A Blind Eye

[Oriena]

Ori was ancillary to the intention writ in that sly grin, like her words only chimed to a melody already hitting crescendo. If she was disappointed to find herself robbed of the manipulative victory, she at least keened in on the little soul it bared beneath that ridiculous red suit. Compunction itched Jaxen’s fingers. Challenge made an inferno of his gaze. His strings were pulled, but it was an inward battle; pure revelry of nature, and the sort of determination she might have admired were it not ruined by the incubation of too much money and empty time. So far as she could see the gratification was hollow. Superficial. Among these gilded aristocratic halls, he was as comfortable as the rest of them.

When he walked away, her expression deadened. Caught in the storm of his own ambition, he never paused to wonder how carelessly she offered the challenge like a playground taunt. Or why. She spoke of their Ascendancy, though of course her words had been wisely selected; he had placed meaning to the artfulness of his fingers, not her. She’d aim a bullet sure enough, but did not intend for it to ricochet back. Nor did she show much interest in its path once unleashed. She’d watched Jaxen work, clued in to the joke because he’d allowed it, and as such she had no doubts that he was capable. Confidence washed his mind clean of caution, not – whatever else she thought of him – fruitless arrogance. But she didn’t care to dote his ego by observing how he did it.

It was Brandon she watched, not Jaxen’s retreating back. The man looked no different from the face she had seen a thousand times in the media, a face that had burned itself onto her retina. Smaller, perhaps, but force of presence shadowed such physical trivialities belied by a TV screen; she barely noticed. No grey silvered his temples, and even at this distance she could see the intense lines of his features were uncreased by age. Much was made, from time to time, of Nikolai Brandon’s apparent youth, but she hadn’t expected him to be so untouched. Her childhood villain stepped fresh from shadowed memory, the man who had provided sustenance for so much of her furious youth. A devout Russian, her mother had adored the man who condemned her. But Ori had needed someone to blame. And he had been easy to hate.

Her expression was unsmiling, an anomaly amongst the other painted faces – particularly on a woman, but any hostility locked itself deep under the surface. A secret carefully tended, a fury expertly wielded. When her eyes slid away, it was with disinterest. She did not care to watch once the bubble around the Ascendancy burst, perhaps because she was not sure she could cleanse the disgust from her expression. Boredom was no longer a benign tolerance, she was unaccountably agitated. No, perhaps not unaccountably; it had hardly been the remnants of a rosy day that had driven her to Kallisti in the first place. Bitterness coated her tongue in acid, and she kept her lips sealed. Her heart pounded rivers of fire through her veins, and she reined control over the beckoning of release.

In such a mood, any sport was bound to be bloody. She ignored the ghosts of familiar faces as she passed, and those who recognised her in return dutifully turned their eyes away. She was not interested in their torment; there was no satisfaction here worth taking, and such favours should be used for darker tasks not idle entertainment. At least, not when she knew it would not sate her frustrations. Malcontent was a poison in her blood. A rot in her heart. In this environment it bloomed insatiable, spawning irrationalities that for brief moments flowered like good ideas. Power crackled against her skin like prickles of electric heat, but she ignored it. Abandoned by Jaxen and unwilling to engage with anyone else, she retreated to the bar.

She was surprised anyone thought to approach her, though her disbelief was short-lived, despite the nature of the brief conversation. A chill cooled her bones. It wiped what little true emotion was left on her face. Her lips quirked into a dry smile, the façade of flattery poorly constructed. Intentionally so. Irritation burrowed through taut lines of control. Did she look like a whore, apt to jerk to the beck and call of another – and via a fucking messenger? She was not Spectra Lin. The Ascendancy did not offer a golden ticket she would cherish tight with both hands. His interest only offered a burden.

She did not deny that there was also temptation – though she doubted her motives were quite in the spirit of the invitation. Plenty of her less savoury acquaintances would curse to know she had passed on such an opportunity, and it would have made delightful ammunition against Spectra Lin, but Ori refused to give serious consideration to a question posed from a pedestal. The trappings of wealth, the frivolity of power, left a dull impression. Even the cruel desire to sink unkind claws into the heart of the CCD was blunted by the method of delivery: if he wished anything of her, dutiful little citizen that she was, he could ask him-fucking-self. She’d probably regret that surfeit of pride later.

Her gaze fell from the agent’s face, but did not seek out the Ascendancy. It was probably not the expected reaction, but for once she did not revel in being contrary. Her flash of anger retreated to an abject resignation. Even the alcohol felt to have thinned out of her system, denying her the craved distraction of one single night’s fucking senselessness. “He must have me mistaken with someone else.”
No gratified humility softened her words. No coyness lowered her eyes. He could probably have everything from her CIN to her criminal record in the blink of an eye, and her casually dismissive confidence said she didn’t doubt it. A smirk lightened her expression, but made little dent in the smoky darkness of her demeanour. “Another time perhaps.”

[Jaxen Marveet]

When Jaxen next flashed another conspiratorial smile toward Oriena, he found her space hollowed. He twisted, scanning what his height allowed, until he found her hovering around the bar. Others approached and retreated with their liquid treasures. They were in arms reach of a goddess and barely paid her enough attention to not step on her. Though first hand experience knew the gesture to be more of avoiding dirt on their shoes than consideration of her welfare.

