07-19-2013, 05:26 PM
Jaxen strolled up to the Maison some thirty minutes following Mr. Arrabat. Unlike the old man, digital identification alone got him in the building. Of course, it was never about actual protection. The Baccarat staff weren’t authenticating any of the identification, only cross-checking names with those on ‘the list.’ It was about elitism. If you want in, your name had to be on the list. To get on the list, you had to have the right connections. It was all one, long-standing, annoying trope dating back to powdered wigs and joustings. And avoiding that the exact sort of thing was what landed Jaxen in Mumbai for his teenage years. Which explained the look of shock on his older ‘sister’s’ darling face when she saw him meandering through display cases.
“Jaxen!”
She exclaimed, scolding already, blinking with that same sort of irritated woman-flutter that also proceeded Aisha’s string of colorful insults only that morning. He didn’t know if it were the serrated daggers cutting from her dark eyes or the heat in her open-palmed slap, but either way, bearing the brunt of her volcanic anger was worth losing a date tonight. Speaking of blackened waterfalls of hair whipping about, Zoey’s tilted, accusing eyes were waiting on his answer.
“What’d you say? Oh. Why didn’t I tell the family I was back in Moscow?”
He trailed off, catching a glimpse of his profile in one of those glass cases. It seemed his run-in with the floor of that dusty bookshop did good things for his hair. It was looking purposefully disheveled at the moment, and you simply can’t fake that kind of authenticity. Of course, it was the fine-lined laser beam cutting along the seam of the case’s door which more fully captured his attention.
Satisfied, he continued matter-of-factly. “Simple, my dear sister, I did not want any of you to know.”
He turned back to her, snatching a champagne glass from a passing tray as he did, only to hold it aloft and study the crystal rainbows piercing the liquid like rays of sunshine streaking through broken clouds. “This is nice stuff,”
he said idly then took a drink and blinked while the thin line of Zoey’s lips twisted with frustration.
“Except you, of course, Zo!”
He wrapped his arm around her skeletal little shoulders and steered her through the crowd once more. She was half a foot-shorter than he, but the sisterly-frustration soon melted a few steps into the tour. Of all his siblings, he actually liked his adopted one the most. Probably because she was actually unrelated.
A good thirty minutes was plenty of time to circle the room, check out the windows, vents, grates and most importantly, every single case. They were rigged almost exactly the same as any high-dollar jewelry store and his fingers itched to caress the glass. Of course, thirty minutes was plenty of time to smudge surprisingly clear fingerprints everywhere he could be sure they’d last the night. Then there was plenty of running his fingers through his hair, often paired with a cheeky grin, and flicking the loose bits in key places. He was planting DNA, obviously. In case some wayward sample found its way into sensors during the future investigation on the horizon, Jaxen Marveet would register as a recent guest in Baccarat, a fact to render any evidence of his involvement as invalid. Such tricks wouldn’t work at the Kremlin, of course. At least as far as what he heard about their technology. Then again, only a fool would rob the Kremlin.
It was also enough time to warrant the need to take a leak. The facilities were shown to him, and were put to good use as well, one might say. And not just for the mirrors. This red tie was great, too. Now that he had a proper mirror for a critique. It was bright red, narrow and sleek. The remaining clothes were snug, even for such formal attire. It was habit, actually. Cloth flapping in the wind simply wasn’t practical.
Done, Jaxen took the long way back round to the main room. Walking around like you owned the place went a long way toward freedom, but he eventually found restricted areas. Not the sort barred by velvet ropes and pleasant little signs, but with actual barricades. Involving muscles. And bullets. Things Jaxen definitely steered clear of, though his interest was certainly piqued.
He ended up outside, one hand draped loose in a pocket. Just a guy taking a little stroll.
“Jaxen!”
She exclaimed, scolding already, blinking with that same sort of irritated woman-flutter that also proceeded Aisha’s string of colorful insults only that morning. He didn’t know if it were the serrated daggers cutting from her dark eyes or the heat in her open-palmed slap, but either way, bearing the brunt of her volcanic anger was worth losing a date tonight. Speaking of blackened waterfalls of hair whipping about, Zoey’s tilted, accusing eyes were waiting on his answer.
“What’d you say? Oh. Why didn’t I tell the family I was back in Moscow?”
He trailed off, catching a glimpse of his profile in one of those glass cases. It seemed his run-in with the floor of that dusty bookshop did good things for his hair. It was looking purposefully disheveled at the moment, and you simply can’t fake that kind of authenticity. Of course, it was the fine-lined laser beam cutting along the seam of the case’s door which more fully captured his attention.
Satisfied, he continued matter-of-factly. “Simple, my dear sister, I did not want any of you to know.”
He turned back to her, snatching a champagne glass from a passing tray as he did, only to hold it aloft and study the crystal rainbows piercing the liquid like rays of sunshine streaking through broken clouds. “This is nice stuff,”
he said idly then took a drink and blinked while the thin line of Zoey’s lips twisted with frustration.
“Except you, of course, Zo!”
He wrapped his arm around her skeletal little shoulders and steered her through the crowd once more. She was half a foot-shorter than he, but the sisterly-frustration soon melted a few steps into the tour. Of all his siblings, he actually liked his adopted one the most. Probably because she was actually unrelated.
A good thirty minutes was plenty of time to circle the room, check out the windows, vents, grates and most importantly, every single case. They were rigged almost exactly the same as any high-dollar jewelry store and his fingers itched to caress the glass. Of course, thirty minutes was plenty of time to smudge surprisingly clear fingerprints everywhere he could be sure they’d last the night. Then there was plenty of running his fingers through his hair, often paired with a cheeky grin, and flicking the loose bits in key places. He was planting DNA, obviously. In case some wayward sample found its way into sensors during the future investigation on the horizon, Jaxen Marveet would register as a recent guest in Baccarat, a fact to render any evidence of his involvement as invalid. Such tricks wouldn’t work at the Kremlin, of course. At least as far as what he heard about their technology. Then again, only a fool would rob the Kremlin.
It was also enough time to warrant the need to take a leak. The facilities were shown to him, and were put to good use as well, one might say. And not just for the mirrors. This red tie was great, too. Now that he had a proper mirror for a critique. It was bright red, narrow and sleek. The remaining clothes were snug, even for such formal attire. It was habit, actually. Cloth flapping in the wind simply wasn’t practical.
Done, Jaxen took the long way back round to the main room. Walking around like you owned the place went a long way toward freedom, but he eventually found restricted areas. Not the sort barred by velvet ropes and pleasant little signs, but with actual barricades. Involving muscles. And bullets. Things Jaxen definitely steered clear of, though his interest was certainly piqued.
He ended up outside, one hand draped loose in a pocket. Just a guy taking a little stroll.