The First Age

One moment Yuri was glimpsing at the asshole who'd crossed his path -- was that really who he thought he was? -- and in the space of an eyeblink he was down on his knees and shoved to the cold tile floor, gasping for air. Fuck Ascendancy's hairy wrinkly balls -- had pretty soldier boy really knifed him in the throat? Nobody was going to act like that toward Yuri, he didn't care who it was they thought he was protecting.

He reached for the power and felt nothing. Fucking pill wasn't working well enough yet. He couldn't sense the power at all. Soldier boy who had sucker punched Yuri in the throat drew a nice black piece -- a Five Seven by the look of it. At least the guy had a nice taste in weapons. Soldier boy behind it looked like he belonged on a recruiting poster, the ones that got bored little teenagers big hard ons cause they saw someone who probably got laid way more than they ever could.

"Your face on the ground now!"
Yeah, like Yuri's face wasn't already pressed to the marble floor. Fine. He made a fine study of the pattern as he continued to choke for air. White tiles inlaid upon a mosaic of black and red marble with gold vein shooting through them. Very pretty. He'd probably appreciate it more had he not been KNIFED IN THE THROAT AND JACKBOOTED TO THE FLOOR.

Yeah, well fuck that guy. Leader of the free world Yuri's ass. What good had he done for Yuri? All he'd done was control the Custodians, and they weren't ever up to any good as far as Yuri was concerned.

And fuck little soldier boy's master. Dude thought he was so much better than anyone else he could just walk into anybody? Yuri resolved to start up his juvenile practice again of defacing any portrait of the fucker with a nice big penis. He was going to add some hair to them balls as well. Make it nice and artistic.

Power swam again in Yuri's vision, just waiting for him to grasp it. Good. He finally regained his breath, and spat out a wad of mucus mixed with blood upon the tile floor. Fuck it. "Dude can still watch where he's going. And I don't care if you're Zeus and try to shove a lightning bolt up my ass. Don't got any right to treat me this way."
If soldier boy got offended, he'd quickly see what things were actually capable of being shoved up people's asses.

Wise men would chase business with ruthless determination. With Yuri's leave, there went the deal of the night. For Silas, of course. Who the fuck cared about that cocky redneck? For candy, though. Silas was damn tempted to lope on after the kid and finish what the two men started.

But the scent was so much sweeter here. With Yuri drifted away a determined and dismissive attitude. Something Silas tended to respect compared to the wimps he normally smacked out of his way. But Oriena smelled like a snowflake cut from sharp glass, and compared to her, Yuri's trail led to rake bush.

The pat on his arm won Jaxen a sneer. Go ahead, it said. Leave your paw on my sleeve. You'll like what happens boy. Smart kid withdrew, and Silas leaped for the chance to nuzzle up to his female while he was busy elsewhere.

He pushed beyond Spectra and her escorts. Virgin pups acted like they'd never had their balls licked before the way they drooled all over her. He didn't fault them far, but Silas was far more interested in someone else.

Gilded eyes reflected warmth that did not come from Oriena. Bitch was smooth as a frozen lake.

Though his intentions were clear, he did not stop to talk to her. Heavy steps carried him close enough to brush his sleeve on her arm and drink in the hungry scent of her flesh while unnatural eyes lingered salacious even as he moved beyond. Perhaps not tonight. And perhaps not tomorrow. But there would come a time when she saw those eyes again, peering from some dark shadow when she least expect it.

Hungry like the wolf? Yes. And wolves do not ask permission.

Silas disappeared around the corner. Maybe not Yuri's, but there was still business to conduct.


Edited by Silas Kole, Dec 3 2013, 12:50 PM.

