A lighter hardly warranted the tension rife as pregnant rain clouds about the two men. Perhaps the fact it had been lifted in the first place had more to do with it, but most probably it was Jaxen himself who coaxed the storm about his own head, through the obstinate desire to provoke. White’s severe blanket disapproval provided all the fodder and all the motivation required for a guy like Jaxen; he latched on to the dislike White displayed in every rigid line of his expression, and twisted to get a reaction. It was entertainment and risk to its own ends – childish – but Ori saw no reason to interfere with the stage once set. Her gaze drifted instead to the silent woman at White’s side, by far the more interesting of the company, if only by virtue of their... affinity.
Presence clung to every shapely curve of her body, making poor imitation of every billboard upon which her face was plastered and every movie in which her flesh was bared, but power subject to the whims of others was no power at all. Spectra crested the apex of her profession, but all it meant was that the chains about her throat were gilded. She invited the highest bidder to hold the leash, perhaps not always for the simple currency of cold hard cash, but it was still herself she sold, her value negotiated by the lusts of men; and most of those fuckers probably hardly worth the time Spectra invested. Pride was too deep an infection in Ori to consider the notion with little other than derision. Power, real power, infused the veins beneath that golden skin. Yet she still chose to make an object of herself.
The coolness of her smirk faded when Spectra shifted her sultry gaze, replaced by a glint in her eye. Ori could feel the undercurrents of the game being played, and she did so love a game. Jaxen was a toy; one she might easily discard, and not one she would fight for the attentions of if he got it into his head to rally a war. Not a man alive had the capacity to dig so deep under Ori’s skin as to ignite that kind of care. Rejection was met with the cold mask of indifference and the swift poison of retribution, but the sin of indecision fared little better. Genuine or an artifice to garner a reaction, she was still disposed to turn her back on the man who wavered. As such Spectra offered the wrong stakes, but Oriena was willing to play anyway; her spine would snap before she walked away from a challenge.
But either Jaxen didn’t notice the subtleties around him, or he was too caught up in toeing the line with White. The tautness between them faded when the other man refused to engage the pettiness, and Jaxen chose to pluck triumph from the impasse. Not that it quite looked like victory to Ori; White tolerated with the grace of a man who knew full well how easily he could crush, and his staunch silence did not have the air of submission. It was an anti-climatic finale, and she was somewhat disappointed nothing escalated from the confrontation. Not because she particularly cared of the outcome, but simply because it would have broken the harmonious monotony and clinking glasses and polite laughter.
By that sinful grin, it seemed Jaxen was done with his pissing contest. Truth told, Ori was reluctant to leave the sport. Spectra lounged like a lazy predator, but the exotic languidness of her suggested volatility when roused. Jaxen’s loyalty would probably gutter like a candle in the wind under the smallest pressure – and Spectra was sure to offer some very delicious pressure – but it wasn’t for pursuit of him that she’d test herself against Spectra’s claws. It would just be for the thrill of conflict, to exacerbate the sensation of being uninvited company. Draw some blood. It was probably testament to the calibre of the party that such juvenile entertainment offered so much temptation.
But then Jaxen had to open his unruly mouth, and priorities changed. He’d spoken of a history with White that darkened suspicion in her mind; that, and what White had said about being paid at the time. Dungeons spoke of the Undercity, a place Jaxen had little right and even less motive to be; down there, his silver-tongue was like to get him a knife in the gut or a bullet to the head. Ori dealt in secrets, and Jaxen hinted carelessly at a very dangerous one. The hard lines of White’s form held like coiled springs, and there was a flatness in his eyes she did not trust.
She laughed dryly, either at what Jaxen had said or the lost shrug that followed it. He’d taken a dozen liberties with her tonight, and she didn’t refrain from repaying the courtesy. The alcohol loosening her limbs added authenticity to the flirtatious way she snaked closer, brushing her fingers at the back of his neck, wilfully ignorant as to whether White and Spectra still bothered to watch or had already vacated. This close, the rest of the world blocked out, lust licked liked gentle flames against her expression. Oriena might be casually dismissive of her surroundings and the people who populated her peripheral like shadows, but her shroud of apathy served a purpose. When her interested was stoked, it was to the detriment of everything – and everyone –else. Her intensity was a force to be reckoned with, and more importantly, was a favour that could not be bought.
Buoyed by his ego, he’d probably assume it a possessive reaction to Spectra Lin. She didn’t give a fuck, but he wouldn’t be entirely wrong. The distraction did serve another purpose, however. She pressed a finger to his lips, teasing. There was steel amongst the silk, a flash of shut the fuck up warning amidst the raw desire. “You’ll get used to it.”
Ori liked him enough to whisper the hint of advice, though it was not all kindness. The fucker happened to be privy to her secret, too.
She was blatant in her hushing of him, but unless White had reason to suspect anything untoward of Jaxen - and there was nothing she could do about that - she doubted he would think much of the display. Drugs flowed freely at these events, and neither Ori's dress nor manner truly fit with the landscape. It wasn't difficult to imagine how she might be leading him astray. Well, further astray. He wasn't exactly all angelic wings.