Luckily for him, the assholes around here couldn't see her potential. Two dresses on the floor and you couldn't tell which woman wore the more expensive one. For the most part. For Jaxen, she wasn't necessarily another score to rock. She was a conquest to win; a wave of the hand and smile when she sat on his lap; victorious because he saw beneath the forced allowences and knew her nature. A cat nuzzling your leg was much more interesting than a dog salivating all over your foot.

Jealousy spiked surprise when someone leaned over her shoulder. He was nobody recognizable, but neither was he out of place like Candyman. Whatever was said, Oriena was hardly entertained and waved him away with another placating gesture drizzled with aggrevation. Jaxen quickly realized the necessity to wrap up his doings here, lest she lose herself to her own internal monologues and lump him in with all the rest of the nuisances. Their dance, the foreplay, the heat of their kiss was all fading. Not that Jaxen was incapable of resurrecting the imagines at the snap of a finger, but women were fickle creatures, and Oriena was drifting.

He considered his mark once more. The Ascendancy was already downriver, having moved on from Jaxen and Axel and the rest. His boy toy, however, flanked closer. Considering the way the tale of the hot-headed Yuri ended with his loudmouth frenching the floor, Jaxen was gentle in his approach. He was no hostile to fling down, but he did have the kind of smile that invited men and women to come closer when he wanted. The cut of Jaxen's suit was trim against his body. A matte velvet red that lured to be touched if only to find an impressive density of sinew beneath. Alric had the look, when he wasn't decapitating fellows, that Jaxen had no problem manipulating. Of course, a pretty face like his was probably on the look out for men and women alike who'd use him to get to the Ascendancy. So it was best to not come on too strong. After all, Jaxen was definitely interested in someone else. Looking Alric up and down, even Jaxen would admit he was a handsome man, so no offense intended, but yeah, pretty much anyone else.

Arms crossed, he caught the man's eye and shook his head wearily. "Don't get me wrong,"
he said, "faceplanting idiots like that one,"
he nodded toward Yuri, "does have a fun ring to it."
Then he smiled mischeviously, sharing a secretive suggestion between them, "but don't let your man have all the fun."
He pat Alric on the shoulder and stepped in a bit closer as though to walk by the man, both to share the heat of one another's presence, but just enough to flutter a heart rate and disguise the slipping of the small bag of drugs into one of the man's many loose pockets. He had already proven to be carrying a pistol, and although his suit was tailored fine as anyone else's, that had to include room for the holster and anything else he was packing - which Jaxen made sure to nod about, impressed. "Plenty of opportunity at a place like this."
He said quietly and made his way onward. If Alric's heart rate spiked, so also did Jaxen's. The difference being that he'd do anything in his power to get what he wanted, and at this very moment, he wanted nothing more than to stir up a shitload of trouble and escape with Oriena's grip on his arm.

The cop was almost gone, but Jaxen found him at the door. He had a don't fuck with me kid look on his face. Or maybe the look was more of a please fuck with me so I can arrest you look. Either way, his mood was dangerous, and Jaxen lifted his hands like a peace offering before getting too close. Oriena was the only one he intended to face plant him tonight.

"If you're looking for trouble. I'd suggest finding the guy that's peddling the illegal drugs. Lots of good Custody tax dollars going down the drain right here."
Then he slapped his hand over his mouth childishly, like he'd let a secret slip he shouldn't! His eyes widened along with a jokerish grin, and from behind his chest, he hid a finger pointing out the Big Bad Wolf himself and his little cub pawing around behind him. "I find it hard to believe Brandon wouldn't be too happy that a Chief Inspector let probable evidence slip between his fingers. Especially when someone closest to him was implicated."
Jaxen sighed and looked to the ceiling with a shrug. "Probably should check it out. But its up to you, my good sir."
He mocked a salute and spun on one purple shoe to stride away. There was one last box to check on this list. If anything went down after they left, it'd be on the news tomorrow. If not, then Alric and Nikolai could enjoy themselves some street candy and fuck each other over it. If nothing else, then Yuri would go home crying to his mama over losing however much that bag was worth. Jaxen tipped the guy that carried his luggage more money, but no doubt, Yuri would miss it.

Behind Oriena, he turned her squarely away from him with the press of his fingers. He placed his lips to the bare back of her shoulder then lifted enough to find her ear. "Done."
He said with a sinister ring to it. Feeling more powerful than ever, he closed his hands around the bony curve of her shoulders to lead her as he had commanded on stage at Kallisti. "I made you a promise, didn't I?"
He spoke as though his heat alone could melt the diamond cut of her eyes. To make you scream, they said. Remember?


<small>((Alric moded with permission))</small>

[Drayson]

Drayson was calmly shrugging into a nice (by common people's standards) brown wool overcoat when Jaxen found him. He turned to fix the trust-fund pickpocket with a look he hoped would ward the lad off. His entire plan for the evening was to rock the boat for the Custody's higher rungs of society, and now he was already planning to arrest the son of a Privilege. The last he needed was more paperwork.

