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dorminchu · 9 months ago

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Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 07 [Revised]

a/n: Commissioned illustrations by Daniel Purnama, @addictivities & @marianaillust. This chapter wouldn't go as hard without their awesome work! <3

VII: A MOMENTARY LAPSE OF REASON THAT BINDS A LIFE FOR LIFE

Safin exited the hotel alone. He was staying in a different facility, a few blocks away from all the noise. Yet, even as he put more distance between himself and Swann, he couldn’t bring himself to accept what he’d done as a mistake. If he kept her close, she’d put another bullet in him. Push her away, and she’d find someone less merciful. Perhaps that was his fault. He’d made himself too convenient to discard, and now Swann felt powerful.

As far as Safin was concerned, the culmination of the evening was a means of securing Madeleine’s trust. Deep down, she would concede there was no way out of this so-called honorable life beyond termination, or acceptance of one’s circumstances. Denial bred its own strain of unshakeable commitment. Just as his actions left a stain on her conscience, so too had she percolated his better sense. The woman he’d met in Guinea and the woman in Oslo weren’t disparate. One evolved from the other’s catalyst.

A broad sandy-haired man looked over from across the street, catching his eye, and nodded. Safin continued walking. His destination was on the opposite side of the street, a block past the crosswalk. The man was travelling parallel to him on the other side of the street. When Safin crossed over at the light, as he approached, he kept a hand stowed in his coat pocket. As Safin got close enough to make out the distinctive watch around the man's wrist, the man said, “Do you have the time?”

“James Bond, Universal Exports,” said Safin with a cursory glance. “Or do you still go by Arlington Beech?” The man wasn’t as amicable as he had been a moment before. No doubt he was used to leading the conversations on the back of charisma alone. “It’s been eight years. You should consider a different alias.”

“It’s never been an issue.” 007 studied him. “Zahov, isn’t it?”

Safin exhaled in a plume of steam. “Our business was settled.”

“We were never formally introduced,” 007 said. “I thought this would be prudent.”

Safin said, “If all you want is to talk, find a woman to listen to you.”

007’s lip curled. “I’m afraid tonight is strictly business. Though it’s been terribly dull. So, what’s a man of your profession doing in Norway?”

Safin considered his options. Bluffing could only get him so far. “Medical evaluation.”

“Oh, those are terrible,” 007 said, with a sympathetic half-smile. “Work has been keeping me on a shorter leash. I don’t drink half as much as I used to.” He side-eyed Safin, as though this was meant to break the ice. “It’s been a while since Montenegro. I haven’t thought about it in—damn, it’ll be eight years.” A flicker of remorse crossed his features. Whether it was genuine or practised remained to be seen. “Things seemed much easier, back then. I was willing to give up my future. Honest to God, I’d almost convinced myself I would be happier that way.” He sighed and shook his head. “Hope’s a dangerous thing.”

“Indubitably,” said Safin. “But you still work for the English.”

“For Queen and country. Beats a desk job, though I suppose it’s all the same to you.”

Safin continued walking past the hotel. 007 fell in-line beside him, speaking over the white noise of passing traffic and civilians,

“Word gets around. All of these terrorist attacks, these bombings, the chemical attacks in Africa—I think we’d agree that they’re not exactly coincidental. As would your friend from the clinic. Swann, isn’t it?” 007 lowered his tone. “You didn’t hear this from me, but it’s likely that whoever sponsored the donor gala is fronting for a larger cover-up. Swann might try to run like she did in France. Whether or not she succeeds, all the intel she’s got leaves with her.”

They’d stopped in front of the hotel. “What are you suggesting?”

“We might have a chance at stopping whoever’s been behind those chemical attacks. But that depends on Swann. Obviously, we’d be happy to bring her in and question her. She’ll be relocated, no harm, no foul.”

“Must be a slow day for MI6, if you are doing what is expected of you.” Safin masked the slight tremor in his free hand which he stowed in his pocket, drawn to a fist. Despite his alcoholic tendencies, James Bond was not enfeebled by dioxin poisoning. He had about twenty-to-fifty pounds on Safin and a reputation for killing enemy operatives during field-missions. Unlikely, that it would happen out here. The only loss for SPECTRE would be a spot on Sciarra’s security team and an empty seat at the Palazzo Cadenza. “Yet it seems the loss of your British Treasury agent and SAS have not tempered your insolence. I wonder what will?”

007 scoffed. “I’ve got four hundred and thirty seven days left ‘til retirement. I’m on my best behaviour.” Safin turned about-face towards the hotel doors, as 007 added, “One shouldn’t get discouraged, Zahov. Sexpionage isn’t for everyone.”

Safin stopped mid-stride and looked over to assess what he had heard. He hadn’t been at a loss for words like this since Raoul Silva. As 007’s eyes, arrestingly blue, fixed on his, he experienced that dull unease that came with being outmaneuvered.

“You continue to meddle,” Safin said quietly, “and it has cost you greatly. Perhaps it is time you learnt to cut your losses.”

“You see,” said 007 in a flat voice, “that’s your problem, Zahov. You’ve been talking as if you think it’ll never happen to you.”

Safin smiled, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “One is only as good as his last mistake.”

007 returned to an air of amicability without missing a beat. “I’m willing to learn from mine. Put aside our differences, if it’ll spare more bloodshed.”

Perhaps it was time to start tying up loose ends. 007’s cooperation would come as surely as Vesper Lynd’s. But 007 still had his uses, even if he wouldn’t live to understand the gravity of his contribution. SPECTRE’s battle of attrition with outside parties could not go on forever. A temporary truce was an acceptable alternative to another year of disrupted operations, ending in 007’s clean retirement from MI6. To dismiss the opportunity would be a terrible mistake, indeed.

“I’m listening.”

⁂

By the next morning, Madeleine was going into work, seeing the usual clientele. The world didn’t stop for anyone’s mid-life crisis. It would have been easy, before, to reassure herself that she was in no real danger. The occasional slight from a disgruntled patient was just that. No real harm would ever befall White’s daughter, because she was careful not to overstep her responsibilities. Her upbringing left little room for reflection, but it was the only way she could bear to live with herself.

Ever since coming to Oslo, she had allowed herself to be frozen over. Clients came and left with irregular familiarity. There was a comfort in the façade, of looking the other way, not asking questions. As long as she could separate her secrets from her own work, she’d be able to help others. Putting up a front, not just for her own sake but for the betterment of others. With enough time and patience, she could delude herself into acceptance. Of all the options afforded, this was the lesser evil. Reapplying gauze to the same old wound, as if enough smothering would stop the rot.

Her ordinary colleagues never could grasp the root of her distress, and her father had been distancing himself from his mistakes all her life. Her past relationships weren’t built for longevity. Sure, there was an occasional snag of self-doubt or remorse, but she’d always find a way to assuage it. The men that found her attractive weren’t going to look deeply into her problems. Men like Safin had an emotional range tied to the extent of their control. When he’d tracked her down, following her to the hotel, he made it a point to not coerce or impose. If she told him to leave, she had no doubt that he would. Most people in his position would be asking for a favour. An early clearance, a lesser sentence, as if she wouldn’t have to answer to Kęstutis regardless.

At the end of each day, she’d turn off the lights and close the blinds, and be faced with the same epiphany. Maybe it hadn’t mattered who and what Safin was, at the tango bar, the safehouse, or the hotel in Guinea. He’d given her the truth when her father’s associates refused. To dwell any deeper on her own shortcomings wouldn’t make Klebb’s assignment easier. It was too close to hypocrisy, for her tastes.

By the end of the week, she’d submitted Safin’s evaluation. He should be cleared for work. The next morning, Klebb was in the waiting area. “Dr. Swann,” she said. “I was hoping to speak with you.” Madeleine’s next client was an hour from now. She unlocked her office door, and Klebb invited herself in. The blinds were still drawn from last night. Klebb flicked the light on. “Your personal evaluation of Lyutsifer Safin, what is it?”

Madeleine paused, taking Klebb’s silence as a grant to speak. “He’s pragmatic. He spoke about his job as a purpose, and he has revealed very little about himself in all the time I’ve known him. Even outside of work.” She looked at Klebb. “He followed me, last week, but asked for no favours. He’s not made contact since.”

Klebb nodded. “We’ve provided women before, some of them younger than you. It never worked. He had other ambitions.” Her eyes raked over Madeleine, as one might appraise a prized race-horse. “It seems I have underestimated your competences.”

“Our methods differ.” Refusing to acknowledge Klebb’s statement for what it was, Madeleine walked over to her desk. She wasn’t the first Klebb had spoken to about handling an operative, and she likely wouldn’t be the last. Dealing with snide remarks from the patients was easier to stomach than the notion of her own complicity, but given the alternatives, it was a necessary discomfort. “I doubt he’s going to give you what you’re looking for so easily.”

A cruel twist played on Klebb’s mouth. “There’s no guilt to be had, Doctor. You’ve found an approach. Now it is a matter of assuming control.” She walked up to the desk and grasped Madeleine’s wrist in short, strong fingers, as if to shake her hand. “On behalf of the syndicate, I must acknowledge your achievement.” Madeleine drew away before she thought better of it. Klebb did not rebuke her. “Now that we know what you’re willing to do, the rest should be easy.”

As soon as the door closed, Madeleine took a shaky breath and exhaled too quickly to assuage her hammering heart. She’d assumed Safin would have a history of misconduct. Someone who got a rush out of vigilantism, righting wrongs, would want to play the hero. What better way to ingratiate oneself into her life than as a saviour? A confession he couldn’t excuse, getting in the way of his usual MO, forcing him to overcorrect to the point of vulnerability. He wouldn’t form the same attachment to a stranger, or an obvious foil.

A man in control would never have pursued her to the hotel directly. He would have convinced her that she might be unsafe otherwise. She’d been looking over her shoulder since she was a little girl. There were less dramatic explanations, of course. The client and therapist had a very intimate bond of trust. It wasn’t uncommon, during the process, for some patients to mistake their own feelings of gratitude as infatuation. Whether or not Safin had a history of this conduct, it was a possibility worth considering.

In the back of the filing cabinet were the documents Klebb had left her. Madeleine took out an old photocopy of a dossier from 1985. He would have been six going-on seven. Already she could see it in his eyes, he was no stranger to violence. Without studying him in-person, she could only project Klebb’s words onto the image. Or perhaps she was only noticing what she’d overlooked in the eyes of the adult.

To kill him, at this stage, would be a waste. He’d yet to disappoint her.

⁂

Ernst Stavro Blofeld was having a peaceful afternoon at his home in Morocco. The house itself had been built within the crater’s depths. He’d been coming back here each year, since QUANTUM was dissolved. Solomon, the white blue-eyed Turkish Angora, was his only companion aside from the workers on-site. Construction on the meteorite base was well underway. Once finished, there would be enough rooms to accommodate their latest scheme. A string of apparent terrorist attacks across Europe and Africa would no doubt convince the right world leaders that mass surveillance was an inevitable response to such uncontrollable danger. With the merging of MI5 and MI6, there would be less incentive to rely on field agents, in spite of the drawbacks that came with automation. No solution was perfect, of course. But in time, SPECTRE would be just as much a part of the CNS without the latter knowing the wiser.

Swann’s conduct at the clinic remained acceptable. No serious complaints from her patients or coworkers. Her actions outside of work were more interesting. She’d ignored the mole from the CIA after a few meetings. As an educated guess, she’d treat Safin accordingly—whether or not Safin would keep his distance remained to be seen. Pitting less-disciplined operatives against each other was one of Klebb’s favorite pastimes, a vice Blofeld tolerated for the sake of maintaining an iron grip over the syndicate. Seducing a former patient suggested a level of callousness and or compartmentalization beyond her own father’s ability.

This March, next year, would be James’s last in active service. It was a shame, but a man like James would never have fit in the syndicate anyway. Despite his talents for espionage and conditional empathy, he clung to duty for his country as if it was enough to absolve him. Blofeld could not adhere to such man-made limitations, not as the head of SPECTRE. He and James were destined to lead, while those of lesser stock would fall in line. James had a harder time accepting this fact.

The phone rang. Blofeld picked up.

“Her report was inconclusive.”

“So I’ve heard.” Solomon passed through the room, barely glancing at him. “The evaluation was more of a courtesy.”

“James Bond has infiltrated our operation. He’s made contact with Safin.”

Blofeld nodded. “That’s an interesting development.”

“With all due respect, sir, we have let this side-operation with Swann go on for too long. She is not delivering the results we had hoped for.”

Solomon bumped against his naked ankle. Blofeld reached down to scratch behind the cat’s ears. Dr Swann might not be the hardened operative that Safin was, but she was no fool. “Dr Swann has seen an opportunity you and I have overlooked. That is to be commended.” A strained silence on the other end of the line. Blofeld’s bony shoulders lifted. “It was your decision to bring Safin into her office. If anything changes, she’ll report to Kęstutis as we discussed. Your job is to ensure the good doctor is not killed while her father is alive to witness it. Let Safin dig his own grave.”

Klebb, on the other end, would no doubt be very unhappy about this affront, not only to her mission but to her headship. She was not going to accept defeat by an outsider, let alone this thankless little bitch with no respect for their syndicate. But she’d come around, she was not ruled so closely by emotion. It was why Blofeld had picked her as an advisor.

“Of course, sir.”

“Excellent,” Blofeld clicked off. He looked down at Solomon, who had sequestered himself around his foot. “I think we may have the candidate we’re looking for.”

Solomon mewed, indifferent to anything but attention.

⁂

With one thing and another, the night of the donor gala arrived. On the twenty-fourth floor of the Raddison Blu, Madeleine was getting ready. The double silk georgette gown wasn’t out of her price range, but it wasn’t too expensive to be worn once and discarded. Despite the offer extended on behalf of Klebb to cover costs, Madeleine insisted on buying everything herself. The last thing she needed was to be indebted to anyone from her father’s ilk.

Directly adjacent to her room was Safin’s. Last week, Kęstutis mentioned that he’d been indiscreetly reassigned to her, but nothing more. Safin hadn’t spoken to her since February. Hinx had been chauffeuring her to-and-from work, and to the Raddison Blu, without ever mentioning the change in itinerary. Still, it was in her best interest not to ask too many questions.

The door adjacent to her room opened and closed. “Dr. Swann.” The dark suit jacket and dress pants were closer to a deep purple than black. Under the warm lights, he looked less sickly. A tiny opaque cord attached to an earpiece wound down the side of his neck into his dress shirt. “This event will be crawling with other operatives. It’s best to be cautious.”

She struggled to redirect her thoughts. The lack of unease was becoming its own stressor. “I don’t have much in common with these people aside from sharing a tax bracket.”

“You don’t enjoy yourself?”

“It’s tolerable.” Putting up a front seemed like a pointless expenditure. “I cannot imagine it's as difficult as your own responsibilities.”

“I’m just following through.”

Something was off. His usual detachment wasn’t there. He didn’t have to look at her directly, but even as he scanned the room his attention kept coming back to her. Not stifling or predatory, just—direct. She said, “It seems you still have some reservations.” He turned to look at her, but didn’t elaborate. “All these other times I was followed around by strange men, they would come to the door. They would tail me on the street, but they never followed me to an address.”

“The man you met was a CIA source.” The look in his eyes was sharper. “Were you unaware?”

“I’m aware of what you are.”

His expression was easy to read. Acrimonious, but still in control. “It’s unwise to be so careless, even if you feel you can afford to be.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“A daughter of SPECTRE will always have enemies.”

“I try not to linger on possibilities. It never helps.”

Safin turned as if to leave. His tie was a little loose, uncharacteristic of his usual fastidiousness. Without thinking consciously, Madeleine closed the distance, straightened his tie. He went very still, but didn’t say a word. As she drew back, the expression on his face have been a trick of the light, but it wasn’t mistakable. She said, “Shall we?”

Out the door, down the carpeted hall. The well-dressed man waiting for the elevator caught her eye and smiled. A twinkle in his eyes, electric blue, said he’d be nothing but trouble for whoever caught his interest. “James Bond,” he said. “Retired professional gambler. I’m here on behalf of an old friend.”

“Dr Swann,” said Madeleine. “On behalf of my colleagues in non-profit.” It was difficult to act natural with Safin drilling a hole in the back of her skull with his eyes, but not impossible.

Bond’s attention went to Safin, who merely said, “Security.”

Bond nodded, with the tiniest flicker of emotion in his eyes. The elevator doors opened. A glass entry-point led into the elevator itself. As Bond was saying, “Seems they’ve done some work on the elevators,” his eyes passed over her and Safin. It was not overt. Just a tilt of the head in their direction, but Madeleine was not going to implicate herself any further. “You were in Guinea, last year, wasn’t it?”

Madeleine turned. “Yes.”

“My colleague is an avid supporter of non-profit organisations. She should be downstairs already.”

“I’d be happy to speak with her,” Madeleine said.

Under his ear rested a similar opaque cord. Her stomach lurched with the elevator’s descent, still in the double-digits, as James Bond leant casually along the arm of the cabin. Safin hadn’t looked anywhere but the doors and Bond, briefly.

“Why does a retired gambler find himself at a charity gala?”

“Money,” Bond said simply. “I’ve got enough of it.”

A career chauvinist, perhaps. He wasn’t here to socialise. Madeleine looked at the doors. Past floor nineteen, eighteen. “I haven’t been to one of these events in some time.”

Bond was polite enough to be taken aback. “You seem like you’d fit right in.”

Madeleine forced a scoff. “I can’t remember the last time I actually sat down and talked to someone. If I had that much in common with the people here, I’d start drinking and talk about my real problems. I’d end up in the river by Tuesday.”

Bond smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “And you’ve got a good sense of humour.” Her pulse quickened. A laugh she smothered in her throat with a blithe smile. Down to the single-digits. Madeleine would rather be socializing within a crowd than trapped in this elevator for another minute. “Are you feeling all right?” Bond had the decency to sound concerned, but his eyes were scanning her.

“I’ve never felt better,” she said.

The doors opened. She moved past Bond, into the crowd.

In the ornate women’s bathroom, her hands clenched on the cool marble rim of the sink.

She’d never pictured an existence where she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder. This was no different than one of her father’s business parties, sticking to the sidelines. She wouldn’t have to endure the smell of tobacco. She’d make connections that had nothing to do with her father’s ilk, and perhaps say a few words about the horrible tragedy of last year, and no one would be the wiser. They’d call her brave and enduring.

In the mirror she found the woman reflected. The wave of calm she’d felt in Zurich. She wasn’t going to survive the night if she couldn’t pull herself together. She’d always been running on borrowed time. Within her shrinking social circle, all of her closest associates seemed to be criminals in one way or another.

If she was to survive the night, she’d just as well learn to improvise.

The door opened. Madeleine turned on the sink.

“Are you all right?” The dark-haired woman in the black dress might’ve been in her early twenties. She was tall and lithe, could be a dancer or a soldier’s build. Her nails were painted burgundy. Smell of cologne followed in her wake.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, grateful to talk to someone who expressed concern. “Thank you.”

“You’re Dr. Swann, is that right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I understand you’ve met James,” the woman said. “He was just telling me about your charity work. Oh, where are my manners?” She laughed easily. “I’m Paloma.”

⁂

After the dinner, the raffle had been going on for half-an-hour and it seemed pointless to linger when little else was expected of her. Paloma, who seemed eager to socialise but was sympathetic to her plight, elected to go with her.

“I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well,” she said. In the reception hall, Madeleine stopped and said, “Your cologne. Did you change it sometime during the night?”

Paloma chuckled. “I’m not sure what you mean. I didn’t wear any this evening.”