Easy steps carried Nikolai through the room. A man named Takashita Onada had joined him some minutes after his arrival. He was the cardinal heir to a shipping dynasty that transported goods along DV's Red Sea. Though most greeted the young man by the more informal 'Taka,' Nikolai recognized his family's severe adherence to Japanese tradition, and honored him with a prayerful bow. It was Takashita, after all, who pushed the empire to expand westward to Port Sudan, Asseb, and as far south as Djbouti on the Arabian Sea. It was a dangerous trade, but the extension of Japanese superpowers beyond the traditional waters of the Far East won prosperity in lesser developed parts of the world. Theirs', and others' like them, were ventures Nikolai wholeheartedly approved. He had a vision, after all, and his Custody had only begun to gather the continents to one banner.

Of course, nobody anticipated the Ascendancy's arrival at such an event as this. The only red carpet unfurled before him this night was the one that led to his helicopter hidden away on Kremlin grounds. No caravan of mighty automobiles warned the people of Moscow City of his arrival, and here, among skyscrapers numerous as blades of grass, helicopter lights frequently dotted the night sky. Nobody knew his destination, none but the Security Service, and one other: the man privileged by the Ascendancy's favor to have won a place on The Sphere. It was he whose deference quietly arranged for a number of important faces to attend the evening's elegance, though at the time he was ignorant the reason why. Takashita's, for instance, who was in the process of inviting the Ascendancy to do their family the immense honor of visiting the industry's port base in the DV city of Jeddah, a mere eighty kilometers from Mecca. Surely the time could be arranged, as he would already be in the area. Takashita practically begged while leading him through the room. To which Nikolai was on the cusp of grasping the man's hand with more western-style acknowledgement, but he was suddenly wrenched away by a blow to the shoulder, caught hard by the bony arm of another man's. Footwork kept him upright, but a hard shove to the chest sent him staggering. If it hadn't been for Alric's quick thinking, Nik was sure to have taken a hard fall. True to CSS assignment, Alric spun on the assailant, while his partner practically pasted himself as a second shield to his Ascendancy.

Alric's command served to contain the young man, but also sent the room to eerie silence as onlookers realized what was happening. Adrenaline that spiked every hair on his body to attention soon dissipated, and with it, the sudden appearance of his more choleric side - a disposition few witnessed. His frown quickly smoothed diagnostic, even in face of the young man's crude comments.

There were other peculiarities about him besides treasonable insurgency: ill-refinement for one and his appearance for another. The shrill cut of his voice demanded remuneration, which Nikolai verged on allowing. And none here would deny the Ascendancy the right to blight the impotent fool with destruction.

But such a reaction was overextending the bounds of civilized behavior, and more importantly, ever the masterful politician, his impotence was exactly what piqued Nikolai's interest. How exactly did an outsider come to pierce the aristocrat's exclusive veil to wander an extravaganza such as this? His was such an ambiguity Nikolai never failed to exploit.

The severity of his gaze had long faded into one of considerable patience, but before Alric continued to demonstrate his literal adherence to protocol, Nikolai raised his hands. With one he ordered the second agent from his path and with the other he commanded Alric to stand down.

And in the clearing around the obviously injured guest, Nikolai knelt and offered to help him to his feet. "It seems I am out of practice when it comes to maneuvering crowds,"
the excuse he offered as convoluted, but fair, apology. "But you will have to excuse our brothers in Security Service. They take these things quite seriously."
Upon easing the man to his feet, Nikolai looked him over. Already, the attention being given him earned the formerly passed-over outsider a curious survey by women and men whom might otherwise never dream to welcome him. Attention from the Ascendancy, no matter how brief, was as rewarding as the golden touch of King Midas. And this young man was going to walk away from the night not only having shaken the Ascendancy's hand, but also the bearer of an apology.

"Allow me to make it up to you. Or at least to your throat and knee. Will you be alright?"
As he spoke, butler service brought them warm towels and their choice of beverages. Nikolai plucked a gorgeous globe of Baccarat crystal stemware, and offered it to a man who somehow escaped hell on earth. So far.

"Warm towel?"
He offered with a deeply trustworthy gesture.

