#Shakes bars of my cage (a client letter)

[alphateamsfinest]

More people should let Jill stab their killers.

[queerchoicesblog]

La Vie Bohème

Hiya, folks! So, as previously announced, the wlw writing project continues after a break with a miniseries set back in the City of Lights - & Love - at the time of the Belle Epoque, at the turn of the century.

The story of Élodie and Léa continues: what’s next?

Next chapter out on Monday, I think!

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions to homophobia, reference to sexual activity (if you are a minor or it bothers you in any way, you have been warned)

Tagging: @scottishqueer​

Previous chapters: Paris, Paris ; One Night At The Moulin Rouge , The Handkerchief, The Cage of Fools

Hope you enjoy it: if you do, please consider spreading the word!

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The following day I wake up late, around lunchtime. My roommates are all out: Marie left me a note saying she's out for a walk with Alain. Poor Marie, what a concerned look she gave me last night when she saw me sneaking inside our room without my coat! I had to craft a wild story to justify my attire and being so late. I can only hope she believed me...at least, she didn't ask too many questions. I head to the kitchen and warm up the stew leftover my friend saved for me. The events of the night are blurred, they waltz together in a haze: the Moulin Rouge, the Cage of Fools and the jigs I danced with Élodie, her perfume, her laughter, the violet a gallant admirer sent me, then the gendarmes, the clash of their batons, our mad run. The sad look on Élodie's face, the little kiss she pressed on my knuckles parting.