Madeleine forced a polite laugh, feigning embarrassment. Her gaze wandered to Paloma’s hands. The nails weren’t manicured. “It’s been a long night. I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

When they got up to the rooms, there was a tab on the door reserved for housekeeping. “That’s strange. I’m the one that asked for housekeeping.” Paloma glanced at her. “Are you sure it’s your room?” Madeleine shook her head, unlocking the door with her card-key. Paloma said, “It’s all right. I’ll ask downstairs. Maybe there was a mix-up.”

As soon as Madeleine was alone, she unlocked the door with a cold weight behind her navel. In the tall mirror adjacent to the door, Madeleine could see a sliver of light through the cracked bathroom door. She’d turned it off when she left the room. The maid opened the door.

“Oh, excuse me. I wasn’t aware you were coming back.” Her hand shifted on the doorjamb, fingernails painted. She smiled and said, “I’ll just finish straightening out the towels.”

Madeleine nodded. “All right.”

The maid closed the door behind her. She didn’t have any towels with her, or a cart for that matter.

In a haze of calm, Madeleine walked over to the bedside table. She withdrew the Glock. Forced herself to breathe evenly, inching herself towards the wall beside the bathroom door. On the other side of the door, the maid was moving around.

Madeleine grit her jaw, taking aim. Inhaling, holding, exhaling. At this range, she’d hit the woman in the stomach.

All movement on the other side of the door stopped. The door opened.

Madeleine squeezed the trigger. Gunshot permeated the room. The maid staggered backwards. She twisted her body around and her foot caught over the rim of the bathtub. She collided into the wall opposite with a pained grunt, slumped to meet the tile, trailing blood in her wake, unable to brace herself. Madeleine levelled the gun.

“Are you alone?” The maid’s wide eyes snapped up to the gun, then to Madeleine. “If there are others, you must call them off. Or do you want to make this more difficult?”

She took a breath and raised a hand and touched her ear. Her voice carried no suggestion of pain. “Sir. No, I’ve got it under control.”

Madeleine did not lower the gun. She moved over to the cabinet. Opened the drawers, took out a bottle of painkillers, placed it on the edge of the sink. She eyed a bath-towel and tossed it to the woman. She switched into a less-aggressive register. “I have—” no intention of killing you? No, that offered a window for negotiation. She had to establish control. “—a few questions. If you cooperate, I will call someone down to see to your injuries.”

The woman’s eyes were fixed on her. Trickle of blood issued lazily from her mouth, the same colour as her lipstick. The predominant stain from where she’d been shot was seeping onto the white tiles, forming a puddle.

“You must tell me why you are here,” said Madeleine, “so I can phone for help.”

The woman’s lip curled on a laugh. Blood stained her teeth, seeping over her tongue. “Do you know what your friends do to people like me? They’re only ever going to find pieces.”

“If you don’t say anything, it’s likely you will die. You have nothing to lose.” The operative’s eyes flickered to the phone. She muttered something under her breath. “What was that?”

“Oberhauser is who you want.” Madeleine hesitated. “I’ve given you a name,” the operative snapped. “Now make the damn call.”

Madeleine nodded. She took the phone and dialed the number. Waiting, chest tight.

“Stockmann speaking.”

Madeleine froze. She’d heard this voice before. Beginning to weather with age, but unmistakable after all these years. Not since she was young enough to stay home with maman, back when her father was still visiting L’Americain with his family. That gnawing, icy sensation of attempting to outpace the inevitable tightened her chest. She opened her mouth but the words didn’t come as naturally as before. “I—” she cut off, struggling to compose herself, “—I need your help.”

“Dr. Swann,” the voice immediately thawed into sympathy, an expert salesman, “I wasn’t expecting to hear your voice. Is something the matter?”

“There’s—a woman in my bathroom. She’s injured.”

“I see. We’ll send someone up to take care of it.”

“She needs immediate medical attention.”

“Of course,” Blofeld said. “You’ll be escorted out as well. Just sit tight.”

The call ended. The operative had grabbed the towel, putting pressure on her stomach. It was inundated in blood. “How do you know this man?” The woman balked at her. Her eyes darted to the large mirror in front of the sink. Madeleine, despite her own terror, was running out of patience. “I made the call. Now answer—"

“—shut the fuck up,” the woman said through gritted teeth, “right now, or you’re going to get us both killed.”

The wound looked bad. Madeleine grabbed another towel and knelt down on the tile to assist.

“The hell are you—?”

“Don’t move,” Madeleine muttered. The woman did not relax. But she did comply. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“You’re going to ruin your gown,” said the maid, in an incredulous tone. Madeleine ignored her. There was no great shock, no time for the epiphany. All that remained was cold lucidity.

“I’ve never killed a person before,” she said. “Though I almost did.”

The operative hesitated. “Recently?”

“No,” Madeleine said. “I was a little girl.”

Soon enough, the door opened and in walked Hinx. He grabbed the housekeeper off the floor as though she weighed nothing and shoved her into a laundry hamper. As he was about to wheel it out, the door to the adjoining room clicked open. Hinx, with his hands on the rim of the laundry hamper, turned to watch as Safin walked in.

“Sciarra is with the target,” Safin said. “I’ll handle this.”

Hinx nodded, and wheeled the operative out, leaving them alone. Safin glanced at the bathroom, then to Madeleine’s state of dress. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He looked at her. “You left early.”

“I excused myself,” Madeleine said, careful to avoid any undercurrent of accusation. “There was a mix-up at the front desk. Evidently this woman wasn’t here to refill the soap bottles.”

“She’s alive,” Safin said.

“I’m not a killer.” Madeleine's lip curled into a scowl. “She gave me the name Oberhauser.”

Safin went very still. He seemed to process this, then went along tightly, “For what reason?”

“I told her to call off her friends.” Even without all the pieces, Madeleine was getting closer to what Klebb was after. She had not imagined it would be so simple. She just had to push him a little more. “Oberhauser called the phone and told me someone would take care of it.”

“You were under no authority to ask her for anything.” Lapsing into dangerous quiet, his posture simmering on the edge of violence.

As her heart thrashed against her ribs, she said, “You wouldn't take your eyes off of me all evening. Did you think I would not notice?” He did not answer. Her mouth curled, trembling. “Perhaps you suspected something was amiss.” Goading him into complicity, the same sense of inertia as running across the ice. “You knew that there was an operative hidden among the donors and you were happy to use me as bait. It didn’t matter whether I survived.” Safin held her gaze, the flash of a warning in his eyes. A vindictive sense of satisfaction counteracted by her own entrapment. “Or perhaps you’ve set me up? What, to erase your mistake? I bet it’s not even the first—”

He caught her by the throat, and in two strides she was backed up against the wall.

Grabbing for his wrist for what little it would do, Safin’s expression didn’t change. “The only negotiation,” he said, “is whether or not you are sent back to your father in a box.” The hand around her throat didn’t compress. He turned his mouth into her cheek, and hissed, “Hit me.”

It clicked.

Before Madeleine could act, he grabbing the front of the dress as though it were a shirt-collar, wrenching sharply upward.

The fabric tore. Madeleine decked him. Safin did not flinch. He corralled her by the shoulder, maneuvering them both into the bathroom. He shut the door and let go of her. Walked over to the shower, turned on the hot water.

“You’re in shock,” he said in a flat, deliberate voice. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

He’d torn the gown across her clavicle. She covered herself on reflex, but her mouth trembled anyway. Safin muttered something to himself that wasn't in English.

“Take a shower,” he said curtly, eyes flickering to the mirror behind her. “I’ll be back.”

Madeleine had nothing to lose. She stayed under the shower and let herself be warmed. Eyes on the flawless white tile. Same bottles on the ledge, devoid of blood. The bare skin on her throat tingled. There was no point on which to focus without wandering back to her own lack of agency. You could not lose that which you never had to begin with.

The maid, or operative, had looked at the mirror. There must be something in this room used to transmit audio or video. The only way she and Safin were getting out of this was to play along with what was expected. Klebb, it seemed, would anticipate a scandal.

Madeleine turned off the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. The mirror was fogged over and she could not distinguish a face. Madeleine hit the switch. Overhead fan whirred to life.

⁂

As Safin checked the adjoining room, he was already wasting time. Ostensibly, Blofeld had sent him to take over the operation. This agent posing as a maid was another distraction, no different than the CIA-boyfriend. 007, no doubt livening up the party on floor two, was the real threat, and here Safin was, trapped in another one of Klebb’s tests.

Swann was a good actor, but she had betrayed her own intentions under pressure. Frightened and seeking an escape, it was natural to pin the blame on him. Aside from her father’s presence, her contact with Blofeld was her only insurance. After all, her ignorance was the real reason she’d survived this long. Despite the slip-up, she’d been savvy enough to disarm the operative without killing her, and play along with the ruse. If she remained in the dark about Bond, she had a chance to survive another year unscathed.

This shouldn’t be difficult. Contact Kęstutis before the inevitable call down to Rome, courtesy of Blofeld. He’d explain that there was an attempt on Swann’s life, and it was dispelled without incident. Easy to the point of convenience, which sounded more like a test than a genuine attempt on Swann’s life. With that in mind, Safin circled back to her room. The bathroom door was closed, but the fan was on. A sliver of light crept under the door. He rapped twice, said, “It’s me.”

The door opened. She was covered only in the white towel. Fair hair clung to her face, saturated with water. A tangible shift in her demeanor, from alarm to conviction, a look in her eyes that was ruinous and bright.

She grabbed his lapels. Pressing her mouth over his. Safin didn’t reciprocate, or pull away. She raised a hand to touch his face, side of his neck, as if he were made of something more delicate than flesh and blood. She breathed, “It’s all right,” twisting in his guts more intimately than a knife.

If you leave, her eyes screamed, they will kill me.

If Safin stayed, if he gave even the slightest impression of empathy, he was a dead man. If he walked away, nothing would be suspected, but any intel she possessed would vanish with her. Putting himself in dangerous situations wasn’t his style, but there was a time for exceptions. So it wasn’t much of a debate, letting her pull him into the bathroom. They’d be listening. Not much point looking under the bath towels, the tiny overpriced bottles of shampoo, soap. A hidden microphone could pick up noise within a twenty foot radius. His attention caught, briefly, on the faux-plant on the counter, next to the sink.

Permitting her to lead, divesting him of the suit jacket, setting it aside on the black countertop. Unfastening his tie. He blocked her from the mirror with his body. Svelte. Beautiful in a cold, unyielding sense without implying fragility. She smelled like the hotel soap. Her hair still damp from the shower, one hand furled against his breast. The pulse in her throat fluttered under his palm. She wasn’t looking at him.

When he took her by the chin, he got no reaction beyond a slight intake of breath. Stray droplets of water rolled down her hair and scattered onto his shirt. Her eyes flickered from the mirror to his face in tacit understanding. Their lives depended on their ability to put on a charade.

⁂

James Bond was running out of patience. The raffle wasn’t close to finished. He’d excused himself from the proceedings, to the dismay of the partygoers who were a little too tipsy to register the precise reason for his exit. All the better, as he moved out of the ball-room and into the reception hall. You could only drink so much mineral water without eying the alcohol. He’d learnt his lesson from Montenegro about accepting drinks at a QUANTUM function. Make no mistake about the sponsors, this was, in some way or another, the same crowd and the same intent. Dr. Swann’s role in their scheme wasn’t clear, but Bond was willing to get to the bottom of it.

Paloma was on the way back to the party. “Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“Dr. Swann wasn’t feeling well,” she said. “I went up with her to the twenty-fourth floor, but there was a mix-up with housekeeping. I thought I’d notify someone on-staff before I came back.”

“She must have left early,” Bond muttered, watching Paloma carefully.

“The CPO was around,” Paloma said. “He left a few minutes ago.”

Bond nodded. “To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a bit under-the-weather myself. Give them my regards, won’t you?”

Paloma nodded. “Of course.”

He stepped into the reception hall and touched his ear. “Leiter, I’m starting to think Swann never spoke to your charming protégé.”

“Her tracker is registering her location,” Q said. “She’s on the fifth floor.”

Bond frowned. Unless her Smart Blood tracker had been cut out, it seemed impossible. “Is it possible to change a Smart Blood tracker’s ID?”

“Shouldn’t be,” Leiter added. “I’ll have Q and our boys look into it.”

“I suppose the doctor’s having an interesting night,” Bond muttered.

“Evidently,” Q’s tone suggested he wasn’t in the mood for another one-liner, “but she’s not why you’re here, 007.”

Bond conceded. “Where’s Safin now?”

“He got called off,” Q muttered. “Something tripped an alarm system in one of the rooms on the twenty-fourth floor. Must’ve been installed in-advance.”

“I’d figure the gunshot would have tripped the alarm before your plant.”

“That device was administered to you, 007,” Q added curtly. “I’m curious to know how it ended up where it has.”

“It would seem there’s more than one mole,” Bond said. Everything about this mission had reeked of contrivance from the start. To his knowledge, Paloma hadn’t spoken a word to Swann in-person until tonight. Bond simply fed Madeleine the cover story. “We’re being misdirected.” Bond scowled. The younger field agents had a particularly bad habit of getting side-tracked, or caught unawares. All theoretics and no common sense. He made a beeline towards the elevators. “I’ll make this quick.”

Q said, “Keep the collateral to a minimum.”

“Since you asked nicely,” Bond said, as he punched the button and the elevator doors closed.

⁂

On the fifth floor, the door to the laundry room opened and Hinx wheeled in the hamper. Rosa Klebb was waiting patiently. She caught his eye and nodded. Hinx plunged an arm into the hamper, retrieving the operative by the forearm as if she were no heavier than a child’s doll. She was plunked down into a chair. She looked into the face of Klebb, who did not smile. “It’s good of you to join us.”

“Fuck you!” the operative spat. “That bitch pulled a gun on me!”

“007 is on the move,” Hinx said. “How do you want to handle this?”

Klebb nodded. “You know what to do.”

Hinx left them alone. Emboldened by his departure, the operative unleashed her beleaguerment on Klebb. “This operation is a shitshow.”

“I understand your frustration,” said Klebb patiently. “We are in the process of negotiating a deal with your contact. In the meantime you and I will discuss the details of your transference.” Klebb’s smile was warm, genuine. This was the favorite aspect of her work. “On what grounds do you feel you’ve been mistreated?” The operative fell quiet. “Come now,” Klebb said in a gentler voice, “you’ll find I am not as unfeeling as the man I must answer to. It is in your best interest to speak to me.”

“She’s working for Blofeld,” the operative said, as if not able to convince herself of the statement’s verity. “She asked me if I knew anything about the name.”

“Swann knows only what she is told.” Klebb had a small phone in her hand. “Once we have our verdict, you will be let go.”

⁂

On the twenty-fourth floor, Safin began fixing his pants. He didn’t say anything, or look at her. A repeat of the situation last month. If Klebb assumed this to be weakness, as she was wont to, he could simply play along as expected. Her fate was the same, regardless of whatever sentiment he chose to extend. Such matters were corrigible.

The door to the hotel room opened and shut. Fixing his tie, donning the suit jacket, Safin considered his options. Most likely, Hinx had come back to finish the job. It was also possible 007 had charmed his way into entry. An easy lie about his wife’s misplaced card, a careful smile, and the attendant would overlook his lack of a wedding band.

Swann considered him without verbalization. No different from the therapist in the office.

He turned as if to kiss her jaw, and muttered, “Wait here.” He pulled back.

Nothing had changed in the room itself.

Aside from the knife strapped to his ankle and his wits, he had little to work with. Safin hadn’t been informed that anyone else but Hinx would be here. There was no back-up.

The man on the other side of the door forced it open, grabbing Safin by the lapels and driving his knee into his chest.

007 noted the change of clothes set aside. With a glance back at Safin, he muttered, “Q, you’re never going to believe this.” With his attention on Madeleine, he wasn’t paying full attention to his back. “Doctor Swann.” Madeleine recoiled against the wall.

Safin reached down his leg for the ankle holster. Swann’s eyes darted to him. In the second it took 007 to catch up, Safin was on his feet. He aimed for his neck, but 007 turned around and it caught the meat of his shoulder. A chop to the side of the head and he was on the ground, vision flashing.

“Stay down,” 007 growled, “and don’t fucking move.” He looked over at Madeleine. “I’ll get you out of here.”

“What about him?”

“His friends can decide what to do with him.” 007 gesticulated with the Walther PPK. “Get dressed and we’ll go.”

#nttd #fanfic #fanfiction #james bond 007 #lyutsifer safin #madeleine swann #mr hinx #ernst stavro blofeld #rosa klebb #this is where the fun begins :D

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dankusner · 4 months ago

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Cole Escola’s Great Day on Broadway

“She never made this cake,” Cole Escola informed me, briskly whipping egg whites as I sifted flour.

It was early June, and we were baking at Joe’s Pub, the downtown performance venue, where the line cooks watched our efforts with mounting concern.

The cake was a white almond cake, and “she” was Mary Todd Lincoln, whom Escola portrays as an unhinged diva with a drinking problem in “Oh, Mary!,” their self-written Broadway début.

Escola boasts of having done zero research for the play—which just opened, to universal acclaim, at the Lyceum.

Yet they still saw fit to question my recipe.

“I feel like this is something they always did for First Ladies,” Escola said, affecting a treacly tour-guide voice.

“‘This is a cake that she made. This was her favorite drapery.’ ”

They whipped harder as I protested that Mary Todd was well-known to have made the cake, and, additionally, that I’d found the recipe on the Web site of the National Park Service.

Would they lie?

“Absolutely,” Escola replied.

“I’ve had it out for them for decades.”

Escola, in a two-toned polo and red leather boots, seemed at ease in the crowded space, sidling past kitchen staffers with a grace learned from a stint at a vegan bakery.

(They loved frosting cupcakes but hated working the register: “It was more degrading to fake that niceness than doing sex work.”)

At thirty-seven, they are slight yet striking, with big, powder-blue eyes, a pronounced chin dimple, and a silvery Caesar cut framing their cherubic features.

Their guileless good looks have an edge of the uncanny—sharp canines, a faraway expression—which they’ve played up in mesmerizing portrayals of deranged innocence.

Many know Escola as The Twink on “Search Party,” an inbred scion of a sticky-bun fortune who idolizes, then kidnaps the show’s femme fatale (Alia Shawkat), in a riff on Stephen King’s “Misery.”

Others are devotees of their cabaret routines and sketch comedy, often performed in drag, which put a surreal spin on morning shows, mom-oriented marketing, and other anodyne genres.

But their long-simmering celebrity has reached a boiling point with “Oh, Mary!,” which has transformed Escola from cult icon of the queer-comedy world into the It They of Broadway.

“At first it was just you and the other faggots,” they said of the show, which premièred in January, Off Broadway, at the Lucille Lortel.

Then came straight couples and Hollywood celebrities, like Pedro Pascal, Steven Spielberg, and Sally Field, who played Mary Todd in Spielberg’s “Lincoln.”

Before long, Escola was bantering in costume on late-night shows and attending the Met Gala in a white Thom Browne suit accessorized with a purse in the shape of a dachshund.

The demands of newfound fame have been relentless, and Escola has made a bit of their struggle to stay apace.

“It’s cold!” they exclaimed as we prepared to blend two sticks of butter into the mix.

“You’re setting me up to fail. You’re doing this on purpose—this is sabotage.”

I felt a bit like Louise, the hapless hired companion whom Mary torments throughout Escola’s play, once threatening to stab her in the eyes during a lesson in needlepoint.

“Oh, Mary!” revolves around the First Lady’s efforts to revive her career as a “niche cabaret legend,” despite the efforts of her husband—portrayed as a bitter, horny closet case by Conrad Ricamora—to confine her theatrics to the White House.

“How would it look for the First Lady of the United States to be flitting about a stage right now in the ruins of war!”

Abraham pleads in one exchange.

“How would it look?!” Mary, lunging toward the audience, retorts. “Sensational!”

