Old Habits

Old habits die hard, but people could always change.

At least, that was how Silas Morgan chose to think of it. Helped him explain away how his life had gone. Sure, being born in the Borderlands hadn’t been all sunshine and rainbows, but he’d done what he could to move past what life had dumped in his lap. An absent father, every opportunity to become some low-brow criminal, whispers of rising crime syndicates – he’d had all that, started down the road that’d been laid ahead of him, but eventually backtracked hard enough that he’d somehow gotten a taste of the City Proper. Not necessarily the sparkly streets and silver spoons of the Inner City, but more than the slums of the Borderlands.

That said, he was particularly skilled in certain areas. What good would it do him to let those talents go to waste?

He flashed a grin at the guard stationed at the grand double doors, slipping into his chosen role for the night: flippant in a cocksure way that only came from generations of nobility. “Alaric Hastings.” The posh and proper accent dripped from his lips as he dipped into the slightest bow. “I do believe my family was extended an invitation, so if you don’t mind, I do love a party.”

The guard watched him, eyes sharp with scrutiny. Silas met the challenge; after all, wasn’t confidence the key to a good con? “Son of the Baron? Thought he wasn’t coming.”

“I’m afraid he’s not; terribly tied up in business of some sort. But he did allow me to come in his stead, so long as I ‘behave myself’, as he so put it. You know how Father is, always so very protective.” The laugh left his lips as he raised his arms in a shrug, letting the moonlight glimmer off of a ring in a way which was sure to catch the eye of the guard.

Because confidence was key, but good fortune could take him considerably farther. It was simple good luck that the true Alaric Hastings was known as the black sheep of the family, kept largely out of eye- or earshot of other Inner City nobles, only known for rumored recklessness in the bars of the City Proper, all of which the family supposedly kept hushed up. And that the noble himself should stumble into Silas’ local bar, boasting about status and wealth before passing out on a nearby table – enough of a show for Silas to pay for the man’s room for the night while slipping the signet ring into his own pocket.

He tilted his head, smile turning sheepish. “Is there some other problem?” And with a shake of the guard’s head, the doors opened before him, revealing the glimmer of crystalline chandeliers, the faint chatter of Inner City small talk. Food, drink, the pretense of an easy life, the joy of knowing he could pretend his way into this all – what more could Silas ask for? After all, who was he truly hurting by breaking the rules for his own entertainment? Really, all told, he might’ve even been doing poor Alaric’s reputation a favor.

He’d been in the middle of regaling some group with some tale or another of his adventures when a woman approached him, dressed in sharp blues and blacks and not speaking, but apparently content to wait until his audience had been distracted by some newcomer. He turned to her with the same innocence he’d used on the guard, only for her to beat him to it.

“I’m so sorry, but is there any chance we could speak in private?”

That didn’t bode well. But Alaric – at least as Silas had painted him – should have nothing to hide, and the last thing he needed was to cause a scene. Just play along. “I suppose, although…is everything alright?” The woman only beckoned for him to follow, slinking behind throngs of bodies, leaving Silas with few other choices than to follow as she led him into back hallways. “My apologies, but I don’t think I quite caught your name?” he tried to break the silence, “And is it entirely necessary to be so far away from -?”

“It is, actually.” The dropped accent stopped Silas in his tracks. Definitely not boding well. “And I’m afraid you won’t be getting my name either, Silas Morgan.”

Very, very not good. He forced a nervous laugh; maybe he could salvage this. “I…believe you have me mistaken for someone else –“

“Drop the accent. It might work out there, but not on someone who knows the real Alaric Hastings is currently in a bar in the Northern sector of the City Proper.” Well, apparently the game was changing. He crossed his arms, letting his weight fall on one side of his body, abandoning the terribly stiff posture he’d endured all night. “It was impressive, though, I will say. Quite the charm you have there, winning over the room without raising suspicion; it’s a talent we would love to see you cultivate. For us, of course.” She pulled a slip of paper from a pocket, an inky flower showing between her fingertips.

The Black Rose. One of the rising crime syndicates from back home. Not violent – at least as far as anyone knew – but powerful for their secrecy, pulling strings in ways no one knew.

Silas stepped back with a low laugh. “Sorry, but no. Maybe you haven’t heard, but I’m done with that. All of this?” He shrugged. “Just a hobby. And I honestly doubt you’ll be able to convince me out of retirement. But best of luck to you.” He spun away, falling back into the act.

“Shame, and we thought you would be the one to help the Borderlands flourish.” That stopped him all over again, and he swore he could hear the woman smirking. “People like your mother deserve more than they have; imagine what they could do with just one of the Hastings family jewels. And given you seem to know something about Alaric Hastings, well,” the sounds of her footsteps came closer, until she stood directly at his side, “we would’ve been happy to explain away any loose ends you leave. Think about it.” The paper slid into view. He took it, her voice confident in her last words. “We only want you to embrace who you are.”