I wash myself and head out for a walk too, wrapping myself in the only other coat I have, much lighter than the lost one. My neighbourhood is certainly not renewed for attractions but it's Sunday and everyone is out to enjoy their day off. Some kids almost collide with me while chasing each other while an old lady nearby invites every passerby to try her apple tart, cheap and decadent, she repeats. Last night was the wildest night I've ever had in my whole life. After the initial embarrassment, I felt incredidibly...happy. I felt like floating on air when Élodie spun me in her arms or when we had a toast at our new friendship. Why did it end so soon? Who called the gendarmes and why they wanted to arrest those people who were just having fun? I don't get it...people crossdress every day now on the stages of cabaret theatres and no one ever complains. Their acts receive thunderous applauses and some artists have adoring fans every night. Why is it so different to call for a mass arrest? The men and women at the Cage of Fools were just doing what popular crossdress artists do: singing, dancing, making sure everybody was merry and bright. Was it because of the two men kissing a few tables away from where we sat? Nobody cared there, I didn't care, honestly. But now that I think of it, that might be the cause. Crossdressing performers never kiss each other on stage. I walk up to a hill into a second hand marketplace, hoping to find a replacement for my old coat I can afford. Could it be that my friend Élodie is a...how do they call them? A sapphic? I heard the word for the first time when I worked as a maid at the uncle Yves' client house. Madame pronounced it with ill grace, speaking of one of their acquaintances while I served breakfast. When I went back to the kitchen, I asked the cook the meaning of the unknown word, that I assumed a fancy insult: my masters wanted to play the role of the rich and the rich don't share the same language with us commoners. They invent new words, more fitted to their uptown world, not tainted with the smell of the street. The lady got all red and threw me a cloth, scolding me for eavesdropping a conversation and warning me to mind my own business. Needless to say my curiosity ran wild and I finally got an answer a few days later when I asked to the maid of a visiting guest. Could it be? The following week is pretty eventful: an important commission and Marie receiving a letter from home, urging her to go back to Aergenteuil to help assisting a sick relative. They would have never asked, knowing all the trouble that would cause her, if they could have done otherwise, her parents wrote. Marie is very close to that aunt and she sobbed in my arms at the thought of losing her and the job all at once. It took time to me and our roommates to comfort her. I told her that she didn't have to worry about the job: we will talk to the girls tomorrow and we will cover for her during her absence. If most agree to help, it will only mean a few extra hours each. Luckily, Marie is well loved at work so things run relatively smoothly, despite the boss' evident contempt. She profuses in an endless series of thank you and praises when I walk her to the carriage station at dawn before heading straight to work. We hug and I give her a tiny slice of that cheap and decadent apple tart the old lady sells at the crossroad. A little treat for the journey home, the only one I can afford. "You're a true friend, Léa. I will never forget this" she says, eyes veiled with tears before taking her seat on board. As the carriage disappears from view, I realise it's the first time we are separated from each other since we first met. Predictably, I end up missing her: we've been around each other for so long that now not walking back home with her, working side by side and sharing lunch on the staircase makes me feel a bit empty, as if a part was missing. Marcel and Alain are busy with work too as festivities approach fast and I have my fair share of Marie's work to worry about. However, from time to time, when I'm not so tired I only want to touch the bed, I pay a visit to the Moulin Rouge. The first time Élodie spots me, she runs straight into my arms, hugging me tightly: she must have thought she would never see me again after our misadventure with the gendarmes. She lets me assist to the acts backstage and I get to befriend other dancers, now used to see me around. I even fix their costumes if they get damaged during the performance. I do it gladly, even if it adds up to my daily amount of work. I usually gets cheek kisses or champagne as payment but sometimes, despite my deflections, they drop some coins into my hand, arguing that the Moulin Rouge tailor is half as good as me. When it happens, instead of saving them, I go buy a dinner at a bistro nearby with Élodie. I'm always starving but she never makes jokes of me for that. I tell her about Marie and the extra hours and, in return, she pretends not to be so hungry and offers me her slices of bread or some mashed potatoes "she won't eat anyway". We talk for hours, until I can keep my eyelids open. We start seeing each other more often. I must admit it's relatively easier now that I don't have to worry about bothering Marie and my friends are busy. Only my roommates look at me differently: I'm positive they suspect I have a secret lover. Now my day off is split between a little work at home in the morning and Élodie. We stroll down the Tuileries Gardens, arm in arm to protect each other against the cold. Élodie loves this place: she doesn't care it's overly popular, to her it's a testament to the the beautiful things people can create, an urban Eden. Who am I to contradict her? The Palace in the distance, the trees, the quiet murmur of the Seine nearby...it's rather gorgeous. One day we bump into a couple of her friends of the Cage of Fools. I could barely recognise gracious Pierrette in her male clothes. She goes by Pierre during the day. "Amélie" the other woman says, offering a hand to shake and I recognise one of Élodie's friends who were playing cards. "We've already met but I don't think I properly introduced myself". I assure her that I remember her. Then, lowering my voice as if I don't know if I can speak freely about it, I ask them about the fate of the Cage. Pierre/Pierrette frowns, she's one of the owners and had a hard time being released by the gendarmes after the arrest. The bar and ballroom is still closed, the authorities denies a reopening. They're planning a night incursion to retrieve all the lost goods, if there's any left. But so far it's hard to tell what will be of the Cage. Then, noticing my sullen expression, she adds: "It will open up again, darling. It's Paris, Pigalle: places like this always rise from their own ashes. We just don't know when and how" We all share a weak smile. The silence is broken by Élodie. "I was thinking of throwing a little party at my place to cheer up the mood" "At your place? But how?" Amélie inquiries, skeptic but intrigued. "A roof party, so there will be space for anyone. We can lit some fires to keep warm. You're all invited and I will ask some girls at the Moulin. A little feast to forget about our sorrows" True to her word, the next week, when I receive a letter from Marie informing me of her upcoming return, she proudly announces me that the party is happening: it's on Saturday night after the act at the Moulin. "Will you be there?" she asks, taking my hand into hers. The sudden gesture draws a smile on my face. We now seat together in bars and bistros very different from the Cage of Fools and I've come to miss casual touches like this. We've been very careful since that raid, especially Élodie. "Of course, I will" I nod over a steamy bowl of soup. She claps her hands excitedly, flashing me a bright smile before scribbling down an address on a scrap of paper she retrieved God knows where. Then she hands it to me. "Don't be late, I'll be waiting for you" Her words colour my cheeks rosy, the warmth in her voice unmistakable. Unsurprisingly, she lives in Monmarte, the artist neighbourhood. I arrive early, afraid to be late. I ate my dinner with great haste once back from work and spent a whole hour getting ready, a detail that -I do not doubt it- cemented my roommates' theory of the secret affair. I washed myself, did my hair up just like Marie taught me, and put on my best dress, which is nothing fancy but I am quite fond of the colour and its lacy sleeves. Once I put kohl on my eyes and some rouge on my lips, I head off into the night. When I finally arrive, I spot some familiar faces in front of the building: Léa's friends. I wave at them and they greet me with affability as if we've known each other for a while. "Good evening, Léa. You're radiant tonight" Pierrette says, kissing both my cheeks. I'm glad to see her back in her female clothes, she even placed a flower in her hair for the occasion. "Élodie hasn't arrived yet, she and the girls must be on their way" Amélie informs