Fishing expedition

Demetrius’s stillness shattered as he leaned back in his chair with a laugh that rang out like a bell—bright, clear, and just a little off-kilter. His sharp features lit up with an exaggerated delight, and he clapped his hands together twice, as though Kaczor had just told a particularly excellent joke.

Well! he declared, gesturing grandly toward her with both hands, What a picture you’ve painted! Stark, vivid, and dripping with truth. I must say, my dear Kaczor, honesty suits you quite marvelously. Like a finely tailored coat... albeit one a touch too heavy for the season.

He tilted his head, watching her with a gaze that danced between amusement and genuine interest, the light catching in his eyes like sparks on kindling.

Ah, but where are my manners? Please, do continue stroking Zizi. She’s chosen you, and when a cat chooses you, well, it’s best to lean into it. Resistance is futile, as they say.

Zizi let out a contented purr, stretching luxuriously in Kaczor’s lap as Demetrius leaned forward, elbows on the table, his chin resting on his interlocked fingers.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, your vivid tapestry of life in our esteemed reeducation system. A grim little masterpiece, really. You’ve done what so few dare to do: told me what I *need* to hear, rather than what I *want* to hear. And for that, you have my gratitude. Truly. I’m not being facetious, I swear!

He placed a hand on his chest in mock solemnity before breaking into a grin, the gesture teetering between sincerity and theater.

The truth of it, you see, is that every system has its cracks. And sometimes, those cracks let the light in. But sometimes, they let the rot in too. And that, my dear, is where the real work begins!

He gestured dramatically, as if presenting a solution to an invisible audience.

Your story—of indignity, of survival, of fire—it’s a reminder that I cannot, must not, rest on laurels woven from good intentions. Intentions, you see, are like flowers in a storm. Pretty to look at, utterly useless if they can’t stand the wind. And, oh, how the wind howls!

Demetrius reached for his wine, swirling it absently, his tone softening to something less performative, though the gleam of eccentricity remained.

I know what you’re thinking. ‘Why all the pomp, the whimsy, the cats?’ But this isn’t a charade, Kaczor. This is me. A ruler who believes that a touch of madness—tempered with brilliance, of course—is what keeps the wheels turning. Keeps me honest. And speaking of honesty...

He leaned back again, gesturing broadly to the mismatched table setting, the wine, the cats.

You are here, my dear, because you’ve seen the cracks firsthand. You’ve slipped through them, survived them, and walked out the other side with that fire in your eyes. I’m not suspicious of that fire, Kaczor. No, no. I admire it. I find it... invigorating!

His grin widened, though the edge to his words had softened into something closer to encouragement.

Now, what I truly want to know is this: you’ve lived through the cracks. You’ve seen the ugliness they can hide. So, tell me—what would you do if you had a hand in mending them? Would you patch them up, nice and tidy? Or would you break them open further, rip out the rot, and start anew?

He leaned forward, his eyes bright with an almost childlike excitement.

Because you, my dear, are a builder. I can see it, clear as the sun above us. And if you’ve been given a second chance, well— he gestured to the table again, —you’re already sitting at the right one to make something of it.

He raised his goblet in a toast, his smile genuine this time, though it still held the glint of mischief.

To cracks and fire, to lessons learned, and to the curious paths we might walk together. Tell me, Kaczor. What would *you* build?

@Kaczor Tilani