all. The man would’ve found something to criticize; he always did. “Guess I’ll see you there, Sliva,” He said, gathering up his own dishes and his friend’s abandoned cup and leaving. By the time Duncan had fully dried off, donned new clothes, and made his way to where everyone was congregating outside the closed doors of the ballroom, the hour was almost up. Ber had already arrived, looking still somewhat keyed up but calmer than before.

While the others finished eating and changed, Berengar Stormcrest had done some thinking. The problem wasn’t just that Duncan and Sliva had unnecessarily drawn attention to themselves. The problem was, he’d decided, that he had tried to protect them, too. He knew better than that; up until a few years ago, it had been every man for himself ever since he could remember. After all, the streets of Skia were dangerous for those who were utterly oblivious to the world around them, and even more dangerous for those who tried to protect them. The next time Woodwick walked in the room and Duncan wanted to foolishly run away, he wouldn’t try to stop him. And if Sliva was there and wanted to go up and talk to the Lieutenant, he wouldn’t try to stop her either. The street rat’s resolve settled in his bones. He would just keep his head down and go unnoticed and let the two of them win whatever stupid prizes they earned by playing stupid games.

At least he didn’t want to punch someone anymore. That was good.

“Duncan,” He said, splitting away from his group to join his friend. For the most part, the rest of his group seemed to have come around to his way of thinking, and the angry ones had been particularly mollified when he mentioned the flexibility with cleaning. As he pointed out, it was no more work than they would have done had the weather been nicer. It could be worse. Duncan’s people looked more annoyed. “Have you seen Sliva?”

If she joined the group, he would nod to her but was not listening to any apology for her previous behavior. If she didn’t join them, then he’d shrug and do what he was going to do regardless now that the hour was up: open the door and step into the ballroom, as ordered.