me, rubbing her hands. I say that it's fine especially if you're in good company. We chat, hugging ourselves and I discover that they all works as secretaries, bar Pierrette who is "an unsuspecting accountant by day, the best bartender in town by night". Just then, a cheerful choir of voices resounds in the street, approaching. We turn and it's the dancers of the Moulin Rouge. They cheer and wave at us, swaying bottles of wine and champagne raided from the theatre. After a quick round of kisses and loud greetings, we all run up the stairs before catching a cold. Élodie's apartment is messy and rather small for the number of guests attending the party so we quickly take the stairs and head to the roof. The sight is gorgeous: as the others light a couple of fires and one of the dancers harmonises an accordion, I take a moment to admire it. From the top of the hill, Paris lays beneath us like an ocean of light and chimney smoke. An intoxicating combination of misery and beauty I have never seen before. Someone taps my shoulder and I turn to see Carmine, one of Élodie's colleagues, handing me a glass of wine. It's stronger than I expect but I keep sipping it as we chat, grateful to have something to kindle my bones in the cold. A lively tune starts playing and we all share a toast to our host, who performs an exaggerated reverie in full response. The atmosphere is bubbly: some dance, others chat and crack jokes with each other...everyone is in good spirits. I wonder if this is the life my new friend is used to, so careless and free. So different from the one I know. What does she see in me? My ordinary seamstress routine, my life....is a stale dry biscuit in comparison to what she does. I'm saved by the male dance, Laurent, who asks me to dance. I accept: after all, I am here to enjoy myself and he will lead, I only have to follow his moves. As we sway I catch Élodie looking in my direction while chatting with the girls and drinking wine. I have no recollection of how much time we spent there, I remember walking down the stairs arm in arm with Amélie. As some guests take their leave, we gather in the living room and the the tiny kitchen downstairs to keep warm. Laurent produces himself in an impression of Monsieur Ziegler that elicits a general round of laughters. Pierrette and one of the girls sing one last song, a popular duet for the "last ones standing" then say goodbye. When the last guest walks out of the door, Élodie turns towards me. "Stay and help me sinking that?" she asks, nodding at a half empty bottle of champagne. Before I can answer, she's already looking for two glasses. She returns with just one. "You have the glass, I take the bottle" she announces. I laugh at the tipsy note in her voice as she pours liquid ambrosia in my glass. "What?" she chuckles. "Just saying that maybe you should take a seat, mademoiselle" I tease her, guiding her to the sofa. She rolls her eyes and obliges...then at last minute, she pulls me down too. Some champagne sloshes over the rim of my glass but I find a seat beside her. We both giggle. "To the best party host in Paris" I raise my glass. She smiles and mirrors my gesture. "To the most gracious guest, the pearl of Roscoff" We cling our glasses and I blush a little, diverting my eyes. When I look back at here, her eyes rests dreamy on a painting laid nearby on the floor. One of her roommates is a painter, she explains absentmindedly, he finished it yesterday. I tell her she's a real bohemienne, living in the artist quarter with a painter.... "An actress and a music-hall trumpet player. And I'm a dancer myself!" she adds. Then she falls quiet. She smiles to herself, a rather melancholic smile, as if she's contemplating her whole life. "La vie bohème...that's the life I chose" she says after a while. "I've never thought I would achieve that though. I've never thought I would get this far" "How come?" I sit more comfortably and she takes a gulp of champagne before speaking again. She was born in Bordeaux, a place now filled with memories of a lonely grim childhood. Her mother was, is -since she's still alive as far as she knows- a prostitute, who spent more time walking the streets than cuddling her little girl. Sometimes she received clients at home and Élodie ran hiding in the filthy toilet in the garden until they were gone. She never knew who her father was but she likes to think it was a tormented poet or a travelling artist...more likely and ironically, he could have been a gendarme off duty or the spoilt heir of a local noble with a taste for the sordid cheap pleasures the streets of the suburbs offer after dark. Her mother wasn't kind to her -one day when she had a bit too much, she admitted she never wanted a child- but provided for her. She was the one teaching her the can-can. "Decades ago only prostitutes danced like this, now it's different...but I guess it's part of the profession lore, so to speak" she laughs sombrely. "I mean, some girls at the Moulin still do that, dancing and selling their graces to paying admirers. I suppose it's easy to cross the line if you always want more and more and adulation is a weird poison. I don't judge them, if no one is forcing them to do so, they can do what they want...." She turns towards me, placing her hand over mine. I give it a squeeze. "I don't do that, Léa. I don't do that...I saw what that life did to my mother, what it turned her into and when one morning I packed my things and left, I swore to myself to ever do that, even if money was running low, if I could avoid it. I was barely sixteen when I arrived here, alone, in Paris. I was lucky enough to find kind people who didn't take advantage of me...and I...and I started to dance. Dancing gave me freedom" I don't know what made her so suddenly nostalgic, maybe it's the alcohol we had tonight. But her story makes me appreciate her even more: the world has been unkind to her at first, filling her childhood with hardships, but she fought back. She danced away from her misery with ineffable grace and dignity like a brave butterfly. "And now look at you: you're Lila, star of la quadrille" I flash her a bright smile. "I'm proud of you" She laughs softly. "Are you?" "Yes, of course!" I sit a bit straighter, as if it could give my word more authority. "You've faced adversities and you went so far. Only the most talented dancers are allowed to perform in la quadrille!" "You read it somewhere?" "Everybody knows that!" I exclaim, amused and surprised by her skepticism. Then, to prove my point, I hand her my glass and stand. I find a spot clear enough and declare astonished: "Like, I could never dance like you do every night!" And I start mimic the can-can routine at my best, that I'm pretty sure turns out to be a grotesque parody of the real dance. I do it to amuse her and I smile when I finally hear her laughing. She places the bottle and the glass back on the floor and claps her hands, whistling like some spectators do at the Moulin. "What? No, don't clap, that was just silly!" I dismiss her, chuckling. "Well, whatever that was it was...something" she shrugs before bursting into another laughter, softer this time. "Whatever it was? Hear hear, a can-can dancer who doesn't even recognise it!" I make a scene to be offended and throw her a cushion from the nearest armchair. She ducks just in time to avoid it. We both giggle then she stroke her chin and regards me more carefully, pensive. "You have enthusiasm but you lack technique" "Told you I'm a bad dancer" I shrug. The memory of the two of us dancing at the Cage of Fools crosses my mind like a meteor and my heart starts racing again in my chest. "May I?" she says, standing. I nod even if I don't know what she means exactly. I get it when she saunters closer and positions herself behind me. When she gently places her hands on my hips, I inhale sharply. "First of all, you need to loosen up a bit. You're too wooden...sway your hips, like this" She hums the melody of Offenbach and guides my movements so that they match the rhythm. Again, it doesn't take long before I surrender and follow her lead. I don't know how long we sway like this, I must have closed my eyes. I only hear her voice behind me. "See, definite improvement! Now rise your skirt up a little" I freeze and turn towards her. My cheeks warm up and I try to blame the wine I had. "You don't want to trip over your skirt while dancing this, you can hurt yourself" she smiles encouragely. "That's why you do that then...I would have thought..." I shake my head but do as she says. I bend down and reach for the hem of my long skirt then I grab it as I saw the dancers do and lift it up till my the height of my knees. "Well, that's one reason" "I knew there were ulterior motives" I laugh. "The Moulin is not exactly a convent, right? You have to show your legs to the paying audience" she explains, mocking Monsieur Ziedler's voice. "They pay good money for them" "I see no paying audience though" I chuckle, turning my head slightly. "Because you have little