Onstage in a taffeta hoop skirt and a wig of “bratty” curls, Escola’s Mary is a tantrum personified, clutching her flounces and furbelows as she terrorizes the Oval Office.

The First Lady goes low at every opportunity, whether it’s smashing open a desk in search of whiskey or reading Shakespeare in the cadences of “a horny

snake.” Remarkably, for a play about the Presidency scheduled to close in November, “Oh, Mary!” thumbs its nose at questions of history and politics.

(When Abe complains that he’s hated in the South, Mary exclaims, “South of what?”)

It’s less of a dodge than a puckish gambit; in Escola’s anti-“Hamilton,” bawdy jokes fly without the safety net of “serious” themes.

“I am the stupidest person here, and I mean that as an insult to all of you,” Escola said while accepting a Drama Desk Award.

For them, “stupid” is a term of art, an assertion that killer comedy needs no alibi.

“Oh, Mary!,” directed by Sam Pinkleton, earned more than a million dollars in its first full week, breaking the Lyceum’s all-time box-office record; Escola celebrated its première by inviting audiences to a leather bar.

The show is not only proof of their comedic brilliance but a defense of their sensibility.

They are often classed as part of a wave of New Queer Comedy, alongside entertainers such as Bowen Yang, John Early, and Ayo Edebiri.

But Escola’s rigorous weirdness is singular, combining “low” humor with the stylized precision of a pre-Code Hollywood starlet.

Their work forgoes relatability to revel in delusion, with all its abjection and pathos—especially their own.

“Her arc is my arc,” Escola said of their First Lady. “Her wanting to do cabaret is me wanting to do the play about Mary Todd Lincoln.”

As the oven preheated, Escola and I walked down the hall to the performance space, where a dozen booths and tables clustered around a tiny quarter-circle of a stage.

“This is my favorite seat,” they said, leading me to a table behind a partition in the very back. “It’s just like you’re watching TV.”

Joe’s Pub, an annex of the Public Theatre, is where Escola honed their craft in the early two-thousands.

Like Mary, they were a cabaret singer, in a downtown scene that counted such offbeat performers as Murray Hill, Tonya Pinkins, and Bridget Everett, who once wrote a part for Escola as a singing fetus.

“I would watch other people’s numbers and I would be, like, Oh, fuck, that really killed,” they recalled. “I want to kill like that.”

Escola struggled for years to find their place in the world of performance.

Born in the tiny mill town of Clatskanie, Oregon, they took to acting almost immediately, appearing at eleven in a production of “The Grapes of Wrath.”

A local paper put Escola on the front page (the headline: “Give My Regards to Broadway”), though the cute quotes belie their childhood’s difficulty.

At the time, Escola was sleeping over, illicitly, at their grandmother’s nursing home, because it was in the same town as the production; their mother couldn’t afford to drive them to rehearsals.

(“The actress that played Rose of Sharon would buy me lunch and dinner every day,” they recalled.)

Several years earlier, Escola’s father, a Vietnam vet who suffered from alcoholism and P.T.S.D.-induced hallucinations, had forced them and their mother out of the family’s trailer home with a rifle.

“My mom was my dad and TV was my mom,” Escola has said.

youtube

Weaned on sitcoms like “Keeping Up Appearances,” they developed an aspirational affinity with “rich-white-lady humor.”

They were also deeply attached to their grandmother, who baked, sewed, crocheted doilies, and bought them Barbies without worrying about whether or not the dolls were gender-appropriate.

Escola adopted nonbinary pronouns two years ago, but their gayness was clear from the beginning.

“I would pray to God to make me bisexual,” Escola recalled. “I was willing to compromise.”

(“Oh, Mary!” gives this experience to Abraham Lincoln.)

They came out in their late teens, helped to the realization by a lesbian cousin and a video-store clerk who introduced them to “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

After graduating from high school—an occasion they marked by performing their first cabaret routine—Escola moved to New York and studied acting while at Marymount Manhattan College.

But the emphasis on naturalism taught them only that drama school wouldn’t be worth the loans.

“I always associated ‘theatre’ with pretending I’m straight,” they told me.

Escola dropped out and worked odd jobs as a typist, a kid’s-party entertainer, and a bookseller in Manhattan.

“There were nights I would walk from the Scholastic bookstore to my place in Bushwick to save two dollars, whatever subway fare was then,” they told me. “It was miserable.”

Dan Fishback, a singer-songwriter and playwright whom Escola briefly dated, has recalled Escola as “a very quiet alien,” prone to sudden creative outbursts.

He encouraged them to share their “secret genius” after seeing a video of their first original character, Joyce Conner, who emerged from a spell of suicidal rumination.

A childhood friend had mailed Escola a fake fur coat and a jewel-toned onesie, inspiring them to picture themselves as a despondent older lady living on the Upper East Side:

“What if there was this woman who was planning her suicide as if it were a brunch that she kept putting off?”

Fishback invited Conner to begin m.c.’ing anti-folk shows, where her antics were a surprise hit with the largely straight crowd.

One day, Joyce failed to appear, because Escola had been mugged; a man held a gun to their head as another kicked in their teeth.

They returned to Oregon to recuperate, taking a three-day bus because they couldn’t afford airfare.

“I just laid on the couch for three months,” Escola told me. “I would drink a two-litre of Diet Coke every day, and I remember that I was watching ‘Dancing with the Stars.’ That was the season Jane Seymour was on and her mother died and she did a gorgeous foxtrot.”

They laughed.

“That really got me through.”

The binge eventually proved formative for Escola’s comedy, but at the time a career in writing and performance still seemed beyond reach.

“The plan was for me to apply to community college,” they told me. “I didn’t understand that I was traumatized.”

Escola slid the cake pan into a multitiered industrial oven, which we operated with the help of Joe’s Pub staff members.

(Our plan to bake at their apartment in Cobble Hill—a den of porcelain dolls and Old Hollywood memorabilia that an Apartment Therapy showcase described as granny chic—had been foiled by ants.)

Recovering in Oregon, they had briefly considered pastry school, based solely on their enjoyment of the show “Barefoot Contessa.”

But the expense of tuition made them realize that becoming a tart might be easier than selling them.

They got in touch with Jeffery Self, an acquaintance who did sex work on Craigslist, and moved back to New York.

The two started sharing johns and collaborating on comedy, beginning with a workout-video parody called “Sweatin’ to Sondheim!”

Their YouTube sketches, which they also performed at Joe’s Pub, led to “Jeffery & Cole Casserole,” a show on the gay network Logo.

It ran for only two seasons, but kick-started a decade of creativity.

Escola developed a repertoire of absurd personae onstage and online, from an impersonation of the Broadway legend Bernadette Peters to characters like Jennifer Convertibles, a furniture impresario with the haughty mannerisms of a film-noir villainness.

(“Futons?” she snarls in a face-off with IKEA. “If I wanted to make something for dirty frat boys to piss all over, I’d have a gay son.”)

Yet the path from YouTube and cabaret to the main stage remained obscure.

In 2011, when Escola was struggling with alcoholism, a critic damned their work as too old-fashioned for the slick “Glee” era of gay culture.

“The message I was getting from the world was, ‘There’s no place for what you want to do,’ ” they told me. “ ‘It might be fine as a little segment in a variety show, but, come on, be real.’ ”

Escola found their footing in television, winning fans for their inspired petulance in supporting roles on “Difficult People” and “At Home with Amy Sedaris,” in addition to “Search Party.”

Even television, though, began to feel straitlaced.

“Every time I act in something filmed, the note I get is, ‘A little less,’ ” Escola told me.

“Which you don’t have to do onstage when you wrote it and it’s supposed to be big.”

The conceit of “Oh, Mary!” came to them fifteen years ago, but they put off writing it until the pandemic, afraid to ruin the idea by making it real.

The show’s unqualified success has been a dream come true, but also a trigger for “queer hypervigilance,” Escola told me.

“I think it means I’m on my way out.” During curtain call at “Oh, Mary!” ’s opening night at the Lyceum, they prankishly announced that the show was already closing;

last week on “The View,” they poked fun at its exuberant filth by saying that they “wanted to write something for families to enjoy.”

Escola was briefly tempted to tone the play down ahead of its Broadway transfer, but a memoir by the playwright and drag queen Charles Busch fortified their spirits.

“When ‘Vampire Lesbians of Sodom’ moved from being a bar show to Off Broadway, he stayed up for a couple days just being, like, ‘We’ve got to beef this up and make it more like theatre,’ ” they told me; ultimately, Busch decided to trust the show as it was, and Escola did likewise.

#Youtube

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thehourmarkers · 7 months ago

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Rare and Unique Watch Finds At MET Gala 2024 Which Nailed The Theme “The Garden of Time”

When Alia Bhatt sashayed down the MET Gala Red Carpet in a floral creation created by ace Indian designer Sabyasachi, which gracefully depicted the theme The Garden Of Time it surely grabbed eyeballs. However, it was watches that were the true showstoppers at this year’s Gala. With a theme that lends itself so completely to the world of watches has been chosen for the official dress code, is it any surprise that the watches of MET Gala stole the show? Many of the attendees on the star studded guest list took the theme literally and displayed an array of beautiful watches that conformed to the set dress code.

Every year the MET Gala, also known as The Costume Institute Benefit takes place in the month of May, and is a fundraiser that benefits the museum's Costume Institute. The famed Red Carpet is a significant moment in pop culture as a slew of celebrities from all across the globe attend the event sporting their most outlandish looks and accessories. This year did not disappoint as we were treated to some of the most stunning creations that made their appearance on the carpet. Read on to see how your favourite celebrities accessorized their looks as they interpreted this year’s theme.

Chris Hemsworth

Chris Hemsworth channeled his inner Thor and sported a strong wrist game with this Chopard Alpine Eagle timepiece. Opting for a more refined and understated watch, Hemsworth chose the timepiece in rose gold with a diamond bezel. Known for his love for bold timepieces, this elegant watch perfectly complimented his neutral toned suit.

Barry Keoghan

Leaning into the theme Garden of Time, Barry Keoghan showcased not one, not two but three timepieces on the carpet, all from the brand Omega. Perhaps the most special of the trifecta is a rare 1930’s Omega Lépine “Sideros” pocket watch in the art déco style. He further accessorized his Mad Hatter style look with a De Ville Prestige in yellow gold, and a Seamaster Aqua Terra in 18K Sedna Gold and diamonds.

Lil Nas X

Lil Nas X went full glam with his choice of wrist candy as he sported a white gold Piaget vintage dress watch with a green malachite dial. The textured bracelet which housed the dial is a Piaget signature making it a true icon among icons.

Usher

True to the Gala’s theme Usher adorned the extremely rare and highly coveted Jacob & Co. Billionaire III Ruby timepiece that redefines extravagance in every way. Set in 18k white gold and stunning rubies totalling 147.65 carats, the watch reportedly costs a whopping $5,00,000.

Ben Simmons

NBA forward Ben Simmons brought his A-game on the red carpet as well as he was seen flaunting a clock briefcase along with a gem-set Patek Phillipe Aquanaut Luce “Rainbow” on his wrist. The technicolored chronograph features a 39.9 mm rose-gold case, a mother-of-pearl dial engraved with the signature Aquanaut pattern, and a red strap.

Serena Williams

Tennis Legend Serena Williams and Audemars Piguet are a classic combination. Sporting the brand new Sand Gold Royal Oak Flying Tourbillon Openworked timepiece by the watchmaker, Williams has made her love for watches from the brand pretty clear. Paired with this ultra-glamorous gold cocktail gown, she dazzles both on the field as well as the red carpet.

Alexander Skarsgård

Succession star Alexander Skarsgård gave tech mogul vibes as he strapped on a Hublot Classic Fusion Chronograph Titanium Racing Grey 42mm. This all black timepiece was a perfect match for his formal black suit that screamed quiet luxury.

Jeff Goldblum

The actor came decked out in Tiffany & Co. brooches, two pairs of glasses, white gloves, a smart black overcoat and more Tiffany on his wrist, with the brand’s Cocktail 2-Hand watch. The timepiece comes with a black satin strap, a bezel set with round diamonds, and a white guilloché dial. Classy and niche, he surely nailed the theme!

Michelle Yeoh

Michelle Yeoh once again owned the red carpet with her new Richard Mille RM 07-01. A perfect marriage between playful and sophisticated the timepiece effortlessly blends the use of ceramic, golds and bright colours. Paired with this silver foiled gown she really added a touch of elegance to her look.

#watches #wrist watch for men #dress watch #pocket watch

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chcrrybcmbs · 1 year ago

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✼ ʾ 𝑎𝑐𝑡. 𝒊 , the bits&bobs .

FULL NAME: hana itsara hershey - ratanavadi. ALIAS(ES): hans ( by friends & family ) , her serene highness princess hana of monaco ( title while princess ) . BIRTH DATE: september eighth. BIRTH PLACE: pattaya city , thailand. AGE: thirty one years old. HOMETOWN: toronto , ontario , canada. PRONOUN(S): she , her. GENDER: cis female. ORIENTATION: heterosexual , heteromantic. RELATIONSHIP STATUS: single , divorced. EDUCATION: graduated from a private high school , bachelors degree from new york univeristy. OCCUPATION: model , actress , former princess of monaco. CAREER DETAILS: click here.

NATIONALITY: thai - canadian. ETHNICITY: thai , belgian. LANGUAGES SPOKEN: english , thai ( first language ) , french ( conversational ). FINANCIAL STATUS: upper class. FATHER: thorn ratanavadi. NATIONALITY: thai. OCCUPATION: international hotelier. MOTHER: monique hershey - ratanavadi. NATIONALITY: belgian. OCCUPATION: heiress , philanthropist. SISTER: tba hershey - ratanavadi. NATIONALITY: thai - canadian. OCCUPATION: tba. PETS: chocolate labradoodle ( olive ) , tri - color caviler king charles spaniel ( louie ) , white poodle ( hugo ). PAST RELATIONSHIPS: rainer iv , reigning prince of monaco ( d. 2013 - 2015 m. 2015 - 2021 ).

HEIGHT: 5 foot 9 inches. WEIGHT: 125 pounds. HAIR COLOR: brunette , although she dyes it often. EYE COLOR: hazel / light brown. TRAITS: alluring , amiable , witty , logical , querulous , judgmental , egocentric. ZODIAC: virgo. HOBBIES: tba. CHARACTER INSPO: grace kelly , lucy lui.

✼ ʾ 𝑎𝑐𝑡. 𝒊𝒊 , the storyso far .

the eldest daughter of the hershey - ratanavadi family . based in wealth and an immaculate reputation . thorn and monique met in their late - twenties during a dinner party for a charity gala and it was the closest thing you could get to love at first sight . a power couple from their inception : monique the heiress of the fortune that comes from the chocolate company hershey while thorn hails from a family of businesness who have etched their stamp onto every corner of the world , inheriting and building the hotel and resort company four seasons into what it is today . growing up in pattaya city was nothing short of an never ending vacation for a young girl . the open water becoming something of a safe haven for a young hana . between her and her sister , the two girls lived a life full of luxury , never once having a feeling of being disappointed or learning to understand the word no . that was until , the family was uprooted from thailand when hana was eleven to live in canada . it was a 180 from the life she'd grown to know . all because her father wanted to expand business in the country . the cold made hana more frigid internally . truthfully , she hated everything about canada when they'd first arrived and when the doors were closed to the new family estate she didn't mind letting that be known .

after some time , she grew accustomed to canadian ways , even picked up enough french to carry her through conversations during dinner parties her parents held at the house . it didn't change the fact that hana saw so much more for herself than this frigid country . she could find enjoyment in winter sports , winter fashion when necessary but everyone had their limits .

it was at fifteen , jean - hugo a friend of her mother's , a photographer close to karl lagerfeld discovered her . she became his muse , his favorite piece of art to capture . their friendship would soon turn into him becoming her manager and with her name and his connections it was rather easy to get her in with some of the top fashion designers . she made her runway debut at sixteen for chanel during paris fashion week and the fashion world fell in love , much like her parents , it was love at first sight . designers , photographers , and magazine editors alike enamored with the pristine way such a young girl was able to hold herself . she enjoyed modelling , often referring to it as her first love but it felt so similar to public outings with her parents . it didn't allow her to step outside the mold her life had trapped her in and jean - hugo saw the rut she was quickly falling into . taking it upon himself to look into a different avenue for her , a side gig . a couple months later , she went in for the role of elena gilbert in the vampire diaries . she was sure she'd bombed the audition , her overly apologetic exit was what really pulled producers attention though . claiming she was perfect for the role simply in her demeanor . she was later cast for the role , making the move from canada to georgia to film at just seventeen . acting afford her the ability to step out of her shell and it proved to be invaluable in hana's understanding of herself .

finding herself at the top of the world : a renowned model and a notable actress for her ability to play a variety of characters . their was no ceiling to where her career could go . that was until she met the prince of monaco . the french open 2014 , the event that would change the trajectory of her life . the pair hitting it off , immediately . she found him endearing and incredible similar to her , even agreeing to a lunch date over the weekend . despite this she returned back to the states as if nothing had ever happened , going back to her life as she knew it . until receiving a call from the prince himself . a call that lasted for hours , ending with the pair agreeing to a another date . this back and forth continued for several months , no one in her circle the wiser until they'd debuted their relationship during christmas time . they married a year later , the happiest day of either of their lives . it was truly something out of a fairytale . with her husband's father falling more and more ill , he took the throne within a year of their marriage . hana took on the role of princess well , shockingly well , as if she were born for the role . while she'd set aside her career she dived head first in charities , appearances alongside and without her husband , she was kept busy and other countries ruler's found it impossible not to adore her .

her perfect story , didn't necessarily go on forever though . no matter how beloved she was , no matter how happy the couple was the rumblings never died down ... " when will they produce an heir ? " . after years of appointments , poking and prodding they'd learned the chances of hana ever being able to have children was slim ( given a 10% chance to ever have children of her own ) . it changed the trajectory of her relationship with the prince entirely : hana constantly on edge and falling into a bit of a rut knowing her sole duty was something she couldn't quite fulfill and rainer constantly in a tug of war of loving her and drowning out his advisors . it was in 2021 , she took things into her own hands . knowing , her husband was unwilling to make the tough choice they both knew was inevitable . divorcing that year , hana relinquished her title and walked away from the person she considers to this day her great love .

returning stateside was something that came with a bit of anxious energy for her . coming back to a life she'd entirely set aside , what if she wasn't welcomed back with open arms ? never once having to fight for much of anything in her life , luckily for her , she wouldn't have to start . img model's took her back the second she'd stepped into their new york city office . then hollywood came calling . it was as if she'd never left & the realization hit her during the premiere of glass onion -- there was a part of her that missed this life , loved it more than the shine that came with being a princess . hana permanently moved to the " platinum triangle " , calling beverly hills home since 2022 .

#❛ ❪ the muse ❫ hana hershey ratanavadi .#❛ ❪ analysis ❫ hana hershey ratanavadi .#hillzintro

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jsbmarketresearch01 · 2 years ago

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Alia Bhatt Debuts at Met Gala 2023 Donning a White Bridal Dress Shimmering in 1 Lakh Pearls

Karl Lagerfeld-inspired dress code was all that fired up the fashion event of Met Gala 2023 with Alia Bhatt debuting on the red carpet portraying a white bridal dress designed by Prabal Gurung clad in pearls. This was not the first time when Gurung had approached Alia for the event. Alia Bhatt’s Met Gala look was nothing less than sparkling stars as she was draped in a white bridal dress with 1 lakh pearls a homage to the infamous bridal collection of Karl Lagerfeld.

The dress was an inspiration from 1992’s Chanel bridal look for the supermodel Claudia Schiffer, which was worn on the red carpet by Dua Lipa. It was made in New York at Atelier Prabal Gurung. With a touch of Indian aesthetics, Prabal reflected Karl’s work on the hand-embroidered dress on silk tulle. And to give the dress the right finish, the actress wore a pearl-embellished bow to go with her hairdo. Alia also wore Kajal on the inside of the smudgy eyes.