She was tempted to eke a reaction from her actions, to see just how far she could push him. It would be fair recompense. But then something clicked, and she smiled at him instead. Not the habitually cold smirk she so often used to deride the world around her, but something that sparked a kaleidoscope of brilliant chaos. Mischief breached her indifference as she toyed with the secret Jaxen had inadvertently revealed, to her. These eruptions of power he could sense were like flares in the pitch black night. He doesn’t know who’s doing it. Which meant he couldn’t sense others the way she could.
She withdrew, though the wickedness remained. Brief as Jaxen encompassed her entire world she stepped back into apathy. Some men would pursue that provocative mirage until they bled, but she doubted Jaxen was one of them. He wouldn’t chase – for that matter neither would she – but it was just as well; he was fucking trouble. Fun trouble, granted, but not the sort to last much beyond morning. Which of course meant her smile was still sharp as a blade as she turned. “You can tell me about the dungeon later.”
The party they returned to was more subdued than the one they had left. Whispers filled the quiet spaces between the melodies of music, but the disquiet nonetheless rippled interest through her – if Jaxen’s quip was met with little more than a look. Having arrived on the tail end of the disturbance, it would not take either of them long to discover the cause.
The guy who had stormed away earlier had tangled himself in some very interesting company, and Ori laughed scathingly the moment her mind began to piece together a picture. For now a distance surrounded the so called fucking leader of the CCD and his retinue – clearly he had not been expected – but it’d only be a matter of acclimatisation before the elite internalised the unusual circumstances and calculated the advantage. Every eye glanced the same direction, and already the guy in the brown suit, with whom Jaxen had pocketed the diamond ring, made an easy route through the crowds. They parted naturally for him, one not only not of their kind but a reminder that even the aristocracy must ultimately answer to the law: few others would be so blatantly contrary in dress and manner than a cop. Once the breach had been made, though, the Ascendancy would not find himself bereft of gentile company for long; those who had not been aware of his apparently quiet entrance now were, and these people would clamour for the attention. Ori had little intention of stepping anywhere near the carnage. But her mind did spin a malicious idea.
“Exactly how good are those fingers, Jaxen?”
His name had barely passed her lips all night, and now it dripped with sweet, poisonous challenge. He'd never get a better target.
It was a rare occasion when Nikolai allowed himself indulgence in alcohol. A loosened grip on reality was not a thrill he chased. He liked power and being in control, and of all the things in this world at his grasp, his own mind and actions were the only source one's consistency.
Nobody noticed when he handed an untouched glass of champagne away. When military personnel went undercover to purchase the ingredients that would become his meals from randomly chosen grocers, it was a slap in their faces to sample an untested drink. Disrespecting the men and women that kept him safe was not an option. Had the flute bubbled club soda, he would have done the same.
Grasp freed, he tucked his hands behind his back. His fingers twined through one another, and the posture hid the series of strokes and heat impressions that activated a titanium ring circling one thumb. The ridges in his thumbprint activated the device, and a string of lines suddenly sprang to glowing life in his vision. Only one side had the implant, but manipulation of the eye's innervation stamped information on the outer edges of his field of view, leaving a clear tunnel unobstructed by the retinal projections down the center.
While the assailant pressed the towel to his throat, the continual rolling of his thumb across the band scrolled through data files. Unfortunately, the device could not collect information, only display what was transmitted or already uploaded. A map of the building's layout, for instance, could outline emergency escape routes if necessary, however, if he wanted the equivalent read of an adjacent skyscraper, he needed an active connection to CCDCYBERCOM - Custody Cyber Command - to access the relevant information.
Fortunately, Alric's partner was outfitted with more traditional Land Warriors, and he had been hard at work identifying the man foolish enough to place a hand on the Ascendancy. Nikolai used the chuckling tease at Alric's expense to swing his gaze around the room before settling on the so-called 'soldier-boy.' Nik's nod agreed, but also hid the smile of secrets that gods did not share with their earthly mortal friends. Yes, Alric was good at what he does, and he was improving with every passing day. Nikolai saw to the advancement personally. If only the young man knew how accurate his assessment had been.
Nikolai's roving gesture was more than including Alric in on the joke. It gave him a sweeping assessment of what repercussions unsettled the room's witnesses these last few moments. A space had formed around them - to be expected - although Nikolai had never revealed the incinerating heat of a gaze that demanded segregation. If he had, more than a few feet of unobstructed space would have opened around him. This time, men and women naturally fell aside of their own accord. How very pleasing.
There were a few faces piercing the crowd's otherwise shyer gaze. Two, in particular, were sharpened with a different edge than the way their contemporaries regarded him. There were meek glances mixed among the hopeful vying for Nik's brief acknowledgement: also expected.
Then there were the more daring individuals whom attempted to extend the life Nikolai breathed into acknowledging their existence. One man whom he recognized as the one responsible for infusing big-box mega-retail stores into the DIII economy, and therefore revitalizing nearly a billion people's way of life, soon lost his smirk when he realized Nikolai's attention had indeed been captured. As though he'd caught a wild beast he didn't know how to contain. But the man's safari turned on him when he realized it was the prey who was now doing the hunting. Fergus Talbott lifted his glass in cordial excuse to bow his head in deference, and was soon swallowed up by the conversations around him once more. He remembered to whom he owed his success, and Nikolai was satisfied with the reaction to move on.