What the man suggested was down-right suicidal; the Ascendancy had apparently taken a liking to the man in question, and while Drayson had no fear of offending his 'betters,' he wasn't quite so stupid as to openly offend Nikolai. The only reason he sought to ruffle some feathers was to keep these people from straying too far from the line.

Of course, Drayson had no delusions that Jaxen wanted justice to be done, the man was simply seeking a cheap thrill on the suffering of others. In this case, that suffering would end up being Drayson's own when the fallout came. Of course he would look into Yuri, and depending on what the dealer's future held for him, that information would be used accordingly.

He decided not to warn Jaxen to stay out of the trouble; he could tell the man was the type to take that as a challenge. Let the boy trip himself up on his own. Jaxen could only hope he didn't piss off anyone that might decide to deal with the slight on their own. Shaking his head, Drayson left the party and the building to meet the officers that would be taking Mr Alkaev to spend the night in a cell.

[Ascendancy]

Rashik was surrounded by the dim glow of a hundred small lights. Server rooms were always warm, but the battery went out on the coolant system of his gear, and he'd worked up a sweat just sitting there waiting. The screen he watched obsessively might have something to do with the rise in temperature also.

His second Wallet buzzed an alert. HQ was looking for an update. He summoned a visual, "Nothing to report yet, sir. The target definitely logged into his unit, but before I arrived, he'd logged back out again."
Rashik moved the device alongside his first Wallet, which was currently being used to hack into the Building's security monitors. The camera he piped to HQ only revealed an empty hallway watching the top floor penthouse. "The log shows his keycode was used to access the top floor. I have to guess he went to the party hosted up there. Records indicate the property is owned by a Privilege."


The man on the other side of the virtual tunnel said to keep him posted. Rashik was about to cut the connection, but movement caught his eye. "Wait."
The penthouse door opened. Out filed the target in the company of a woman. They proceeded out of sight of the camera's angle.

Rashik linked HQ into his earpiece, "Target visualized,"
he said, and hurried to pack up his gear. The voice spoke, "You are authorized to engage at all costs."
Rashik knew what that meant. "Acknowledged,"
he said and muted the link. He couldn't afford to be distracted when facing a god.

The last plug to pull was the Wallet's connection to the security feed. His hand was literally on the port when the door opened again. He hesitated in time to witness the exit of someone he had no idea was barricaded up in there. Palpitations thudded his chest with adrenaline, and all thoughts of the first target dissolved.

He threw himself down once more and rerouted the cameras to the building's first level exits. The feed couldn't load fast enough, but he panned through them all until coming to the exact same entrance he'd used himself to gain access. It was the entrance where building service technicians, janitors, and the like used as a check-in. Ritzy brats couldn't allow themselves to witness the working class coming and going like necessary little bottom-dwellers.

Personnel and black cars waited just outside the door. The Ascendancy's motorcade, small as it was for this obviously impromptu trip, waited out there. Which meant Rashik had to get to him before the man tasted fresh air.

It looked like he had one, two, no three agents, he counted, with him. It was the best opportunity the Atharim ever had to get to the man.

There wasn't time to draft a plan. Which meant Rashik had to go with his gut. The Ascendancy was already on the elevator. He programmed a quick series of unprompted floor stops, often enough to raise CSS's suspicion. They'd move from the elevators to the stairwell, then, to take up alternate emergency routes. In the event of an actual emergency, they'd head for the last point of exit. Rashik would know where. He'd been studying this building for weeks, waiting for Jaxen's return.

His fingers raced a split second behind the gears flying through his head. Hacking into closed circuit security feeds from the server room was no problem at all, but accessing the maintenance and plumbing annual test took longer than he'd like. With a sigh of relief, he programmed the sprinklers to go off on level two, which included the stairwells, for two minutes from now.

He then grabbed his gear and headed for the roof, intending to beat the Ascendancy there.


****



Once himself and the three CSS agents were safely dropping closer to the surface of the Earth, Alric discovered the bag of drugs in his pocket. Although neither witnessed the actual planting, Nikolai knew the culprit nonetheless. A curious thing to attempt something so dangerous. If it was a message, Nikolai would leave it to the more than capable Security Services to decipher it.

After the second stop at floors unpressed by anyone on their side of the elevator and absent of persons on the other side, the agent whom had been posted at the penthouse door called the team on the ground. Nik tuned them out for the standard procedure it was.

It had not escaped his notice that Oriena left with someone else. It was entirely possible that she and young Mister Marveet were a couple faithful to one another, but knowing Scion's honorable examples, Nikolai doubted it.

The departure of other couples signaled the precarious point in the night when inhibitions had been lowered enough to make hasty decisions, but had not yet deteriorated into a haze of meaninglessness. Nikolai refused to objectify himself to the point of wasting his own time any longer and thus was returning to the Kremlin. He sensed the value of his presence decreasing by the minute, and he had won what he had set out to accomplish. Not to mention the performance fatigue nipping at his heels. Pretending, for instance, to recognize some model so as not to appear out of touch with today's popular culture was annoying beyond compare. Apparently Spectra Lin was today's Cindy Crawford. He could care less.