Prabal said that he had previously invited Alia to the Met Gala. And they had also talked about the moment for a good amount of time. But the actress had always wanted to wait for the right moment. This time, Alia said yes, and the right moment had arrived, so they both went to their wildest imaginations. Gurung also shared that he had met Alia at the 40th birthday party of Karan Johar and had heard a lot about her from his brother.

On Instagram as well, he revealed how the debut of the actress finally saw the light of day. He said that when he had first met Alia, he was taken by her and that she was palpable to every one of them with a simmering fire personality and petite ingénue. He appreciated her for surpassing expectations after delivering good performances in one after the other films through her creative genius characters. He terms Alia as one of the finest actors in the world currently and a powerhouse performer.

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legendaryoikawa · 4 years ago

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haikyuu boys as part of the mafia + how he met you

note: i just thought of this while im washing the dishes HAHA. female reader insert. also happy birthday to the ultimate baby bokuto 🥺💖

warnings: nsfw, mention of violence, grammar issues because im dumb asf

bokuto kotaro

decoy/manipulator

has a two persona that is best used especially when he is in the midst of a deal

even though he’s a decoy, it is enough to send a rival down to his knees and beg for his mercy

Because bokuto doesn’t show tiny bit of his mercy especially when his dominating side takes over him

Is a good manipulator. To the point that you would have constant nightmares with just the slip of his words.

Good with his hands. Quite aggressive. Yet he plays his cards elegantly like the man he is.

you met him in a luxurious casino. you were the attendant of his table and you could always note how fast his mood changes and it was scary. you carefully stacked the chips in front of him, feeling the heavy weight of his stern gaze. you saw from your peripheral how his hands slid down the edge of the mahogany. “play with me.”

you didn’t answere and continued on organizing the stacks for a new game as per bokuto’s request but he repeated those words again, “play with me. you. im talking to you.”

and you did. he lost. and that’s what made you terrified even more. he grew dejected and stormed out of the casino like a raging tsunami.

that didn’t made bokuto happy at all, so he made sure to find you so he could play with you once more. it didn’t caused him a sweat when he found out where your apartment complex is. and his words have shaken you when he laid the stacks of money on your table and said, “play with me. the loser gets to kiss the winner, if you’ll allow it of course.”

there’s something with his words that are like witchcraft spells. and you found yourself nodding, yes.

daichi sawamura -

the kingpin.

daichi is the leader of the mafia group: karasuno or better known as their alias ‘lethal crows’.

daichi is born into the syndicate. so he doesn’t get caught up unlike amateur people in the black world.

undergone strenuous training just to prove himself as the worthy kingpin.

he often orders the assassination and criminal deals.

he isn’t as ‘intimidating’ like how people expect kingpins to act, but daichi has his own way that makes people so afraid of him. if he wishes to kill on the spot, he kills. even if you’re something important, if you annoyed him to the edge, you’re six feet deep.

however, one flaw of daichi is that he prioritizes his members that he doesn’t oversees the barriers coming his way.

you met him during this time when curiosity get the best of you. you entered this fancy yet abandoned building in hopes of scavenging something that was left by its past owners. however, no treasure came to your view, rather a drug deal with bunch of rogue looking guys.

“daichi?” you were so shocked to see your co-worker in an expensive designer coat sitting in this throne like chair with stack of bills piled in front of him. he isn’t the typical guy you were used to seeing: the goofy guy in the fryer with his greasy apron.

you didn’t expect him to be so, different.

“who’s this?” tanaka rose up to his seat. cracking his knuckles while giving you a dangerous look.

“let her enjoy her remaining life as a free citizen. after this..” he counted the bills and paused at look at you, “you’re coming with me.”

akaashi keiji

weaponry/gadgets specialist

Quite reserved.

He is often hired to big projects but he would turn it down if it requires his apperance.

No matter how much his members push him to bite off the job he wouldn’t, not unless he works up in the roofs, alone.

Usually works in the shadows. Where his identity is hidden.

Ask him about any weapon, he’ll have an answer in a few.

give him a vague description of a bomb, he’ll have it ready, ticking, for you.

he met you when you walked into his first walked in his gang’s base, with your red stilettos clicking aggressively against the marbled tile. then comes the second meeting and the third till you’ve both made good acquaintances. you liked him. for both his smart mouth and big dick. if he wasn’t just too difficult to persevere.

but you could see that way his breath hitched the moment you walked in with your fitted versace dress. which made you cocky from head to toe.

he could note the way your lips tugs upward as you scan the whole interior of the place. you didn’t need it though as you know every curvature of the place. you were just that shit going around him so you could give him a good view of yourself that he refused indulge in.

you stopped midway to stare at him from head to toe then back to his pretty face. gaze fixated on his kissable lips. despite your urge to kiss him up, you decided to tease, “give me something bold.”

“pardon?”

“you heard me, akaashi.”

and he gave you a fancy handgun, a caliber. however that wasn’t your request. you pulled his shirt and whispered to his ears, “i said i want something bold. want me to spell it out for you? A-k-a-a-s-h-i”

and you walked away. just like that and things just became bold in your apartment complex.

oikawa tooru

underboss/ loverboy

Smooth talker. Usually uses his pretty face as an advantage to get something off girls that swoon over him.

he is quite unpredictable as well.

he approached you out of nowhere in the met gala and you were forced to be in his own disposal. he isn’t really a headache to deal with. but you aren’t here to flirt around especially with pretty boys like him. there is something in him that is similar with a ticking bomb. so best is to admire guys like him at a distance.

however, oikawa is determined to chase over you. because you are like a diamond in a room full of charcoal.

he approached you immediately when you stopped by in the concession stand to nurse yourself a cocktail.

“fancy a dance, miss?”

you looked at him. oikawa tooru. beautiful as they say but you immediately walked away.

oikawa smirked to himself, “if you just don’thold a precious information. i wouldn’t chase over a doll like you.”

tendou satori

head of intelligence

can predict the moves of the rivalry gang

so in result they end up getting butchered thanks to tendou’s half assed predictions.

guess monster

the boys entered the room with a agitated expression painting their faces.

tendou raised a brow and looked at the boy filling in their ammos. “what’s up boys?”

“we got played.”

tendou grinned. “oh, interesting. who pulled an ace card?”

“y/n of the yakuza.”

tendou made sure to track you down for meddling in his play.

kyoutani kentaro

torture specialist

All the dirty work is assigned to him

But kyoutani is quite carefree with his job, to the point where oikawa needs to step in to clean after his mess.

he is really brutal when it comes to finishing a rat pack from a rivalry gang and he gives no mercy.

knows every possible way of killing

but he fancies using the bat since it can strengthen his arm strength and it’s practical.

loves the sound of metal clashing with hard skull with the splasing sound of fresh blood slightly staining his skin.

you were both childhood sweethearts. however, you were the only one pursuing him because he doesn’t want to commit anything to you. not until you found out about him and his crucial job out of accident and he was forced to confess to you, and it was the reason why he don’t want to accept your heart.

one time he went home and he couldn’t find any trace of you. panic coursed through his veins when he heard your cries over the line.

“fucking touch her and i will drench all of you in boiling acid.”

ushijima wakatoshi

hand to hand combatant

people are usually afraid of him because of how he could flip people off easily without drenching a sweat

he has the capability to run a whole gang just by himself

but he would just rather go and fight fist first

and chill afterwards

both of you met when you were scouted as a new member and part of the group’s test is to have a hand to hand combant against wakatoshi.

you were mortified when he approached you. with his large built and driving aura.

“ready?” he asked lowly.

“no?”

he raised a brow, “i bet.”

and he let you win just so you would get accepted in the gang.

tanaka ryuunosuke

hand to hand combatant

really moody

aggressive and violent

could kill with just the use of his hands, alone.

but he has his soft moments too but this happens when the moon turns blue.

you were tasked to be his sparring mate. and to be frank, you were really spooked and frightened that you won’t get out of the arena, working let alone, alive.

and to see him up close, it was really, a deal. he’s tall, with a slim yet broad frame, and really is intimidating. he gave you a look and ruffled your hair.

“i don’t hurt girls.”

that was the first time you saw him smile. rumors said he never did.

sugawara koushi

consigliere

smart shit.

he’s usually responsible for the activities of the group.

master at hiding the illegal stuff away from prying eyes

and a genius at continuing the legal stuffs even though it’s just for a front

he is also the adviser of the kingpin, especially at plans and deals on heists and forgery

at some point, he is the official diplomat for Japan.

he met you when he is trying to study the floor plan on the central bank. he was in this beige tux, with his gray hair brush up to give justice to his whole other persona.

you came up to him and offered him installation plans and bank deals perfect for a bachelor like him.

he gave you a smile, “i will be meeting you soon.”

and he did. in a creepy dali mask and a red overalls. “i told you, i will be back.”

iwaizumi hajime

sniper

he goes with codes to maintain his anonymity

he works like a black panther, often sleek yet deadly

even the police couldn’t catch up with his hideous crimes because he never leaves unwanted trails behind

kills in his own special way

one time, he made someone swallow a C-4 and stitched his neck leaving it looking so grotesque

and boom, red, bloody like a slaughter house

he once made his way onto one of oikawa’s fancy bar to unwind. however, things went distrupt when there was a sudden shootout. he was beyond amused at how petty the shooters were aiming down at him. it was full of chaos.

he ducked down to fill in his ammos but he could see a figure crouched down underneath the satin cloths drench haphazardly above the tall tables.

he yanked the cloth and saw you there, looking lost as fuck. “what the hell are you doing here?!”

your eyes widened at the sight of the handsome man looking down at you as if you’re some unknown species. “uhm— chilling?”

he repeated your words. “chilling? in a middle of a fucking shoot out?”

“yo. i was lost okay? i don’t know where the exit is”

he grabbed you and threw his arms over your head so you’re protected from the stray bullets ricocheting over the place. “you’re a fucking goner.”

—

i hope you guys like this 🥺💖💖

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pandoraimperatrix · 3 years ago

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Undertaste

Explicit | BatCat | Four Names' Verse

"It wasn’t always like that, when they were young, it was sweet. Some nights could be a little rougher, but never like this. Back then, when love was new and recognizable, before he broke her heart beyond repair, their kisses didn’t have an undertaste of metal." . . . Another gala, another fight, they take the edge of their frustrations with each other on a bathroom sink.

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

If the urge to insert his fingers in his ears and sing lalala loudly every time Alfred began to go on and on about him and Selina (and the most recent reason was an incident that may or not obligated Alfred to track a reporter that planned to publish compromising pictures of Catwoman and Batman getting busy on a rooftop. The reporter had suddenly found a position in Detroit that he didn't remember applying to. A fortunate surprise after his apartment had been destroyed in a fire, a pity, really, nothing could have been saved. Not even a somehow high resolution close of Catwoman's bliss transfixed face that Bruce wished to keep as... evidence), only heaven above knew how unbearable Alfred would be when he got home after that night.

It started with a job he had been busy with. So busy even Helena had noticed his preoccupation. A woman had confessed to a murder he knew she didn't do, and she wasn't the first one. The cases were identical, both featuring a crime scene that was too neatly set, with no other DNA found other than the victim’s, and in both cases, the fingerprints of the women accused were so perfectly stamped on the murder weapon, that there was no way it wasn’t a set up. There was no motivation convincing linking the women to their alleged victms. And the execution type of murder didn’t fit their profiles.

He had tried to talk with the accused women, but it didn’t go well. When he picked his motif for the Batman, after he realised that he would never conquer fear, and decided instead to become one with it, back then, it didn't occur to him, that scared and possibly being blackmailed women wouldn't want to confide in him.

And then, the weirdest thing happened, a third victim was found, but the murderess was no way near the crime scene. Unlike the two other ones that seemed to be waiting for the cops. Instead, CCTV recording of her was caught boarding to a plane to Italy under the alias Irena Dubrovna.

READ ON AO3

"Why did you do it, Selina?" He used his ventriloquist skills to ask her as he pretended to greet her with a kiss on the cheek, as it was known now that they used to be friends, although he was still to public acknowledge Helena as his heiress. Selina’s now long curls were in a sexy half-updo and brushed softly against his face, his hand itched to pull the pins and let them fall over her naked shoulders, but how could he do that when they were in public and there was another man with his arm around her waist?

Selina just gave him an annoyed look that didn't match her fake smile at all.

The moment must have last a little too long, for Selina's date Spencer Hill – a man almost in 60's and obscenely rich – cleaned his throat and Bruce stepped back, returning to his own date. Her name was Lina, Lisa, something with a L. She was a nurse he met while taking Dick a doctor’s appointment. His original plan was to go to that gala alone, but Alfred insisted that he should take a date, especially after the incident with the reporter. She had been nice at the hospital, and was very pretty, and maybe, sometimes, Alfred’s insistence that he should move on and meet a nice girl almost sounded doable.

But then he saw Selina in that shoulderless green dress.

"Nice too meet you," his date said, shaking Spencer’s hand, and awkwardly introducing herself since Bruce had forgotten, too busy shooting arrows at Selina or imagining what she was wearing under her emerald green slip dress. One of those. "I'm Linda Paige."

Bruce tried to force his eyes away from Selina, but they kept returning to her even after he put his hand on the small of Linda's back and faked an overdramatic ashamed expression.

"Oh, soooorry,” he sing-songed in his high pitched Brucie voice, “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just I spent the last decade travelling all over Africa and South America, I’m a still getting used to western formalities."

The other man let out a loud obnoxious laugh, and Bruce bit a smirk when he noticed that Selina seemed to be trying urge her eyes to manifest laser rays powerful enough to separate his arm from Linda's body.

“So that’s what the lost prince of Gotham did all this time!”

“Among other things, my internal journey was the real trip. I’m so much more spiritually enlightened now, unlike people who stay always in the same place.”

"But Bruce, dear," Selina said spitting sweet poison. "Life will be quite different now you have someone relying on you. Can't hardly take off whenever you want. At least, you shouldn't."

His smile was a little sharper than it should after that, almost breaking his Brucie façade. As expected, Selina went straight to his throat. Bruce only wished she was doing it in a less figurative way.

"So is it true?” Spencer asked, genuine surprise mixed with barely hidden sneer. “You really took a strange orphan in? How courageous."

"I do what I can," Bruce said between his teeth, and then took a real sip from his champagne flute. How easy was for other to forget that he was also an orphan. Courageous, he called Bruce, as if Dick was something dangerous and unworthy.

"Spencer, dearest," Selina's voice despite calling another's name, felt like a balm, "isn't that Edward? You said you wanted to chat with him."

He watched her leave with the old man. What was the point of all that? Dating that man, old enough to be her father and a despicable human being (Bruce was building proof that his business with Lexcorp weren’t exactly clean); meddling with cases that had nothing to do her; aiding criminals to flee from justice. Why couldn’t she just stay out of trouble? It was bad enough that she insisted on keeping her criminal activities despite having no real need to do it.

“Mr Wayne, are you listening to me?”

He was, sort of, a little bit. It’s just Selina was walking away from Spencer Hill and his ancient friends, she even had the nerve of throwing him a superior look over her shoulder and the gleam of what he supposed to be a stolen Rolex sparkled swiftly against the curve of her exposed thigh, imperceptible to someone who didn’t know her like he did.

“I’m sorry, Miss Page, I need to…” the excuse died incomplete, as he was gone too fast.

Selina was applying lipstick when he entered the bathroom after her.

“It’s clearly occupied,” she said coolly, but didn’t seen surprised the least by his presence.

Bruce locked the door behind him.

“Why did you help Elisabeth Slaten to flee from justice?”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t turn to look at him, her thumb sliding across the edge of her lower lip, fixing possible smudge of her deep red lipstick. The gesture was so simple, so ordinary, and still he couldn’t conjure anything more sensual. He wanted to make the same path of her thumb with the tip of his tongue.

“Please,” she said in a bored tone, closing the lipstick cap and placing it inside her little purse, “you know she didn’t do it.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

That made her turn around, hands resting on the sink behind her, framing her thighs.

“Who’s it then? You?” She paused, but when he moved his mouth to speak, she continued, “you let those two other women to go to jail. And the killer is still out there. Great help you have been.”

He walked into her personal space, head lowered to keep their eyes locked in a fierce gaze.

“Why do you care? What happened to looking out for number one? You don’t even know this people.”

Her smile of disdain morphed into a bitter frown.

“You still have no idea of who I am, don’t you? What do I care? What do you? I know what is to be trapped in an impossible situation with no one to rely on.”

That hurt, and he didn’t have a good comeback, so he grabbed her by her hips, and then pushed her body against the sink. Bruce waited a few moments, waited for any sign of rejection, and when it didn’t, he crashed his mouth against hers, ruining all her careful work, the words “I’ll never leave again, please believe me, please,” mute against her lips.

Selina’s hand went to his hair, pulling him closer. It drove him crazy when she did that, the raw need of her actions, the way in one moment she wouldn’t dare to shake his hand and as soon as they were alone, it felt like she wanted to melt her body to his. Their passion so vicious, it felt consuming, as if both of them could disappear into oblivion.

It wasn’t always like that, when they were young, it was sweet. Some nights could be a little rougher, but never like this. Back then, when love was new and recognizable, before he broke her heart beyond repair, their kisses didn’t have an undertaste of metal.

The leg exposed by her dress hooked around one of Bruce’s inviting his body to push harder against hers. She meweled softly inside the kiss when she felt how hard he already was against her.

Bruce's heart faltered and a tinge of fear froze the pit of Bruce stomach when instead of painfully pleasurable, her pulling of his hair became strong enough to break the kiss.

"Can't find... oh" she mumbled through laborous respiration, and Bruce almost laughed when he noticed what was happening. She had no trouble with the ins and outs of his crotch when both of them were in costume under the darkness of the Gotham streets, but in this well lit fancy bathroom, he had her so worked up, that she couldn't concentrate enough to solve the buckle of the belt he picked for tonight.

After a bit more of fumbling, Bruce took pity of her and helped.

"Never wear this frustrating thing ever again," she ordered pulling the strip of leather a little more firmer than the necessary, making the friction of his hard on against her pelvic bone all the more delicious.

He chuckled against her ear.

"Thought you were good opening things," Bruce sucked behind her ear and made a path of fire, licking and kissing down her neck, "is that the reason you're changing career paths?"

Selina slapped his face back to be facing her.

"Fuck you," she hissed, her right hand now successfully inside his trousers and around his cock.

Bruce let out a guttural moan, the sting on his face only adding to his building pleasure. The hands on her hips slid down her thighs, then grabbed them firmly, pulling Selina up and sitting her on the sink.

"In a moment," he promised against her lips before kissing her again, Selina's thumb sweetly caressing the reddening print her hand had just made on his skin. That was them now, an oxymoron, anger and tenderness. Neve one without the other. Nerve uncomplicated.

As pleasure rose, she broke the kiss again.

“What?” Bruce asked confused.

“Shhh,” she made, pushing his face back down, but instead of a kiss, she pressed her forehead against his, looking straight into his eyes while her hand worked on him rentlessly.

What wouldn’t he give to know what went behind that mind of hers. What wouldn’t he do to understand?

Nights like this were fantastic, but ended all too soon. And he was tired of going home alone, was tired of the vast desert of him bed. Tired of having her only in stolen moments that they pretended never happened after.

“Enough,” he said in a low voice, using all his self-control to step back from her.

Selina sighed and pulled the heam of her shimmering emerald dress up, opening her legs to him.

“No underwear?” He asked in a weak voice, his whole body so hot with desire, he felt a lite faint. He pulled her legs apart roughly, taking a good look.

“Couldn’t find one that didn’t show through the dress,” she explained, hands roaming up his chest and shoulders, massaging him absently as she waited.