The man wisely kept his face to the ground, but the mere attempt to speak was the unwise sign of non-compliance. It nearly earned him a swift boot to his person, but the man’s mouth was saved by the Ascendancy’s order to stand down. Alric stepped aside to allow Brandon passage and smooth movements saw his weapon holstered. He was not, however, so out of reach to be unable to quell any additional, foolish rudeness towards his Excellency. He awaited alongside, relaxed, but poised to strike. By the time he scanned the onlookers for signs of additional trouble, the tension had already faded from his expression.

The Ascendancy knelt and offered the out-of-place male assistance and condolence for his man’s action. Alric approved the lack of actual apology. The Ascendancy hadn’t done any wrong, and Alric certainly wouldn’t apologize for following CSS protocol. There was no reason to expect that one individual, no matter how inebriated, would not recognize who he struck. Still Alric searched for the lesson in Brandon’s actions. There had to be an ulterior motive, one that Alric couldn’t see. Yet.

Divine Power boiled just within reach. He thought of harnessing it. Not only would his senses sharpen, but would help him better keep guard. In the end, while witnessing the assailant’s interaction with the man he attacked and insulted, he decided to continue to trust in mortal training, including the harsh lessons that Brandon continued to reinforce. Honestly it would be an insult to our sanctity to use it on so small an individual.

What worried him was the DV uprising. This was a mere bump in the shoulder taken the wrong way, but what would happen on tour that could not be stopped with guns and brute force? Many dismissed such rumors of earthquakes and lightning on a clear day as religious nonsense, but he and the Ascendancy knew unnatural capabilities spurred strange events on a whim. It would be foolish for them to dismiss such things off-handedly. Alric was going to have to sharpen his watch all the more, now.

"A bit of fresh air does the body good, right miss?"
Drayson helped a lovely young Tahitian woman to a chair as her date stormed off to the washroom to try and get the stains in his expensive suit out from where she had spilled her drink on him, startled as she was by the commotion of the crashing doors. "I've never understood why boys like that get so worked up over a spilled drink. Most of them will never wear the same shirt twice, yes?"


The woman smiled timidly, clearly preoccupied with concern over what her date might do to vent his anger later that night. Drayson had seen the man's type plenty of times before. Once upon a time he had been just another stock and file beat cop, responding to domestic disturbance calls a couple times a night. He'd learned a long time ago that there were some folks you just couldn't help, but some stubborn part of him kept offering. It was what set him apart from others; he was as bitter and worn as one could expect, but he didn't let it drag him down.

Drayson dug into his pocket to pull out one of his business cards and frowned when he found something entirely out of place there-in. He pulled out a ring. A rather expensive ring. He glanced at the Tahitian woman, or more specifically her expensive necklace, then to the ring again. The fellow that had joined him at the snack table was likely to blame.

He sighed quietly and carefully returned the ring to the woman's finger, making no effort to hide the fact that it had somehow come from his pocket. Before she could comment however, there was a new disturbance that rippled through the room. He slid the ring back on the woman's finger and stood, plucking free one of his cards and holding it out to her, offering her a tired smile. "Hope you'll use it, lass. No need to be wasting your time with a child like that."


She took the card with a frown, but before she could offer whatever excuse she was clouding herself with to justify the relationship, Drayson just turned and assessed the most recent commotion. It was turning into quite the interesting party, as far as this sort of shin-dig went anyway. His gaze swept the room, and his height gave him a clear view of just what was going on.

He let out an impressed whistle at the sight that greeted him. The Ascendancy himself had made an appearance. And, apparently, already run afoul of some of the party's guests.

Drayson had never had the pleasure of meeting the man that, in concept at least, signed his cheques. His entire purpose of inviting himself to the party had been to remind the CCD's higher ups to step lightly, but surely Ascendancy's presence would do a far better job of that. The man had a bit of a reputation for not humouring idiots.

He strolled through the crowd easily enough; even with all eyes on Ascendancy and his new-found 'friend', it was hard not to notice a man as large or oddly dressed as Drayson, and most were willing to step out of his way. He wouldn't intrude on them, but wouldn't pass up the chance to shake the man's hand either. After all, it was this man's hard work that had set the stage for Britain's rise from the ashes, so to speak.

