November 29th. Morning. A reasonably upscale café.
A neatly dressed young man sat at a window seat, brow furrowed, clearly preoccupied. The coffee in front of him had gone untouched.
"Excuse me, sir — do you mind if I sit here?"
The gentle voice broke into his thoughts. He looked up to find a solidly-built man who looked entirely unlike someone capable of a tone that mild. He wore an orange travel coat and a yellow, soft-brimmed gentleman's hat.
Seeing the young man look over, the man added with a smile:
"I like sitting by the window, but I've been traveling alone for too long and was hoping for some conversation."
The young man looked at the smile — completely untroubled, no shadow of anything in it — and sighed.
"I don't mind. Though as you can see, I'm afraid I might do your mood no good."
The broad-shouldered man let the smile settle into something quieter, pulled the chair out carefully, sat down slowly, and said:
"That's all right. Everyone has difficult days. I'll be honest though — I find it hard to imagine what could trouble someone as clearly accomplished as yourself. Is it family?"
"My new wife. I'm not always sure how to be with her."
"A misunderstanding between you?"
"No, we get on well most of the time. It's just that she sometimes says I'm too rigid and dull. I've tried being more playful — trying to make her laugh — but it doesn't always land."
"Have you asked any elders for their perspective?"
"I asked my father. His answer wasn't something I could easily repeat."
The young man paused, and seeing the other man's expression remain unchanged, continued.
"I worked up the courage to ask my wife eventually. She pushed me away and locked herself in her room. She wouldn't see me for days after that, and I didn't dare press the matter further."
His voice grew quieter and quieter, until it was barely audible.
The broad-shouldered man shook his head with a slight smile, then spoke slowly.
"My friend, why are you so slow when it comes to matters of the heart? Is it possible the reason your wife was upset with you for those few days had nothing to do with why she pushed you away in the first place?"
The young man looked up, plainly lost.
The man continued, quietly.
"I think your father was right. Everyone — men and women both — has those kinds of thoughts. It's only that your wife's sense of propriety doesn't allow her to say so outright. The initial push was for exactly that reason — and the days of silence afterward were almost certainly her way of punishing you for not having the nerve to knock on her door that night. As a man, my friend, you really do need to be more proactive about these things."
The young man turned slightly red.
"But I can't tell whether she actually wants to or not. I'm always afraid of misreading the situation and making her like me less."
The man shook his head.
"She already said yes when you proposed. Why would she genuinely not want to? Unless you think she only married you for your money?"
"Impossible. She's not that kind of person." The young man replied immediately.
The man nodded.
"Then why wouldn't she? If she truly wanted to refuse for physical or emotional reasons, she would have said so clearly — wouldn't she?"
The young man's expression shifted into dawning comprehension.
"So — be braver, my friend. Go home right now, pull her into a good, firm hug, and tell her you've missed her. More than once."
The young man nodded without hesitation, paid for his coffee, and left quickly.
The broad-shouldered man watched through the window until the young man disappeared into a building just within view, then looked away.
He ordered a sweet iced tea from the south from a waiter who seemed slightly puzzled, then settled in with a copy of Introduction to Mysticism.
After a long while, he said quietly to no one in particular:
"And that actually worked."
December 14th. Afternoon. A bar in another city.
A young man — lean, dressed as a worker — was drinking in silence.
"Hey, Little Penn. Another fight with that bastard father of yours?"
A large hand dropped onto his shoulder — lightly enough that he didn't turn, only nodded and muttered:
"Who else."
"Rough luck, getting stuck with a man like that."
Little Penn looked at the new colleague beside him — big, broad-shouldered, but not at all rough about it — and said, despite himself:
"What are you sighing about, Big Guy? He's not your family."
"Just feels unfair to watch. Sharp as you are, quick learner too. Could be doing decent, easy work and still supporting everyone. Instead you're spending half your days off on hard labor. You've got it rough, Penn."
"Can't be helped. He's my family."
"Yeah. Nothing to be done. He stopped expecting anything from the gods long ago, doesn't care what people think, and the law can't touch him either. A man who doesn't care about his own son and wife — what could possibly change him?"
"..."
"Take care of yourself, Penn. Even if you're not doing it for yourself — do it for your mother. I don't even want to think about what she'd go through without someone like you looking out for her."
"Drop it, Big Guy."
"Right, sorry — overstepped. Just hold on a little longer. Behavior like that, even the gods probably can't look away forever. Maybe one day, an accident will come along and take that filthy soul somewhere it belongs."
He gave Penn's shoulder one last pat and said no more. He left Penn alone, drinking his glass slower and slower.
That night, the brief but intense sounds from Little Penn's household didn't catch the neighbors' attention — this wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. After a while, Penn came out, money in his pocket, and walked unsteadily toward the police station. It went more smoothly than he'd expected.
When the dust had settled and Little Penn had handled what needed to be handled without incident, the watching eyes in the shadows quietly withdrew.
December 31st. Evening. A kitchen in a modest apartment in Avignon.
Ryan was standing with a newly bought recipe book, following it step by step through a new dish. After considerable deliberation, he'd settled on cooking as a way to fill the time. Fishing — a pastime that demanded both skill and luck — had never quite suited him.
"More than a month now, without realizing it. One thing I can say with confidence: the experience that terrible woman's organization compiled is a bit one-sided. You don't necessarily need to provoke disputes or create conflict outright. What matters more is getting the person you've instigated to do something they absolutely would not have done on their own."
He turned the food over, half his attention on the summary he'd been working through all month.
The motivation behind the behavior had to come from the instigated person's own desires and private thoughts. He'd once managed to coax a very withdrawn person into confessing their feelings to someone — that had counted. But persuading a genuinely bad person to do something selfless had no effect whatsoever. He was starting to suspect that kind of thing might actually be outside the Instigator's range entirely.
After this month, he was also beginning to understand why Instigator was the next step from Assassin — both brought change and disruption. But just as an Assassin's kill could, on occasion, save more lives than it ended, instigation didn't have to lead to bad outcomes.
The trouble was that such opportunities were rare. So what the terrible woman had said wasn't wrong — her organization had probably just never considered that instigation could sometimes produce good results instead.
"Oh no, the eggs are burning a bit."
A distracted Ryan made a frantic grab to salvage the situation.