Yesterday, 02:06 AM
Jaxen’s glass rattled as he set it down too hard, vodka sloshing close to the rim. Behind his eyes, the Emissary’s mantra pulsed over and over: GET THE KEY. GET THE KEY THE KEY KEY KEY. But for once, he toyed with the chaos.
"Parasite. Not friend,” he repeated, voice low and amused. “A friend shuts the fuck up when you ask them to!” He paused a second, head cocked to the side while listening for retaliation, but finally, there was silence.
He tilted the glass in approval then, letting the crystalline liquid swirl before uncorking a sharper tone. He liked this Bode, the one who knew she’d already walked him into a trap. Her terms kindled something in him, that old thrill of the chase.
He leaned back, one elbow perched on the plush booth behind him. The club’s lights blurred warm and decadent, but she was sharper than all of it. Her choice of hiding place was well-selected. He studied her as she tapped at the sticker on his chest, watching her fingers trace its edge. He hated that gesture. Hate and fascination warred behind his gaze. He found a twisted pleasure in being toyed with so long as he wasn’t the final prey.
"Brotherhood?" he said finally, tone mocking and curious in equal measure. "You handed it over to those nutjobs?"
He watched her reaction, the brief flare of pride or amusement. “So what’s your angle, then? You want a full-on coup, sideline espionage, or are we talking grand jailbreak-from-a-god-level heist?” He flicked his eyes around the club, half-expecting to see cult robes somewhere among the curtains. "Beats me as to why you thought Voxel would buy in. But damn, I’m intrigued."
He might be irritated—hell, he was irritated—but he was also hooked. Because challenge was his drug, and Bode was serving it up. And if the Emissary wanted the Key, well—Jaxen Marveet knew how to play the gods like a fucking violin.
"Parasite. Not friend,” he repeated, voice low and amused. “A friend shuts the fuck up when you ask them to!” He paused a second, head cocked to the side while listening for retaliation, but finally, there was silence.
He tilted the glass in approval then, letting the crystalline liquid swirl before uncorking a sharper tone. He liked this Bode, the one who knew she’d already walked him into a trap. Her terms kindled something in him, that old thrill of the chase.
He leaned back, one elbow perched on the plush booth behind him. The club’s lights blurred warm and decadent, but she was sharper than all of it. Her choice of hiding place was well-selected. He studied her as she tapped at the sticker on his chest, watching her fingers trace its edge. He hated that gesture. Hate and fascination warred behind his gaze. He found a twisted pleasure in being toyed with so long as he wasn’t the final prey.
"Brotherhood?" he said finally, tone mocking and curious in equal measure. "You handed it over to those nutjobs?"
He watched her reaction, the brief flare of pride or amusement. “So what’s your angle, then? You want a full-on coup, sideline espionage, or are we talking grand jailbreak-from-a-god-level heist?” He flicked his eyes around the club, half-expecting to see cult robes somewhere among the curtains. "Beats me as to why you thought Voxel would buy in. But damn, I’m intrigued."
He might be irritated—hell, he was irritated—but he was also hooked. Because challenge was his drug, and Bode was serving it up. And if the Emissary wanted the Key, well—Jaxen Marveet knew how to play the gods like a fucking violin.