The pain in Yuri's throat had already subsided to a dull ache, a pleasant side effect of the Blue Candy Yuri had taken. He felt the firm grasp of the man's – the Ascendancy's
– hand in his own, muscles pulling taut as he was helped to his feet. Had he really heard an apology for what had happened? His eyes rose to meet the Ascendancy, who held out a fancy crystal glass for Yuri to take, and he wondered if the drug was making him hallucinate.

“Warm towel?”


Yuri accepted the offer and pressed the towel to his throat. He took a deep drink from the glass and couldn't tell what the fuck it was. He must have bit the back of his tongue when Soldier Boy karate chopped him because he still couldn't taste anything but the metallic tingle of blood.

“Thank you, Ascendancy,”
Yuri said. Thank you?
When the fuck was the last time Yuri thanked anybody for anything? This was Yuri's world. He got what he wanted and to hell with anything else, it wasn't his problem. “It was half my fault really, I overreacted.”
Yeah. Yuri was definitely hallucinating. His mouth just seemed to want to keep putting words out there before the thought could form in his head. He could totally turn this thing to his advantage – in maybe some profitable ways! Fuck, the most powerful man in the world had just admitted fault to causing him injury. Well, close enough to an admission.

A shiver crawled down Yuri's spine that had nothing to do with either his injury or his intoxication. He gave the Ascendancy a halfhearted chuckle to cover the rising tension in his stomach. Best say something else. “At least now we both know that Soldier Boy over there is good at what he does.”


The tension on his spine grew, and Yuri began to feel a pressure he couldn't quite grasp the nature of. It was like the air was heavier, pushing against him from all sides – especially his head. His next breath became a chore, his legs grew weak, and something tugged at him deep inside as if a hook had been shoved down his throat and he was being reeled into a current. He wondered if in his pursuit of the dragon he'd finally overtaken the beast and was about to be devoured.

In vain hope of relieving the pressure, Yuri's mouth blurted out the next thing that came to his mind. “I'm good at what I do too. I can do things.” Fuck, no you didn't just say that.


The golden light of the power sang to him, and for the first time in many, many years, Yuri felt afraid.

He reached for it.


Edited by Yuri Obrechennyy, Dec 9 2013, 05:04 AM.

Oriena wasn’t entirely bored, but neither was she invested in the social scenery. Her reputation did not hang in the balance of a well-timed smile or the coy curve of lashes; she did not seek to impress the elite in all their golden glory, nor ingratiate herself to the sparkle of wealth and power. She could play the game - as and when it pleased her to do so - but games needed stakes and winnings, and these people had nothing she wanted. Had she been so inclined, even the promise of a decent fuck would not have stopped her walking out the door to find entertainment more aligned to her taste; but, although she was not drawn to the opulent glamour, she was not actively repelled either. Now that she was here, she was content - if not exactly enthused - to stay at the bar.

Her air of solitude was wrapped in dismissive confidence; Ori was comfortable with her own company - fuck, in most cases it was preferable - and she barely offered any indication of notice when Jaxen fluttered off to mingle. “Date” or not she was no jewel to parade on a man’s arm, and she did not require him to fawn at her side like she was fragile as glass – or, worse, like she was too precious to leave unattended. His absence made little impression. The alcohol slipped down cold and numb, and the room played out its habitual dance under her detached gaze. From time to time Jaxen caught her eye, and eventually she indulged his showmanship with a captive audience of one. Whatever her reaction to his brand of entertainment lay muted in the heat of her gaze, but she did not turn away from the chaos.

Her attention finally cut cold when wind whipped through the guests with enough force to send people staggering. She felt nothing, but after the evening’s revelations she hardly needed the explanation Jaxen returned to so fervently offer. His eyes were wild with a light she’d usually have found intoxicating; offer Ori a hand into the maelstrom, and she was a whole-hearted accomplice to the chaotic unknown. A sly smile hitched the corner of her lips, but Cara’s warnings left their mark. Memories thumped a dull parade of caution: the sensation of delicate finger-bones crunching underfoot. The stench of burning flesh. It sobered her recklessness, casting Jaxen in shades of naivety rather than thrill. Her smile was not complicit; it was cold.

