XV. Danes Lobby III • sin from definitions

Section I.

Sin emerged from nothing.

For a second, he was only feet. His body materialized from the bottom up, as it always did. By now, he was used to the sensation of television static, and the ten-second time span where he was unable to see. Until his head and eyes took shape, he was in complete blackness.

As soon as he could, he blinked.

Sinclair's eyes readjusted and he could finally make out his own bedroom.

His meeting with Luka had been short. Sinclair told him about the Purging Game, and of how he could contact him—blood loss.

It wasn't much. Telling Luka about the Game wasn't going to stop it, but it was the least he could do.

Sinclair looked at his watch as he exited his house. "Thirty minutes..." was the amount he had before he had to be at the Office for their meeting.

Shutting the door behind him, his brows furrowed. There was commotion nearby. A back-and-forth of frustrated tones grew louder as he trekked the short walkway of his house.

Dimitri's voice cleared up first. "Fuck, Jacques, I'm not asking for much. Just keep her in your house, or at least take the chains off when she's outside. Fuck."

"Who the hell do you think you are, Dimi? She listens to me. Not you."

"I swear, if Vaughn sees her, I'm going to fucking kill you."

"Is that a threat?"

Sinclair halted when the two were in his line of sight. As he expected, Dimitri and Jacques were on the pavement, their chests nearly touching and their chins raised in a fight for dominance.

"And why the hell are you ordering around my slave?" Jacques tutted. "Don't you have your own to worry about?"

That was Dimitri's line, crossed.

He threw a punch. Jacques caught it. Dimitri hurled his weight forward. They fell. Then they were wrestling.

Sinclair sighed; they fought every other day. He walked on the pavement towards them.

Danes Lobby was a simple layout.

In its center was the wide mound on which the huge field of Danes was. Surrounding was the Office, the diner, and the Room for Flux. At the bottom of the gentle slope, all fifteen of the LeRouge's cottage houses dot the landscape, arranged in a perfect circle around the hill.

There was enough space between each home that, by the time Sinclair caught up to Dimitri's, the fight was nearly done.

He couldn't tell who was winning. Dimitri and Jacques were equally struggling; they both had a fist to a cheek, and a fist to a cheek.

Jacques noticed him first. "S-Sinclair! Get him off of me."

While his foe was distracted, Dimitri pushed the fist in his face away and went for a strangle. Jacques staggered backwards and fell. His choke was immediate.

"I told you not to fucking call him that."

"S-Sin-ck-lagh! H-Help."

Straight faced, Sinclair watched Dimitri pour every ounce of his strength into his hands and arms, both veined from the exertion. Jacques was turning pale. Dimitri didn't seem to care in the slightest what it was doing to Jacques.

"I-I'm s-sorry."

"I can't fucking hear you."

"I'm sorry," Jacques croaked. "He's n-not a slave."

He let go with a grunt. Jacques gasped in all the air he could. "Tch." Dimitri turned around and paused when his eyes met Sinclair's. "What? Not like that'll kill him."

Sinclair exhaled. They joined and began walking together. "Something about Vaughn?"

"This close." He spat, his thumb and index pushing towards each other. "Vaughn was this close to seeing that girl, all... chained and everything."

Sinclair nodded slowly. "So you... lied to him and made him unconscious again."

"It'll only be until after this stupid meeting." He tilted his head and his features softened, if only slightly. "He told me he loves me."

The LeRouge totaled fifteen in number. But only half attended each meeting; the rest would be working Flux—the transport of souls into newborn lives. The two groups alternated every couple of days.

As he waited for everyone to arrive, Sinclair was quiet as usual.

Jacques was the last to get to the Office. He was rubbing a hand over his neck, bruised with purple. Marceau scrunched his face at the sight. "Fuckin' hell bro, what happened to you?"

"Shut up," he grumbled as he plopped down in his assigned seat. Not that they had assigned seats. It was just expected that Jacques, Marceau, and Capucine sit on one end, opposite from Fleur, Anaïs, Dimitri, and Sinclair.

Because of their seating arrangements, Sinclair could see Dimitri's leg vibrate. "Let's make this quick. I got things to do."

Capucine was in the middle of flipping through a document when she shot him a half-lidded glare. "We would've been done already if you and Jacques stopped fighting for once."

"Whatever." The two muttered in unison.

On the far end, Fleur asked, "What's this about, anyway?"

Using her chin, Capucine pointed to the window of glass behind her. "Danes." There was a beat before she added, "We're getting rid of them."

"Getting rid...?"

Dimitri's head jerked. "What."

Marceau wore a grin on him and it pointed to Dimitri. "You heard her."

"You trying to be funny? If you're doing this 'cause you know Vaughn likes the flowers, I'll mash your face in."

Marceau chuckled, throwing his palms up in surrender. "It wasn't my idea, man. But it's a good idea. A great one, even. Tell them why, Cap."

"Danes have two purposes." Capucine stuck two fingers in the air. "One, they allow humans to be cloned. Two, they allow a human to pour their will into someone else, essentially controlling them."

"See the pattern, yet?" Marceau chimed in. He leaned forward. "Danes were created to give humans abilities. Level the playing field with us Premiers a little."

"Ah," remarked Anaïs.

Capucine slid the thick stack of papers across the stone. "This. Is a list of people who used the Danes to their advantage. Including Blackwood, the unofficial son of Redbeard, and... Celine Leroux, who nearly created a puppet out of Neo Ruhl. We also see..."

Sinclair slid his eyes over. "Mitri, I can hear your teeth grinding."