imagination, mademoiselle Pearl" she whispers into my ear. Her breath hot on my skin sends a shiver down my spine and my heart pounding against my ribs. "Ready for the gallop? Three, two, one-" "Wait, wait-" Before I can process what's happening, under the lead of Élodie, we gallop from one side of the room to the other, moving laterally like crabs. I understand now: I saw this move over and over during the acts. Élodie gives directions and tells me to sway the skirt as we move. We soon end up laughing again when we almost trip over a tin box on the floor. When we stop, I feel dizzy and lean back against her for sustain. "Enough of that" she announces between laughters. "Now, knee up, girl!" I oblige and start jumping on my other feet. My balance becomes way more precarious. To think that dancers like Élodie make this look so easy...I let out a shriek as I fear of tripping. She encourages me to rise my knee even higher up to my chest. "But I will fall!" "I'll catch you" she reassures me, holding my hips a bit tighter. "C'mon, Léa, a bit higher...higher...yes, like this! You're a natural...and now kick!" I follow her instructions and my kick sends the books on top of a pile nearby flying across the room. It's a miracle they don't land over the painting. "Well, that's one hell of a kick, darling!" Élodie cheers as I lower my leg. Her laughter is contagious, I soon join and we don't stop until we're out of breath. Then I throw my head back and it finds her shoulder. We're still in the same position. I can feel her chest rising and falling against my back and her hands on me. I slowly turn my face towards her and find her looking back at me. We go quiet, trying to catch our breaths. Has she always been so beautiful? This whole time? I remember her cheerfulness, the way she let me spin into her arms and listened to me, resting her chin on her hand at the Cage. How she immediately grabbed my hand at first sign of danger, the tender light in her eyes when our faces were inches apart in that back alley. I decide to do what probably she failed to do that night: I follow my instinct, without thinking twice. I lean forward and brush my lips over hers. A tentative kiss, the lazy stroke of a shy lover. She mirrors my move and our hands move almost at unison: hers around my waist, resting on my stomach; mine over hers, stroking her wrists and intertwining our fingers. The kiss that follows makes me tingle in her arms as a fire erupts underneath my skin. She kisses me again on her own accord this time: it's surprisingly tender and it tastes of rouge, champagne and a refrained passion that finally finds its way. My knees go suddenly weak and I feel dizzy again, lost in our embrace, lost in her. She whispers my name like a prayer and I spin to wrap my arms around her neck and kiss her again. Her hands run up my back, holding me close as if I could run away any minute but there is nowhere else I would like to be now. I cannot refrain a moan when her lips find my jaw and brush over my neck: they burn on my skin and I wish she would never stop. Our kisses become more fervent and fierce as we backpedal down the corridor, bumping into the walls yet uncaring of anything else than the sudden fire consuming us. Élodie pulls me into what must be her room because she kicks the door shut and we soon tumble over a mattress. I fall on top of her, letting out a giggle. I go quiet when I meet her eyes. Illuminated only be the moon light she's the most enchanting vision I've ever seen. Her hair messy and sprawled beneath her, the ruby red of her lips so close I barely refrain myself from running a finger over them. She looks up at me, her eyes gleaming like stars. She reaches out and touches my cheek. She strokes it gently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. She looks...in awe, vulnerable, adoring. For a moment I wonder if that's what lovers feel when they look at each other, when they lay in each other arms: a sweet ache of the heart, the purest amazement. "Kiss me again" I whisper, begging as a mendicant even if I don't need to. She finds my mouth again and again and runs her fingers through my hair. I place one hand on her chest and I feel her tremble imperceptibly at my touch. She suffocates a gasp against my lips while her heart hammers underneath my fingertips. I whisper her name this time and I kiss her jaw just like she did earlier, mirroring her moves. My hand runs down her side: I'm too lost in her to know what I'm doing. When I feel her knee beneath the fabric, I caress backwards up her tight, rising her skirt. That's when it happens. Élodie squirms and grabs my hand. She breaks the kiss and asks me to stop. Suddenly ashamed of my hunger, I retrieve my hand and prop myself up. My cheeks must turn crimson when I mutter my apologies. "I'm- I'm sorry, I thought you wanted it too" I let her space to move freely. Hiding her face from me, she sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, breathing hard. Then she stands. I sit and try to compose myself. "What I want....that's not the point" she sighs. "What do you mean?" I ask, confused. "Did I do something wrong?" She still gives me her shoulder. When she speaks again, she hangs her head, defeated. "This has nothing to do with you, Léa. God, no, if you only knew..." She sounds on the verge of tears but she must swallow them back because when she turns to face me her voice is less cracked even if she looks in pain. "Léa, I like you. Way more than I should and since the moment I bumped into you and you talked of fireworks. I gave you my handkerchief only as a mere expedient to see you again and you what you did? You turned it into a little work of art for me and you barely knew me back then. You have a kind word for everyone, you're helping your roommate in a moment of need without asking for anything in return. You're a good girl, one of the most honest girl I know and I..." She takes a deep breath before shaking her head forlornly. "You didn't even fully realise what happened at the Cage" I keep quiet for a moment then I speak, keeping my voice low and fiddling with the hem of a sleeve as a kid being scolded: "The gendarmes wanted to arrest everyone because there were...sapphics and men kissing other men. And people like Pierrette there" I say because I don't know if there are words for them that aren't insults. "...Yes" she confirms, meeting my gaze again. Seeing her now, one could doubt the very same girl was laughing and having a blast one hour ago or so. She looks so troubled, her eyes a mix of tenderness and sorrow. Guilt, maybe. "Léa, I...I would spend the night with you. You wouldn't even have to ask me. But-" she grimaces and my heart skips a beat, bracing for the worst. "What will happen when you hear that this is illegal, that people get sent to jail or the asylum -you remember? We joked about the asylum- for things like this? Because the authorities say it's like an...an illness, a taint-" "Why are you telling me all this?" I protest, standing too. "Because that's what happens out there! It took days to get Pierrette out of jail" she exclaims. "I should have never taken you there, I've been such a fool-" "You're a good girl too, Élodie" I interrupts her, reaching for her hand. "Don't tell me you doubt that" She looks down at our hands then meets my eyes, forlorn. "Am I though?" her sad smile pierces through my heart. "I almost got you arrested that night, little pearl. What would have your boss or your friends said if we hadn't been fast enough and those gendarmes had locked us in together with the others? You barely knew me back then, you would have hated me and I couldn't have blamed you" "But I don't hate you!" Now I am the one on the verge of crying. "We...we would have found a way out, I'm sure of that!" Élodie smiles at me, a weak pained smile. She retrieves her hand and caresses my cheek. "Maybe we would have, just like in one of those ballads chanteuses sing" she sighs. "But the truth is I care too much for you and so far I've only been a reckless fool, a selfish reckless fool. I could never forgive myself if you-" Words got stuck in her throat and she lowers her eyes for a moment. Then she presses a soft kiss on my forehead. "It's too late to walk the street alone at night. You can stay here tonight and...you can take the bed, I'll take the sofa" Having said that, she walks away. "Élodie, you don't have to...please, stay" I beg, hoping to stop her but when I turn she's already closing the door behind her. I consider the idea of running after her but I soon realise it would be absolutely pointless and I don’t want to make things worse. I stand for a moment, shaken. Then I lay down on the bed still warm of our embrace and look out into the night. The moon that made Élodie look even more beautiful and ethereal is still up there in the sky but now I'm alone. Silent tears rim my cheeks. I lay awake for hours, unable to sleep. For some reason I know that Élodie is doing the same.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

