666; New York 1/2
Title: 666; New York
Author: realitydeprived (Astro)
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing/character: Scott Summers/James Howlett (Logan)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 13,333
Kink: Drug use, Sexual acts with a minor (age: 16/17)
Notes/Warnings:
(This fic includes murder, drug use, language and of course... le sex with a minor.) My first ever big bang. And to top it off, I’m losing my bigbang virginity to a kink community. Wee. When writing this I had the movieverse actors in mind. But imagine it how you wish. Scott’s shorter than Logan though *halo*. This is before Logan ever took part in the Weapon X Program, so he has bone claws as well as his memory and goes under the name of James Howlett; Logan as a moniker.
Some parts of this story I’m more proud than the rest. I’ve been pressed for time and so stressed, so if some parts seem rushed or even (worse) don’t add up, I apologize profusely. I’ve only had time to read over it myself about twice to really fix up any final details.
Summary:
Black ops sends James Howlett to exterminate the heads of two major Japanese and French corporations that threaten international welfare by smuggling out components of potential WMD’s. On the second night of their stay, they hold a formal gathering of inner-circle business associates and partners, granting the perfect opportunity to target and kill. James’s mission is, for lack of a better word, inconvenienced, when a stray falls into his lap; a street urchin; a rent boy whom he discovers to be another mutant.
Disclaimers: Marvel owns X-Men. No profit is being made off of this story. I also know nothing about espionage and assassinations. So this is just my imagination. Sorry if I haven’t watched 24/similar! Some places in the story are also fictional, but I tried to make it as believable as I could. ^^;
Artist: To my artist; thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. THIS POSTER and all banners you see was made by the oh-so-talented
chosenfire28 !
1 ; 2
--
Prologue
Under the only oak tree in the far west portion of the park; sat James Howlett. James, a man that appeared to be in the prime of his life (and taking it with ease) seemed to exude an air of sophisticated gentry, and soothing mystery. The kind of man that orders the same cuisine from the local café every time he comes to the barely-heard-of town whenever he visits for some small time business. The kind of man that offers no queries as to how your day has been; no discussion of the gray weather or the high possibility it might rain after the morning fog; just the regular butterscotch scones with a drizzle of Swiss chocolate accompanied by the newest addition to the herbal tea range, no sugar. Just to spice things up.
The season was Fall and the morning was young. Daylight only barely started to overcome the crowded cumulus in the stratosphere, and orange-yellow leaves were laid on the ground like dew to a fresh day. The park in question was very popular. Coined by the families that visited regularly as the safest place to walk through on the way back home from a hard day’s work, when the car was in the auto repair shop and the bus was the friend you paid to be your friend. It was even safer during the daytime.
Soccer moms gathered in the seats next to the playground and religiously gossiped about whoever couldn’t make it, (and in today’s case, their affair with the neighborhood contractor) while their kids were safe off in the distance recreating last night’s soccer match in the school grounds or the late night action blockbuster movie that none of them were meant to watch at their naïve and tender age.
The seated man shifted in his chair to gain access to his waistcoat pocket, pulling out the finest looking Cuban cigar, a lighter and a small guillotine cutter. With an effortless action, he positioned the cutter perfectly around the head of the Cigar before cutting the head precisely with no apparent squint; much equal to the practiced skill one’s grandfather has through decades of enjoying a healthy puff or three.
With a light nudge to his leather shoe, calculating eyes instantly locked on the soccer ball that was kicked by one of the children close by, a child no older than eight following suit, panting from the work out, sweated ginger hair matted onto his furrowed freckled forehead.
“I’m sorry Mister,” the boy apologized through hyperbolic pants of exhaustion.
“No problem, kid.” The man replied, a slight smile twitching at the edge of his lips.
The child picked up the ball from the ground, looking at the man on the wooden bench before him with wild fascination, staring curiously at the Cuban. With wide eyes, he watched as the older man lit the tip up, rotating it evenly as he started puffing in his fine tuned rhythm. The intense scent was dispersed and the boy made a face to show his distaste; voicing out his honest opinion as all children do, rolling the ball in his hands while doing so.