Selina moaned out loud when he ran his hand through her inner thigh, pressing against her cunt.

“Love, you are so wet,” he marvelled.

She chuckled.

“Do something about it,” she dared, but threw daggers through her eyes when he pulled back his hand.

He hugged her, pressing his face against her sweet neck, hands felting the curves of her body until he found the zipper of her dress, pulling it down.

Her expression moved from an annoyed horny one to surprised and more horny when he put one of her now freed nipples inside his mouth, eyes intensily seeking hers as he sucked hard just like she liked it.

“Come on, baby, please, someone oh... Someone will come.”

“You will,” he said pulling back only to give her other breast the same treatment despite her sounds of impatience.

“Promisses, promisses,” she breathed.

When he was satisfied, Bruce kissed her up, through her sternum, suckling her throat, he got a glimpse of them through the mirror, although it was mostly blocked by her hair.

And then he was inside her.

Selina cried out and held fast to the fixtures of the twin vanity lights around the mirror.

There was no way he was going to last going that way against her, the whole countertop shook with every thrust. Bruce hoisted her legs up, taking great advantage of her short stature to drive them to a deeper angle.

Selina slid with the change, her sweaty palms skidding down the mirror making a high pitched noise, her face a mask of abandon which only motivated Bruce to go harder, he could feel she was close by the way she was felt around him.

He rested her legs on his shoulders and leaned closer to her, pulling her up by her waist into a more comfortable position. Selina’s body was hard with the foretelling promise of a powerful orgasm.

“Come home with me,” he begged against her ear, her curls gluing to the sweat of his brow.

She just cried, babbling nonsense as he fucked her through her tearing orgasm.

After her body relaxed from the spasms, becoming boneless and putty, he pulled her arms up, hooking them around his neck, and started kissing her cheek as his rhythm slowered, but did not falter.

“I meant it,” he pleaded against her ear.

Selina sighed, holding him closer, she smiled, a sad thing on her spent face, and then she kissed him.

That hurt more than a straight rejection, and when he came inside her, the pleasure was laced with pain.

---------

Been meaning to write this angsty middle-Four Names piece for a long while now. Decide to pick it up to warm up to the oncoming WW chapter. Since I moved to the countryside and have family, I haven’t used English as much and it’s terrible to keep a fluency when there’s a long gap since you communicated through a second language. ANYWAY, thank my cousin Jen for taking to watch the Batman and helping me to pick Spencer’s name hahaha

And thank *you* so much for reading, please let me know what you thought of this angry horny piece XDD

#BatCat #Bruselina #Bruce Wayne #Selina Kyle #Catwoman #Batman #my fic #Four Names 'Verse

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nightshade-minho · 4 years ago

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-Inferno-

Warnings: public sex, insinuated break-up, cheating (kind of), fingering, oral (f. receiving), exhibitionism, unprotected sex, creampie, Master!kink, degradation, humiliation, size kink, light dacryphilia.

Wc: 3k+

Note: (@chanonymous told me this Minho gives off Black Widow vibes- and I just had to write another superhero!au. Minho’s alias in this is Black Widow, but he isn’t really affiliated to or similar to the Marvel Black Widow in any way. Y/n’s alias is DragonClaw, and she’s a dragon-shapeshifter with pyrokinesis. I know this is the second Y/n I’ve written with pyrokinesis- I’m sorry, I just love fire hhh-)

Why?

Why did the universe hate you so fucking much?

It was torture enough being one of only two female superheroes at this year’s Annual Gala. It didn’t help that said female superhero was The Peacock, aka insufferable, bitchy diva- who was currently on the stage, that melodious, lilting voice of hers flooding through the speakers. You watched as the men around you fawned over her, listening eagerly as she regaled everyone with yet another one of her self-centred tales. 94% made up, you were sure of that.

“There’s no way she’d be able to beat up 50 gangsters with her powers.”

And there it was. His voice. Him. The real reason for your anger and frustration tonight.

You carefully ignored him, hating the way he was seated right next to you at the table. How did this happen? There were currently 50 tables in the venue, more than enough to accommodate every superhero in the state. But of course, your rotten luck had landed you right next to him.

“I just don’t understand. Isn’t her power looking pretty, or something like that?”

You gritted your teeth, still not looking at him. However, the awkwardness of his unanswered question lingering in the air became too much to bear.

“It’s Allure. Her power is Allure.”

“Meaning?”

You rolled your eyes, answering reluctantly.

“Supernatural beauty that can be used to manipulate, distract and hypnotize.”

‘So...basically, looking pretty. Huh. That’s a cool superpower, being so beautiful that people can’t help but do what you say.”

You stayed silent, your eyes observing the seated audience, all of them absolutely enamoured by the beauty on stage. You’d entertained him enough.

“I think you’re prettier, though.”

That was it. You whipped your head around to face him, breath slightly hitching in your throat as your eyes met his. “Shut up.” You hissed. “Stop trying to talk to me.”

“Why?” He asked, smirking.

“You know why. I don’t like you. That’s why.”

“Come on, Y/n. No one here knows about our...history.”

You glanced around, putting a finger up to your lips. “Why don’t you scream my real name a little louder? I don’t think the Grand Master heard you.”

“Look, just because you used to be a supervillain once doesn’t mean you still are so-”

You were sure he was doing this on purpose. You quickly clapped a hand over his mouth, shooting a look of apology to the dude opposite you, who turned to look. As soon as the man turned away, you glared at him.

“Look, Minho.” You seethed, your voice dripping with venom. “I’m not the only one with dirty secrets here. If you don’t shut up, I’ll stand up right now, and tell everyone who really caused that wildfire in California.”

“It wasn’t my fault-”

“Yeah, right.”

Minho sighed, rolling his eyes as he grabbed your hand, wrenching it away from his mouth.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been saying sorry ever since that day. Although I’m not the only one who should be apologizing, and you know it just as well as I do.”

You turned away from him, choosing to ignore him once again. The pain was still fresh, the emotions still raw. You remember how devastated you’d been that night, how you’d wanted to murder everyone in sight. Instead...you turned a new leaf, and chose to reinvent yourself as a superhero. Usually, tragic incidents and heartbreak lead to the birth of a supervillain- in your case, it was the opposite. You’d felt so miserable and dejected that you became good.

And the man sitting next to you was the cause of it all. The fact that he had the audacity to sit there and flirt- especially knowing everything that happened between the two of you? It made you want to bury him six feet deep.

You fiddled with the spoon on the table. “How...how is she?”

“Who?”

“You know, her. Your girlfriend.”

“...girlfriend?”

“Spitfire.”

“Oh. Her. Um, she’s fine.”

Minho was lying. He hadn’t seen Jiwon- Spitfire, since that fateful night. Somehow, though, the lie had come out before he could stop it.

He watched you nod slightly, your face still turned away from him.

Fuck, why did I do that? What was I expecting? That she’d be jealous? That she’d beg me to leave Jiwon? That she’d fall at my feet and ask me to take her back? Stupid.

Minho shook his head, closing his eyes as he leaned back in his chair and tried to focus on the woman speaking. But..he just couldn’t. His eyes kept drifting to you. He wished he could take the mask covering half your face off..wished he could see your beautiful eyes staring into his again.

Wished he could kiss you just one more time...

***

The next few minutes passed by in silence. You were about ready to walk up on stage and strangle the woman, droning on and on. She seemed to go off on tangents constantly, the story growing longer and longer until you just couldn’t take it anymore.

The rest of the audience clearly didn’t share your views, their gazes filled with adoration and wonder. Well...everyone except...

You turned to Minho. He seemed to be lost in thought, his stare fixed on the blank wall.

“Hey? Earth to Minho?”

He snapped out of his reverie, turning to look at you. His eyes widened as he realized you were talking to him.

“Shh. Black Widow.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s a silly alias.”

“Like Dragonclaw is much better.”

“Hey! Dragonclaw is a very cool alias.”

Minho rolled his eyes as you shoved his arm playfully, your heart growing a little lighter.

Okay. Just...forget about the past. Talk to him, even if it’s only to keep yourself from dying of boredom...

And so you did. The two of you started talking. He moved his chair closer to yours, telling you what he’d been up to for the past three years, discreetly whispering.

“Okay, okay. Enough about the missions, tell me more about Spitfire! What’s she like?”

“S-she’s...cool. Very...fiery.”

You scoffed, shaking your head and smiling. “Do you have a thing for superheroes with pyrokinesis or something?”

“Uh...yeah, I guess you could say that.” He winked, noting how your face turned a light shade of pink. Hmm...

“Though...she’s nothing, compared to you. You were really...hot, especially in bed.”

You sneered at him. “That was a bad pun. Seriously, you could do better than that.”

“Oh, what a burn.”

You cringed, pressing your lips together. “Never mind, this was a bad idea. Even listening to Peacock’s speech is more bearable than this...”

“No, wait- I’m worth your time, I promise.”

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

Maybe it was the way you puffed your lips out, or maybe it was your challenging tone...either way, Minho couldn’t help it. Before he even realized what he was doing, his hand was on your thigh.

Your eyes widened a little. “W-what are you doing?” You stuttered.

Courage, Minho. “I know of a way we can get rid of the boredom...”

“You do? And w-what might that be?” You swallowed, feeling a slight streak of arousal shoot through you, despite his minimal touch.

Minho’s confidence grew as he observed your flustered demeanor. His hand slowly crept up your thigh, a delightful smirk spreading across his face as you bit your lip, your sudden shyness turning him on. He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Do you want this, kitten? Tell me to stop before it’s too late...”

You shuddered as he called you that pet name. He hadn’t called you that in years...

Minho took your silence as a yes, his fingers creeping up higher until it reached your zipper. He slowly pulled it down all the way, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

His hand slipped into your pants. Your breath hitched as his fingers reached your clothed clit, the pad of his finger running over it.

“How does that feel, kitten?”

You struggled to speak as he started rubbing you in circular motions. “It f-feels...good...” You choked out.

“Hmm, that’s what I thought.”

You heard a clatter as a fork fell to the floor. You twisted your head, Minho shrugging. “Oops. I dropped my fork...”

Your eyes widened as Minho slipped off his chair, crawling under the table. Looking around frantically, you realized that no one had heard the loud noise, Peacock’s glamour still captivating them- they were essentially zombies.

Honestly. Did she not know how to turn the sexiness off, at least to be professional-

Your line of thought was interrupted as you felt Minho pulling down your pants, down to your ankles. Oh, right.

So much for professionalism.

You felt him spread your thighs apart, fitting himself between them. A few seconds passed before his breath ghosted over your clit, his fingers coming up to rub you through your panties.

You clutched the edge of the table, sweat forming on your forehead as his fingers slid aside your underwear. He ran two digits through your soaked folds, humming to himself. “Still as wet and pretty as ever...”

You shifted slightly in your seat, eyes darting here and there. This was so risky. Your eyes went up to Peacock, your brain unable to comprehend her incessant chatter as Minho pressed a kiss to your clit, his fingers circling your entrance.

You let out a soft whimper, leaning back against the seat as he pulled you forward a little. Placing your palm over your mouth, you muffled your moans as he wrapped his plump lips around your clit, sucking it into his mouth.

He let out an appreciative moan at your taste, pushing a finger into your drenched pussy and trying to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. Minho could barely believe that this was actually happening- he wanted to pinch himself, but both his hands were currently occupied. One was busy gripping your thigh, the other drawing little moans from you as his fingers went deeper.

“Fuck...you taste so good...” He mumbled against your pussy, tongue coming out to lap at your folds. You could do nothing but groan helplessly, his mouth alternating between sucking on your clit and licking at your pussy, fingers fucking you through it all.

Your legs shook as you realized you were about to cum. You pressed your hand over your mouth, trying your best to not let out any sounds. You felt your high build up- flames of pleasure sparking at you...until it was all gone.

You frowned as Minho pulled away from you, confusion filling you as he tugged on your leg. Quickly looking around you, you bent down to lift the tablecloth and make eye contact with him.

“Come down here.”

“W-what? P-people will definitely noti-”

“That wasn’t a question, it was an order. Do as I say, or you’ll regret it, kitten.”

You whimpered softly, your heart beating faster as you lowered yourself to the floor. Minho quickly pulled you under the table, adjusting the tablecloth behind you before turning to you.

Smirking at you, he palmed himself, eyes watching you hungrily as he crawled over you.

“Minho...this is a bad idea. I’m already on thin enough ice as it is-”

“Shh...” He traced his finger over your chin, down to your zipper, slowly pulling it down. He licked his lips as your chest was exposed slowly, leaning down to nibble at your ear.

You stared up at him with glassy eyes, throwing your head back as Minho’s lips made his way to your neck, sucking on your skin hard enough to leave a hickey.

“M-Min...”

“Hmm?” He breathed against your neck, his fingers pulling the zipper all the way to your navel, staring at your bare skin.

“Please...”

“Please, what?”

“I w-want...you...”

He chuckled. “I thought you were scared. Superheroes should be brave, you know?”

You frowned up at him, his infuriating smirk making you want to slap it off his face. “Shut up and fuck me already.”

He frowns. “That’s no way to talk to your Master.”

“M-master?”

He nodded, mouthing at your chest and wrapping his lips around your soft nipple, sucking gently.

“Looks like you need to be taught a lesson, my little slut...you need to be reminded who you belong to.”

You opened your eyes as you felt the head of his cock against your pussy, moaning softly. Minho stared down at you, jaw clenched. He couldn’t wait a second more.

His hand made his way to the back of your head, gripping your mask, breathing hard. “Can I?”

You sighed, nodding. “Yeah, please...just...need you in me.”

He slowly took your mask off, tossing it to the side as his eyes took in your face fully, breath hitching in his throat. You were just as beautiful as he remembered.

It was too much to handle. Eyes still fixed on yours, Minho steadily pushed his cock into your pussy. He groaned as he felt your walls hugging his length tightly, going deeper until his tip hit your cervix.

“You’re so fucking tight...how are you even taking this big cock?”

He growled, clutching your waist as he moved you up and down on his cock. You moaned, his solid girth filling you up perfectly. You felt weak, shivering as Minho started thrusting slowly, loving the little whimpers falling off your tongue.

“You’re so...so big...”

“I know. And you’re too small, so easily ruined.”

“Please. F-faster-”

“If I go any faster, I might destroy this tiny pussy.”

You whine, slinging your arms around his neck, an innocent expression on your face as you pouted at him. “Please, Master? Want to be...s-stretched out by you, want my pussy ruined...”

He stared down at you with dilated pupils, a low groan in the back of his throat as this new side of you came out.

“You’re driving me insane...” Minho sped up his pace, the sound of skin slapping skin growing louder as his hips met yours with each thrust. “What a little whore, so needy for cock that she’d let herself get fucked under the table in a room full of hundreds of people...”

You felt the humiliation rise in you as his hands stayed on your waist, firmly pounding into you. “You like being a little sex toy for Master? Like being used as his personal cock sleeve?”

You nodded desperately, swallowing as Minho chuckled, one of his hands coming up to grope at your breast, thumb stroking your nipple slowly.

“Well, I love fucking this little pussy open-” He cut himself off with a groan as you clenched around him, spurring him on and making him go harder.

He shifted a little bit, causing his dick to hit your sweet spot dead-on, drawing a long whine out of you.

“Shh, kitten, you don’t want anyone else knowing what’s going on under here, right?”

You shook your head, biting your bottom lip. Minho grunted, leaning down, face hovering over yours. You held his gaze for a few minutes, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Minho was the first to break. He leaned in and softly pressed his lips to yours, a sharp contrast to the harshness of his cock plunging deeply into you. He deepened the kiss, tongue meeting yours as he held your cheek. The kiss quickly became messy, as his hips went faster.

“M-master, ‘m gonna cum...” You mumbled against his lips. Minho pulled away, his eyes turning darker as he observed the tiny teardrops gathering in your eyes.

“Aww, is my cock making the little baby cry?”

You whimpered, the tears spilling past as you squirmed, hating the way he’d stopped thrusting.

“P-please, wanna cum...please! Want Master’s cum filling me up...”

“Fuck, I’ll give what you want, fucking slut.”

His eyes moved over your tear-streaked face, groaning as he lifted your leg up over his shoulder, enabling him to go deeper into you. He began fucking into you, his pace ruthless as he worked towards making you cum, his other hand coming down to rub your clit.

You arched your back as you felt your orgasm approaching, your hands tugging at his hair and making you moan.

He pecked your lips. “Cum, baby...cum for me.”

You whined, unable to hold it anymore as he pinched your clit. The white-hot pleasure made you cry out, Minho groaning as you clenched around him, your orgasm ripping through you. The overstimulation slowly set in as he fucked you harder.

“Fuck-”

His hips stuttered as he chased his own high, cock twitching inside you. A few thrusts later, he came with a groan, spilling his seed inside you.

You watched Minho, moaning softly at the feeling of his cum pooling deep in your core. His chest heaved as he panted, collapsing on top of you. You hummed, your grip in his hair loosening as he lifted himself off you slightly, eyes searching yours.

“How did that feel?”

“F-felt so good...” You paused suddenly as a thought hit you, now that the pleasure had worn off.

“Wait...Minho...you just ch-cheated on-”

Minho sighed, rolling his eyes.”I didn’t, Y/n. I was lying. I haven’t seen her since that night. Trust me...cheating’s something I’ll never do again.” He whispered, thumb stroking over your wet cheeks.

You looked up at him, filled with emotions that were familiar, yet also new.

“Give me another chance, Y/n. Please.”

You thought about it, sighing as you nodded. “Okay...but we’re going to take things slow.”

He let out a small laugh, eyes drifting to the spot where you two were connected. “Bit late for that.”

He pulled out slowly, watching as his cum seeped out of your entrance. He used his fingers to part your pussy lips, groaning softly under his breath at the sight of your stuffed pussy.

Suddenly, a loud voice boomed through the speakers, startling you. You hadn’t even realized that Peacock had stopped talking.

“And for the next speech, Dragonclaw! Come up onstage, and share with us your report from the last few months.”

Your eyes widened in shock as you sat up, half-naked and filled with cum.

Minho smirked at you. “Go on, then.”

#minho smut #lee know smut #skz smut #minho fluff #minho angst #lee know angst #lee know fluff #skz angst #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #stray kids smut #stray kids angst #kpop smut #kpop fluff #kpop angst

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evielallemxnt · 3 years ago

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"There are T W O types of secrets: those we hide from others ─ and those we hide from OURSELVES."

have you seen GENEVIEVE 'EVIE' LALLEMENT strolling around central park at lunchtime? rumor has it they’re actually A HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIVE years old, but i’m pretty sure they’re only TWENTY. they’re currently posing as a PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR at LALLEMENT LAW, but when dusk falls, you can usually find them heading home to MANHATTAN by TOWN CAR. apparently they DID attend the met gala this season! @duskintro

* / CHARACTER INFLUENCES: Jake Peralta ( Brooklyn 99 ) + Veronica Mars ( Veronica Mars ) + Nancy Drew ( Nancy Drew ) + Claudia ( Interview With The Vampire ) + Rebekah Mikaelson ( The Originals )

* / ANTHEMS: PRETTY SAVAGE | YOU MADE A MONSTER | 7 RINGS

*** PENNED BY BRI FOR DUSKFELLHQ ***

FULL NAME: GENEVIEVE "EVIE" LALLEMENT

FACECLAIM: Savannah Lee Smith

AGE: 20 ( estimated @ time of changing ) physically | 135 mentally

SEXUALITY: Lesbian

PRONOUNS: She/her

POSITIVE: Intelligent, charming, loyal, brave.

NEUTRAL: Spontaneous, trustworthy, daring, cocky

NEGATIVE: Impulsive, self-destructive, snide, and Machiavellian.

ELEMENT: Fire.

MBTI TYPE: ENFJ.

