Page 129 of Our Violent Ends
Marshall jerked back. “What? No. No, my father said—”
“Your father lied.” As Marshall had. As Marshall seemed to be doing with increasing frequency.
“I—” Marshall broke off. His attention turned to the window too, looking irritated by the water dripping in. He walked toward it. “Then why would you come here, Ben? Why venture right into enemy territory?”
“To saveyou.” Benedikt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. With Marshall’s whole past crumbling as a lie, perhaps his entire persona, too, was an untruth.Is Marshall Seo even his real name?
“Of course it is.”
Benedikt had muttered that last part aloud.
“Seo was my mother’s family name,” Marshall went on, pushing the window closed. “I figured everyone would ask fewer questions if they thought I ran from Korea after Japanese annexation, an orphan with no ties. Less complicated than running from the Chinese countryside because I couldn’t bear to live with my Nationalist father.”
“You should have told me,” Benedikt said quietly. “You should have trusted me.”
Marshall turned around, arms crossed, leaning up against the glass. “I do trust you,” he muttered, uncharacteristically quiet. “I merely would have preferred to maintain a different past, one of my choosing. Is that so wrong?”
“Yes!” Benedikt snapped. “It is if we had no idea that you were going to be in danger whenNationalistsmarched into this city.”
“Look around. Do I appear in danger?”
Benedikt could not respond immediately; he feared that his words would come out too sharp, too far from what he really meant. This never used to be a worry, not with Marshall, not with his best friend. Of all the people in the world that he trusted would understand him no matter how unfiltered his thoughts ran, it was Marshall.
But something was different now. It was fear that had settled into his bones.
“We have to go. Roma and Juliette await at the Bund with a route out, but the Nationalists have already sent people after them. If we wait any longer, either martial law will shut the city down with no means of escape or Juliette is going to get hauled away.”
“Ican’t.” Marshall tugged at his sleeves, trying to straighten out the imaginary crinkles. “I have their trust, Ben. I am more help to you as a docile Nationalist prodigy than anything else.”
Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock started to chime.
“Whether or not my father lied about the timing of the purge is irrelevant,” he went on. “What is relevant is that droves of White Flowers will be hauled into imprisonment to await execution alongside the Communists, regardless of whether we were truly working with them. I can stop it. We won’t have to run.Romawon’t have to run, so long as I stay. If I can steer my father into protecting us, the White Flowerssurvive.”
When Marshall paused for breath, his chest was rising and falling, appearing exhilarated by the weight of his role. And without hesitation, Benedikt said: “In all my years knowing you, I’ve never imagined you could make such a daft decision.”
Marshall’s expression fell. “I beg your pardon?”
“They’re lying!” Benedikt exclaimed, the sound harsh. “Why would they ever allow the White Flowers to continue onward when the Nationalists have an alliance with the Scarlet Gang? We’refinished, Marshall. The gang is in shambles. There’s no going back.”
“No,” Marshall insisted. He stood firm. “No. Do you know how much violence I witnessed as a phantom in this city, Ben? The view from the rooftops is utterly, utterly different from the view on the street, and I saw everything. No matter the bloodshed, I saw how damn much every White Flower cared for us, foryou, for the Montagovs. I can save them.”
“Is that what this is?” Benedikt resisted the urge to march over andshakehis friend. He knew; he knew that physical force was not the right method of persuasion here, that if anything, it would merely rile Marshall into further stubbornness. “Some display of loyalty for the gang that took you in? It was never about the White Flowers, Mars. It was about what we believed in—whowe believed in. It’s Roma, it’s a city where we belong, a future. And when that topples, then it is up to us to flee too.”
Marshall swallowed hard. “I have power here by mere virtue of my birth. You would ask me to abandon it, abandon the possibility of helping people?”
“What real help can you be?” This wasn’t what he meant. This was what was coming out anyway. “Will you march upon the front lines and massacre the workers to win your father’s trust? Rough up a few Communists for the freedom of White Flowers?”
“Why are you beinglike this—”
“Because it’s not worth it! Power is never worth it! You keep making trades upon trades, and you get nothing in return. Roma is running from it. Juliette is running from it. What makes you thinkyoucan handle it?”
A flicker of hurt—real hurt—flashed across Marshall’s face. “Is that what it is?” he asked. “You think I am too weak?”
Benedikt bit back a curse, swallowed his anger until it slid down his throat. How had this happened? He knew he shouldn’t have spoken so fast. He knew he shouldn’t have run loose with his words. There was never any good to come from it. And yet he could barely think. It was the oppressive air of this room and the steady trickle of rain from outside and thatclockstill chiming from someplace in the house.
“I never said you were weak.”
“Yet you would have me walk away. I’m trying tohelpus. I’m trying to have us survive—”