After the fourth unprompted stop, even he noticed the unusual activity. Compact within the elevator, thoughts of the evening faded into a heightening of attention. A nervous calm of sorts. "Is something wrong?"
He asked.

The CSS Barrier agent answered, "Nothing obvious, sir, but we're rerouting your remaining descent to the stairwell."
Nikolai frowned, and spent the next few moments buttoning his coat in preparation for what might be about to come. Almost simultaneously, he and Alric drew deep upon the power always within reach. Anything from a technical glitch to an outright ambush and they were prepared.

Power more thrilling than any drug coursed his veins. It popped hairs on the back of his neck. It filled his lungs, thicker than the heaviest smoke, but drew upon the source of it until he was just short of having to strain to keep it in control. Nearby, Alric was a shadow of himself, but together the two men wielded enough power to level the city. Which would only be an extended feat of what he'd accomplished only once before. He was fond of Moscow, and would not appreciate being forced to such extreme measures. Then again, he downright loved his Siberian temple home, of which nothing remained but graves, but there were no boundaries when it came to protecting himself.

A CSS agent explored the hallway beyond before signaling it safe to file from the elevator, but before the doors were closed behind them, Alric, quickly followed by the second agent, shoved him back inside. "The second floor sprinkler system just malfunctioned,"
Alric relayed coolly and punched new commands into the elevator control panel. His partner moved Nik to the back corner, drew his firearm, then positioned himself as a human shield between him and the door. "The Knights give three minutes to ALA extraction."


Although a hundred floors overhead, the high-speed elevator would beat his primary helicopter unit, Airlift Alpha, to the helipad on the roof. As Nik watched the digits rise higher and higher, it wasn't the delay that tightened his chest. He'd rather face whatever enemy was sabotaging the building than streak through the sky with nothing but blades to remain airborne. Heights made him extremely uncomfortable.

The Knights kept the ground and motorcade secure meanwhile, but Nikolai had expressly ordered they maintain a low profile to do so. He had not wanted his presence widely advertised, and there was nothing like special forces sweeping every corner to alert the media to his presence. Therefore, there was only one team, himself, a quartet of CSS, and a handful of undercover Directorate Group A men floating around, but even Nikolai was unaware which they were.

The rooftop exit seemed in order. Every architectural detail was illuminated by flattering yet functional lighting. A memory shred a hot sliver through his brain, however, and Nikolai made sure to study what was overhead, but neither man nor beast fell from above. A steel door led out, and all was quiet beyond.

His tactical training kicked in, and Alric fearlessly left to secure the exterior. The body shield that was the second agent ordered Nik to remain behind him and follow close. With the heightened senses, Nik strained to hear anything out of the ordinary, but upon tasting the cold night air, all he heard was the thin howl of the wind. The airspace covering Moscow City was empty but for the far light of ALA's approach a half-mile out.

Upon his exit, Nik hadn't fully secured the door, and when the wind suddenly gusted it open with a bang, the two Barrier agents snapped toward it. Startled by the sound, Nikolai ducked only a few inches, and a sniper's bullet whizzed through the dark above where his temple had been a split-second before.

It planted straight into the skull of his Barrier Agent. The force of the impact flung the man aside and sprayed the side of Nik's face with hot blood.

Nik lunged as shots peppered the cement around him, and thought frantically how to best end this. Shielding himself would not save Alric, nor sate the pulsing need for revenge for this ambush. He had to find the sniper and annihilate him.

Flame and pressure, the toys he could so easily twist underground, exploded from his body in an arc of blue-green light hot enough to incinerate anyone in its path. It trailed black billows like a jet streaking white vapor through the bright sky, and obscured both him and Alric from the assailant's scope.

"Coward! Face me like a man!"
His order went unanswered, but he quickly shifted a few steps away as another shot streaked toward where the sound of his voice had originated. Whoever this was, their mission was to be pursued at all costs. That sounded like only one group of fucking radicals to him. Alric, now at his side, interrupted with a whisper. "They're on the roof. Not in another building."
How he could tell, Nik had no clue.

He sent a second arc of blue-green fire knifing the air but taller and broader this time. With it, he scoured every fucking inch. The helipad, the slopes of the building. Even the spire itself glowed momentarily like a giant lightning rod scalding the heavens. Black mist billowed hellishly. Nikolai's heart pounded betrayal.

A rifle clattered on the cement. But it was a panicked scream that answered success. Through the foggy darkness, a man-sized bonfire suddenly glowed orange. Burning, the assailant ran from his hiding place and into full view. Before he could smother himself, Alric fired three bullets into the man's chest. He dropped, a sickening bonfire, dead, but Alric planted another in his skull anyway.

A snarl of disgust curled Nik's lips. "Put him out."
He ordered, voice numbed of sympathy. Alric put out the flame as he had from himself on the day they met, and quickly ushered Nik from the pad so ALA could land. Knights leaped out, both to fan the perimeter and to get him on board.