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic neutral.

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Slytherin

AESTHETIC: Breakfast at Tiffany's, fine tailoring, diamonds and pearls and rubies, late-night bubble baths with red sangria, Chanel No.5, bubbly stocked fridge, penthouse parties, drinks @ The Blond, exclusive social club, wigs and disguises, sly smiles, bad decisions, midnight sleuthing, gossiping until dawn, closets filled with Birkins, eyes that hold secrets, smudged lip gloss, devilish temptations

TW: Death, dying, blood

* / BIOGRAPHY: The history of Genevieve Lallement is a tricky one. If you ask her, she became a creature of the night in some whirlwind fashioned tale filled with love, betrayal, and sacrifice -- all the makings of a heart-clenching closed shut story. But the reality? That's much more of a mystery.

Her genesis is one filled with darkness. No memories. No family. No nothing. The only solace coming in the form of her sire -- Cassius. He saved her from a fever that took many in late 19th century England and told her as much as he knew. That he had found her bedridden and sickly in a run-down isolation ward where patients were sent to die more than to be cured. Apparently, she had reminded him of a sister he’d once lost and he acted on an inner impulse to save an innocent. The staff had told him that she had admitted herself under what they proved to be an alias, so there was no way to notify family or even prove she existed.

She was a ghost. Alone in the world. And dying.

So, he gave her new life. Eternal life.

When she’d awakened from the transition, the ripe young vampire found herself unable to remember, well... anything. It was as if the transformation erased everything human about her, wiped her slate clean as she re-entered the world as someone else. Something else. Cassius said that vampirism isn’t a perfected process. There are some ailments that the immortal blood which now ran through her veins can’t heal. By the time he’d found her, her mind had already been overcome with the sickness that was moments away from snuffing her out completely. To drag her back from the depths of near-death, she had to lose some parts of herself along the way. There were some upsides, though. She clung to Cassius like a newborn, and he grew to coddle her as if she were his own. Being inducted into the Lallement family allowed her to see a world that was previously unattainable as a mortal having had come from the dregs of England. He’d brought her to New York at the turn of the century, and it was a sight to behold as she realized…this was HOME.

As the decades passed, the new Lallement glided through life. The adjustment to vampirism wasn’t as hard as it probably was for others. Sure, she had her hiccups, but it was almost as if the lack of memories helped. There was no other way of living for her to remember or to acclimate from. In some ways, there was no true loss. Her new family filled the voids ( even helped her pick out a new name ‘GENEVIEVE” ) showered her with endless love ─ and the bloodlust helped pick up the slack. For a while. As an immortal, it is easy to become distracted by the power, privilege, and play that is now bestowed upon you. But eventually, the semblance of loneliness and eternity creep in. For Evie, it was plaguing thoughts of the unknown that haunted her. Did she have a family when Cas took her away? Did they look for her? Mourn her? Soon all she could think of was the possibility that they somehow survived the plague and managed to continue on. This led her to try to trace their footsteps back to the town Cassius found her in to look for anything, any semblance of a clue that pointed to her previous human existence. Only for Evie to be faced with the harsh reality that the one hospital in town, the very town she’d believed herself to have been raised in, had burned down not long after they’d fled. Along with the patient records. Any possibility of tracing back her roots had been destroyed in a reckless accident and something in Evie c r a c k ed. Never again to be fully healed.

But if anything, she’s a survivor. Evie turned her sadness into something productive, going on to study criminology and criminal justice in the ’70s and '80s, along with a myriad of other majors she probably got too distracted to finish. Evie figured, if she couldn’t figure out the mystery of her own life, then the least she could do is help others figure out the mysteries in theirs. Becoming a private investigator sort of just happened, but it soon became her life’s joy. Piecing things together, going on recon missions, and doling out the truth was something that Evie not only excelled at but truly found fulfilling. At least ─ during the day. When the sun goes down, she resorts back to her party-girl ways, needing to find some sort of entertainment as a method to keep herself distracted. Because, you see, the only thing Evie hates most in the world is being by her lonesome. It leaves time for that inner sadness and loss to come creeping back in, to remind her that there’s nothing in the world to truly call her own. That the Lallement name is a placeholder for the truth. And that’s the one truth she cannot face.

So, she parties, boozes, pushes the limit because she has none, and there is always a need for M O R E. Because boredom is never on the menu. And when the town car arrives eventually to take her back to Manhattan, merely a few hours before she must be up for work, Evie revels in the few minutes of silence and thinks ─

‘Another day down. Only an eternity to go.’

* / PERSONALITY: Evie is, more than anything, fun. She likes to have a good time and to look good while doing it. Sure, her deviousness occasionally gets her into more trouble than intended, and in some ways, her childlike need to be paid attention to can be exhausting to people, but she is not all play. Evie truly enjoys being an investigator and will isolate herself for days, weeks even, if that means cracking a case. Her job and lifestyle have been carefully cultivated to always keep her busy so the facade can stick. No one knows about her growing concerns with the idea of unlimited time or the feeling of wanting a connection with someone -- anyone. Evie doesn't really give into supernatural politics or bias, and her ruthless side only comes out when hangry or when you threaten someone she loves. Then it's all-out chaos.

* / FUN FACTS:

She's gone to college several times and has studied many things but only holds a degree in Criminology and Interior Design

Currently paying a witch to figure out a way for vampires to get tattoos

Obsessed with all things horror and true crime

Officially identified as a lesbian in the late '60s

Has two poodles named Khaleesi and Drogon

Manhattan PD knows her by name

* / WANTED CONNECTIONS:

SCOOBY GANG/HARDY BOYS/7 RINGS - These are her people, her confidantes, her ride or dies. Can be supernatural or human, mortal or immortal. Whether they met decades ago or the night before, tipsy, in the Cosmopolitan bathrooms, they instantly clicked and have been loyal to each other ever since.

ROOMMATE(S) - Evie lives in one of the many ritzy buildings Manhattan has to offer. While having an entire floor to yourself has its benefits, it can feel quite isolating. So, the vampire opened up her doors to allow in some roommates -- free of charge!

ASSISTANT - As a private investigator, sometimes certain cases can become quite tedious. While her work rarely ventures away from mild cases Cassius needs help with, Evie does also take cases from anyone who needs help. Keeping everything organized, going with her on recon, and even offering their own input and theories is what they provide for her.

PLAYTHING - Now Evie isn't evil, she doesn't play with people's emotions ( at least not intentionally ) but she does indulge in the power and influence that comes with vampirism. Not only would this person be someone to go to for the occasional midnight snack ( where they're the snack sowz ), Evie would also indulge in their life. Making sure they're well taken care of, listening to the things they're going through, and being there for them whenever they need her.

FOES/ENEMIES - When you live forever you might make an enemy or three. Evie has ruffled a few feathers over the past century, that's for sure, and she has no problem continually poking the bear if she finds herself bored enough to do so.

also: literally anything else pls plot with me i'll send you kit kats and a coupon for a free taco.

#dusk:intro #i am: tired #but this was so much fun to do #come plot with my bby!

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magicrowiswritingstuff · 5 years ago

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Batboys: The personalities of the boys’ significant other

After some feedback I received I really wanted to write more headcanons though I wasn't sure about what. So I decided to write about the boys’ s/o as a guide for future headcanons and as an idea for you all. All headcanons about the batboys will be written with these personalities for the s/os in mind unless stated otherwise. (I tried to make them all very different ... Did I succeed? You decide.) _________________________________

Dick Grayson:

You are the most chill person Dick ever met. It takes a lot to make you irritated since you accustomed to just ignoring the people that are acting disrespectful towards you. If they feel the need to take their anger out on you let them. You don't care. Though, that person is now definitely dead to you. However, you don't let them know since silence is the most frustrating punishment. Often you just politely smile at whoever said something inappropriate and walk away. Because of that you seem really sweet and harmless at first glance but when somebody disrespects the people you care for? Oh, somebody has to hold you back because you get furious. Dick and you get along great. Always have and always will. The first time you met it just clicked and the two of you knew that this person would never leave your life again. Sometimes your families think that the two of you have full on conversations in your thoughts because suddenly one of you chuckles or smiles without given cause. And they were absolutely right. You know Dick and he knows you so well, you often just know exactly what the other one is thinking. You were so close there was nothing and no one who could tear you apart. The two of you had a silent agreement to strengthen your relationship even more, nothing that was ever said out loud but understood either way: No secrets. You tell the other one everything, or at least everything that concerns them too. Secrets are the easiest way to destroy a relationship because it quickly leads to jealousy. And since there weren't any secrets between you two there was no jealousy. Well except for one. The biggest secret Dick had to keep from you caused him much distress. But when he finally told you who he was you were relatively chill. At least on the outside. A thing you two also do is trying out hobbies of the other one to search for something to do together. You drag him along to the stuff you like to do and he does the same. One day you sat down with him to brainstorm some ideas which lead to him suggesting dancing lessons.

"You can dance ballet?!"

You were surprised but knowing his background in the circus and as a highly gifted gymnast and acrobat it kind of fit. However, you convinced him to try out standard partner dances with you. Disco fox, Cha-cha-cha, Rumba, the typical Waltz and even the fast Jive or energetic Rock 'n' Roll, you tried it all. And one place were the two of you show off what you have learned are the galas Bruce often hosts. To say you didn't enjoy the open mouthed stares would be a lie but you had to thank Dick for that because he was an excellent leader which made it so fun to dance in the first place. Your life changes completely after Dick revealed to you that he was Nightwing. You seemed chill and definitely didn't freak out the way he predicted but you were scared, you were concerned and you were worried. And you still are. You had known that something was up by the bloody shirts you sometimes found in the laundry but you thought that after his reveal he wouldn't just continue throwing them into the basket in the bath room without a word. The first time you found one again you grabbed it and walked into the living room to confront him.

"Why don't you come to me when you get hurt?" "Because it happens almost every night?" "WHAT?!"

After a long discussion you finally managed to convince him that even though you weren't as great as Alfred, you could definitely stitch him up better than he could. Many months later, you often stayed in the manor and not your apartment when Dick had to go on patrol and sometimes you assisted Alfred or helped with the wounds, Dick asked you if you would like to help the team permanently. You declined. You didn't want to be a vigilante yourself or have an alias.

"I'm just (Y/N) and I'm here because I love you and not because it's my job."

However, you continued to help them whenever you could. Just not as another vigilante but as yourself. _________________________________

Jason Todd:

When you tell people that this brooding, though looking guy wearing a biker jacket lurking over your shoulder protectively is your boyfriend they usually don't believe you. And when you tell them that he's actually the biggest softy they don't believe you either and on top of that you get an angry look from him. The cliché of 'opposite attract' really is true, at least kind of. You're just appearing to be so sweet, innocent and introvert that for outsiders it doesn't look like a match. And you really are like that but you two still prove them wrong every time with great delight. You and Jay still share many similarities though. They just weren't visible for anyone who didn't know the two of you well enough. Jason is a sucker for books and movies and so are you. The best time you had with him are when you sat beside him in bed, drinking hot tea and silently reading together or talking about the latest movie you two watched. Theories, feedback and recommendations are always shared in an animated discussion with lots of laughter. You could talk with him about books and films forever. Jason still maintains the tough bad boy persona in public but you don't care because you know what lies underneath. For you he acts as cheesy as he wants to and shows his soft side. You're dead if you tell someone that though. At first he didn't even let his family know about his softer side and denied it whenever they would tease him about it because let's be honest he is helplessly in love and it shows. You found it adorable, his little pout while a blush slowly tints his face red but he still held onto his persona. After a while he stopped, just shrugged with his shoulders and owned it.

"Fuck it, it's true."

You appreciate it deeply but understand that he not necessarily wants strangers know about his soft side. However, that doesn't stop you from saying it anyway. It's not like they believe you. To show your appreciation even more you try out new things because you want to be more outgoing with him like going to parties with friends or the galas hosted by Bruce. But since you are a full-blood introvert you quickly get exhausted by the people constantly surrounding you. Clinging to Jason, your rock in the sea, you often feel guilty and like you are holding him back. The moment he notices your abashed state he immediately suggests leaving.

"We don't have to leave just because I feel tired." "Babe, we are leaving because I can't stand looking at these snobs any longer."

While a smile grazes your lips, Jay grabs your hand and flees the scene with you. Giggling you let him drag you along. He would never embarrassed you in front of other people or tease you about the things you feel insecure about. But when you two were alone in your apartment or Jay's room in the manor he will tease you and just let loose and have fun. He will tickle you until tears spill out of your eyes because you are laughing so much. Only then will he stop, leaning over you and watching while the last breathy giggles leave your lips. You really were his soft spot and he was your pillar of strength. The first time you drove with him on his motorcycle you were absolutely terrified. Clinging to him, chest pressed against his back and with closed eyes you let it wash over you. But then he slowed down and quickly tapped against your knee. Slowly you straightened up and dared to take a peek. And you were awe-struck. Gotham was wrapped into a dark blanket, the street was only illuminated by the streetlights and neon signs. It was absolutely breathtaking. Lifting yourself from him you looked around, mouth hanging open. After that you were beaming with excitement whenever he would pick you up from work with his bike. Another part of you that kind of fitted into the cliché of 'opposites attract' was that you really dislike violence. You couldn't handle it. Even watching the news was sometimes too much. That of course made Jay rather nervous. He was Red Hood after all and even though he wasn't that violent anymore it was still a part of his reputation if it bothered him or not. And after he then had to reveal himself to you he was even more anxious. He couldn't lose you. A few days after the incident you made him sit down with you and talk about it. He explained everything and you understood immediately. You still didn't approve but you also didn't judge. In fact you told him you were proud of him for changing for the better. You couldn't have lost him either. After all he was the one who could set your mind at ease. He was the only one who could make you relax after a busy day when your thoughts were running wild. Without him you would lose yourself. You were like fire and ice. You just completed each other. _________________________________

Tim Drake:

You are very playful and Tim would probably also say 'clingy' though not in a bad way. Normally you were rather extroverted and attention loving. Going out, meeting new people and sometimes even talking to strangers. But with Tim? A chill night in is all you need. You don't have to go out to have fun, sitting on his bed you two can talk for hours. Your also are very supportive. You mean, if not him who will keep track of his coffee consume?

"How many cups of coffee did you drink already?" "Today or in the last ten minutes?

You try to get him to stop drinking too much coffee and go to bed instead. If you have to you drag him into bed you do it because A) he really needs it by the bags under his eyes and B) you love to cuddle with him. What you absolutely love to do with Tim is to cook together. He's often 'too busy' to get some real food so when he leaves his computer he grabs the first edible item from the kitchen he can get.

"You need some real food in that stomach, come on."

Often people think that the two of you are both the biggest computer geeks but you don't really get it. You know how the essentials work like turning it on and opening the browser. But the stuff you see Tim do is another language you couldn't understand. You also weren't so big into video games until you met him. Now you secretly train so you would be able to beat his ass for once in smash. He was surprised when he lost. And you were hooked. Video games were fun! And a big plus: you and Tim could do it together. And now that you are trying to step up your game you became 'at least somewhat challenging to play against' (Quote by Tim). It only encouraged you even more to better your game skills. But one thing you geek out with him form the very beginning are old technological devices. After you had found the old Walkman and tapes from your mother’s past you two sometimes sit on the bed and listen to them. It was just such an interesting experience to listen to music that way. You love to annoy him. When he was busy working on his computer you think about what to do to get his attention. Your favorite: asking him silly questions.

"Why can't you just stop it?" "Because you are just so adorable when you answer them so seriously."

You love to tease him but you are the only one who is allowed to. You are at least equally protective as Tim himself. When Damian and Tim fight you still sometimes laugh about it but you are always on Tim's side and step in to defend him if you feel you have to. Damian respects that. On days when you two couldn't met up someone always ends up calling the other one. Over FaceTime you speak to one another until you almost fall asleep. After Tim's secret slipped he sometimes calls you when he had duty in the cave and needs some company. You were the one to suggest that and even though you are always very tired the next day because of the lack of sleep you still enjoy it. Sometimes you fall asleep during the call and when you wake up Tim lies in his bed, the call still running and the phone kept upright by a pillow so you could still see each other. _________________________________

Damian Wayne:

If Jason and his s/o are like fire and ice you and Damian are like fire and fire. Or at least you are the fuel to his fire. You two bicker constantly and sometimes your families really wonder if you love or hate each other. Of course it's the former; your bickering is always in a playful manner. It's only teasing without ever hurting the other one intentionally. If you two have a real fight, which is uncommon, it's solved rather quickly. And if it escalates you hold on, get some distance and talk about it later when both of your tempers cooled off. You are a handful sometimes. Very adventurous, not taking any shit from anyone and to phrase it in Damian's words 'mindless and reckless'.

"Who thinks it is a good idea to balance on the railing of a balcony?!" "I do."

But when you are alone with Damian you inner softy shows. Very chill and affectionate. You almost seem like a completely different person (But to be fair it’s the same with Damian when he’s alone with you). He is the one you care for most and you don't want to lose him. So you cut back and try to be more 'responsible'. Damian is very serious in general but especially about everything he cares about and you don't want him to worry too much. But what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve over, right? So if you once again do something reckless you just have to make sure to not let Damian know about it. It’s just incontinent for you that he almost always figures it out. But your reckless stunts definitely don’t happen that often since the two of you got together (though you still wonder around at night). You really want to be the best version of yourself and he supports you but keeps it within bounds. He still loves you for you and doesn't want you to change too much. You appreciate that deeply and support him in the same manner. You and Damian knew each other long before the two of you became a couple. You were friends, then best friends before becoming a thing so you understand and know each other completely. You know about the other's insecurities, hopes, dreams, boundaries, secrets, feelings, mannerisms. The list goes on. He trusts you the most which makes you an indestructible team. Nothing can tear you two apart or bring you down. Life never gets boring when you're with Damian. You're always trying out new stuff or the hobbies of the other one. However, that often ends in a contest because you both are very competitive but always in a healthy, supportive way. If one of you struggles too much the other one gladly helps. When you attend partner competitions ... no one has even the slightest chance of beating the two of you. Speaking of competitions, you have a self-declared mission to make Damian flustered. Because perfect Damian Wayne never stutters or is in a loss for words but he just has to look at you sometimes and you are a blushing mess. It's just not fair. For now you couldn’t declare a victory so you continue on with it. Something has to make him flustered you just have yet to discover it.

Your favorite activities with Damian were always the ones that get your adrenaline pumping. But sometimes it was nice to just sit down on a blanket in the park and read or draw with him. Especially since both of you were absolute nature spirits. The best dates were always the ones you spend outside since neither of you could stand being trapped in a room for too long or when he visits you in the night still dressed as Robin after a long day. Then you two would just sit on the fire escape and talk. You can talk with him for hours on end about any topic or their deepest, darkest secrets and neither of you ever feel embarrassed. Or he would secretly sleep over at your place. Snuggling together on your bed you love to run your fingers through his dark hair and feel him relax under your touch.

One thing though he will never let you try is becoming a vigilante yourself. No matter how often you ask or annoy him he stays stoic. He curses the day you figured out he is Robin.

"Maybe if I'm-" "No."

He won't even argue with you. No discussion, that’s an order, you stay at home. But he trains you and already trained you before you figured out who he was so you knew how to defend yourself since he can't force you to not wander around at night despite his constant nagging and warnings. One time, and even though Damian says he was going easy on you, you know you kicked his ass during training. And he knows it too but he won't ever admit that he underestimated you in that split second. But by the smile on his lips he had while you had him pinned down on the floor you knew he was proud.

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the-original-b · 4 years ago

Text

Archangel: High Society

Format: Prose / Fiction, one-shot

Word Count: c. 8,400

Krueger and Khai embark on a rescue operation deep in enemy territory, where they come face to face with a dangerous foe.