CYOA: Gotcha

“I was invited directly. If you don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself.”  

You deliver this line with utmost confidence. This man was a waiter, someone who would be beneath a rich, young aristocrat like you were pretending you were. You were also a hybrid and was only briefly surprised that the waiter was one as well.

You could thank Chu Zihang later for exposure to what a truely frightening bloodline purity was like. This guy, while a hybrid, didn’t give off nearly the same shockingly inhuman aura as him.

The waiter let out a quiet hmph at your poise, but he still hesitated briefly, putting the business card down on the booth and walking away. “Please wait here.”

You see him disappear further into the restaurant, behind the dark wood counter of a bar. He picked up a phone and dialed the number. As a hybrid you had a much higher auditory sense than a normal human and could hear the conversation.

“Stravinsky brought a guest. This is a sensitive meeting. Did he say anything about it?” A pause. “Not sure. This person not one of us.”

The waiter nodded once and hung up the phone. He picked up a menu and wordlessly beckoned you inside. You can finally see the spacious interior. A live jazz band was playing, a svelte women in a skimpy gown crooned into microphone on a small stage. The tables were shrouded in darkness and cigarette smoke. 

You’re led to a large round table and you and Stravinsky recognize each other right away. 

With him other men in business attire were seated. You assume that they’re hybrids as well. They eye you with moderate annoyance. One that looked Asian ignored you completely. Another a women with mahogany colored skin, gave you the flash of the whites of her eyes, stood up and left the table.

You get the distinct feeling that you’re not welcome here but you have no choice but to wade into this river full of crocodiles. 

“I guess it’s a little late for introductions.” You hand Stravinsky your business card with your fake ID on it. Your name, a made up entity called Alpha Corp. Supposedly, you’re a successful software engineer.

Stravinsky pockets it without looking at it. “Gentlemen, where are your manners? Don’t tell me that we’re closing recruitment now that we’re so close to our goal.”

Your ears perk up and you look around, more intently now.

The Asian man finally gives you a bit of attention. “I kind of feel sorry for you. You were probably expecting a business opportunity. But this is a religious meeting.”

You look him straight in the eye and reply quickly. “What’s the difference?”

Stravinsky snorted with laughter, ducking his head. “Do I know how to pick them or what? I caught this young blood bidding 50 million on the Eye of Horus. Don’t be so close minded. We are all clearly a believers in the power of the gods.”

He leaned forward. “Besides, I’m in need of a play-tester for a very important game.”

His eyes sparkled in the dark as he gazed at you, not as an equal but like a predator, eying prey through the bars of a cage, imagining all the things he would do to you once he got his claws into you. You’d have to be careful.

“Tell me the details you want, but shouldn’t we introduce ourselves first?” Names, contact information... these were what Chu Zihang told you to acquire.

“We don’t use our real names here.”

The smartly dressed black woman returned to her seat and you nod to her. She flicks her eyes at you and says nothing.

“This is Amber Isle.” He says nodding to the woman. “This is Agate Image.” he says of the Asian man. 

As he introduces the people in turn, you immediately notice a pattern. The inclusion of a precious stone and the letters A.I. You file that away for later.

“And what’s your religion?”

“You should know the answer to that, if you’re in here.” Stravinsky lifted a bottle of wine and poured it into a glass to offer it to you. “Hybrids... they have a certain smell. Yours is faint... but it’s definitely there.”

“You’re going on like that? It’s a little embarrassing.” You take the wine.

Agate snorts. “If its embarrassing for you, imagine how it is for us. We’ve told him again and again, stop bringing his new hires to high level meetings.”

“I want to let them know what working with us has to offer.” Stranvinsky took on a wounded tone. “You don’t think its effective? It’s far more effective than your habit of picking them up off the street.”

He sounded pretty proud of himself. “And if I agreed to your game, what would you do?”

You obliquely reminded him that you haven’t agreed to anything yet. You need more information.

The woman next to him was strangely silent but she wasn’t ignoring you any longer, but watching you like a hawk. Her eyes were sharp. She didn’t trust you and that much was obvious.

You take a sip of the wine, meeting her eyes. 

“Ah. Remember what I said about defeated death at the end of the game? What if it wasn’t a game? What if it could actually be done?”

“Immortality is a fairy tale...”

“And yet every major religion preaches about it doesn’t it?” Stravinsky says slyly. “And we know what group who has perfected the art.”

“You’ve figured out dragon egg-making?”

You squint your eyes in shock. After the 4 kings were created, they were split into pairs. Both twins were born from special eggs. This combination of Alchemy and Technology was a mystery to even the oldest of Hybrids. So long as the dragon could make an egg after birth, once it died it could be reborn into the world. The only way to kill a dragon king was after birth, preventing it from creating its egg.

“You’d still have to be a dragon to do it. And you’re just a hybrid. No offense.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to believe it just by my say so.” He slid his cellphone forward and you hone in on it. There’s a video playing. A bright complicated alchemical circle, runes and what looks like an urn. “Is that an authentic dragon egg?” You ask, but you’re really focused on a certain icon. A text message has been received.

You reach for the phone as though to hit pause and accidently swipe down. A text message and a phone number catch your eye. But you pretend its a mistake and pause the video to examine it.

Stravinsky takes the phone back however. “Do you believe me now?”

“I do...” You say cautiously, while you mentally record the phone number you just saw in your memory. “How many others are involved in this?”

“Many? To know more, we’ll need you to agree to be one of us.”

You look at the other members of the table all of them scowling at you.

“Is this solely your decision?” You ask.

“You’ve already seen too much. I’m afraid we can’t let you leave.” Agate moves his jacket slightly to the left to reveal the gun hidden at his chest. “Sorry. It’s not much of a choice.”

Stravinsky scoffed. “For the rich and the strong, there is always a choice. I swear, you think you’re still part of the Yakuza.”

Agate’s eyes narrow to slits. “You just showed a highly classified document like it was an introduction pamphlet!”

You glance at Stravinsky who seemed to be enjoying his colleagues ire. But the man did have a point. He invited you to this restaurant, he knew you were a hybrid... what else was he assuming about you?