The first of the two that caught his eye came a man that judging by his manner, dress and the berth given him, Nikolai guessed him to be a Custody employee of the sort to unnerve powerful aristocrats. CDPS, then, perhaps? An interesting party-goer, but only time would tell whether the man was a Trojan Horse. Nikolai rather hoped he was. It showed mettle that he valued in his employees, and this one had gall worth rewarding with at least a handshake.
The second came from a pair perched on the edge of the room. The man and woman both had the dark, pale features of Russianborn, but only one of them actually appeared to belong. Nikolai's curiosity was not invested enough to signal the door-posted Agent for their identities, but the notation was made nonetheless. A keen sense of power-plays tripped the back of his mind; imbalances in power were rife opportunities to leverage momentum his direction. Such talents won him the Russian Federation in the first place. Especially when the levers moved billions.
Finally, in the seconds the passed between the joke about 'soldier-boy' and the swift sweep of the Ascendancy's gaze, he collected the attention of the door-agent. The signal was received, likely displayed on the man's Land Warriors for the incoming request it was. And before the young man sharing Nik's company sputtered his next string of words, Yuri's name, Custody Identity Number, and citizen warnings flashed on the periphery of Nikolai's gaze. Included among the information was a small thumbnail of Yuri's expired Custody ID card with a younger version of the man smiling into the camera. His hairline had receded significantly since then.
Suffice to say, given the information at Nikolai's metaphorical finger-tips, Yuri was able to strike a blow that took Nik by surprise.
The man was another god. A powerful one.
Alric was not the only one discovered in the Facility, but he by far outstripped all of his competition, and now, a brother was discovered, wrapped in the linens of a discarded CCD underling, and nearly as significant as he. Together, this room had the honor to witness the presence of three gods, the wrath of whom could unleash terrors unlike never before seen in this world. What Yuri so helpfully confirmed was that such as they were undetectable until one of them wrenched the forces of the universe to their will. Which meant, the same worked in reverse. Yuri would not know the company he kept until Nikolai showed him. This encounter was revolutionary, and Nik intended to use it to every possible advantage.
He kept his reaction to Yuri's demonstration at a minimum, and thereby neither confirming nor denying acknowledgement of his elevation from man to god. The question became, whether to incentivize Yuri's gesture or ignore it? A man like him, given his citizenship red-flagging, last known address, and juvenile record - well, Nikolai thought it wise to leave him unprovoked. A man like this absorbed flattery like a cracked sponge. He was one of narrow patience, loose tongue, and shallow intelligence. Nik intended to cradle this childlike powerhouse like the mewling kitten he was.
There was a glint in Nik's eye that spoke of secrets shared but not outright confirmed. "You are indeed special, son."
He offered a hand to shake, and when their palms clasped, Nikolai's elbow pulled him in close enough to whisper the apocalyptic news. The man smelled like alcohol and smoke. Alric moved closer, unappreciative of the danger Nik invited so close. "You're a god among insects,"
he spoke in Yuri's ear, and when the Ascendancy of the Central Custody of Dominion released his hand, Nik's following expression foreshadowed a coming recruitment that, should Yuri's allegiance be assigned to the right man, would launch him to the forefront of humanity, and perhaps, earn a place of rule over them. One such as Yuri would like that promise, Nikolai guessed. "Stay with me, and everyone will come to know it too."
Of course, he was unaware of the presence of another in the room who would beg for the chance Nik offered Yuri.
Well, fuck Yuri sideways with a custodian baton. He always knew he was destined for great things, but now the most powerful man in the world thought he was a god among insects? Who cared that the Ascendancy was a major douche bag. He had money and power and shit. That spoke more than anything else would. Cause money and power and shit got you stuff. And Yuri wanted some of that.
Yuri only wished his fucking good for nothing workaholic father could see him now. Hard work wasn't crap for anything, but a mere step put wrong and fortune was going to shine on him. Peddle candy for Mudak? Fuck that. And fuck Mudak while he was at it. Yuri was on the high road to this kind of high roller life now.
The pressure in his chest eased somewhat, as if a crushing weight had lifted. His knees felt weak and it took him a moment to steady himself after he'd been pulled in so close to that man. With the power swimming through him, the man smelled like...candle wax. Or maybe incense. Or maybe Yuri was still hallucinating. Weird.
"I'm yours, tell me what you wish me to do,"
he said to the man. What else could one say? Go fuck yourself? The thought had crossed his mind but the words never materialized. Perhaps that was just cause they weren't the right ones to say. Maybe his drug was keeping him from saying stupid shit that would get him in trouble. If so, he should probably take a double when the opportunity presented itself.
Once upon a time Hood hadn't the patience for Jaxen's style of showboating. If they had first met under different circumstances, the weaselly little bastard would already be dead. Some small part of him considered those the good old days. Things had been so much more cut and dry. Black and white even. America's interests first, the ends justified the means, everyone not sporting the red-white-and-blue were either the enemy, or a means to an end.
After Oman, that had changed. Politics didn't matter to him anymore. He still had no real qualms with taking lives of course, but there usually had to be a reason to it, other then just not liking a fellow. It wasn't so much that he was trying to be a better person, or that he had to be concerned about consequences, really. But personal slights against himself just didn't seem as important anymore.