It was true, he’d stepped away from the work of a conman, tried to clean up his act, but the thought of helping his home, offered to him as he’d been swept up in acting as someone other than himself – it had him finding his way to the Hastings mansion soon after.

Dressed down into attire fitting of an artisan of the City Proper, he knocked at the door, sucking in a genuinely surprised breath at how suddenly it opened, and to a rattled-looking Alaric Hastings, nonetheless.

“Oh! I, um, sorry to bother you, but,” Silas pulled the signet ring from his back pocket, purposefully tripping over his words, “I think this is yours? I thought I saw you drop it in a bar out in the City Proper, and…”

Alaric stumbled forward, grabbing the ring. “Oh, thank the…my Father would have killed me had he learned I lost this. I…thank you. Please, allow me to repay you.”

“I…no, no, you don’t need to do anything.” Humility. Alaric inviting him in was a gamble, sure, but the long run would be far easier. “Honestly. It’s alright.”

“Well, at least allow me to invite you inside, if only for a moment. To rest before your journey back.” Silas barely even had the time to stutter an argument before being tugged inside. Apparently, the gamble had worked. Even better than expected, though the insistent gratitude was a surprise. “Truly, my father would have been furious had he found out; I’ve been fortunate he hasn’t asked, but I’ve hardly been able to think straight, and –“ Alaric twisted the ring around his finger before suddenly jumping and twisting toward Silas. “Of course! I’m sorry for seeming so scattered, but,” he held a hand to his chest, the other outstretched, “Alaric, and you are?”

“Silas. Monroe.” He took the offered hand, still trying to make heads or tails of the man before him. Because this didn’t seem anything like the drunken, witless noble Silas had seen at the bar, or the reckless rebel everyone seemed to think he was. More of a puzzle than he’d expected, but apparently this job was full of welcome surprises. And a helpful surprise, at that; a kind-hearted noble would be easier to swindle, after all.

“Silas. And what is it you do? If I may ask, of course?” The second question practically tumbled out. “You needn’t answer if you’d prefer it.”

“No, honestly, it’s fine. I,” Silas took a breath, nerves tingling. This was a good enough way in; there wasn’t any reason to wait for a better one. “I’ve been a lot of things, I guess. You know, different jobs, trying to see if something would stick.” Which nothing had, if he was being honest with himself. Slipping back into cons was easier than he’d thought it’d be, playing parts and working toward goals. The faint niggling in his stomach was easier to quiet than an overwhelming sense of being in the wrong place entirely. “Even, uh, a little bit of theft?” He scratched at the back of his neck, playing up the remorse. “Because, I mean, the Borderlands. Sometimes it feels like that’s all you’ve got.” He shook his head, forcing a smile, like he’d only begun rambling on accident. Like he wasn’t using the story as a set up, and none of that still tore into him upon retelling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No, no! It’s entirely alright. But…you don’t enjoy it, exactly? Everything you’ve tried?”

“Not really, no, but it’s not like there’s much of a choice,” Silas shrugged, resigned, readying the detail he hoped would be most convincing, “My mother’s out there on her own, and I’d rather know she’s alright. So it doesn’t really matter what I want, does it?”

A moment passed. Two. Three. Alaric’s eyes met his, soft and searching, genuine in a way that stayed Silas’ breath for a moment. “Why don’t you come with me?” Silas nodded in response; apparently, the story had gotten through the way he wanted it to.

He was led through the mansion, watching the door to a locked room swing open to riches beyond imagine. Gold, silver, art, kept under lock and key. Family jewels among them and unguarded as Alaric searched the other side of the room. It was so easy to pocket one as he wandered the room under the guise of wonder and curiosity.

What was that but a success?

With a gift of golden coins in hand and a stolen jewel tucked away in a bag, Silas took his leave later that night, pulling out a slip of paper with a dark flower and turning it over in his fingers, ignoring the strange weight it carried, the way his breath came harder for just a moment. Yes, he had stepped away from the cons and the acts, tried to become someone new, but it all came back so easily, brought back a certain thrill and challenge he hadn’t realized he missed. Even if he had to blink away the image of sympathetic eyes – even with the stolen jewel heavy in his bag – the good that he could bring to the Borderlands had to outweigh everything else. And he’d hardly needed to think twice on how to make it all happen, on the right things to say and do for Alaric to invite him inside. Perhaps the woman he’d met was correct.

Sure, maybe people could always change, but old habits die hard.