Fear starts to creep in. Was he behind the missing agent? Was he looking for his next victim? Laying obvious bait to trap the new target from Cassell?

“The truth is, I’m a software engineer. I work at the pleasure of my clients.” You say, setting the wine glass back on the table. “I can consult on any matter they like. At its heart, my job is to find solutions to client problems.”

“I don’t know about this egg business... but if you hire me as a consultant, you can both be rid of me and insure confidentiality as business partners.”

Glances were exchanged around the table and you secretly hope that they agree to this and not drag you down some dungeon and sacrifice a goat or something.

“I think this is acceptable.” The black woman, Amber, sighs and nods once.

Agate’s eyes go round. “I don’t agree with this but I suppose I have no choice now.”

“I guess that means you’re hired...” Stravinky also seems disappointed. Maybe he liked goat rituals.

Deep relief overwhelms you to your core. “Now, I take it you have a secure way to contact me? One we can freely use?” 

It was Amber who pushed forward a different card. This one only had a QR code on it. “You’ll be able to obtain that information here. Any software needs we have, we’ll be in touch.”

Much to your surprise she offers her hand to you. When you shake it, it feels strangely pebbly. Your eyes go wide. This woman... she had scales!

Her hand squeezes around yours. “Soft... just like an IT professional.” She purrs. “Failure won’t be tolerated. Neither will betrayal.”

She lets you go and you try to slow your pulse.

Stravinsky elbows you sharply. “She’s quite something isn’t she?”

You manage to hold your cool facade when you get out of the restaurant. You weren’t a smoker or a drinker, but right now, you really wished...

Your hands are in your pockets to hide how much they were shaking. You could still feel the scales on the back of her hand, the sight of the dragon king egg case. The gun. How close were you to dying in the restaurant?

After you walked around the block you flag down a cab to take you back to your hotel.

You take off your dress clothes and look at the clock. 3 am.

The phone buzzes. You put it on speaker phone. “Report.”

But you’ve barely had time to collect your thoughts! 

You make the best report you can. “Okay, so that’s what I’ve got.” Putting the QR card on the table, you massage your shoulders. You’re tempted to ask if you can go home now.

All of a sudden you’re interrupted by a critical voice. “You agreed to be hired by them?”

“I...” You weren’t sure what to say to this. “I had to find a middle way.”

“No... this is good. Because you’ll be in contact and you’ll be paid. That gives us two contacts. However, EVA will be monitoring both. I recommend you work remotely. These people are too dangerous for your level.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“Take a break and rest up. We’re going to have to get you out of Munich. Were you followed?”

“Not that I saw, sir.”

“I’ll put out some security guards for you.”

Was Chu Zihang that concerned for your safety? He hung up abruptly. 

You can’t think to do much more. You were too tired to even put on your PJs. You just lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

You don’t remember your eyes closing, but you’re awakened by a sound.

Your cellphone is buzzing and vibrating erratically. Lines of green text descend in a cascade across the screen and then it goes black with only two words. “Gotcha.”

What do you do???

--------------------------------------

A. Jump behind the bed.

B. Call for help.

C. Throw the phone from the window.

[marginaliaandspines]

On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

Ocean Vuong

“To love something, then, is to name it after something so worthless it might be left untouched—and alive. A name, thin as air, can also be a shield.” (25-26)

“He was only nine but had already mastered the dialect of damaged American fathers.” (35)

“My sneakers erupted with silent flares: the world’s smallest ambulances, going nowhere.” (36)

“Our mother tongue, then, is no mother at all—but an orphan. Our Vietnamese a time capsule, a mark of where your education ended, ashed. Ma, to speak in our mother tongue is to speak only partially in Vietnamese, but entirely in war.” (46)

“It’s true that, in Vietnamese, we rarely say I love you, and when we do, it is almost always in English. Care and love, for us, are pronounced clearest through service: plucking white hairs, pressing yourself on your son to absorb a plane’s turbulence and, therefore, his fear.” (48)

“She has given birth to a girl she wraps in a piece of sky stolen from a clear day.” (59)

“A new immigrant, within two years, will come to know what the salon is, in the end, a place where dreams become the calcified knowledge of what it means to awake in American bones—with or without citizenship—aching, toxic, and underpaid.” (115)

“I hate and love your battered hands for what they can never be.” (115)

“In the nail salon, sorry is a tool one uses to pander until the word itself becomes currency. It no longer merely apologizes, but insists, reminds: I’m here, right here, beneath you. It is the lowering of oneself so that the client feels right, superior, and charitable. In the nail salon, one’s definition of sorry is deranged into a new world entirely, one that’s charged and reused as both power and defacement at once. Being sorry pays, being sorry even, or especially, when one has no fault, is worth every self-deprecating syllable the mouth allows. Because the mouth must eat.” (132)

“...to be an American boy, and then an American boy with a gun, is to move from one end of a cage to another.” (170)

“We were exchanging truths, I realized, which is to say, we were cutting one another.” (195)

“It is no accident, Ma, that the comma resembles a fetus—that curve of continuation.” (204)

“They say nothing lasts forever but they’re just scared it will last longer than they can love it.” (253)

“I knew it was a prayer by the tone he used to lift it, as if the tongue was the smallest arm from which a word like [Allah] could be offered.” (254)

“But why can’t the language for creativity be the language of regeneration?” (257)

“Did you know people get rich off of sadness? I want to meet the millionaire of sadness. I want to look him in the eye, shake his hand, and say, ‘It’s been an honor to serve my country.’” (259-260)

“The truth is we can survive our lives, but not our skin.” (261)

“The truth is one nation, under drugs, under drones.” (262)

“Let me tie my shadows to your feet and call it friendship.” (263)

“I miss you more than I remember you.” (267)

“They will tell you that great writing ‘breaks free’ from the political, thereby ‘transcending’ the barriers of difference, uniting people toward universal truths. They’ll say this is achieved through craft above all. Let’s see how it’s made, they’ll say—as if how something is assembled is alien to the impulse that created it. As if the first chair was hammered into existence without considering the human form.” (267)

