The First Age

Continued from: Rebirth of slick


Spectra had not left Marcus alone to fend for himself for long. She was already exquisitly arranged for the evening. Her hair fell like needles around her angled cheeks. Her eyes glistened mysterious as the Dark Continent. She was wearing an appropriate arrangement of haute couture straight from the runway with the sort of places Spectra Lin found herself on a night like theirs. Black pants made the twin stems of her legs nighttime rivers of sheen. A wide band wrapped her tiny waist to her rib cage. Her top lay like a short-waisted cloak made of golden scales across her shoulders, held closed at the neck and flared open toward the waist. The reversed plunged neckline would keep her chest and stomach cold, but a long red fur would see to her comfort.

Kolomon shadowed her as she plucked Marcus from where he waited. She greeted him with a fond smile as one rekindling an old flame. The Sigma was waiting on her. How thrilling.

She snaked her arm into his without preamble, and this time made to curl her fingers around his bicep. "Bar Oxygen?"
The arrangements were already made for them to crash the lavish pre-club scene bar and restaurant perched on the top floor of the many Moscow skyscrapers, but she asked like he had a say in the matter.

As he expected, Spectra went to change, her guard heeling her. He turned to look over the edge of the balcony, down at the masses of people. Flashes periodically intruded onto his vision- his face was getting more well known the longer he was in Moscow. Whether at Kremlin functions or associating with people like Spectra Lin, his anonymity was shrinking. He wondered at what that meant for his other activities. Executing justice was going to require more clandestine measures than those he'd taken back home.

His eyes hovered above the masses of people, the cacophony of their voices floating up to where he was. It was suddenly tiresome. What he needed was peace. Who knew how long Spectra would be. Women seemed to delight in keeping men waiting. He began his meditations, eyes closed, and gradually the world of flashes and voices and intrusion faded away. There was only stillness in the infinite void. And there, beckoning, was the Force, pulsating, calling to him.

He watched it, thinking. The hunger he normally felt to take it was not there. Instead, defiance slithered in his chest. For all his vaunted power, it was not the Force that had made him, that had brought him here. Seizing the Force meant wrestling with power, strangling it, making it submit to him. He was master. It was his force of will that had put him in the Kremlin, before the Ascendancy, even here with Spectra Lin. He controlled his destiny.

Malik sneered at the Force in contempt. He was subserviant to nothing in this universe. He did not need the power of the Force to win. That was his to do. The Force was merely a tool. Nothing more. No longer did he feel an overriding need for it. It pulsed and called and he ignored it. He was master.

He looked down. The deepest dark red leather long coat hung from his fingers. He pushed away from the rail and swung into his long coat. It covered his platinum metal cloth vest and black pants. The coat was tapered so that it was widest at his shoulders- exagerrated but not padded- but narrow at his waist, then flared to his calves. He was the master here. Let the people take pictures.

The susurration of the crowd grew to a loud buzz as Spectra returned. She had taken much less time than he'd expected. Now that was a woman. Her hair spiked around her face, jagged and cold. As if she had read his mind, a cloak of golden snake-scales, wide at the shoulders and buttoned at the neck, swept open to reveal naked flesh beneath her exquisite breasts, exposing her flat middle. A wide belt emphasized the narrowness of her waist, the contrast with her chest and shoulders obvious. And then, black pants, glistening, hugged the flair of her hips and ass, the curves drawing the eyes, tapering into legs that a sculptor would weep at. His eyes caressed her body from top to bottom. She was a dark, beautiful queen.

She came to him, as befitting his station, and snaked her arm into his, hand on his bicep. He stifled the urge to flex. He was no chimp on display. If he was, he'd call on the Force and demonstrate his mastery, Ascendancy or no. But such vulgar presentations were pathetic. He looked down at her, placing his larger hand over the tiny one on his arm.

At her suggestion of a place, he nodded. "I only arrived a few months ago. And most of that time is spent inside the Kremlin. I am sure whatever you suggest will be more than adequate for the two of us."
Malik's lips curved into a genuine smile at her- so lovely indeed- and then turned to the crowd. Let them look and fawn and take pictures. He strode forward, this darkly beautiful woman on his arm, a king and queen before all. His gaze ahead was steely and the crowd parted as if by magic.

They arrived at the exit and behind the parting crowds was a limo. The driver saw Spectra and opened the door. Malik led her to the vehicle and assisted her inside and then entered himself. Kolomon, appropriately, went to the front with the driver. Once the doors had closed, the noise all but disappeared as the vehicle drove away. The silence was almost deafening.

He looked into Spectra's green eyes, an admiring smile on his face. He allowed his eyes to drift down her body, his mind's hand, taking her in completely, an inch at a time. Then he looked back into her eyes, smile deepening. His voice low, he said "You are a queen.
He nodded outside their windows. "And your control of the crowd is nothing short of brilliant."
He shook his head slowly. "Just brilliant."
His eyebrow cocked. "They see the you that you want them to see."
He smiled approvingly.
Edited by Marcus DuBois, Sep 7 2014, 10:50 AM.

Of course she was a queen. She did not need to hear the Sigma tell her so. However, the adoration of her subjects was not something she was one to interrupt.

Her smile was sweet when she looked at him. The actress in her, after all, had been groomed since the day she was snatched from Cuba. When she wanted to display innocence, her mind shifted into innocence. Many powerful men liked demure women. Yet when her eyes lifted to the window previously occupied by Marcus' studious gaze, the whimsy behind her cinnamon expression melted into sovereignty. The transformation was purposeful like a cat stretching its claws to make sure the prey knew they were sharp.

"I have yet to see how well you control the crowd. So far, I must admit, I have been disappointed."


She stretched an arm along the ridge of soft leather cushions. Together, the hems of their coats blended like twin pools of blood.

The look in her eyes transformed her from wide eyed innocent to queen surveying her realm in moments. That she thought that included him was funny, but he didn't care to correct her. She wore mood and impression like a chameleon. Everything she did was premeditated and calculated to elicit a specific reaction.

As if in demonstration, her statement flashed with the speed of a barb flying from horseback. It was designed to prick, to make him bluster in anger. Malik laughed. Did she think him in her arena? A low chuckle began in his chest and he looked at her. "Do you fancy yourself a picador, Señorita?"
His laughter slowly died. He let the amusement in his eyes show, an apologetic smile on his face. He tilted his head as if conciliatory. "Alas, my dear, I am no bull. Nor am I here for your amusement. But I am truly sorry you feel disappointed."


He raised an eyebrow and looked around the spacious interior of the limo, gestured to it with a shift of his head. "You will note that there is no audience here."
He tilted his head, showing interest. "And yet you continue to perform."


He thought about his own masks, the people he became and portrayed in his every interaction with others. And the overriding hunger that drove him, that had taken him from a broken trail of terrors and foster homes and brought him to Moscow, to the Ascendancy and the center of power. The car was still. "I wonder what the real Spectra wants out of all of this,"
he waved gesturing to the limo, to the life that she had.

An idle question. She would not answer, he knew. Of course he understood. He doubted he'd answer her if she asked him either. No matter. It was merely a brief curiosity.


Edited by Marcus DuBois, Sep 8 2014, 09:58 PM.