And besides, he didn't want to burn any bridges for Spectra of course. He was confident enough that he didn't see much need to show up Jaxen, and he could not know what angles Spectra was working. The woman had always been one to spin webs, after all. At the end of the day, he and Zoolander had only offered her a hand up, she was the one that had climbed to the clouds, so to speak. As annoying as Jaxen was, he still seemed to be a well connected fellow, just the sort that Spectra liked to have in her webs.
Of course, if he didn't miss his guess, Spectra might well have some competition in that respect. Jaxen's date was more then just simple arm candy. And judging by the look the woman shared with Spectra, the two were sizing each other up for quite the show. Not the sort that he had any desire to see, especially since he was quite confident that Jaxen and himself would be their weapons of choice. But whatever battle of wills was brewing seemed to vanish when Jaxen opened his big mouth.
The man just didn't know when to shut up, did he? Some folks didn't need to know just how unpleasant the world around them really was. Things like Rougarou, plucking folks off the streets, torturing and raping and eating their victims. That was something some folks just didn't need to know about. So hopefully the idiot had a good story that didn't involve man-eating monsters. Of course, Jaxen's arrogance might have shriveled up had he known just how dark the world really was.
Hood offered Oriena a commiserating roll of his eyes before the two took their leave. The woman seemed intelligent, she surely had a good idea of how little forethought Jaxen seemed capable of. Trouble seemed to follow the fool everywhere he went, and mostly brought on by his own actions. Hopefully his date for the evening wouldn't be burned for it.
With Jaxen and Oriena's departure, Hood and Spectra were finally left alone. The brief commotion and tell-tale silence in the main room hadn't gone unnoticed. Nor had Jaxen's curious reaction to whatever seemed to be going on over there. Whatever it had been, it seemed to blow over in short order, and the sounds of talking and entertainment could once more be heard. Someone of import perhaps? Or some social snaffu? Or, considering which direction Yuri had skulked off in, both?
He looked to Spectra, and shrugged slightly. They both seemed entirely too popular at this party for his liking; in her case, it was to be expected. He much preferred being anonymous at these sorts of things. He wasn't here to rub elbows and grease palms. He had exactly one reason to be here, and she was on his arm. "So, shall we try this again?"
A string dangled in front of a kitten. Jaxen barely contained himself. A new light burned in eyes unblinking, lest the dream be shaken and taken away. Oriena's encouragement was peripheral, though he did enjoy hearing the sound of his own name, but the trigger was pulled the moment realization dawned. He flicked a look at her that said as much, and on his lips drew the smile of challenge accepted. And this will not be the last she begs his name.
Picking was a subtle theft. It required a certain amount of skill, finesse, cleverness and planning. And the patience to carry it out. A man working alone or in a team picking slips of near valueless paper or old coins could earn a decent living by the end of the night. The hierarchy escalated to jewelry, which were easy to transform into hard cash, Wallets that provided identity and account information, or entire purses which were usually more valuable than the entirety of its contents therein. Being relieved of your savings by an anonymous hacker is one thing, but being outwitted mano a mano by a pickpocket in a crowded room was quite another. They were the honorable thieves; admired, even celebrated, as figures of great skills, panache, and good old fashioned enterprise.
Jaxen's own kind had long ago dwindled in their technology-driven world, but serendipity - and his fucking father - shipped an oh-so-young, impressionable, and innocent teenage Jaxen to a corner of the world ripe with opportunity, and Jaxen sunk his teeth in - hooked by the art of The Hook. He'd since transformed into the matador he was today, the star of the show that stepped in only for the kill. And never would he be more challenged than by the bull facing him now.
He drifted from Oriena. He'd prefer to keep her as the spoils of tonight's victory, but in the end, Jaxen would not hesitate sacrificing her company for crossing this headliner off his bucket list. Then again, she had no reason to split. By the look in her eye, she wanted this to happen almost as much as Jaxen.
Jaxen let the currents carry him around the room. Many times his compliance carried him far from the mark, but he needed time to observe and calculate. And decide exactly what it was he was going to pick. For the majority of the time, Ascendancy's attention had been occupied by that pinch-faced kid that he'd seen with White and Spectra. Jaxen had a soft spot for outsiders that stirred the bowl of stars with a sour thumb, but the Ascendancy was hardly known for championing charitable causes, the opposite in fact, so what in this kid held his interest? What game was he playing?
A turn and he came face to face - or face to cleavage - with a baubled necklace nestled across a Tahitian neckline. Of course, it was the necklace that drew Jaxen's study far from her face rather than what bounced beneath - though he wasn't blind - but the reunion of jewels to its earring mates meant the cop had put two and two together. Or else finally felt the weight in his pocket. That meant another complication to consider. He may or may not have pegged Jaxen for the pick, so he needed to get close to the Ascendancy and dodge the cop's suspicion at the same time. A minor detail, but it was the details that made or broke a caper. And it told him a thing or two about the man's nature.
Suddenly, a gruff cough. And a matching grip on his arm broke the trance. Bouncing bauble's manfriend apparently hadn't taken well to Jaxen's familiarizing himself with his date's ... baubles.
Jaxen smirked and shoved the guy's hand off his arm, which now tingled with released bloodflow. "Sorry about that."
He apologized to the guy, careful to not look at his lady friend again - or at least not look while he was looking. "Thought you were someone else."
He winked and slid on out of there.