Warning(s): blood, violence, brief nudity

Khai sat at the conference room desk buried in charts and reports, long after everyone else had left the office. She thought she would get better at it with time, but long after Simon’s passing her work as the Manhattan Branch’s controller hadn’t gotten any easier.

Somehow it seemed more difficult after the promotion was made formal just a few short weeks ago.

She leaned back in the old chair and sighed, resting her glasses on the stack of papers that never seemed to shrink. She shut her eyes and rubbed her eyelids with her thumb and first finger as she wondered how the Partners could ever think she was even remotely qualified to run the place.

The ringing phone was a welcome distraction. She straightened up and answered without putting her spectacles back on. “Elizabeth Khai’s office,” she answered. She still wasn’t used to saying that.

“Liz?” the man on the other end said. His age added a rasp to his voice. “Chuck Silvio. Congratulations again on your promotion.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Silvio.” She relaxed a little, leaning back in the chair again and crossing her legs. “It’s been a while, how are you these days?”

“Not bad, not bad. The Miami weather’s good for me.”

“I bet,” she said with a chuckle. In her mind’s eye she could see him leaning back in his chair at the office, mirroring her posture. She turned in her chair to watch the rain drops streak down the window overlooking Sixth Avenue. “Beats the hell out of the cold rain.”

“Oh, it gets plenty wet here too,” he commented, matching her laugh. “Trust me.”

“I’ll take your word for it… So, what can I do for you?”

“You remember my little shithead son, right?”

“CJ? Of course.” Khai reached out for her glasses and put them back on one-handed. “As I recall, Specialist Krueger and I helped him out of a mess with the Company last year.”

“And I can’t thank you two enough for that,” Silvio added. “Really… But those connections don’t wash away so easy. The Jackass is going to some kind of get-together in Williamsburg, Virginia,” he began. “A big gala on the water at the end of the week.”

“Williamsburg is Company territory,” Khai noted. “You think they’re trying him again?”

“Not a doubt in my mind,” he said, “and I need to borrow Mr. Krueger to get him out of another mess.”

“He’s cleaning up a snafu in Cape Cod,” Khai noted, consulting her desktop calendar partially obscured by a takeout container from Tillman’s in which sat a half-eaten steak sandwich and handful of fries. “He should be back tomorrow night, but I’m not certain as to what his schedule looks like afterward.”

“I talked to Isaac,” Silvio said. “He’ll be available.”

Khai offered a shrug as if he could see it. “Well, alright..! I’ll get him in the schedule and make the arrangements.”

“Perfect,” Silvio said as Khai keyed the password to her desktop computer. “One of my guys got his hands on a few tickets, we can have one overnighted to you.” She summoned Krueger’s calendar to enter his travel dates.

She paused before saving the entry and leaned back in her chair again. “Say, do you think you can send two tickets up here?”

“Thinking about attending a waterside gala, Miss Khai?” His smirk was audible.

“I did pick up this lovely gown the other day,” she jested. “I need an excuse to wear it… I can have Everett keep an eye on things while I’m away.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to cover for you while you’re out having some fun,” Silvio chuckled. “I’ll send a pair of tickets up to the Branch. Thanks again for this, Liz.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Silvio. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Khai hit the lever in the phone’s cradle to end the call with Silvio, then released it to dial his number.

He answered after a few rings. “Good evening, Miss Khai,” he said.

“Hello, there,” she charmed. “You feel like taking me someplace nice this weekend?”

~~~~

Krueger reviewed the fabric samples the tailor offered him, and after narrowing down his selection for the outer layer to a solid black and textured medium gray, revisited the options for the lining. “Do you do waistcoats as well?” he asked the tailor.

“Certainly,” he replied.

Krueger nodded. He looked over his shoulder at Khai, in the room with them with her gown folded over her arms. He picked a few fabric samples up off the table and held them out in front of him, lining them up with the portion of the gown he could see from where he stood. He shut one eye as he scrutinized each sample; each of them matched the shade of her gown almost perfectly. “What shoes will you be wearing?” he asked her.

“The black ankle strap round-toes,” she said. “With the red soles.”

Krueger knew them. That narrowed his decision down. “This one,” he said, handing it to the tailor.

“Excellent choice,” he noted. He jotted the selections down in his note pad. “What style did you want for them?”

“British.”

“And the fit?”

“Modern.”

“And that’s two buttons, yes? The same as before?”

“Two buttons, that’s right,” Krueger nodded. “I’ll need a shirt as well.”

“Of course,” the tailor said. “Give me a moment and I’ll return with the samples.” The tailor took his leave with his notes.

Shortly after he left, another person entered the room—a brown-skinned man in his early thirties with a ten day beard. “Sorry you guys,” he said. “Collision on the Belt Parkway took out the left lane.”

“No worries, Brandon. We haven’t left yet.”

Krueger arched a brow at their newcomer.

“Oh, right,” Khai noted, “you two haven’t formally met… Milo this is Brandon Desmoulins, my tech expert out of Brooklyn.”

“The one who decrypted Orham’s files?” Krueger said, offering the man a hand to shake. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“No, the honor is mine, Mr. Krueger.” Brandon shook Krueger’s hand, then reached into his jacket pocket to pull a pair of two-by-six inch slivers of card stock. Khai recognized them as the gala tickets. “They’re usually keyed to the individuals who purchased them, but our guys in the Southeast Region were able to wipe these two. Which means,” he continued as he retrieved his laptop from his backpack, “We got a pair of blank slates for you guys.” He opened the computer and took a seat at the table.

“Well,” Khai said, taking a spot beside Krueger as she looked over Brandon’s shoulder at the monitor, “I’ve never been somebody else before, so why not?”

“You can be the Queen of England if you like.”

“Sure,” Khai scoffed. “I’m the spitting image of her.”

“You know,” Krueger jested. “I think I see it. Turn your head a little…”

“Oh, like this..?” she added laughing to herself. “And you, Sebastian?”

“Not this time,” he noted. “The Company knows Sebastian Weber. They said my eyes gave me away in Miami, I’ll need a disguise as well as a new name.”

Brandon turned in his seat to look at him. “You look like a Michael to me.” He brought his hand to his lip as he considered naming him. “Michael Fff… Fuchs.”

Krueger shrugged. “That works.”

“Mike Fuchs it is,” Brandon declared. He loaded one of the tickets into a fist-sized portable printer and keyed in Krueger’s new alias. In moments, the device wrote a barcode and etched the name into the document’s face. “Hope you like it, cos it’s too late to change. As for the peepers, we should be able to get you contact lenses pretty easily.”

Krueger nodded. “The more common the color the better.”

“Can’t go wrong with brown ones… and you.” He turned over his other shoulder to look at Khai. “I’m thinking Samantha. Samantha…”

“Nguyen,” she suggested.

“Good as anything else, I guess.” He loaded Khai’s ticket into the printer and coded it to her new identity. When the printer was done he presented them their tickets. “There we go—Michael Fuchs and Samantha Nguyen. Just a pair of run-of-the-mill socialites and definitely not high ranking members of the Marlow Partners’ organization.”

Khai took the tickets and studied them before handing Krueger his. “Nice work as always.”

“For you two, nothing but the best.” He shut his laptop and returned it to his backpack. “There is one more thing—I keyed in Vizier Status to those tickets, it’ll let you carry a pistol on the premises. Probably not necessary, but if you guys are going into the lions’ den, I figured you’d prefer to be armed.”

“Good thinking,” Krueger nodded.

Khai checked the clock on the far wall. “Don’t know if we’ll have time to head to the armory today—”

“No need,” Krueger said. “I know exactly what I’ll take for this one—the Five-Seven. With hollow points.”

“Not the armor penetrators?”

“I’d like to avoid collateral damage,” he said. “Even there.”

Khai couldn’t disagree with his logic. “Fair enough. I’ll just have to swing by after hours and see what I’ll be able to conceal in this.”

The tailor returned to the room with another collection of fabrics. “Here we are,” he said. “Given what I understand about this gathering, I went ahead and narrowed down the usual selection.”

Krueger walked over to view what was offered. Immediately he was drawn to a textured sanguine red.

“Do you like that one?”

“I do,” Krueger admitted. “But that’s not what we’re here for today…” He redirected his glance to something more conservative and examined the samples. “Can you conceal the buttons?”

“I certainly can. What color do you want for them?”

“Black.”

Khai leaned against the table beside Brandon as she observed the two of them, her gown still folded over her arms. “So,” she said to him.

“So..?”

“So does he live up to your expectations?”

“Honestly?” Brandon returned with a whisper. “I thought he would be taller.”

~~~~~~

Krueger opened his door and stepped out of the limousine when the driver brought the vehicle to a stop. He offered Khai his hand and helped her out of the car as they walked up the red carpet to an elegant villa overlooking the James River, nestled in the heart of a luxurious resort and golf club. A black evening shawl rested on her shoulders beneath her hair and draped over her contours, drawing any onlookers’ eyes to her crimson long sleeve gown with a thigh-high slit up the right side. She traded her usual eyewear for contact lenses and colored her lips the same shade as the gown. Her shoes called attention to Krueger’s outfit—a black suit and tie over a crisp white shirt and crimson waistcoat with a subdued black print.

Together they approached the open front door of the venue, where they presented their invitations to the staffer there. He reviewed their tickets and asked if they were carrying; Krueger opened his jacket to expose the Five-Seven tucked in the holster under his left arm. The staffer cleared them for entry and directed them to the coat check a few yards into the foyer, where Khai deposited her shawl and looked up a grand stair case that split toward the top as it led to the second floor.

“No hassle so far,” she noted sotto voce.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Krueger whispered as they went deeper into the building and found their way to the main atrium. “We’re in the hornets’ nest now.”

Khai took a breath as she beheld the main atrium, an ornately decorated love letter to excess and decadence. Marble columns stretched from floor to ceiling in each of the room’s four corners, and a gargantuan crystal chandelier dangled from the center to illuminate the room. Bicolor marble tiles covered the entire floor space, and the walls were adorned with recreations of famous paintings watching over the tables and dance floor. Finally a huge pair of French doors opened up to a terrace overlooking the water and setting sun, where there were likely more food and drink stations to satisfy the patrons there.

“Remember,” he continued, “we’re here for Silvio.”

“Right,” she nodded. “I remember.” She scanned the room some more, noting the food stations along one wall ending in a carving table, and the well-appointed bar opposite them. “It’s just a shame we have to be here for work.”

“Well,” Krueger smirked, resting his hand on her hip to pull her closer, “maybe Michael Fuchs and Samantha Nguyen can return and spend a week on the resort grounds someday.”

“Don’t you go giving me ideas now…” She brushed her hand on the small of his back as she took a few steps deeper into the room. “We’ll cover more ground if we spit up to work the room.”

“I’ll start outside,” Krueger said, and they went their separate ways to look for CJ Silvio.

They met up at the inside bar after a futile forty minutes. Khai ordered a glass of pinot noir while Krueger ordered a gin martini. “Did you fare any better than me?” he asked her, leaning against the mahogany finish.

Khai shook her head after thanking the bartender for her wine and taking a sip. “His father said he would be here.”

“Is he usually late to gatherings like this?”

“I don’t think he’s ever been to a gathering like this,” she jested, turning around and leaning against the bar top to look at the room again. “Way too classy an audience for him—” her eyes widened and jaw gaped for a moment before springing around to turn her back to the room and mouthing “shit..!”

“What is it?”

“White tux,” she responded with an almost inaudible whisper. “Don’t look.”

Krueger discreetly scanned the room to try and spot the person or thing that so completely and immediately terrified her. “I think I see him,” he said, matching her tone. “Tall, gray, handsome fellow?”

“That’s Osiris. In the flesh.”

Krueger turned back to face Khai and accept his cocktail. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“Roland Preston,” she explained, maintaining her volume. “He controls Company operations across the entire Eastern Seaboard and as far west as Chicago. He’s every bad day Isaac and Charles ever had.” She paused to consider the implications of his presence. “If he’s here for the same reason we are…”

“Then we better find CJ first,” Krueger surmised.

Khai nodded. “Alright, new plan,” she said as she straightened herself up and took another sip of wine to collect herself. “We stick together.” She took Krueger’s hand and led him toward the French doors and the terrace beyond them. “We stay out of his sight, find someplace with good visibility to look for Silvio, then collect him and get out of here.”

“And if Osiris finds him before we do?”

Khai took a breath. “Then I hope you have more bullets than there are bodyguards in this place.”

The two of them stayed on the terrace overlooking the water for the remainder of cocktail hour, and when the time came for them to find their seats they quietly made their way to a table near the dance floor with a good view of the bar. As Krueger understood, they would have the best chance of spotting CJ Silvio from there.

About twenty minutes into the reception, his wager paid off. He spotted CJ Silvio, dressed in a neat black suit and tie, nearly running after a blonde woman in a short dress on his way to the bar. It was obvious to Krueger that this woman wanted nothing to do with him anymore, and it appeared Young Silvio was looking to redeem himself after some unseen slight. After a short while he gave up and turned to get the bartender’s attention.

“I think we should order a drink,” he said, subtly gesturing the bar.

Khai followed his nod to the person in question. “Good idea.”

She stood up shortly after him and followed Krueger toward their target, but they were intercepted by a tall, classically handsome green eyed man with gray swept-back hair and manicured mustache. “And here I thought I was well-dressed this evening, then you two come along and show me up so elegantly.” He addressed them with a rich, honeyed voice, wearing a white tuxedo jacket and dark slacks with a crisp black bowtie. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, offering Khai his hand. “Roland Preston. This is my gala.”

Khai discreetly swallowed her terror and flashed him a warm smile. “I wondered whose party this was!” she extolled. “Samantha Nguyen,” she said, shaking his hand. “And this is my partner, Michael.”

Krueger followed her lead, keeping CJ in sight. “Michael Fuchs,” he introduced himself. “This is a lovely party,” he continued as he shook Osiris’s hand.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Fuchs,” he said. “So, tell me how it is I’ve never seen you here before, dressed like that.”

“Kind of a long story,” Khai said. “Mike, would you mind?” she said, gesturing the bar.

“Of course,” he said, making his way toward the indicated area. “You had the pinot noir, yes?”

“I did, thank you.” She redirected her attention to Osiris, guiding him away from CJ as she explained. “Michael and I run a small IT setup. We were stationed in Southern California until last December, but we found a better opportunity out here.”

“Is that so?” Osiris returned. “And how are you liking the East Coast so far?”

“Oh, we love it! It’s like we’ve lived here all our lives..!”

Krueger made his way to the bar as Khai distracted Osiris, and stationed himself adjacent to CJ as he ordered a pinot noir and gin martini, slipping the bartender a few bills. “No frozen margaritas here, unfortunately,” he said to him.

CJ looked over his shoulder at the other man. “Huh?”

“This isn’t a poolside party. You’ll have to order smarter if you want to blend into this crowd. You can’t go wrong with one of the classics. A martini, or an Old-Fashioned if that’s more your speed.”

CJ quickly shook his head, befuddled. “Do I know you, man?”

“You do.” He finally turned to face CJ. “Also not a great idea to chase women here. Especially not when you have a baby on the way.”

CJ shut his eyes tight and opened them again as he leaned in, squinting at Krueger as he placed where he’d seen him before. “Sebastian—?”

“Not tonight. Tonight I’m accompanying your boss while she and I do your father a favor.” He gestured to his right at Osiris and Khai as they conversed. “Before you make a fool of yourself and say something you’ll regret, yes that is her in red. And she’s stopping that man from finding out who you are, because if he did, you’ll be dead by dawn or worse.”

Speechless, CJ looked over his shoulder at Khai and Osiris, then back at Krueger.

CJ’s disbelief informed Krueger he was completely unaware of the depth of the trouble he was in. “We’re trying to help you,” Krueger continued, “so let us help you. Leave,” he ordered. “Get your coat, call a taxi, and get as far away from this city as you can as quickly as you can. And then call your father to apologize.”

CJ nodded sheepishly, then retreated from the main atrium back toward the entrance.

Krueger watched Silvio exit the room as he reclaimed his drinks from the bartender, making sure he thanked him.

“Mr. Fuchs,” Osiris got Krueger’s attention. “Samantha was just telling me you head security for your company.”

He turned to face Osiris, having to turn his gaze upward slightly to establish eye contact. “That’s right,” he said, handing Khai her beverage. “I used to be a consultant in the field, but she made me a better offer,” he said with a smirk. “She still lets me freelance every now and then.”

“It keeps him happy,” Khai jested. “He would get bored otherwise.”

“Boy do I understand that,” Osiris added, laughing. “Would you mind lending me your input for a moment? I’ve been looking for ways to tighten security and upgrade networks for a few of my operations, and I can benefit from an outside opinion.”

Krueger and Khai discreetly shot each other looks. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” he said.

“Please, it won’t take much time at all,” he charmed. “Then I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Khai said.

“Excellent,” Osiris extolled. “If you’d follow me to my office upstairs,” he gestured the hallway before them. “You can take your drinks with you.”

“Lead the way,” Krueger said. He put himself between Khai and Osiris as they followed him out the main atrium and toward the front lobby.

“So what did you say your industry was, Mr. Preston?” Krueger asked.

“Logistics, primarily,” Osiris answered, leading Krueger and Khai up the stairs. “Transportation of goods, and occasionally providing security services for those transported goods… the yardstick to inter-state commerce.” He turned left at the split to lead them down a hallway, and Krueger kept a mental tally of the staff they passed. “But some people don’t see it that way,” he lamented. “They would see my logistics operation crumble, and have attacked me through less-than-legal means,” he explained as he turned right and led them into an elegant office space. A mahogany desk sat before a massive window, to their left was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, and to their right a coffee table and lounge area with a few cozy-looking couches. The carpet below their feet was a rich red. “So I’ll have to do the same, if I’m going to survive,” he concluded, turning to face them.

“Uh-huh… and these less-than-legal methods,” Khai put forth as Krueger went to rest his martini on the lounge table, “how do you presume we’ll be able to help you?” She turned to look over her shoulder as two more staffers closed the office doors behind them. Once again she closed the distance between Krueger and herself.

Osiris simply smirked and stepped aside, allowing them to see a shiny piece of gold-colored metal atop the mahogany desk. “Do either of you know what this is?”

They could both see it was a gun, a large hand cannon with a long, ported slide and barrel. Neither of them recognized the exact model.

Osiris picked the firearm up off the desk and held it in his hand. “This was a gift from some associates out west,” he explained. “It’s big, heavy, impossible to conceal, and poorly designed.” He reversed the gun in his hand to show them the lack of padding on the rear of the grip. “It shoots giant bullets, and has nothing to ease the recoil from those bullets, so it hurts every single time I shoot it. I don’t have the heart to tell the guys who gave this to me how much I hate it, but,” he continued as he loaded a five-round magazine into the hand cannon, “it makes a statement. Just know that every time I pull the trigger, I really want the guy or girl on the business end of this thing to understand that statement. So… to answer your question, Miss Khai,” he added as he pulled back the slide and released to chamber a round. “I think you’re opinion on what’s less than legal is well-qualified, as that is your area of expertise.”

Khai blinked and recoiled as her stomach sank when he called her by name. She backed toward the door almost subconsciously as Krueger stepped up between them to shield her.

Osiris’s lip curled into a sinister smirk as he stepped up to close the distance between them. “Yes,” he began. “I know who you are, Elizabeth Margaret Khai. Operations Controller for the Marlow Partners up north. I knew who you were the moment I laid eyes on you. Which would make you,” he directed his gaze—and cannon—to Krueger, “the specialist she hired to make sense of the organization again… Sebastian Weber? But we both know that’s not your real name. Neither is Michael Fuchs.”