“Smoking isn’t good for you, you know… you’ll be sick and stuff.”
The man looked up, extinguishing the flame and placing it back into his pocket along with the cutter whilst taking in a long draw; the flavor disguising the less than impressive odor of the mothers’ decade-old perfume emanating from the centre of the park. “I don’t get sick…”
The boy continued to stare for a little while longer. “Yeah you do… everyone gets sick.” He arched his brows and scratched his head while the man before him continued to puff intently on the cigar, no signs of stopping any time soon.
“I don’t get sick.” He repeated. “Not me…”
The boy opened his mouth-but was cut off when his companions had called him to stop stalling. Quickly poking his tongue out at the protruding stick, he ran back to his friends in a huff, leaving James to himself once again. A sudden creak, and a quick glance with his peripheral vision had shown another man, approximately his height, sitting down next to him, placing his suitcase between their legs as he opened a newspaper to check up on the current headlines, the weather, and gossip pages.
James continued to pay no mind to the faceless stranger sitting next to him; basking in the silence as the other man took his sweet time to read about non interesting headlines besides a local stick up at a seven-eleven. The weather was going to be the same as today for the rest of the week; and nothing ever truly worthwhile is ever in the pointless waste of paper that was the gossip section. James had already read it all, after all.
Five… ten minutes passed. The stranger voiced over the silence, finally breaking the hush; “2 heads, $500,000… each. Minimum body count… cos’ you don’t get paid for anyone else.” There was a slight pause, the turning of a page; enough for James to take in the thick aroma of an Englishman’s accent. “If your reputations as good as they make it out…” a quick chuckle at the pathetic story of a plastic Hollywood affair, “…well…” he trailed off.
There was the slightest nod on James’ account, before he got up politely with the aforementioned suitcase already at hand. James walked up the brick trail leading out of the park, chucking his half exhausted Cuban into the ashtray of a nearby can with dangerous precision. Edging the end of the park, he paused for the slightest second, looked down at the combination of his suitcase, and then looked at the man sitting on the bench. He was still reading the newspaper idyllically. A perfect stranger one would pass on a perfectly average day. James continued to walk down the growingly busy (for a suburb) street, 666; the combination being deciphered in his mind. 666. The guild’s code, to New York City.
Family parks really were safe, which is precisely why all illegal transactions occur there in broad daylight when it’s busiest. When it’s the least conspicuous.
++New York++
Knock, knock, knock. “Room service.”
The young, shabby boy dressed in the finest cotton adjusted his coat (loosely) and held onto the food cart, waiting impatiently for the door to open so he could get his tip… of course. In unexpected haste, the door swept wide, a sudden breeze and a tall, dark man with a towel around his waist and neck greeted him with detached brown eyes. The boys posture went arrow straight, as he found his voice, stumbling along the way; “Your dinner and bourbon you ordered is here, sir,” he managed, nudging the cart an inch forward to show his need to get into (and out) the room as fast as duty called. Something about the man didn’t rub him the right way.
James stepped aside, allowing the youth to enter his space and secure the cart on a comfy spot next to the crystalline circular art piece that was really just a dining table. Standing at ease, the boy held out a wrinkled, gloved hand and waited with a smile, not showing any teeth. James walked up to him and placed an equally shrilled ten into his hand; “Close the door on your way out.”
As the door creaked shut, he could hear a whispered complaint from the boy on the condition of the note as it was sifted between his fingers and eventually his back pocket. James believed religiously in getting paid relative to the quality of work one does… quite old fashioned really. (Or maybe he was just better than great at his job…) But frankly, the boy didn’t do shit.