A display like that drew eyes, not all of them friendly.

Jaxen was intent on dragging her to its epicentre, and the last thing she wanted was the possibility of scrutiny by association. Ori considered, then, that his fear of snakes might be entirely literal; that he knew of no reason to practice care. Recognition of foolishness did not temper her with restraint, though neither did she feel any debt of protection towards a man who was kin. Kin of a sort anyhow. Jaxen would learn his lessons or he wouldn’t; Ori had no intention of getting caught in the crossfire. But she would watch how things unfolded, and she didn’t resist the hand that pulled her onward.

One of the guys, gaunt-faced and scowling, pushed his way out as they approached, like he were scalded by the tail end of an argument. Or a lost battle. A glaze blanketed his anger, severing reason from control and leaving wild volatility to flail unchecked at the apparent defeat. The familiar tells of addiction sunk his eyes; he had even less right to be here than she did, and someone had now loosed him like a stray arrow into the midst of the nouveau riche. Faint amusement trailed his path; she was almost inclined to follow the destruction, but there were other reasons to stay. Fear had darkened Jaxen’s face moments before, and the brief weakness ignited a cruel curiosity. When her gaze returned to what remained of the small gathering, however, it was neither Jaxen nor the object of his fear that fell into focus.

The hunger of burnished eyes drew her attention.

Their owner was primal in a way that didn’t fit this house of painted faces and glass masks. Savagery scored the most visceral of emotion across his face, but it was his eyes that made him seem unnatural. Animal eyes, set into the face of a man. She might have ignored his licentious stare altogether but for the casualness of the confidence that accompanied it; for that he at least earned her acknowledgement. Neither disdain nor invitation stirred in response to the elemental heat of him, but challenge rolled off her in waves as he stepped in close. She was not an object he could claim, though he could try. The burn of those yellow eyes might as well have been the sun trying to heat the cool surface of the moon, but in the darkness she offered the hint of a smile. He could try.

As the heat of his brush against her arm retreated, she joined the final remains of the group that had dispersed like seeds upon Jaxen’s arrival. Those left did not look wholly enamoured of his company, though he wasn’t the only one to earn the echo of derision. Despite the initial dismissal, a vibration of harmony sang from the woman; the only of the gathering she could put a name to, other than the name Jaxen had put to White. It was a rare recognition, worthy of pause, but it was the way she sank into her companion that sharpened the edge of a cool smile from Ori’s lips. Spectra Lin was a woman to sear jealousy into the hearts of other women, and it explained the unusual cluster of men drawn like filaments to a magnet, but was she really so fucking meek?

Both seemed eager to take their leave; how fucking disappointing. A low hum of laughter left Ori’s throat, gaze still on Spectra, senses still exploring the nuances of affinity she’d barely felt since Cara. How many of us are there? Something like exhilaration fluttered in her stomach - not for the camaraderie, but for the change it heralded. As the Sickness budded and spread and bloomed. All these souls nestled safe in their towers of wealth were not as secure as they thought. “Well, this is a pleasant reunion.”
The mockery was evident, laced with amusement. Her attention finally turned to the man who’d clouded Jaxen’s arrogance with fear, not quite sure whether she intended to entreat as enemy or ally. “So what did he steal from you?”

Perhaps it was how he was dressed. Maybe it was all the drugs going around. Whatever it was, people seemed far too willing to cross his path. Maybe he was just too well adjusted lately? Then again, he had just killed a half-dozen people and handed one over to be tortured...and had maybe shared a few interesting ideas to that end. So no, that probably wasn't it.

No, he was just surrounded by a bunch of cocky assholes who thought themselves untouchable. How inflated was Jaxen's ego that he was prancing about like nothing had happened? Did he think that Hood had come down into that sewer to save him? The fellow clearly needed to be taken down a few pegs some time.