“He laughed, the fake one you use to test the thickness of silence.” (269)

“That’s what writing is, after all the nonsense, getting down so low the world offers a merciful new angle, a larger vision made of small things, the lint suddenly a huge sheet of fog exactly the size of your eyeball. And you look through it and see the thick steam in the all-night bathhouse in Flushing, where someone reached out to me once, traced the trapped flute of my collar bone. (270-271)

“A page, turning, is a wing lifted with no twin, and therefore no flight. And yet we are moved.” (272)

“Despite my vocabulary, my books, knowledge, I find myself folded against the far wall, bereft. I watch two daughters care for their own with an inertia equal to gravity. I sit, with all my theories, metaphors and equations, Shakespeare and Milton, Barthes, Du Fu, and Homer, masters of death who can’t at last, teach me how to touch my dead.” (299)

“All freedom is relative—you know too well—and sometimes it’s no freedom at all, but simply the cage widening far away from you, the bars abstracted with distance but still there, as when they ‘free’ wild animals into nature preserves only to contain them yet again by larger borders.” (309)

“How waste, shit, excess, is what binds the living, yet is always present and perennial in death.” (309)

“I remember my father, which is to say I am cuffing him with these words.” (310)

“I remember studying my father’s letter and seeing a scatter of tiny black dots: the periods left untouched. A vernacular of silence. I remember thinking everyone I ever loved was a single black dot on a bright page. I remember dragging a line from one dot to another with a name on each one until I ended with a family tree that looked more like a barbed wire fence.” (320)

“In that war, a woman gifted herself a new name—Lan—in that naming claimed herself beautiful, then made that beauty into something worth keeping.” (329)

“Let no one mistake us for the fruit of violence—but that violence, having passed through the fruit, failed to spoil it.” (329)

“My nails blackened with my country, My country dissolving on my tongue.” (330)

“The door slammed and someone came home and low voices could be heard, the single lilt of a question as it rose, ‘How was it?’ or ‘Are you hungry?” Something plain and necessary, yet extra, with care, a voice like those tiny roofs over the phone booths along the train tracks, the ones made from the same shingles used for houses, except only four rows wide—just enough to keep the phone dry. And maybe that’s all I wanted—to be asked a question and have it cover me, like a roof the width of myself.” (335-336)

“To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted.” (338)

“I run thinking I will outpace it all, my will to change being stronger than my fear of living.” (342)

“And like a word, I hold no weight in this world yet still carry my own life. And I throw it ahead of me until what I left behind becomes exactly what I’m running toward—like I’m part of a family.” (343)

[mrswalkerwritesagain]

April Fool’s Day - Damien x Gabi

Book: Perfect Match Genres: Fluff, Humor, Romance Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Damien/MC Characters: Damien Nazario, Gabi Park Word Count: ~1,900

Author’s Notes: I challenged myself to a little springtime themed fic series this month. Hope you enjoy the first installment!

As Damien turns the water off and steps out of the shower, a stray cluster of shampoo bubbles runs down his face and into his left eye.

“Damn it!” Damien winces and squeezes his eye shut. “Ow…ow…ow…”

Reaching for a towel, Damien fumbles along the towel bar but doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Risking the soapy sting in his eye, Damien squints to see that, sure enough, the towel he’s positive he hung up before he got in the shower is gone.

“What the hell?” Damien grumbles. Crouching, he digs around in the cabinet under the sink, but once again he comes up empty. There’s not even a washcloth.

“Gabi!” he yells. “Where the hell are the towels?”

The bathroom door opens and his live-in girlfriend’s cheerful face peeks around it.

“What was that, darling?”

“Where the hell are the towels?” he repeats. “Did you suddenly develop a desire to do a load of laundry first thing on a Monday morning?”

“Are they not in the cabinet?” Gabi asks in a suspiciously innocent tone. Damien’s eyes narrow as he turns to look up at her. Gabi’s brow is furrowed with confusion, but it’s the look in her eyes and slight upturn of the corner of her lips that gives her away.

“Gabi,” Damien warns as he stands. Any semblance of innocence melts away from her features, replaced with a devious smirk.

“Guess you’ll have to stay like that today. Oh well,” Gabi’s eyes slide down his body in a heated way that almost derails Damien’s annoyance…almost.

“Gabi! Where are they?” Damien stalks toward her and Gabi mirror his strides as she backs up into the bedroom. She’s still wearing an infuriating little smile on her face, clearly quite proud of herself.

“Gabriela…” he growls and she laughs until he lunges toward her. Shrieking, she tries to dart away, but he feints left before going right and catching Gabi around her waist. Damien pulls her tight against his still dripping wet body and tackles her to the bed.

“No! I just got dressed!” Gabi laughs as she squirms beneath him.

“Tough,” Damien grins down at her. “You steal my towel, you become my towel.”

“I have to go to work! My first appointment is in like half an hour!”

“Then tell me where they are, woman!” Damien catches Gabi’s hands and pins them above her head. Bowing his head, he lets his lips hover just above hers and whispers, “I have ways of making you talk, you know, and they’re guaranteed to make you late for work.”

Damien presses his hips into hers and Gabi lets out a soft gasp. He kisses her hard and demanding until they break apart, gasping for breath.

“Where are they?” he asks again and Gabi blinks slowly as though coming out of a daze before she answers.

“Uh…um…oh, they’re under the bed.”

Damien grins victoriously and drops another quick kiss on the tip of Gabi’s nose. He climbs off the bed and kneels beside the bed, finally finding every towel they own in a jumbled pile. Pulling one out, he knots it around his waist and slicks back his wet hair while Gabi stands and and straightens her wrinkled and slightly damp clothes.

“Want to explain the great towel caper of 2019?” Damien asks her.

“April Fool’s!” Gabi beams at him.

“Oh, god,” he groans, “not again. You didn’t get enough perverse pleasure out of pranking me last year?”

“Nope! And I’m upping my game this year,” Gabi slaps his ass as she passes him and breezes out of the bedroom. “Stay on your toes today, Nazario.”