James moved around the table with a strong and dignified stance; the kind of walk a suit would take on his way to an important business presentation. He took an upside down glass from the cart the boy had brought in just moments earlier and poured himself a swig of the discreetly opened bourbon, already sniffing out the boy’s mouth around the head of the bottle, a thin trace of saliva smeared clear, but not clean. James minded, oh yes. He minded. But at the same time; he’d rather not wait again for the boy’s snappy turtle feet (Or go through the painfully half-genuine half-forced apologies from the lobby manager and the assistant he’s sleeping with… James took note of that too.) The sweet bitterness of youth lingered in the glass before he downed it without a second thought and went on about his business… the usual; Playing God, and all that.
Pouring himself a second round, a bit more than the first; made his way past the entertainment area and on his way towards the wall sized windows. He passed the couch too soft for his tastes, the table too showy, and the leather briefcase he had acquired back in that pathetic heap of project houses that was a sorry excuse for a town. It was open, with clumps of paper sticking out; but neatly. An organized mess. Papers among papers housing every imaginable detail about Gods of the business world, both legal and illegal, the targets James was meant to hunt, and of lesser important men he might find along the way. Naturally, he had already skimmed and stored everything he deemed useful… but his eyes were most fixated on someone less involved with his targets, or anyone within his own company for that matter, and more focused on keeping his relatively new job as the nth guinea pig of one Timothy York (aspiring fat cat, and tyrannical boss).
James took another shot. Harsh bitterness stroking liquid caresses through his system.
The view would be beautiful… had he not seen it on a regular basis. Swap a few lights here and there, change the height and shape of the buildings. Jesus. Cities were all the same. James stared bitterly at the ants that were people beneath him, walking on the streets. Living their lives, aware or unaware of their own mortality, and he stared at them with envy. Ripe, unrivaled envy. It wasn’t a new feeling, to feel loss for something he only grasped up until around the age of 11. Everything seemed so simple then. People lived, people died. What mattered most was what you did between the lines. James had too many lives to count, and so many second chances that seemed holy at first, but now forever cursed.
Death wasn’t a new feeling to him. And neither was rebirth. Both were incredibly overrated. Only he did always look forward to the next time he died… hoping it would be permanent. Hoping he’d not have to come back to this loveless, painful, and fucked up world. Where all the good people died unjustly, while all the bad ones lived on…
Dinner was skipped that night. As was any more reflection. It was important to hold onto what little hope there was for humankind for the innocence and good he saw in people, like that outspoken child he met at the park. From the streets below, the soft glow of a room near the sky dimmed into blackness. Awaiting the rising of the sun, like a lion hunting its prey.
--
11am, Time Square.
The sky was as clear as the pollution would allow it.
James stood at the bus stop opposite from a restaurant more renowned for its high class reputation than its mediocre entrées. Newspaper just under his field of vision, waiting patiently, his eyes pierced through the reflective sheen barriers that separated him from his victims on the other side; the ones he oh-so easily studied the night prior.
He knew everything.
Two prominent men… both unappealing in most senses, made up for with their hundred-million dollar empire in micro technology that was really a cover for the real business they dealt in the underworld. Shimizu Take and Oliver Lefèvre were both slight in body and large in greed. Shimizu had intimidating black eyes and a fairly full head of hair. He was a head and a half shorter (and with an even smaller temper) than his French business partner, who played the rational role of the two. Lefèvre exercised trust through kind soul searching with his grey-green orbs whilst Shimizu dealt with the blood sport in the background. Black ops suspected their company to be linked to the smuggling of major components that seemed rather innocent through the eyes of any technophile, mainly used in everyday under-military grade computers, but posed a serious problem when the pieces were puzzled together to form weapons of gargantuan destruction. On top of on-again off-again drugs and weapons sales, the business really had no other option but to blossom with a gargantuan bang (Not suspicious for a technological based company after all).
Surrounding the morbidly fat cats were smaller felines, still as vicious (but only in a business sense); seemingly unaware of the dark deeds taking place under the table and only concerned with their own selfish welfare, of the face of the company they laid all their hopes-of-ever-surviving-in-this-industry with; and their relations to it. Nothing explicitly important was learned… in fact, the outing wasn’t entirely necessary. James just came here to study his opponents; much like a coach does for his boxer before finding the most effective way to knock his foe down. Only with James, he had both the deductive thought patterns and mean left hook… it was more personal choice than professional mannerism.