The wind from the blades beat the remaining tendrils of smoke from what remained of the sniper's clothes. A quick investigation by the White Knights that jumped onto the scene found the man's discarded gear. Only one Wallet survived the torching, and a minute later it was held up to Nikolai's face while they soared over the city streets toward the Kremlin. The dim light drenched his face in shadow, and the slick liquid of the dead agent's blood colored one temple and drained down his cheek and neck.

It was this face the receiver saw and his voice numbed of emotion the microphone recorded when the feed launched toward its home base. Nikolai knew exactly who would be on the other side. It was time to take a new tactic with his enemies.

"Know this, Holy Regus of the Atharim. I am the worst monster to walk this world, but you will never succeed. I allow you to exist, and do not tempt me to come after you."


He angled the camera toward his forearm, where a rolled-up sleeve revealed bared flesh, and inked therein was the vaguely recognizable shape of eternity itself: a clawed, shredded, and scarred ouroboros.



<small>((Alric written with permission))</small>

[Hood]

Hood quietly counted his blessings that she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. She knew him only in the role of his old life, a life where coincidences simply did not happen, and where history meant nothing compared to the mission at hand. That Hood would have had few qualms using Spectra as an excuse to get close to the Ascendancy. The new Hood couldn't care about the man.

As Spectra was wrapped in expensive furs and silks to ward against the chill Russian air, Hood shrugged into a much more functional (if ridiculously expensive) coat of his own. The ensemble didn't feel right; she was starting to create an entirely uncomfortable precedent for him. Going out without a gun. Why did she have to exist in such lofty circles where people hired people to carry the guns for them? It was unseemly.

He wasn't sure what she thought to gain trophying him across the room, other then just to confuse everyone and keep them guessing. That was probably it; she was anything but predictable after all. It was part of the allure.

Her comment about 'someplace nice' was met with a quiet chuckle. The last place they had shared together had been one of the best suites in the house. A fan, with a working light, and running water (cold AND hot). Hell, the windows even had glass, not just wood storm shutters. They had both come a long way since then, albeit she had outpaced him by leaps and bounds, to no real surprise on his part.

"I have a quaint apartment near by?"
Of course, by quaint he meant a mostly unfurnished one bedroom dive safe house, and by near by he meant a few kilometers away. There were more firearms then major pieces of furniture, but it was certainly nicer then that slum motel.

He put that forward as a joke, of course. He wasn't about to take her to some upper-lower-middle-class apartment block. Hell, even he was too well dressed for something like that. "No. An acquaintance gave me the keys to one of his places a few blocks away. Very high end. You should be right at home."


Mr Talanov owned a few condos around the city, held in reserve for high profile guests, family, friends, or if he just didn't want to make the drive all the way home after a long day at the office. Not that he actually drove himself anywhere, of course. The man was generous to those who did him a service.

[Spectra Lin]

Spectra snorted a most uncharacteristic laugh. One that was far more fitting in the cardboard shacks of a third world country than the steel towers of a glamorous metropolis. She couldn't help it. So rarely did she laugh because something was genuinely funny. Face tilted, she recovered swiftly enough. The brief glimpse behind the facade dissolved, and she was once more the languid, elegant creature she'd become.

She purposefully waited for him to open the door, like proper, polite people. So much for this nonsense about feminine rights. When did it become a statement of power for a woman to open her own doors when she could beckon a man to do it for her. She passed by in close proximity, perhaps to brush close, but more likely to taunt quietly. Although with the white noise of the room behind, it was doubtful anyone would hear their exchange.

"It looks as though you will be right at home also. This is a very nice coat you are sporting. It is quite dashing."
For anyone else her words were complimentary, but Hood would enjoy the irony. Like the suit he wore beneath, she recognized the label. For Spectra Lin to be impressed, it meant Hood's education of all things-runway had expanded in the last few years, or he had friends with excellent taste. For once, when she pet his sleeve with the palm of her hand it actually was to appreciate the cloth rather than send another signal. It just so happened the signal was also fitting. "Kiton, Fall 2045. These are not easy pieces to find. Is it a Heinz D'Orsi?"
If Hood was neck deep in some undercover life, he should know the answer to the question. As Heinz, the son of world-legend Enzo D'Orsi, the master tailor for Kiton, was in incredible demand for personally hand-making every piece, including hundreds of stitches across a week's worth of work, the label would be something to parade. If he didn't know, then he could thank her later for the tip.

Spectra smiled accusingly. This was all so funny. "Friends, clothes... I am beginning to wonder exactly who you are señor. Since when do you have acquaintances?"


She followed him onward, eager to see if this quaint apartment matched his handmade suit.

[Oriena]

She turned her back to the room, leaning leisurely on the bar.

Patience was not a natural virtue, but a learned one. Agitation simmered beneath her skin; an aimless restlessness, and a potent frustration. As a kid she’d gotten in countless fights and scrapes indulging the chaotic need to break from monotony, to sabotage the ordinary and expected. Her mother had despaired the bloodied noses and black bruises – not the injuries of harmless, girlish spats. These days discipline was a familiar armour and she found other ways to acquiesce to her nature, but it didn’t always make her pleasant company. Given the circumstances it hardly mattered. She nursed a glass but didn’t drink, thinking.