That was when the driftwood next lodged itself alongside two gentlemen. The first was more gray than not, with fat cheeks and ice-blue eyes. The second was a short man with a shiny forehead and squinting, thoughtful eyes. He edged into their conversation without a second's hesitation. Five minutes later, he walked away with the low-down with the specifics of what had happened. The Ascendancy entered, mingled a few minutes, then ran down by the scrawny man that still was surprisingly, still sucking air, and apparently the Ascendancy's newest girlfriend.
The kid was now the majority topic of conversation. Who was he? Where'd he come from? Why was he not hauled out of the room in handcuffs? And a dozen other questions. But there was one little whisper that Jaxen heard more and more frequently. A moniker associated with the kid: Candyman.
Mockingbird. And now Candyman? What the fuck was with the superhero names? And, more importantly, how did a guy go about getting one?? Actually. That wasn't a bad idea. He'd have to give the idea more thought. Later, though.
Seemed Candyman was so-named for the sweet little candies he delivered. For a hefty price. Well. It explained a thing or two about the kid. Untaxed, and therefore, Illegal. Sweet, little candies. A spike of kinship welled in him. From one enterprising criminal to another. And it finally gave Jaxen a brilliant mark.
He was set to weave his way forward when that familiar tide surged. It broke from the center of his marks. His study of the pair of men, witnessed the kid's demonstration, and his heavy study swung immediately toward Brandon. It was almost impossible to gauge the man's reaction, but the subtle flicker of recognition told Jaxen all he needed to know.
The confirmation flushed Jaxen with epiphanies galore. Each of them couldn't sense their own kind until they actively struck out with the powers. A man like Jaxen, thief and magician, should be careful.
But a man like Jaxen didn't have to be.
The second he turned it on, Jaxen slithered through the crowd slicker than a reptile shedding its skin.
This time, he was face to face with the nameless one, otherwise known as the Ascendancy. Another fitting moniker. And the most original of them all. Jaxen was definitely going to have to work on a comic book name for himself. Surprisingly, Jaxen was the first guy with the balls enough to break the sea wall built up around the Ascendancy. As soon as he did, a flood of bodies followed, and crashed on the Alric, Yuri, Ascendancy trio.
Just in time to catch the tail end of Yuri's question. "Pay unto caesar that which is caesar's."
Jaxen joked, and clapped Yuri a brotherly clap the shoulder. Of course the guy was probably too fucked up to understand the slight about his black market drug ring.
But that didn't mean nobody else didn't get it. Laughs scattered around him. Such as from one New Rich dressed nearly as fashionably as Jaxen himself, and one of the bodies that followed him into no-man's land. Above the nearby man's jacket which happened to be the color of Jaxen's purple loafers was a painfully platinum head of hair and a toothy smile that barked a laugh. The man produced a handful of tarnished CCD dollar coin. Most were out of circulation now, but the stamped outline of Brandon's profile was still clear. The Swede waved them in the air, laughing.
"Your humble plebeian!"
He upturned his palm and silver rained down like glittering drops of dew and crashed to the floor as the Ascendancy's feet.
A perfect hook. Jaxen egged the guy on. He was a premiere face of the auto-industry. "You're a few dollars short, Axel!"
And Jaxen kicked the coins like leaves on short grass. They scattered underfoot. Of course, the swing of a velvet pant leg and wash of coins against heels like hockey pucks over ice drew almost everyone's gaze floorward. Including Yuri's.
That's when Jaxen hand eased into the shadowed confines between the man's torso and his jacket. The slippery feel of a plastic bag was all the confirmation he needed. He timed the pick perfectly. Yuri, drunk on power and acceptance, felt only the brotherly patting of Jaxen's other hand on his shoulder. Jaxen, then, was the new owner of a little bag of blue candy, and he wasn't even tempted to drop one on his tongue for a little test-drive. Even judging by the rave reviews of the party's many clients. No. He had a far better plan for this little baggy.
Now. For the real challenge. Plant the bag on the righteous Nikolai Brandon, and get the cop to arrest him for illegal possession. Nobody was above the law, after all, and a good-natured cop like the one to return a woman her necklace would surely not resist the call of duty.
The charge would never stick, but oh the scandal to follow. It was enough to shiver anyone with excitement, but Jaxen practically salivated over the thought of causing such mischief.
<small>((Yuri moded with permission))</small>
The waters of boredom rose to ankle-depth by the time Hood was done entertaining Jaxen's bravado. The fact that Spectra continued to grace this back of the house hallway when the show was going on without her testified to her mercy. On behalf of Hood. She'd been surprised to see him, certainly, but now the cards of the previous round were folded and she was ready to begin again.
In addition to respecting his wish, another object elongated her patience to ride out the throes of mundane chitchat. That was the woman whom Jaxen named Oriena. She was an overflowing creekbed muddying the pristine jungles of their party. Yet she had a pretty enough face. If the woman were to apply herself, she might be able to rise to Spectra's standards. Although it would take a surgeon to shape her curves; and appropriate stilettos might camouflage squat legs. It wasn't Oriena's physical presence that bubbled irritation beneath Spectra's flawless skin. It was one she sensed far beneath the surface. The woman was still inferior to Spectra's power, but she had the potential to glow like a beacon. That was something Spectra never wanted to experience again: forced submission.