One man caught James’s eye, seated conveniently at the very end of the table for him to study how he reacted when he thought no one else was paying attention to him. The face rang a name, and the name rang a stack of general, personal history. Timothy York, 54. 20 years in the business and still yet to make his much desired big break. The constant rolling of eyes and the wide-apart shoulders showed a jerky cockiness that wasn’t much overlooked by the rest of the table as it was with the million dollar heads. York was infamous within his company for his strict demand for the utmost perfection. Mistakes were simply intolerable, and much like the Red Queen from Carroll’s ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’; he had a mean taste for the necks of anyone unwilling to comply.
Because of this, he went through assistants like a gold digger through a comfy inheritance… and therein laid James’s answer to the success of this little vacation. One John Doe. The man whose name York never bothered to remember considering he’d be fired by the end of the term. The man that would allow him to collect one million dollars worth of remorse…
And by the end of the week, he’d be out of this town, out of the loop, and out of sight. All of course; without Doe’s knowing.
--
“You know, if you’ve got a cold there, you might want to close your window.”
James stayed silent as he sniffed outside the window. “I don’t get sick.” He stated simply. His cab driver was a Middle Eastern man with a harsh nose and bright green eyes. It was unfortunately hidden behind thick glasses decades old, as was his square jaw under a rough forest of black-grey wires a normal man would call a beard… or unsightly. James sniffed at the air again, cleared his throat, and commanded the driver to turn left at the next immediate corner. The darker man hadn’t bothered asking any more questions. A fifty dollar tip goes a long way to be quiet… other-side-of-the-tracks long way, to be precise. The unspoken rule of don’t ask, don’t tell was certainly reinforced in the car trip to the seedy streets that housed drug addicts and transvestites.
Twenty minutes earlier, Shimizu and Lefèvre had taken an unscheduled trip to God knows where. A hamper in James’s plans, but then again, since when did anything in his job ever go according to plan? James took the next taxi he could find and didn’t bother with a direction. “I remember the way to the place, but the details fail me…” he lied, as he got in and opened the window. The cab drove off in a slow, yellow slur and James redirected it on the right course, taking in the scent of an oriental fragrance and light garden salad with Swiss cheese, accompanied by a heavy aroma of an unbearably cheesy croissant. Classically stereotypical.
“Look man, you tell me where you’re going or I’ma drive you wherever the hell I think you are.”
The ruffle of a $350 trench coat’s inside pocket, and a crisp fifty slid through the crack of the glass barrier to land on the front passenger seat. “Just keep driving, and don’t stress out an old dog.” James sighed.
~
Here they were now, trailing ever so slowly, right next to the curb of a used, abandoned apartment building. On the stairs seated a stocky man with dirty grey hair and an impressive beer belly sticking out of a ragged navy singlet. A small neighborly smile on his face caused a friendly one to spark James’s. He smelled honesty, among the dirty things.
“Park at the next corner, I’ll be off, but back shortly.”
“Hey man, I’m a cab, not a limo.”
Another fifty. And the problem disappeared in thin air, like magic.
==
In the world of Scott Summers, everything was pitch black, with red flashes of pain towards his left temple. Blindness was a heartless bitch, after all. So when his “guardian” Bill, the faceless man that caught him with half an eaten chicken wing in the alleys of what he thought was something-town, offered and gave him a home, food, and a way to make use of that pretty little face of his with money, as well as no other choice, it seemed to be the only solution.
But street rats aren’t born on the streets, much to popular belief. They were birthed there by accidents and misfortune, the kind where after hearing Scott’s story, you’d think ‘Wow. Shit.’ Yeah… that kind of misfortune. Born into a perfect family; you know, the one with the big brick house, the mowed green lawn and the white picket fence, Scott’s life had centered around determination to make his parents proud, and a dream to live in the sky… or at least spend as much damn time he could humanly accomplish. Aviation was the ‘football’ in the family, and Scott wore the goggles and hat for quite a majority of his youth. Show and tell was stagnant, repetitive… but there was always a new adventure to be told where the teacher would cut him off just when it got to the good parts.