She was oblivious to Jaxen’s return, until the press of his fingers and the touch of his mouth. If she’d had pockets she might have suspected foul play by the time his malicious whisper brushed her ear, but even then it was a welcome distraction. Chills trailed the kiss of his breath, but it was the wicked nature of his tone more than his devilish proximity that ushered in grim delight. Then he made to physically direct her, and the pleasure flushed out beneath a ripple of power not entirely within her control. There were subtle distinctions between the things Ori would tolerate, and the things she wouldn’t. Jaxen’s manoeuvrings irritated her for no good reason, rubbing abrasively against the capriciousness of her mood.

She was busting for a fight. Or a fuck. The lines blurred desire and volatility, and she was probably more drunk than she felt. Jaxen could fulfil either function, and both for the same reason: the unnatural power that made him fundamentally different, and maintained her interest when – for someone like him – it would usually have faded by now. She denied the pressure on her shoulders and slipped around instead, half confrontational, half suggestive. He was wrong to think he’d lulled her with charm. Wrong to treat her like conquered prey. The sharp cut of her gaze did not melt under the heat of his lust, nor the insinuated reap of hungry promises.

“And I intend to see that you deliver.”
A smile finally curled the edges of her lips, and if her tone was touched by scorn it was also visceral. She meant to exercise her agitation one way or another, and he offered himself up as a willing victim. It soothed a little playfulness from the disquiet of her mood, refrained her from the half-formed notion that testing her abilities against his for the sheer hell of it was a good idea here and now. The power that had coursed her veins, uninvited and unstable, died to a murmur, trickling sweet and seductive.

Whatever self-control had stayed her hand back in his apartment evaporated by the time they left the party. She didn’t wait for him to catch her by surprise again; less a measure of control and power, and more of indulgence. Her mind unravelled of thought, basking in the light that made every taste of his skin electric. She teased the carnal from him, beckoning to the line of propriety without ever quite crossing it – at least until they were alone. Her attitudes were libertine, not prudish, but she did enjoy the torment.

[Drayson]

He stood on the street in front of the expensive sky-rise patiently. Next to him sat a police squad car and two officers, who went mostly ignored by the handful of paparazzi desperate enough for money to still be waiting to catch photos of the party goers departure. Many had already taken their leave, alone or in pairs mostly, and from what Drayson could overhear from the camera-carrying rats, there was no shortage of men leaving with a different woman then they had arrived with hours earlier.

Building security had tried twice already to dislodge the officers and their vehicle, as it was parked dead center in the round-about driveway, and many a limo was greatly inconvenienced, more then one going so far as to pop a tire onto the curb just to get around them. Drayson of course would hear nothing of it, and after what he went through getting into the building, they weren't willing to put up much of a fight to get him to leave.

The two officers worked at what was widely considered one of the worst precincts in the city. Technically, they had no jurisdiction so close to the heart of Moscow, but it hadn't taken much effort on Drayson's part to arrange it. His new friend would certainly enjoy his accommodations for the night. Of course, that all depended on Mr Alkaev being foolish enough as to leave through the front doors. Drayson had given the lad fair warning, after all.

Sure enough, long past the party had passed it's zenith, Rurik came strolling out the doors with friends and women in tow. All wore expensive clothes, and most showed the symptoms of the various designer drugs that had been making their way around the party. The paparazzi's cameras flashed as they snapped pictures, and the group were clearly in high spirits as they spun or struck a pose to show off their dates and attire, making boyish comments about burning the midnight oil, or the boundless stamina of youth.

Their vehicle was already approaching before the group exited the doors, and Drayson calmly nodded to one of the two officers he was standing with. The man stopped the limo and moved around to the driver, informing the young woman that she was going to be one passenger short. Meanwhile, Drayson and the other officer approached the group, much to the interest of the paparazzi.

He smiled warmly as he approached the group, calmly flashing his badge to the group. "Rurik Alkaev. You are under arrest for disorderly behaviour, death threats, and illegal purchase of recreational drugs."


The group stopped in surprise; they were not the type that were used to hearing those sorts of sentences directed at themselves. Even Rurik's click were high enough on the social ladder that the idea of police not staying out of their way was alien to them. The group came to an abrupt halt as Rurik struggled to come to grips with what was happening.

"Officers Konstantinov and Sokolov shall be your chauffeurs for the evening. Golyanovo District precinct has a nice VIP cell set aside for you, and have been gracious enough to put the pressure-washer to use. It may still be a bit damp by the time you arrive, but rest assured, damp is better then the faeces drawings the previous tenant left."
Drayson stood in front of Rurik, towering over the man and wearing that same friendly smile. Officer Konstantinov calmly plucked the handcuffs from his belt, while Officer Sokolov took up a position a few feet to their right, where he could watch the group in case one of the men got any bright ideas.

"You don't think you can get away with this, do you? I can ruin you all with one phone call!"
Rurik stepped away from the officer with the cuffs, pointing at all three of them angrily. "Do your pets have any idea who you have them trying to arrest?!"


Both the officers smirked and Konstantinov grabbed Rurik's forearm and gave it a twist to get it behind his back, despite the young man's protests. "Rurik Alkaev, son of Privilege Alkaev. Dominance II. The upizdysh who OK'd the demolition of state subsidized housing for pensioners. Yeah, we know who you are."