When Hood was done with them, waters of relief washed her fresh. She slipped her arm back into his, and smiled encouragingly, if also with a touch of impatience. "I had no idea you had so many friends. Next I'll be taking a ticket and standing in line."
Her lips pursed coy, commenting on the situation without having revealed anything about it, and she followed where he led next.
Some minutes passed before the room found their courage. To Nikolai, those in his presence were a ghostly sea of faces appearing and disappearing in his domain. To his left, a giant of the diesel-industry edged closer. His company had been petitioning for additional manufacturing permits outside Central Dominance lands. So far, the applications had been repeatedly denied; but Nik would not discourage the attempt to grease his palm anyway. It would make the man no difference, but it showed courage, and Nikolai would not deny the man his hopes.
Meanwhile, nearby waited an executive from a pharmaceutical industry that thought they'd found a vaccine for The Sickness. Nikolai was sure their end-results would prove inconclusive, but they were welcome to conduct their experiments nonetheless. Any adverse effects to come out of it were the cost of clinical trials, but he had yet to decide what to do about the crop of godlings running around on their own. The majority continued to die off, but a few, the more powerful, fought for their survival. The decision plaguing him was whether to aim a few missiles like Yuri and Alric and use them to clear a path for their brothers or obliterate the need for one at all.
His considerations were interrupted by a new face piercing the veil. He fearlessly entered the reverent temple built up around Nikolai, Yuri, and Alric. Nothing flashed on the periphery of his vision, which meant they had not come face to face before - at least not since the device's implantation - but they didn't need to. Jaxen was the spitting image his father had been at his age. Scion Marveet was a titan of Moscow; the man with the poisonous sting, his reputation for covert ruthlessness was as intimidating as his namesake - a scorpion - waiting in the dark. The man's empire touched a vast array of businesses - legal and not - but his cunning - and bank accounts - poised him just beyond the reach of Custody attorneys; and while dishonorable, his intelligence earned Nikolai's respect.
Jaxen's mother was almost as infamous as his father. Beautiful and shrewd, like arsenic-laced silk, her passion and cunning still lit a fire behind eyes now crimped with age. One, even the Ascendancy himself, would not want to be her enemy. Luckily, she was one whom Nikolai had considered an ally for many years. Together, these two victors of the ASU's entrepreneur wars produced a young man fearless enough to interrupt a private conversation. With a knowing smile, Nikolai welcomed the mutiny, motivated by curiosity, and willing to test how far Jaxen would remain at the helm. More importantly, it gave Nikolai a gauge of the youngest Marveet heir's talents. How dangerous, if at all, was the young man? And could such a pirate be collected for a greater purpose?
Nikolai found the comparison to Caesar unoffensive; clever, even - and neither did his expression waiver while Axel's money poured upon his feet. Fitting, yes, but Jaxen's tauntings were quite incorrect. Tax evasion was nearly a capital crime in the CCD, and what the nouveau riche owed to their motherland - and Nikolai's fatherly vision - was a tightly regulated affair. Yuri seemed none too impressed by the play on words, or the historical joke passed over his head, but there was still his question to answer, and as Nikolai leaned in to issue a command, he finally saw through the charade.
It turned out, Jaxen actually was a pirate, and he was going to be useful after all. Nik exchanged one response tipping his tongue for another, and told Yuri they would speak again under quieter circumstances. He ended it that Yuri not fear dismissal, that Nik's assurances were as eternal as his word.
Momentarily freed from confines of their conversation, he didn't give Jaxen's game away, but instead sought out one of the earlier ghosts he'd seen in the mist; the one whom hung back while Jaxen plowed forward. When he found her pale face, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Which of the two of them were the board piece and which the game master? Interesting.
Twisting the ring around his thumb delivered a familiar signal to an undercover agent. One that eventually approached her with a very specific invitation.
Drayson's attempts to meet with the Ascendancy were cut short. In part, the leader of the CCD was not the sort who was allowed a moment alone at this sort of party. There were plenty of folks far higher on the social pecking order to meet with the man in an effort to curry his favor. Of course, there was also the strange incident with that out-of-place fellow. Everything about the man that had somehow managed to run into the Ascendancy screamed he was better suited to the streets. And, if Drayson didn't miss his guess, that was exactly where that fellow usually roamed.
He hadn't the high tech gadgets and gizmos most folks relied on these days, but he did have an excellent memory. He would spend some time looking into the fellow, whom some in the crowd related the name of 'Candyman.' A rather traditional term for the local drug peddler. Made sense then how the fellow had found his way into the party. But why were the city elites relying on what seemed to be a common street peddler in nice clothes? Whatever the case, he had nothing to act on and no real interest to at the moment. Catching the drug dealers was no longer his job. Nor were pick pockets, as he caught of Jaxen making his way around the room again. If he had taken that fool woman's ring again...
Despite Drayson's earlier goading and dangerous hints of knowledge with some folks around the room, there were still those who thought to stop him, to make 'small talk.' They were ever testing the water, so to speak, always eager to make a useful ally of a Chief Inspector. Drayson had little doubt that at least a few of the men and women that held the title throughout the CCD were on someone's payroll other then the tax payers, and these were the sorts of people who saw the world in the light of anything having a price tag.