Yes. He had a great life… then; the headaches started.
They were fairly uncommon. Every other month, he’d get an intense, searing pain run through his head. His eyes burned and he swore all he could see was red. Of course, being a boy of twelve, his parents took him to the doctor without much thought, and he was simply prescribed a day to sleep in and relax. Children as carefree as Scott normally had a ‘wild imagination’, as his mother would put it. A very understandable underestimation.
Later that year, he would go onboard his father’s other child; Abigail, the name of his own private seaplane with the rest of his family, and around that same period, he would lose everything. Six foster homes later, and he found himself in the streets of Queens, blind from a ‘thing’ growing inside of him, and without shelter. Soon enough, when he’d slowly gotten used to rock bottom; Bill came along with a chance to climb up towards the light. Of course that was just a frilly way of saying that he’d just be an undiscovered level of despair.
At sixteen, the jobs were small, and very hushed. Bill worked what he called an independent ‘escort service’, which was really just a fancy-shmancy pseudonym for hire-a-whore. He was… considerate, if you will, at first. Scott didn’t have to do more than be talked to, caressed… kissed. Eventually, as time moved forward, so did the actions. Kissing wasn’t small stolen things that could be forgotten… it became harsh and forced, touching turned to gripping, and all sense of decency was lost in the night of consensual rape. But it put food on the table… on most days, when Bill hadn’t hoarded all the earnings to buy himself something he needed. Like another car, or another television.
~
Today was going to be another one of those services. Bill informed Scott as he always had; skipping details better left unsaid, to his standards anyway (which was almost everything). Scott had on a fresh polo shirt and some old, flashy dress pants a size too small for him. His eyes weren’t blindfolded, but a new pair of drug store sunglasses sat atop his youthfully defined nose. Though unable to see, it was clear he was going to be rented off to some big shot. The ‘disability’ as Bill never failed to emphasize, never really was a problem. In fact, Scott attracted a whole new market of clients that loved a bit of a blind fetish. Upon exiting Bill’s vehicle, he felt a strong, harsh grip on his shoulder, more pushing, than guiding him to stand in front of what he recognized as a semi-public meet up spot, behind an apartment building and next to some old dumpsters. He recognized it from the sounds of a familiar crying baby and a mother yelling at it to stop or she’d cut herself again.
“You don’t say anything, and you do everything they tell you to do.” Bill pushed. He pushed hard. Scott got it.
“Yeah… whatever.” He sighed, as if it were a reply to a father telling his child to stop playing on the neighbors lawn.
“Don’t give me attitude, boy. These pervs paid generously for someone I was willing to give up for a few days.” A whack on the back of his head, and Scott only just got the message.
“A-a few days?!” Scott choked.
“They’ll feed you… surprisingly,” Scott heard. Followed by a grunt of disbelief. “You’re getting a royal fucking treatment for a slut.” He finished, harshly. Scott gritted his teeth but held onto his tongue. He so wanted to open his eyes and show the bastard just how heroic a slut could be.
‘Soon, this’ll be all behind me,’ he thought to himself. ‘Soon…’. It was a common mantra that ran rings in his head every time things started seeming dark again.
Scott’s ears perked when he heard a set of wheels enter the vicinity slow to a stop. Then silence. Two doors opened, followed by the knocking of heavy footsteps across the asphalt. Already feeling his skin crawl, he shuffled away when he heard the first voice speak in a very heavy French accent. The kind you hear in the movies.
“He’s very pretty… and you say he’s not so valuable?”
Scott stayed silent.
“He’s one of the better ones. Especially with what you paid. He’s of high value, don’t break him… too much.”
Scott wondered how much he was worth for more than a day.
“As part of the deal, we’ll make sure… nothing unfortunate, happens to fall upon him. We’ll take care of him.”
Scott got goosebumps and alarms went off in his head. But he stayed statue still. Nose wrinkled in reaction to eyes shut tight.