“Congratulations,” Krueger commented, “you’re clairvoyant.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourselves,” he said, “you certainly would have fooled anybody else.” He took a few more steps toward them, and had them backed against the wall. “You know, you cost me a lot in Miami, Specialist—it took years to get three of my guys close to Silvio’s son… But they succeeded posthumously; he ended up here tonight after all. So while I can’t be too angry with you, holding onto any amount of anger is unhealthy. So…” He lowered the hand cannon to abdomen-level and fired, catching Krueger in the left ribs and dropping him to the floor almost instantly.

Khai stifled a scream and jumped away from them, back toward the lounge table as Osiris freed his hand. He held onto the cannon with his left as he rhythmically flexed his right and winced, groaning. She distanced herself further from him, heading toward the mahogany desk by the window as her eyes darted from Osiris in front of her to Krueger motionless on the floor. As Osiris looked back over his shoulder to face her she wished, prayed, Krueger would start moving again.

“Now there’s the matter of what punishment best suits you,” he dictated. “Maybe Young Silvio can give us some ideas. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a little late for his opinion,” Khai said, consciously slowing her speech just enough to hide her fear from him.

“Am I?” he queried. He took a conspicuous glance at the watch on his left wrist, and CJ Silvio was brought into the office by two of the staffers mere moments later, sporting a split lip and bleeding brow. Osiris dropped his hand and approached her again, carrying his cannon, and she recoiled almost immediately, but was stopped by the desk behind her. “Did you really think I would let any of you leave this place alive?”

Motion in Khai’s periphery gave her the cue she so desperately looked for earlier, giving her the boost in confidence she needed to act. “Lapse in judgement,” she said, shrugging. “Happens to the best of us.” She immediately threw her right knee into Osiris’s groin and dove to her left, hitting the floor and reaching for a subcompact Glock 26 she had holstered on the inside of her left thigh as Krueger—still on the floor—reached for his Five-Seven.

Krueger raised his handgun and fired six times in rapid succession, landing all his shots in Osiris’s back, while Khai struck each of the staffers in the room twice with well-placed shots from her handgun.

Osiris collapsed to his hands and knees, taking a labored breath as he turned to face Krueger, Khai, and CJ. He raised his hand cannon one more time, but lacked the strength to keep it at the ready; he dropped the gun to the floor and fell onto his side, coughing blood and grabbing at his chest.

Slowly, Krueger made it to his knees and holstered his weapon, then moved his hand to his side while he doubled over in pain. He propped himself up against the doorway while he tried to catch his breath.

When she was sure he wasn’t too badly hurt, Khai sat up to re-holster her handgun then stood to look down at Osiris. She crouched down to pick up his hand cannon and raised it one-handed to hold him in the sights. “The Partners send their regards,” she said. Then she squeezed the trigger, striking Osiris in the chest.

The recoil nearly wrenched the cannon from her grip. Shocked, she looked at the weapon in her hand in disbelief. She realized Osiris wasn’t lying about the weapon’s design flaws, but ultimately agreed with him about its ability to make a statement.

She rushed over to Krueger and knelt down in front of him, placing Osiris’s hand cannon on the floor to examine his wound. To her relief, she found he wasn’t bleeding. “Are you alright?”

Krueger nodded. “Armor saved my life,” he noted between shallow breaths.

This, as well as his apparent refusal to remove his right hand from his left side, worried Khai. She looked up at CJ, who was just getting back onto his feet after the violence that unfolded around him. “We have to get him out of here now,” she declared.

CJ agreed. “Say no more,” he said. “When they scooped me up they brought me back in through a side entrance. We can use it to slip away without them noticing.” He went to stand and wipe some blood from his brow.

“Do you remember where that exit is, by any chance?”

“End of the hall to the right.” CJ went toward the front door to pull a fire alarm mounted near it. “That should buy us some more time and cover.”

“Good thinking…” She turned back to address Krueger. “I’m going to help you up, Milo,” she said, taking his hand in hers and putting his arm around her shoulders. She propped him up onto his feet and stood up with him; when she was sure he could stand on his own, she retrieved her Glock from its holster once more and eyed CJ. “Let’s go.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” CJ noted. He searched the two bodies on the floor next to him, and found a set of car keys.

Khai peered around the doorway into the hall, and popped back behind cover after spotting half a dozen armed men and women on their way up the stairs, likely to investigate the noise in Osiris’s office. “Damn it,” she hissed. “I hope you’re a good shot, CJ.”

“He won’t have to be,” Krueger said, retrieving his Five-Seven from inside his jacket and handing it to him. “Keep their heads down with this, get them to retreat to the lobby while we find our way down.”

CJ reluctantly took the handgun and took a breath to prepare himself. Then he popped out from behind the doorway and squeezed the trigger several times in the general direction of the event staff. Khai and Krueger took the opportunity to make a break further down the hallway, and CJ scrambled to follow them as he emptied the magazine down the hall.

They made it to the emergency exit stairwell at end of the hall, just where CJ said it would be, by the time the gun was dry. Khai turned around and un-holstered her Glock, bracing herself against the doorway, and took aim. She targeted not the guards but the light fixtures above them. She fired three times at the one between them and her, and succeeded in breaking the thin chain that held it to drop the chandelier and slow the guards.

In the chaos and panic among the other guests, they snuck out the side and around the back of the villa to a parking lot. CJ led them through, tapping the unlock button on the key fob he lifted to guide them to the car it belonged to. When he found the SUV, he hopped into the driver’s seat while Khai joined Krueger in the back to nurse his wound. CJ put the car into drive and took off, passing an oncoming ambulance on his way off the resort grounds.

“Easy,” Khai said from the back seat. “We don’t need to call any attention to ourselves.” She undid Krueger’s waistcoat and shirt, then carefully opened the body armor underneath. She turned the light on above them to get a better look, noting a small cut in his side where the bullet struck the armor as well as some bruising and swelling, confirming her fears. “See if you can find a pharmacy,” she said. “Or anywhere we can pick up a first aid kit. We need to treat his rib fracture.”

“Not to question you,” he said, “but is that really for the best? We should probably get out of Williamsburg, or at least as far away from the resort as possible.”

Krueger nodded. “I agree. Call your father or Isaac. See if they can arrange to get us out of here.” He winced as he straightened up in his seat. “Then we can worry about fixing me.”

Khai waited with Krueger in the parking lot of a CVS some twenty miles from the resort, and conferred with Charles Silvio over the phone while CJ went inside to pick up the first aid supplies she detailed for him. Upon his return with the equipment, Khai explained the situation for them all to hear.

“I spoke to your father,” she said, opening the rear door to step out and meet him outside the idling car. “He thinks the best thing for us right now is to lie low for the night while the dust settles, then he’ll send somebody in the morning for us.”

“So we’re spending the night here?” CJ confirmed. “Balls deep in hostile territory..?”

“I’m afraid so…”

“We’ll need lodging,” Krueger said from the car’s rear bench. “I spotted a discreet motel on the way here.”

“That’s perfect,” Khai said. “They shouldn’t ask questions.” She took the first aid supplies from CJ and stepped back into the car. “Take us to the motel,” she ordered.

“Yes ma’am,” CJ sighed.

Upon their arrival at the motel, CJ stopped the engine to let Khai out and the two of them helped Krueger onto his feet. He followed them from the car to the entrance, and together they made it to the reception area and got the host’s attention.

“Welcome and good evening,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“Hi,” Khai said, fighting to filter the adrenaline from her voice as she spoke to him. “We’ll need three rooms for one night. Next to each other, if that can be helped.”

“Of course,” the receptionist said. “Can I have a name and credit card on file for your stay?”

Krueger reached into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved a stack of neatly folded $100 bills. He placed it on the countertop and slid it toward the receptionist. “Ben Franklin,” he said.

The receptionist looked up at Krueger, then down at the cash, and then back up to Krueger. Nodding, he retrieved three sets of keys from under his desk. “Rooms 203, 204, and 205,” he said. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Franklin.”

“Danke schön.” Krueger took the keys and turned to lead his companions to their rooms. On the way handed CJ one of the keys and $200. “Go to the Goodwill down the road,” he ordered. “Get some cheap clothes that won’t draw attention and deliver them to my room.”

“Y-you bet.” CJ looked at Khai, and back at Krueger. “Um, what’s her size?”

“Take a guess.” Krueger slid the key into his door and entered. Khai followed him inside with the first aid supplies, leaving CJ to walk to the car and fetch their disguises.

Krueger rested his jacket on the back of a chair then went to the bathroom to wash his hands and splash water on his face one-handed. He worked on his shirt while Khai washed up in the bathroom behind him, peering over her shoulder every so often to check on him.

She fished her glasses out of her evening handbag and swapped her contact lenses for them just in time to watch Krueger roll his shoulder, painfully, to get out of his shirt and waistcoat and let them fall to the floor. She saw him struggle to remove the body armor and stepped in to intervene. “Let me,” she said. Gently, she peeled it off of his torso and stepped back to let him walk forward a little. Her eyes lingered on the numerous old battle wounds that were still visible on his bare back and chest.

Krueger tightened his one fist and gingerly held his side with his other hand, covering the growing purple blotch in his side as he slowly sat at the foot of the bed. He shut his eyes and exhaled a profanity before looking back at Khai. “Far from my first broken rib,” he said. “But I never did get used to the pain.”

She bent over to pick his shirt and waistcoat up off the floor and went to the chair his jacket rested over to place them with it. “Good,” she replied, stepping out of her stilettoes on her way to the first aid supplies in their bags by the door. “I’d be worried about you if you were so accident-prone.” She retrieved a bottle of isopropyl solution and a cotton ball from the first-aid kit, opened the bottle, and tilted it onto the cotton ball a few times to absorb enough antiseptic to disinfect the cut. Then, carefully, she applied the cotton ball to the shallow cut in his side. “This doesn’t get any more fun each time,” she added playfully.

“It’s a lot less fun to endure,” he returned. “Believe me.”

“I’ll take your word for it…” She retrieved a fresh cotton ball from the kit and gingerly dabbed the wound to dry it, conscientious of what was beneath the tender skin. Then she reached into the bag for a cold compress. “You know what comes next, right?”

Krueger nodded. “I’m ready for it.”

“I’m sorry in advance,” she said. Then she gently pressed the ice pack to his side, applying just enough pressure to hold it in place.

Krueger winced a little, but didn’t protest much otherwise. “Don’t be. I’m just happy to have you here fixing me. I could have been doing this alone.”

She paused a little at his remark, realizing how different things might have gone tonight if she weren’t there. She considered how far from fine it all went, and felt responsible. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Silvio,” he said.

He was probably right, but she couldn’t ignore other possibilities. “Hold that in place,” she said, then stood up to approach the door, reaching for her Glock resting on the inside of her thigh as she got closer to the peephole. When she confirmed Krueger’s assertion, she holstered the handgun and leaned against the wall to let CJ into the room, carrying bags from the Goodwill store, CVS and a fast food eatery.

“Disguises in here,” he said, laying the Goodwill bag down. “There was also change enough for some overnight stuff—you know toothbrushes, toothpaste, the like. And finally some cheeseburgers, since none of us ate dinner at the resort party... you guys don’t have any dietary restrictions, right?”

Khai shook her head.

Krueger shrugged. “It’s my cheat day.”

“Sure,” he continued, not sure whether he was joking. “Cheat day... One for you, Miss Khai,” he said, handing her one canary-yellow wrapper. “One for, well I would have said Sebastian, but—”

“Krueger.”

“Huh?”

“My name is Milo Krueger.”

Khai nodded, mid-chew. “I can confirm.”

“Right. One for Mr. Krueger…” He reached across Khai to hand him a cheeseburger. “And mine is in the bag… I split the clothes up to make it easier for everyone. Krueger and I are about the same size, so he was wasn’t a problem. For you, I got the smallest things I could find.”

Khai chuckled. “Thanks for trying to flatter me, but it’s for a day. I’m sure I’d be able to manage if you got my size wrong.”

“Well, I guess that’s true.” CJ stood up, taking his bags with him towards the door. “Is there anything else you guys need?”

“I’ll head back after I finish up here. Thank you, CJ.”

“You bet. I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow.” Then CJ Silvio turned and exited the room to return to his quarters for the night.

Khai waited a few moments after CJ left, then stood up from her spot to deposit her cheeseburger wrapper in the bathroom trash bin. She quickly washed and dried her hands then reached up her back to undo her gown, pulling the zipper all the way down on her own and paring it off her slender frame, leaving only a black strapless bra and panties to cover herself. She folded the gown over itself as neatly as she could and crossed the room to place it on the chair with Krueger’s clothes, then removed her garter holster and handgun to rest them there as well. “No way I’m letting you sleep alone tonight,” she said returning to the clothing bags CJ left behind and finding hers. She threw a t-shirt on and went back to the bathroom to grab a few hand towels, then returned to Krueger’s side to take the ice pack away. “You should eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Krueger said.

“I know. But your body will need the nutrients if you want to start healing.”

If Krueger protested, he didn’t show it. He laid the cheeseburger wrapper in his lap to free its contents, then took hold of and bit into it, chewing slowly.

Khai placed the hand towels against his side and had Krueger hold them there while she went to the first-aid kit. She peeled a length of medical tape from the roll and fastened it to Krueger’s sternum, crossing the soft towels and sticking the other end to his back to hold them in place. “You know, you scared the crap out of me tonight,” she admitted.

Krueger swallowed. “How so?”

“When Osiris shot you, you… just fell.” She repeated her actions with another length of tape. “And when you didn’t get up, I thought...” She paused for a bit with a third length of tape to stop her voice from wobbling. “I thought I’d lost you.” She retrieved a pressure bandage and unraveled it, starting to wrap it around his core.

Krueger chewed some more as he put his thoughts together, then swallowed. By now he knew her well enough to know she would be blaming herself for what happened somehow. “It’s not your fault, Liz,” he confided.

“I didn’t have to come with you, but I did. You heard Osiris, he spotted me first.” She secured the bandage in place with the included fasteners and looked up to make eye contact with him, her hand falling into his lap. “If I weren’t there he would never have found us, and you wouldn’t have come that close to dying.” She shut her eyes and shook her head, cursing herself.

“You don’t know that, Liz,” Krueger said. He placed the rest of the cheeseburger into its wrapper to lay his hand on hers. “He could have spotted me anyway, or gotten to Silvio before I could if you hadn’t been there to distract him. I wouldn’t have even known who he was if not for you.” He moved his hand to her cheek and she looked back up at him. “It’s impossible to tell what could have happened if things were different,” he continued. “You can’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t have foreseen. Nobody can predict everything, what’s important is that we all made it out alive. People like us aren’t always so lucky,” he finally said. “I know this.”

Khai took his words to heart and exhaled to calm herself again. Then she stood up, took his face in her hands and placed two kisses square on his mouth. “Don’t you dare get killed out there, Milo Krueger,” she appealed.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

~~~~

Khai kept his promise to him, spending the night by his side and treating his wound as needed. They finally drifted off to sleep after several hours, and when they awoke the next morning Khai took a phone call from Charles Silvio letting her know their transport would be there within sixty minutes.

Khai dressed herself in the pullover hoodie and jeans CJ picked out for her and gathered the rest of her belongings. “Shame about Samantha and Michael,” she jested. “It doesn’t look like they’ll be back to that resort any time soon.”

“Looks that way,” Krueger said, easing a zip-up hoodie over his left shoulder to keep the pressure off his healing ribs. “That’s why I picked up a souvenir.” He walked over to where his suit was folded and reached for the holster, revealing Osiris’s gold-plated hand cannon. “It seemed a shame to leave it behind.” He held it out for her to take.

She picked it up and held it with both hands, running her left thumb over the barrel ports and her right over the slide release. The visible engraved text read AMT AUTOMAG V 50 A.E. Irwindale, CA. “I hate shooting it,” she said with a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “But it makes a hell of a statement.”

“And what better statement to make than owning Osiris’s gun?”

“None better,” she said. She released the magazine and cleared the chamber before placing the gun in her hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, then reached one hand up to caress his cheek and give him a long, appreciative kiss. “Suppose I’d better go maintain the illusion,” she lamented after breaking contact. She returned to the bag that held her gown and shoes from the previous evening, picked it up, and stepped out of Krueger’s room.

“Ja,” he said. “Zurück an die arbeit.” He went back to his suit jacket to fish his belongings out of the jacket and place them into his cargo pants pockets.

~~~~

Khai woke CJ and had him get dressed to meet her and Krueger for breakfast, which they shared mostly in silence. And as promised, Charles Silvio’s driver arrived at the motel within the hour to pick them up and take them back to New York. He dropped Krueger and Khai off at his home in Rego Park for her to collect her car, and took CJ home to his apartment in Astoria.

Khai debriefed Isaac Hayden upon her return home. “Krueger can be up and working in as little as fourteen days,” she concluded, “but in a limited capacity. He should be back to full strength within six weeks.”

“I see,” Hayden said over the phone.

“Any updates from the Company?”

“My sources say Osiris was rushed to a hospital nearby. They say he’s comatose, and his prognosis isn’t good, but they weren’t able to get any other details regarding him. He ran the operation closer to the vest than we suspected, however. His generals are scrambling to keep his network at full functionality, and it’s already starting to splinter. We can expect them to back away from us on fronts across the entire Eastern Seaboard while they pull themselves together.”

“The way I see it sir, there’s no better time to push them out of the region than now.”

“You may be right,” he said. “But in so doing we may end up uniting them against us, and the advantage we’ve gained with Osiris’s removal from the field will be gone. I’ll coordinate with Charles and Dana, we’ll apply just enough pressure to keep them off-balance, and let them destroy themselves.”

“Understood, sir.” She poured fresh coffee from the stovetop pot into a mug and took it with her to her living room, setting down on the couch she got from Amelia’s barely a week ago.

“Charles asked me to thank you and Mr. Krueger again for your help with his son, and advised we keep him on a short leash.”

Khai had an idea about that. “What if we have CJ help me out at the branch? Be my assistant, the way I was to William and Simon.”

“Do you feel he’s up to the task?”

“I do. After what the three of us went through down there, I think he’s matured enough to handle the additional responsibilities. And if it doesn’t work, I’m sure his father can find something for him in Miami.” She took a sip of her coffee.

“On that we agree,” he added, almost chuckling. “I’ll have him report to the branch Monday morning for his new assignment. Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Miss Khai.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hayden,” she said. “Good night.” She ended the call and put the phone down next to her, savoring her coffee as she admired Osiris’s empty AutoMag resting on the table in front of her. She picked the phone back up and dialed another number.

An older woman answered this time. “Hello? This is Gina.”

Khai leaned back into the couch. “Hey mom.”

“Liz!” she extolled. “It’s so good to hear from you again.”

“I know, it’s been a while. Sorry it took me so long to call back I’ve just been so busy at the branch lately.”

“I bet you have been, Miss Branch Controller..! Your father and I can’t tell you how proud we are of you. Running an operation at your age? That’s unheard of.”

“I did have help,” Khai said, trying to be modest. “And a great set of teachers, so you and dad can take thirty percent of the credit.”

“Is that all you’re willing to give us?” she jested.

“Okay,” Khai conceded, laughing. “Forty, but that’s as high as I’ll go..!”

“I’ll take it,” Gina laughed. “So tell me, what else is new with you?”

“Well,” she said, sinking further into the couch and letting it cradle her. “I just hired an assistant—you know Charles Silvio’s son?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah he’ll be helping me out with all the minutiae, and clear my schedule a little.” She paused briefly before continuing. “Also I met somebody.”

“Did you now?”

“I did.”

“Well, don’t leave me hanging, how’d you two meet?”

“He did some work for the branch a few months ago,” Khai began. “Isaac was so impressed he offered him a permanent position, so he’s with us full-time now. He’s a real sweetheart, too… he treats me well, spoils me… you and dad would love him.”

___(Masterlist)

#fiction #original work #original content #original fiction #prose #creative writing #drama #thriller

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