It was because of one such delay, as Drayson frowned down at a eastern-European businessman who, if he hadn't missed his guess, had one too many. Champagnes and pills both, likely. The man's efforts at subtlety were embarrassing at best, but it proved just delaying enough to make Drayson's day more interesting.
Unsettled by the sudden bang of the doors crashing open earlier, annoyed that his date had spilled her drink on his expensive suit, slighted by Jaxen's interruption, the man who's arm the Tahitian beauty was gracing that night was pushed to the very edge of his patience. The last straw came as he discovered the card his date had tucked away in the palm of her hand.
By the time the rich young man started in Drayson's direction, the Tahitian woman was nursing a sore arm where bruises would likely soon form, and was starting to consider the card she still held.
Drayson turned to meet the fuming young man, and seemed to draw himself taller as the rich man approached. One deep breath and he squared his shoulders, although considering the height difference between the two men, it was entirely unnecessary.
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
The man's tone was cold and authoratative; he was the type who was accustomed to people knowing him, respecting him (or fearing), and knowing their own place. All things that Drayson did not.
Drayson folded his arms over his chest, the sleeves tugging up to reveal a decidedly functional and not dreadfully expensive watch, and the buttons of his shirt sleeves straining against thick forearms. Physical prowess meant nothing to the likes of the rich elite; they were well above such simple threats, after all, but the watch was noted with a disdainful eye-roll at such a common brand. "Chief Inspector Drayson McCullough, Custody Domestic Protection Service. And you are...?"
The young man's eyes bulged at the insult. Anyone invited to the party knew who he was. "I am Rurik Alkaev, son of Borislav Alkaev. Privilege Alkaev."
Rurik seemed to think that that alone would put Drayson at his feet begging for forgiveness, but the smug look of victory began to fade quickly.
Drayson's evident lack of interest in Rurik didn't change a hair at the mentioning of the boy's father and position. An awkward silence passed between the two, until Rurik's visage was once more lit with anger, "And?"
Rurik's eyes bulged at the blatant sense of...boredom! in Drayson's tone. "And what?! How dare you give my girl a fucking card? You're not good enough for someone like her."
Drayson's stance didn't change, just staring at Rurik for another long moment as if to let what the man had said sink in. Then he let out a roar of laughter and clapped the smaller man on the shoulder, "HAH! That's a good one. No, I don't have time for that sort of thing. I work for a living, Rurik. No, you misunderstand I fear. I gave her the card, so when you try beating her tonight, she can call me, and I can have a car come by and bring you in for some tea and crumpets."
Drayson continued to smile, as if the whole thing was just a bit of fun, but it just infuriated Rurik further. "You think you can touch me? Arrest me?! You fucking idiot, you really have no idea who my father is! One word from him and you'll be lucky if you're left to beg on the streets!"
Drayson's visage sobered instantly, the smile and humor gone. "No boy. You do not want to be dragging your father's name into this. Don't want to be making promises you can't keep."
Rurik blanched at Drayson's total lack of fear at the threat. No one just brushed him off like that! He glanced around, and realized they had drawn a bit of a crowd, a few other guests standing just close enough to overhear without out being two obvious that they were watching.
Drayson glanced past Rurik as the boy clearly struggled to come to grips with the situation, and spotted the man's date leaving the coat check and heading out the door. "Now I think I've kept you long enough, Rurik. Run along before you get yourself in trouble."
Rurik's face flashed a bright red, and he grabbed Drayson by the lapel as if to try and pull the larger man down to face level. "My father can have you killed you impertinent piece of..."
The first tug barely made Drayson budge, and the second was cut short as he closed a large fist around Rurik's wrist, his own grip slowly tightening.
This time, Drayson's smile was entirely humourless, "Threatening a Chief Inspector? I must have misheard you."
Rurik cursed and tore his hand free of Drayson's grip, entirely oblivious to the fact that he only got it back because Drayson let go. "You damn well heard me, Chief Inspector."
Drayson calmly straightened his suit jacket, and smiled down at Rurik, stepping dangerously close to the man. "I look forward to seeing how your father enjoys visiting the station then."
He pulled his Wallet out, calmly thumbing a few keys before tucking it away. "Your ride will be waiting for you outside, when you're ready to leave, Mr Alkaev."
He then stepped past the smaller man, heading for the door leaving Rurik sputtering in futile anger. He did stop a few strides off to glance back at him, "Unless you're too afraid to walk out the front door, of course. See you soon."
He would let Rurik stew, and continue to make a fool of himself at the party. Let the boy dig his own grave, so to speak.
"One more person wants to talk to me tonight, they're getting a boot up the ass."
He scowled in annoyance; while the statement was probably exaggerated, it was equally entirely possible he would do exactly that. It would probably depend on who the source of the irritation was.
A long breath and he let collected himself, looking to Spectra. He hadn't been given much opportunity to enjoy the view since his arrival at the party; he hadn't been quite as dismissive of Yuri and Silas as he had seemed. He hadn't survived as long as he had without being at least a little paranoid.
"You are the entire reason I'm here, kid."
He glanced down the corridor to the hustle and bustle of the main room. There was only one way out, unless he tried to smuggle her through, and that would probably leave to some sort of ridiculous scandal. Last thing he needed was some damnable paparazzo shit catching his photo and slapping it onto some crummy popular culture magazine. He had no worry of that sort of thing normally, but when it came to being seen in the company of a woman with Spectra's history...that was a whole other problem.