“He’s an object yeah; but he isn’t refundable if you break him. You pay extra if you have him longer than thirty six hours, you pay more if he can’t work for me anymore.”
If Scott didn’t know any better, he’d think that Bill actually cared for him.
“But of course.”
He was pushed into two firm, gloved hands, before being gently escorted to what he now recognized as a limousine. They really were capable of paying quite a sum for him. As soon as he got in, he smelled the polished air, melted into the seats and released his breath… and for a split second, in the crest of his naiveté, he actually thought he was moving up in life… the poor, foolish boy.
“Take us, to, the hotel now.” A thick, Asian voice bellowed to the driver.
==
A child. And a whore no less. James’s tactics were indeed hampered.
Strict ethics forced him to make a slight change in plans. Essentially it was just an extra step; ‘Don’t kill the boy.’ Simple, yes. But simple? Hardly. He needed no witnesses remembering his existence at that time and place. Or at all.
He looked over the papers scattered about his glass dining table back at his penthouse suite and studied the face of his key; his John Doe; Ethan Carlson. For the umpteenth time, he studied the depression on his eyebrows from the constant stress of the workforce, the premature wrinkles around his early thirty-something year old eyes from the late nights at the office left unacknowledged, and the slight dimples around his temples from constant massaging. All of which he saw during his outing earlier that day.
Tomorrow was the party. Day three was the finalization of plans for the company collaborations between businessmen at the meeting in the restaurant. By then, the heads would have been taken out. By then, James would have been long gone.
James slipped out of his dress pants, and wearing only his white cotton boxers, slipped into bed after turning off the lights for the evening. Good night, New York.
--
The plan was a simple one. Separate the sheep from the shepherd…in this case; separating Carlson from York, and before the party at that. It just required a bit of clumsiness. James recalled the name of the restaurant they were off to meet a client with for a standard meeting to finalize transactions. Transactions, that was legal, mind you… technically, at least.
It was late afternoon. The sun was only half-visible behind the giant buildings. James walked past the bustling streets of career driven men and women on their way back home towards ‘Citadel ’, a well intentioned restaurant with undoubtedly underrated exposure. The front was white brick, green vines climbing amongst fake columns. It was fairly small, considering it was one-off the main street. James walked in and was chaperoned by the host; a well dressed man that actually looked the part. Being early evening, the place was relatively empty (considering the status of the restaurants around it) save for the few tourists enjoying beautiful seafood dishes and an excellent bottle of wine, the regulars that were loyal to this place, and of course; York and Carlson, the only loud couple in the building. York fell into the latter category of being a loyal customer there; according to his files; all meetings that he ordered and attended took place there. And on the very table he was sitting in. He was persistent, and consistent. Dangerously predictable.
“Your table, sir.” The host presented, gesturing towards a hefty looking chair, a few tables away from the lobster tank York and Carlson were sitting in front of, directly next to the window.
“I’m sorry to make such a fuss-” James started, “-but my eyes are quite sensitive to light. May I be seated at a table closer to the aquarium?”
“Yes, sir.” The host chimed in, pushing the chair back into its spot and moving towards a table three seats down the babbling businessman and his assistant. “Your seat,” the waiter offered, as James placed his attention back to his company. “Might I bring you your menu?”
James sat down sternly, looked up to the host, and replied; “In a while… I’m expecting company.”
“Very well sir, just holler when you need the waiter.” he grinned, attempting to make lame conversation.
James said nothing. The effect of his silence showed in the cheeks of the kind stranger. He enjoyed making other people feel like a prized fool. The host left at once and James spent his solitude eavesdropping as he polished his spoon and fork further with the napkin that was provided for him… for no reason really. Habit, maybe.