“I hate this. You’re the worst!” Damien calls after her, already dreading what else she has in store for him.

“Love you too, baby! See you later!”

The front door slams behind Gabi and Damien goes about getting ready for his day. He cautiously tests his shaving cream, hair gel, and toothpaste in the sink before using any of them. Last year, she managed to sneak dye into his hair gel and he’d wound up with green hands and hair for the entire rest of the week.

Having survived or avoided any bathroom sabotages, Damien strides into the kitchen and stops in his tracks. The pink and orange Dunkin’ Donuts box on the counter looks innocent and most days a box of donuts would just be a thoughtful treat from his beloved girlfriend. Today, however, he regards it with the same mistrust he would a land mine. 

Snatching a pair of tongs from the utensil drawer, Damien quickly flips the box open and then jumps back, ducking before something can jump out at him. But nothing happens and Damien breathes a sigh of relief. Inside, there’s an array of filled donuts and Damien’s suspicion flares up once again again. He takes out one of the chocolate frosted confections and rips it in half. The filling looks like cream, but….dipping a finger into the cream, he tastes it and gags.

“Mayonnaise? Seriously?”

Damien sets the donut on the counter and snaps a quick pic that he texts to Gabi.

D: Is nothing sacred? What am I supposed to have for bfast? G: Made you a smoothie. Check fridge. Enjoy! D: I need real food. Not fruit juice. G: Smoothie is real food and better for your cholesterol, old man. D: You’re the worst. G: Love you too. Client’s here. Talk later!

Sighing heavily, Damien retrieves the so-called breakfast from the fridge and he manages to choke it down as he takes the subway to his office. The rest of his day is spent dealing with Gabi’s inconvenient little pranks. He gets to his office to find she’s covered his desk and chair with pictures of Nicolas Cage. He assumes this is some kind of meme that he doesn’t understand. When he finally unearths his desk from the Cages, he finds that she’s jammed most of his drawers shut. She changed the password on his computer to GabiParkIsTheBestGirlfriendEver. The only reason he figured it out was because she finally gave a clue that simply said My official title. Halfway through the day as he came back from lunch, he noticed that she’d messed with his listing on the building’s directory so instead of Nazario Investigations, it said Damien Nazario: Private DICK.

“I knew knew I never should have given her a key,” Damien grumbles as he fusses with the little plastic pieces on the letter board. When he tries to text her about it, his phone just keeps autocorrecting every other word he tries to write to I love Gabi Park.

It’s almost 6PM and Damien thinks he’s survived most of Gabi’s pranks when his office phone rings and a frantic man begs Damien to meet with him. He speaks with a heavy, indiscernible accent and tells Damien a sob story about a missing boyfriend. Business has been good since everything went down with Eros, but Damien is still in no position to turn down work so he takes the job and promises to meet the guy in an hour. 

“Hey,” Damien calls Gabi as he heads uptown to the swanky hotel his client requested to meet at, “I got a case. I’m not going to make it home until late.”

“What? No!” Gabi pouts on the other end of the line.

“I know, I know,” Damien sighs, “I’m probably keeping you from pulling a hundred more pranks on me.”

“That’s not it,” Gabi says. “Between your work and my helping Nadia and Steve with their new party planning/catering thing, we haven’t had a night together in a couple weeks, Damien. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, baby, and I believe me, I’d much rather spend the night with you doing all sorts of things showing you just how much I’ve missed you, but…”

“A job is a job,” Gabi says with a sigh. “I get it. It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Damien apologizes. Even when she drives him crazy, Gabi is the most important person in the world to him, the love of his life, and the girl of his dreams. He hates disappointing her. “I’m meeting this guy at a hotel to get the details and then I’ll hightail it back to you as soon as I can, okay?”

“Okay. Be safe. I love you.”

“I will. Love you too.”

The April wind is still carrying a sharp winter chill and by the time Damien steps into the hotel lobby, he’s shivering and his face feels frozen and numb and he’s feeling more eager than ever to get home to Gabi. He strides across the lobby to the hotel’s bar. It’s a dimly lit, almost romantic little spot with velvet sofas and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It’s also completely empty.

“Son of bitch,” Damien curses and pulls out his phone to call the client. He’s scrolling through his contacts when he senses someone behind him .

“April Fool’s, Mr. Nazario.”

He turns around and there she is. Damien’s mouth goes dry and he swallows hard looking her up and down. Her hair is curled and falls in violet waves over her bare shoulders and neck. Her dress is black lace with a deep revealing neckline. It’s incredibly short, incredibly tight and leaves nothing to his imagination. He knows every inch of her body and seeing her fills him with the desire to explore them anew. In one of her hands, she holds a glass of amber liquid.

“Gabi…wow…you look…I mean…Jesus, woman…”

Gabi laughs softly at his reaction and then offers him a whiskey and he throws it back in one swallow.

“I take it you like this prank?” Gabi trails her hand up his chest and shoulder to the nape of his neck. She looks up at him from under her lashes, eyes dark with heat and sparkling with amusement.

“Uh, yeah, that’s an understatement,” he wraps his arm around her, hand tightening on her waist as he pulls her against him. “How’d you do it?”

“A little help from a voice-changer thingy Sloane came up with. Please, man, I gotta know where he is! I’m going crazy,” Gabi repeats the words that Damien’s “client” had spoken to him on the phone earlier and he shakes his head.

“You really got me, babe. I honest to god thought I was coming here for a job.”

“Oh, Damien,” Gabi gives him a sultry smile and leans close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispers in a breathy voice, “you are here for a job…only I’m the one who’ll be doing it.”

Damien turns his head and catches Gabi’s lips in a long, deep kiss, not caring a wit that they’re in public, even as Gabi slides her hand down his back to grasp his ass and pull him even more tightly against her body. He moans against her lips and slides his tongue against hers.

“You’re the best,” Damien pants when they finally break apart, gazing down at the amazing, infuriating, wonderful, beautiful woman in his arms.

“Oh, I know.”

Choices Fanfic Archive Link