Hood shifted his stance slightly as Spectra returned to his side and gave Yuri a glance as the man departed in a defeated sulk. Silas continued to prove himself the more concerning one of the two; the man was dangerous. Truth be told, both were, but Yuri was street-crime dangerous. Silas was something else.

He wasn't so rude as to not shake Jaxen's hand when the man made the offer, but his grip was pointedly firm; a subtle hint that Jaxen was walking on thin ice with Hood at the moment. He was a patient man, but it was not limitless.

"No. Not common. Common pickpockets don't get into near as much trouble as you do."
He looked to Oriena then, "A lighter. And a lot of wasted time. Luckily for him, I was well payed for that time. Doubly luckily for him, I had a chance to get my lighter back, before he could get himself into any more trouble."

Who knew that White could be so civil? Jaxen sure as shit didn't. A gleam in his eye and a handshake? And no karate chop? Hell, for White, they were way past civility. Practically ready to braid each other's hair and wage epic pillow-battle. Hell yes! Jaxen would count the night as a success. Never mind the finger-crunching grip that came along with the handshake; White was a big guy. Probably just didn't know his own strength. That, and, Jaxen's line of work led to fingers slender and shapely; and were rather easily crushable.

Sore, Jaxen gladly withdrew his hand, and twirled his fingers open and closed a few times to make sure everything was still attached. That kind of injury would be a shame - for Oriena. Shit, it'd be a shame for him too. He was rather fond of his hands. They came in rather useful when White's mom was out of town.

So a gentlemen's handshake in the presence of fairer folk - Spectra and himself that is; fair didn't quite describe everything that was Oriena - and White turned into a tiger pacing the length of the cage.

But tigers were much more entertaining when they had a circus act to perform. And ringmaster Jaxen was in the mood to crack the whip. So, on to White's first trick.

White's answer watered Jaxen's smile wide, which grew proud and boastful. Trouble to Jaxen was as nice a compliment as he could receive. "Ah, White. I had no idea you could be so flattering."
He shot approval at Spectra, "he's a keeper, Miss Lin, this one. Good with his hands too."
Jaxen could attest, which he emphasized with a mischevous wink. The guy could render regular mortals unconscious with the lift of a finger. Though hopefully Spectra didn't see that side of him. Unless she liked it rough, that is. But he'd seen her movies, and something told Jaxen she might.

But the rest of White's answer was woefully lacking in a minor detail - the truth. For Oriena's sake, of course, Jaxen piped up to help his old friend out. "Let's not be modest, White."
Jax went on to explain, "It was an impressive Zippo. Well cared for, but for a few scratches here and there."
How sad. But when did something sentimental have to be in mint condition?

"But let's set the record straight, White. I'm much appreciative of that Zippo. Shackled and chained in a shithole dungeon, it isn't exactly easy to break free - even for me. If it weren't for that zippo, well--"
he shrugged but clearly was riding the mischief high to tell stories like the two men were old brothers in battle. Which in a sense, could be true.

Of course their camaraderie needed exemplified. "--I suppose I could say I owe that zippo my life."
As its owner, that claim could also be laid at White's feet. But screw destiny, serendipity could suck his dick for all Jaxen cared. Jaxen got himself in trouble and he got himself out of trouble. But it was too much fun to torture White about it in the meantime.

He moved closer. It wasn't camouflaged by distraction. He moved in the way regular people did, but aimed for the pocket where Jaxen guessed Hood's zippo to be nestled. Apparently the guy'd never heard of electronic cigs these days. That or he carried the treasure around like a keepsake. Which was fine. Even tigers had their security blankets.

When he crossed that invisible barrier that was White's personal space, there was a distance in Jaxen's eye that sharpened with his senses. He half expected to finally feel that karate chop take off a hand. Or maybe another elbow to the temple. If a limb flailed, this time Jaxen intended to duck; he was ready.

But nothing happened. He pat the chest of Hood's tasteful suit, and sure enough, a thin square was nestled behind the coat.