As the fork was placed back on the table, he saw through his field of vision that York and Carlson had both stood up-obviously to greet their client. Firm footsteps from a stocky man that hushed the host mid-sentence pulled a seat rather angrily and sat on it in an equally dissatisfied manner. “Parking here is terrible.” He grunted vividly, pointing out the obvious. The client; Andrew Macarther, wasn’t of any importance to James, who merely just studied his name. That, was all. However, to anyone else, he seemed to have a distinguished vibe emanating from his very presence; one that unsettled even the cut-throat ruthless. They commenced with their meeting as planned… nothing James really needed to pay attention to. A familiar scent suddenly filled his nostrils…
“Well… if it isn’t my lovely doll. James dear, how long has it been?”
James smiled without turning around. The voice was tacked onto a tall, slender brunette with angelic ringlets in her silken hair, sharp silver eyes to boot, and she always seemed to be wearing ruby-red lipstick… as if it were just part of her physically genetic being. It fitted too. “They always send you for the low key rendezvous, Ruby. I really have no idea why.”
“You flatter me too much dear…” She replied affectionately, her velvet finger tracing James’s clean cut jaw line before gracefully separating and being placed pertly on her lap as she sat down. “But please, don’t stop.”…“May I get a menu…?” she asked, raising her arm as she crossed her legs underneath the table and caressing James’s shin with her ankle, smiling sweetly all the while doing so.
James and Ruby had an ongoing business relationship. And nothing more… the sexual tension as all fun and games; as was the touching and flirting. In actuality, both were far too professional and into work to ever take it further. So the fact that they weren’t attractive people could be cleared fresh out of the picture. Ruby was appointed to James as his messenger. She would be the only one he’d be able to trust during any missions whatsoever. She had yet to betray him… and James didn’t predict that happening any time soon.
The waiter arrived with quick reaction, the menus being handed down to both James and Ruby while a small notepad with a fountain pen slipped into the spiral a hoop was gripped in the hand’s.
“What will you be having?” James asked, without so much as a second wasted.
“Very eager, are we…? No need to rush sweetie.” She winked. “I’ll have a light salad. Oh, and this one here please… the most expensive one. My darling there will be paying for it after all, won’t you doll?”
James merely cocked a brow and only replied with a subtle grin. Of course.
“What?” she defended, falsely offended. “I am watching my figure, after all…” Her fingers caressed the side of the menu as she waited for James to order, her ankle still caressing him underneath the table. The act was the farthest thing from awkward; common, really. James adored her… probably one of the only people that made his occupation bearable. And that was saying something. James fingered a section of the menu;
“I’ll have prawn and teriyaki sushi… and yes, that wine.”
“Oh goodie,” Ruby smiled, a perfect set of teeth flashing James.
Once the waiter had gone to handle the order, Ruby sat up straight, flattening the wrinkles on her gray cotton dress, and flicking off invisible lint on her black blouse. Now, resting her chin on the back of each hand, she turned her head in a clockwise direction, staring at James with a flair of curiosity. “I don’t see how I’m meant to oversee you, when you’re the only one with a 100 per cent success in their track record…” she started. “You never really do need the extra assistance-you might as well be a mind reader. You can’t do that, can you?” she grinned.
“They ask you to oversee me because I’d never lay a finger on you. Plus the small fact that I’m a mutant, yes… and no-I unfortunately don’t have the privilege to see how your beautiful mind works. It’s not part of my mutation.”
“See boy? Oh so smart you are.” She winked. “And if you could read my mind, I doubt we’d be here having lunch.”
James merely smirked as he continued to stare into her eyes, seeking out what she was doing.
“What’s it like playing the grim? My job’s always so boring… no offence. Say-you wouldn’t happen to need me to help you in even the tiniest bit, would you?” she babbled, insulted, then hinted.
“There’s not much I’m willing to let you do, love… unless you want to play a clumsy fool. But would you really deprive me of such a role?” James answered.
Ruby’s eyes twinkled in childish delight. “I’m the biggest fool there is dear. You know that…” James shook his head, guessing that she was talking about that one time she fell in love with a traitor of their organization. It’s understood that it didn’t end well at all. “What can I do?” she asked, curious.
James smiled, “That man over there… your 3 o clock, the one that looks like he wants to kill himself.”