Dimitri huffed. "Why wouldn't I? That bitch is part of the reason Vaughn's life was hell. Screwing with his uncle like that. Tch."

Sinclair looked downward. He knew how it went.

Capucine continued. "...power, respect, recognition. All of these people gained something from using a Dane." She sat back in her seat. "To this day, people talk about Blackwood as if he's a god. Celine is in history books now."

Marceau was nodding along. "I don't know about you, but I don't want humans to have even half the power that we do. Injecting souls, duplicating souls... we can do that without Danes—we're fucking Premier!"

Jacques smiled. "Hell yeah."

"I agree," Anaïs added. "There's really no need for them except, well, I guess we'd have to change the name of this place."

"He finds them pretty. . ."

Sinclair looked to his left. If he didn't know better, he'd label Dimitri's voice a whine.

Somehow, Marceau heard Dimitri despite his quiet. "Sorry, man. It's been decided already."

Dimitri shook his head, probably still coming to terms with it. "Then, we. . . we'll replace it with some other flower. Something pretty."

Marceau snorted. "No shit. We're planning to replant, and all that other stuff. It works out."

"Alright." Dimitri stood. His following question was more like a declaration. "The meeting's over then?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Capucine told him while gathering the papers. "We'll just hang here for a bit."

The Office grew in volume by the second, as the rest started talking about their plans for the Purging Game. Cackles, and disgusting desires filled the room. Meanwhile, Sinclair just sat there, half-present like how his body got whenever he'd travel.

So he succumbed. He traveled—his mind did. It took him to the past.

Section II.

Past

Their sin emerged from everything.

Humiliation, torment, stripped innocence. . . In a different world, 500 years ago, the LeRouge lived lives that gave definition to each term.

500 years ago, the LeRouge were royalty.

From ages young, however, they learned true pain for the first time.

"M-Marceau. Sin. J'ai peur." [I'm scared.] Dimitri's eyes darted left and right. He shuffled further from the soldiers cornering them. Nine of them. They had broken into the mansion, demanding that everyone shut up and do as they say. Who knew what for. They just knew what swords could do; all of their parents were killed that way.

Sinclair took his brother's hand and held it tight. "N'aie pas peur. J'suis la." [Don't worry. I'm here.]

On the other end, Marceau said nothing as he draped a firm arm over Dimitri's shoulder. His other arm held Anaïs close.

Jacques laid on the floor by their feet, clutching his side. He'd taken a hit when he tried to fight back. Crouched down, Capucine sobbed as she tended to his bruise.

Either way, they were cornered. All seventeen of them, cowering with backs against a wall because their small frames could do nothing against weapons and a dozen of men.

Sinclair's heart lurched to his throat; the soldiers started to talk amongst themselves, grinning and cackling as they did. They scanned the line of children, pointing with their chins, and saying other things, and laughing some more and—

Sinclair could hear nothing. Yet somehow, he knew exactly what was being said. His eyebrows pinched in the middle. His hold on Dimitri tightened.

Marceau took the chance. "Que voulez-vous de nous?!" [What do you want from us?!]

The soldiers hadn't expected a remark. It amused them greatly, though, for they laughed some more. Their eyes gleamed with a sort of hunger, predatory and primal. Twisted grins curled on their faces. Sinclair swore he saw a tongue swipe over a lip.

The next words dripped like venom.

"Nous voulons juste nous amuser." [We just want to have fun.]

He'd said it with a shrug as if it meant nothing.

As if his definition of fun matched that of dictionaries.

For the LeRouge, the months that followed were definitions. Of humiliation, of degradation, of stripped innocence.

It wasn't long before Death sounded sweet. Anaïs was the first to take His hand. Dimitri would've been next, but Sinclair urged him not to.

Instead, they became killers together.

They killed one soldier before they regretted ever trying. The punishment given to Dimitri proved that all definitions were poorly written. Inadequate. Incomplete.

They forced Sinclair to watch; he died from his mental anguish.

In Death's hand, he met Isla Yäger.

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Present

". . . in. . . Sin. . . Sin!"

He twitched away from his thoughts. Anaïs was waving a hand at his face. She stopped when he blinked. Across the table, Marceau, Jacques, and Capucine were looking at him curiously.

Anaïs squinted at him and frowned. "You're crying."

At once, Sinclair pinched his eyes dry. He slid his chair back. "It's just a yawn. I'm heading home."

Laughing, Marceau rounded the table. "What? No way are you going to leave without telling me why you're crying. Not to mention, you were frozen for, like, a minute straight." He leaned against the table. "Talk to us, man. You're always quiet."

Sinclair looked at each of them—at the ones whose lives were definitions.

Marceau's lips steadily curled upwards. "Maybe you'll cheer up if we team up in the Game. I'll even let you have some fun, too—"

Fun.

"—Know what I mean?"

Anaïs scoffed. "Are you still going on about a partner? I'm having fun—"

Fun.

"—on my own."

"Yeah, I know, you're using a revolver. Boring."

"Um. No, I think you're mispronouncing it. The word is fun."

Sinclair had fallen quiet again. Who was he to tell them what to do with humiliation, torment, and stripped innocence? He knew precisely the curse of the LeRouge. Behind their smiles, they remembered the definitions from which their sins emerged;

Capucine hated looking at herself—there was not a mirror in her house;

Marceau suffered in his nightmares every night—Sinclair knew because their houses were adjacent;

Jacques could not fall sleep on his own—he'd make his servant hold him so he could;

Dimitri hated the world—and not just because it was cruel to Evaughn.

Without a word, Sinclair stood to leave. What they did with definitions was nothing he could control.

He'd just have to bet on the Yägers.