One of Rurik's friends stepped forward as if he were going to grab the officer's arm, but he stopped at the sound of both Drayson and Sokolov unholstering their sidearms. Sokolov opted for his taser instead of a pistol, but Drayson only had the one option at hand. "I suggest, children, you say your goodbyes and go to bed."
Drayson's smile hadn't changed, but it no longer seemed as friendly or amused as it had a second ago.

Two SUVs pulled up about that time, one coming to a very abrupt halt near the limo while the other pulled onto the curb and sidewalk and barreled towards the group. By the time it came to a stop, three men had climbed out of the first vehicle with SMGs in hand. Rurik's bodyguards.

A similar group climbed out of the nearer of the two vehicles, although none took aim just yet. A grey-haired man, apparently the team's leader, approached them. "I am Artair Nevin, Mr Alkaev's head of security. Would you care to explain what's going on here?"
The man's expression and tone were cold stone. Scottish by accent.

"Ah, Mr Nevin. I expected you much sooner from what I saw in your files. Getting rusty in your old age, maybe?"
Drayson waved the comment off as being just a little joke, and flashed his badge to the one-time SAS member. "You should tell Privilege Alkaev that he needs to teach his son manners, and common sense. Telling a Chief Inspector that the Privilege can have me killed, on his son's request? That looks bad, don't you think?"


"You cannot prove a word of that!"
By now Rurik's hands were cuffed behind his back, with Officer Konstantinov holding one arm with his other hand resting on his undrawn pistol. Even he wasn't quite suicidal enough to draw his gun with seven armed men with guns already drawn staring at him.

Drayson frowned as if confused by Rurik's statement, and fixed Artair with the sort of look parents shared between a child's back when the kid did or said something especially stupid. Then he glanced at Rurik finally, deciding to grace the boy's foolishness with a comment. "It is 2045, boy. Do you honestly think anything you say is not recorded?"


Rurik growled angrily and was about to respond when a new idea popped into his head. "Artair! Get these cuffs off of me, now! What the fuck is my father paying you for?!"


Rurik's guards cocked their weapons, and Artair drummed his fingers on his holstered pistol with a bored expression for Drayson. "Neither one of us wants this to get messy, inspector. Take your boys and go home before this gets troublesome."


Drayson cocked his head slightly and stared at Rurik, then glanced to the two officers that were with him. Neither looked nearly as nervous as they should have been. Rurik was gloating, expecting to be let free at any moment, and flashed his arrogant little smirk back at Drayson. Drayson just sighed quietly and shook his head. "Are you threatening violence, Mr Nevin?"


Artair smirked and thumbed the catch on his pistol's holster, letting the weapon ease free of the hard-plastic case, but not quite drawing it fully. "Only if you and your boys don't leave."


The paparazzi had really taken an interest in what was going on, but even they weren't crazy enough to get too close with all the bared weapons that were being flaunted. As the tensions rose, a few of the more prudent ones took that chance to leave. A few guests of the party had gathered inside the doors, where the building's security were corralling them for the moment, at least until the situation blew over.

Drayson let out a raucous laugh and grinned ear-to-ear, finding the whole situation entirely amusing. "I hoped so, Mr Nevin. I've a few unsolved rape cases with your name all over them. Team B. Bring the paddy wagon would you?"


A second later and the whine of sirens could be heard, and a few seconds after that a dozen ghost cars came screaming onto the street around the high-rise. They had been laying in wait just out of sight, police lights flashing from magnetic strobes slapped onto their roofs. The real clincher was when Drayson nodded to Artair, glancing at the man's chest to draw the ex-SAS's attention to the red dot that hovered over his heart.

"This is my city, Mr Nevin. I do not take kindly to people looking to cause trouble here. Konstantinov, Sokolov, would you please take the boy to his cell? And if he gives you any more trouble, feel free to taser him. And you lot? I told you to get in your limo and go home like good boys and girls, didn't I? You don't want to be arrested for trespassing on a crime scene, do you?"
Drayson held a hand out for Artair's pistol, even going so far as to calmly holster his own. He wouldn't be needing it now anyway.

Artair barked a foul curse and slapped his weapon into Drayson's hand, while plain-clothed officers sporting assault rifles and shotguns swarmed the rest of his team, disarming and cuffing the lot of them with more then a little extra aggression. The uniformed police harboured no shortage of dislike for mercenaries like these, unsurprisingly.

Rurik's protests went from indignant outrage to childish anger quickly, bucking and kicking at the two officers dragging him towards the waiting squad car. The fight was taken out of him with one quick tap of a taser however, and the unconscious punk was tossed into the back seat and buckled in place in short order, all while his dear friends wisely scampered to their still waiting limo and took their leave.

"Your boss paid quite well to have those charges buried, Mr Nevin, but it is not that easy to make these sorts of things disappear. He should have known that. I look forward to sending you back to Dominance VII."
He smiled warmly as one of his men cuffed Artair, who just glared and spat on Drayson's shirt before being hauled off with the rest of his team to be loaded into waiting police vans.