“… He’s quite a cutie, isn’t he…? Go on.”
“Do you think you can mess him up for me?” James asked, eyebrows furrowing in feigned innocence.
Ruby just grinned, nodded her head like a child being told to do something that they actually wanted to do.
James sat up, and Ruby soon followed when she realized the waiter was coming, with two dishes at hand. “Your sushi, sir, and your salad, ma’am. The wine will arrive very shortly.” He mentioned, catching a glimpse of the pout the woman before him made when he mentioned the delay on the wine. He quickly disappeared back into the back of the building where the kitchen was.
“Wine would be good…” James noted.
“Wine’s always good, darling, what are you talking about?” she said, half paying attention to her company, but mainly focusing on the kitchen to where that waiter had run off to.
“I mean for messing up your cutie there.” James said flatly.
The look on Ruby’s face when she turned to him was that of a heartbroken angel. James merely grinned… was it ever mentioned that she was a recovering alcoholic?
“I’m the one paying for it… it’s only fair that I decide its use.” James offered.
Ruby frowned, but understood that it was really for her own good. Oh, and the mission’s too, she guessed. Getting up from her seat as soon as she saw the waiter enter with two complimentary glasses of champagne, she took it as a sign of good will from above that the wine wouldn’t be wasted at all.
“Excuse me,” she said to James, as she went to the general directions of the bathrooms, her hand slipping into her pocket to drop her mascara on the aisle. Stepping aside when the waiter acknowledged her generous side-step, he stepped on the cylindrical container, and all hell broke loose. Almost just as quickly as he hit the ground, did Carlson realize he was now doused in champagne, as was the corners of some of the paper work. The quickest of glances were exchanged between Ruby and James when she bent over to help the waiter up-which was really just a guise for her to attain her make up back. “Are you hurt at all?”
James was quite impressed with her methods, surely. York, on the other hand, was furious at the interruption.
~
After the storm was calmed, an outright slew of insults from York to the waiter was now unmentioned-but not unforgotten, Ruby made her way back out of the bathroom to the table, with a full glass of wine awaiting her arrival. She was ecstatic. “Yummy,” she giddied, sipping-about half the glass before connecting it with James’s offered one for a toast. She downed the rest immediately and held out her glass for a refill.
“Am I a ten or what?” she asked innocently, as her arm was still outstretched with the wine glass.
“You…” James started, pouring red into the glass just under half way, “-are always a ten.”
Ruby held the glass underneath her nose, swirled it for a bit, before she whispered low enough for only James to hear. “Dear… you better go now.”
And as if on cue, the trio they were following stood up in unison, exchanging handshakes and clarifying finalized deals, before slowly making their way out of the restaurant in a lined formation. James heard York whispering an order to Carlson to get changed (as mentioned-dangerously predictable), as he wouldn’t want to be embarrassed by the others by a wet, idiot-assistant. James would feel bad for the guy-if he hadn’t known that the pay made it worthwhile.
“The food?” James asked, slowly moving his chair back.
“… on me.” Ruby winked, her bottom lip caressing the edge of the glass. “I’ll see you when you’ve finished.”
James stood up briskly, signaled to the waiter, before nodding at his company one final time before leaving her to her real lover.
“Goodbye…” he said.
--
Carlson saw a blur in the place of some man’s face, before falling into unconsciousness in front of his apartment.
James had intercepted him as he was making his way out of his home, striking at pressure points that seemed like a simple map from point A to point B; he dragged the unconscious body back into his living room, placing him on the designer sofa that he probably brought with his last pay check.
The apartment itself was a downright mess. Papers hanging off the sides of tables; the smell of caffeine still heavy and sickening in the air… with all the money he was getting, a maid would’ve been helpful. James shifted his attention back on the unconscious man, hands with purpose and precision locating the invite card and mobile phone in record time. James quickly strode out of the room, closing the door behind him, making his way down the stairs to catch a cab in the main street with his plans replaying one last time in his mind.
Tonight, there would be blood.
----------------------------------------------------
Part 2