Jaxen stayed there a moment, eye to daring eye, in case White changed his mind and decided his patience had finally been breached. The surge of mischief dampened any fear from when he first saw the man. Jaxen had balls, but he wasn't an idiot. Seeking the edge of what was allowed was a dangerous cliff to walk, and he intended to piss off the side rather than fall off.

But White did nothing, and the thrill of success vanquished every other emotion. The guy gave Jaxen an enormous leash: from helping himself to cigars to a pat-down when he was well and truly aware that Jaxen could have swiped pretty much anything on the man, and probably gotten away with it too. Lucky for him, Jaxen had his own conquest for the night and wasn't too bedazzled by the jewelry on his arm. Otherwise, it might have been Spectra that he tried to slip in his pocket.

Freed and in tact, Jaxen backed to a more normal spacing. Supposing it was time to let the merry couple on their way. "You two kids have fun."
His grin was triumphant, if a little disappointed the two women didn't jump one another. But that was fine. Besides, hunting was far from over for the night.

His wink for Oriena was cut short once more by another surge of the almighty force that drew them away from the heart of the party in the first place. He nodded back the way they came. "Fuck me, but can everyone --"
he blanked for a second. Coming up with a creative term for what they did was going to require more sober thought than tonight allowed "--you know?"
and shrugged.

By the time they made it back, the crowd had quieted, and a sneaking feeling itched the back of his neck that something was more off than usual. But there was no point being melodramatic about it. He grinned, turning to Oriena. "Can't be out of champagne already?"




<small>((Hood's moding done with permission))</small>


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Dec 11 2013, 12:34 PM.

Silas and Yuri skulked away. Their defeat filled Spectra with the thrill of a woman's conquest. This was where her power was bred, in toying with the strings of men's desire, rather than brutish force. It was their own fault. She was the product of evolution. A manipulative child prodigy had to adapt or die. Given her upbringing, Spectra adapted flawlessly.

Her confidence soared among the stars, and it remained broad and strong as Hood's capable shoulders. She looked to him, triumphant in her own success. However, when the sickening presence of a sweet sister emerged, the prize in her enchanted fans shifted. Silas snapped like a croc's jaws on a slab of meat, and it was clear who it was he wanted to devour. The object of his admiration turned toward the one whom Spectra warmed as well.

She was a blunted, semi-precious stone, pale and flat. The mournful sound of a howler monkey crying in the distance. How an animal like Silas could turn his back on Spectra and seek out this clawing beast in her place was inconceivable.

Jaxen's approach refrained her from damning him for his foolishness, and she laid back on her branch like a jaguar deciding its prey was not worth the chase. Jaxen was entertaining enough for the moment, and Spectra derived no shortage of delight that Oriena's man had abandoned her.

She smiled seductively. Jaxen was young and handsome, and she could thoroughly imagine the tingling graze of his fingertips along her skin. Dark haired and pale faced, he was as Russian as the bleeding walls of the Kremlin. Spectra meanwhile was a golden goddess, warm and swaying as the sands of the Sahara. Her dark rimmed eyes mystic with ancient promise, like some barely grasped civilization whose stories still beguiled mankind today.

When Jaxen goaded Hood, Spectra's smile parted to a glistening pair of lips. She removed her arm from his elbow, not because he needed both arms to drop a scrappy belligerent like Jaxen, but because when he did, she wanted the gratification of a good view, and show off the classic, my man is better than yours, for Oriena.

However, Spectra was not antagonistic for the sole purpose of war-mongering. In the end, she was still a working-girl, and Jaxen, as nouveau riche, a potential client. One whose company she would not mind sharing in the future, especially if it came with an enormous boost in her bank account. Little else mattered more than money in this world. Except, perhaps, the respect of her inferiors, but the two thrones of money and respect were tangled more closely than her intentions for the night - whether that involved two, three, or a foursome - her time could always be purchased with the right currency.

For now, the man that gave her the freedoms she wielded today, paid for her company back in the tangled hellhole that was Colombia. Spectra's life was a harsh line, but she was not an unfair ruler of the hive, and sometimes the queen wanted to enjoy the honey of her worker's labors.