He gave her a grimace, jokingly of course, then lead the way into the main room. If they were stuck there, at the least they could finally know what all the commotion was about.
And quite the cause for the commotion it was. In another life, the man in the room was the subject of many a 'thought game' mission scenario. If his old bosses had had any idea just how damn easy it could be to get so close to the man, they would probably blow a fuse.
He raised an eyebrow at the sight, sighed in annoyance, then glanced down at Spectra again. It was quite the coincidence, wasn't it? Hood just happened to have an excuse to show up at the very same party as the Ascendancy himself? He wouldn't blame her if she was suspicious.
"Well this is an unpleasant coincidence."
Almost everyone they passed on their way back to the surface looked them over. To be particular about it, they looked over the smokey crystal adorning the arm of an apparent nobody. Each inquisition earned a gloating smile in return. Spectra was pleased as pudding. Hood was handsome enough, sure. She rubbed her palm along his arm. The man had a better body than a face, to be truthful, but Spectra's elation was bred from somewhere deeper and darker. She liked to see confusion in her choice, not because Hood was apparently unworthy of her, little did they know, but because they thought her on a pedestal above mere mortals. She knew she was where she belonged, but it thrilled her to sense their deference as well.
As a matter of fact, one little pony she wanted to ride all the way to golden goose was Rurik Alkaev. The little twit was completely useless. He oozed scum. His date for the night was the poetic Moana. She was an amateur compared to the magnificent Spectra, but recognizable enough in the right circles. In fact, Moana's jewels were worth more than Moana herself; likely a generous gift of a man. The display was disgusting enough that Spectra almost felt sorry for the polynesian girl, but not enough to share any of Spectra's hard-earned wisdom. Not everyone were fit to survive.
However, Rurik himself was a golden skeleton key. His business could introduce her to far more lucrative opportunities, particularly with his father. Any member of the Sphere was worth going out of her way to entice. Borislav Alkaev was one-seventh of the most powerful people in the world. If Spectra were going to see the world from the top, she needed to climb ladders like Rurik and Borislav's rungs, and hopefully snap their necks on the way up.
So imagine her surprise when the brightest star shining over the whole world was suddenly in their room. When Hood paused, Spectra tensed with shock. Rurik and all he represented were specks of dust compared to him. While her claws dug around Hood's arm, all thoughts of the man attached to it flew out the window. The Ascendancy was in arm's reach. This was her first time looking upon the man in person, and her eyes gleamed bejeweled with possibilities. What must it be like to be loved and yet feared by the world-over? A part of her knew, somewhere hidden so far in the recess of memory that she thought it must be imagination, but the sensation struck like lightning. The memory of flavors she knew she'd never tasted in this life, but she wanted to savor with every fiber of her being.
She watched the Ascendancy shift the intensity of his expression from person to person as though he allowed each one the right to speak with him. Hood dwarfed the man in size, but Nikolai Brandon won in presence.
She was suddenly torn. Hood admitted his journey was for her alone. That meant he wanted her, on one level or another. He'd gone far out of his way to make tonight happen. There was power in that as well, having the mind, memory, and loyalty of a spy.
A spy. Spectra's brow furrowed thoughtfully. She shot looks between Hood and the Ascendancy. Hood was a spy. A bloodied, ruthless American spy in the same room as the Ascendancy, and he was using the excuse of Spectra Lin's friendship to share it. "I'm the entire reason you are here?"
She asked. Her voice accusing. She had no problem with being used like that. In fact, she expected it, but the dishonesty vibrated to the bone.
He may have a job to do, but there would be a vaccuum in the absence of Nikolai Brandon, one Spectra was not prepared to see emptied.
She smiled to reassure him, but led onward. She took a very particular path, one that put her between Hood and the Ascendancy's circle, but she made the room her catwalk. Alongside a slab like Hood, Spectra was all the more woman, all the more curvacious, all the more sultry. Her dress swayed from full hips like cloth on a summer breeze. Her hair flowed soft as butterfly wings. Best of all, she glowed like a torch deep in the jungle. Until she was sure she was impossible to miss. Then she barely gave the Ascendancy the time of day. If she reveled over a spy seeking her out, making Nikolai Brandon chase after her would be downright lovely.
Their way was unobstructed, and Spectra made sure everyone knew she was leaving early. She was helped into the luxurious pelts of her coat, an onyx black foxfur that wrapped her up in mystic, dangerous shadows like a cloak. A clutch and elbow length gloves completed the look. Above a white-gray fur boa tipped with frozen blue nestled beneath her chin that caught the colors of her eyes, she captured Hood's attention one more time. "I am the only reason you are here. Sí, claro, and you are the only one I would leave for."
She slithered a finger tip down the center of his tie with just enough pressure to be felt on this chest beneath. "I expect to be taken somewhere, erm..,"
she picked through a selection of words, but none of them quite fit as well as she preferred, "nice."
Her laugh teased, "Or better than the last place you took me."
Although at the time the room shone like a pristine mansion, she did not miss the filth of that Bogotá hotel. Tourists called places like that boutique and auténtico. She had other opinions. Aquel barrio fue una gonorrea.
"I don't want to get my coat dirty,"
she said, dipping an elegant shoulder.