Not terrible

[Oriena]

He didn't take the warning seriously; leaned in instead, all soft and playful. It didn't surprise her; they never took it seriously. Not until she left them bleeding in the gutter.

If Oriena recognised any of the names he spoke of, she gave little indication, and when he offered the fresh bottle she took it by the neck, smirking, and pressed it possessively to her lips for a long pull. Winding up Stanislav was akin to poking at a hornet's nest; an easy target, an easy victory, if that's what you wanted. Kolomov were already poised for the fall, whether they were pushed the last step or not. Even the Syndicate's crowned queen came to watch the show.

Ori wasn't interested; not in the minutiae of Family politics on so insignificant a level. Kolomov fell. The vultures fed. That was fucking life. Maybe she'd dance in those flames, and maybe she wouldn't. The smirk played on her lips, stinging the wound. The vodka burned; she could feel it spreading a luxurious warmth, a comforting numbness. It wasn't like she needed the excuse to be a little reckless.

Though if she joined this game, it wouldn't be with the distance of an invisible power.

Meanwhile, Scarface retreated from the bathroom with tail between legs. Ori watched him; the brutal height, the charged stalk. She thought about demanding recompense for the vodka he'd so carelessly wasted watering the bar, teasing out the flicker of that temper until it savaged her, but dismissed the urge when he hunched back over his beer bottle.

Then a familiar face walked in.

The last time she'd seen White he'd not been himself at all, and the memory ignited a wicked grin that paled out the other distractions. The furious lick of flame; the cloying smoke; the crunch of the little Atharim's face against her fist -- a delicious mercy, though as far as she knew, he had not taken advantage of the escape she'd offered. Maybe he'd even died in the fire. The snakes scattered when their nest burned, and not a single one yet snapped round to bite her. White didn't have the tattoo - at least she didn't think so - but it was his face that bought their passage into the Baccarat.

Mikhail grinned down at her, waiting for her reply, and Ori winked. Right before tendrils of air snatched the lighter from his grasp.

He'd said it himself. He was the game. And she was going to play him to her own fucking rules.

She left the vodka on the bar, threaded her way through the tables to join White with his pisswater and peanuts. The last time she'd seen the real him, he'd been at the bottom of the Almaz pits. The same night she'd crossed palms to purchase the right to pull Kasun into Kallisti's open embrace. After she'd unleashed him on the audience, anyhow, and White had beat him bloody.

She pulled a chair with full view of the stool she'd just vacated. "Long time no see, White."
The flame from Mikhail's lighter danced with a snap. Dance, snap. Dance, snap. Then she held it out on the flat of her palm for him to take, and it was only her gaze that was blazing. They'd only met in the briefest of circumstances, barely shared two words, but it didn't matter if he didn't remember her. She knew what he was. "Not quite the Zippo Jaxen stole."


Her gaze slipped to meet Mikhail's across the bar, mischievous. It wasn't like he couldn't demand it back if it was so important to him; White might radiate predator, but she'd never see him act needlessly confrontational. What she wanted to know was whether he'd bother. He'd flicked the damn thing alight several times since she'd met him, but she'd not seen a hint of a cigarette. Habit, maybe. Or something sentimental.