The scene was quickly brought under control, and in only a few short minutes the police vehicles were scattering back into the night, leaving Drayson alone again. He glanced up at the building, watching the light of a helicopter as it departed the roof, then shrugged and looked at one of the valets, waiting over behind the line of building security. He fished in the pocket of his jacket a moment, and produced his ticket for his car, and smiled warmly at the confused lad. "My car, please?"

[Jaxen Marveet]

He'd intended to thrust her against the wall, but fancy footwork saw his back flung there instead. His grunt turned into a chuckle, and his notorious hands forgot they were needed to pad their way through security. Jaxen's mind was far from those kinds of measures, which was why he was smart enough to have the foresight to program fail safes like this in the first place. Oriena wasn't the only twiddle toes, though. Jax snaked one of those fantastically purple shoes between her legs and spun her like a spider flinging its web. It did take two tries to get the right code, but it was worth the extra step when the door finally popped itself open. An apartment completely programmed for a night of frolic and fun greeted them, and from the corner of one eye, Jaxen noticed lighting, windows, everything. He smiled a smug smile, one that tangled itself around Oriena's tongue, and one she likely mistook for other pleasures. Indeed, Jaxen was pleased with himself, and would be for a long time to come.

Pretty much one of his top five things to watch was a woman stepping out of a dress pooled around her ankles. So while Oriena snaked his tie from his throat like an expert, he was more than content to let her do all the work. The mix of vodka and champagne made everything that wasn't Oriena a blur one way or another. Seconds stretched to minutes. Or hours. Whatever Jaxen was before, he was devilishly tormenting now. Another favorite to top the list was the begging of his name, and he agonized to hear it pass from her hungry depths.

Finally, when rage panted from his lungs, unchecked, goosebumps slicked cold down his sweat-coated back, and he sat back suddenly, lighting catching every fleck of metallic ink on the snake's skeleton circling his shoulder. His mind raced to piece together what just happened. Oriena's hungry smile grew more coy, and Jaxen finally understood. A serpentine smile twisted as the tattoo on his shoulder curled his lips. He closed his eyes for a moment, it wasn't an instant grappling, not yet, but he followed her down the depths of power and ecstasy in mere seconds.

When it flooded in, he gasped aloud. Sensation exploded. It ripped his skin like band-aids pulled from every inch of his body. The very walls throbbed with power, and he lowered to devour her once more with wicked intensity.

[Oriena]

The world hazed at its edges, but she was lit from within by anticipation of a feeling more intoxicating than any drug she could think to stream through her veins. The room received even less of a scan than it had the first time, its detail all soft blur and light. The pretentious ornamentation of her surroundings was inconsequential at the best of times, but mattered even less now. Even Jaxen’s red suit was less offensive when it slid off his skin and crumpled forgotten on the floor. Granted a captive audience Ori was an intent performer, and unabashed at taking exactly what she wanted, how she wanted it. A devilish gleam accented the sharp, ungentle tugs that removed that expensive suit. And the slower way she stepped back to undress herself.

She held back from touching the power, teased herself through the build-up; lost herself in the heat of desire and lust until it raced like sunrise through her body.

Jaxen’s recoil was abrupt. She might have found it offensive, but given the unusual circumstances it only piqued a predatory curiosity. Her heart hammered hard in her chest, the ache of absence magnified more than she was willing to betray. Playful as a kitten, she waited for him to piece it together - wondered if he could, and if so how. She felt nothing, but he made obvious the moment a reciprocal connection hit a deluge to his senses. Throaty, delighted laughter rolled from her throat, cut short by the reigniting of his hunger to more of a sly smile; she bit her lip, felt like losing herself again, but after a moment spoke.

“Did you think it was your charm?”
Her voice was a husky murmur, but it was sharp, burying little splinters of discord amidst the passion. “Or your pretty face? The reason I stuck around?”
Scorn barbed her cruel whispers; she took malicious glee in dismantling him at such an intimate moment. Jaxen was spoiled and arrogant, childish and disloyal. The sort of man Oriena usually took wayward pleasure in frustrating, in humiliating. Only one thing marked him out from the rest: the power that enhanced every sense, made gods from mortals, and added a new dimension to an old world. That was what made him different. That was what made him worth it.

*

Habit woke her early. Brief disorientation greeted a blink at unfamiliar surroundings, but she was more perturbed by the faint gnaw of a headache behind her eyes than for a moment not being completely sure where she was. A languid stretch eased the dullness of a hangover, and she got up without pausing to check on Jaxen. Her mouth was dry, her head hollow, but a self-satisfied smile softened her lips as she sought out the bathroom, running fingers through the tousled mess of her hair. The air was regulated warm, quick to cater to the whims of comfort, but the apartment barely looked lived in - aside from the odd out-of-place embellishments amongst the modernity. Ori glanced at them as she passed, more languorous than interested. She was in no rush to sneak out, but neither particularly sentimental about the morning after. A hot shower. A hot coffee. Beyond that there was little to keep her. Whether Jaxen woke, slept or pretended to sleep until she’d gone mattered little, though he’d probably be gratified to witness she’d woken smiling.