Decade - Prologue, 2 of 3
Title: Decade
Author: FlyingHigh / latetothpartyhp
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama / Adventure
Pairings: Chloe/Clark, Tess/Oliver
Spoilers: through Salvation, and selectively from Lazarus
Warnings: Because of when this fic starts there will be some collateral Clois and Chlollie to begin with. There was also be strong language, some violence and some mentions of sexuality. Please be sure to check individual chapters for ratings and warning changes.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, and I am receiving no money for this story. I also make no claim to anything written by T.S. Eliot, Emily Dickinson or William Shakespeare.
Summary: The last ten years have all led up to this.
Author's Note: This fic was written for selene2 , who won the bid for my services in the legendary_women auction - I hope you enjoy it! Many, many thanks to iluvaqt for beta-reading this.
Prologue Part 1 / Prologue Part 2 / Prologue Part 3
Reunion 1.0 / Reunion 1.1 / Reunion 1.2 / Reunion 1.3
-------------------------------------
MXYZPTLK
He watched a left hook hit its mark square in the jaw and glanced at his watch. 10:30. Only 10:30. Four more hours of this to go. He wasn’t going to make it, he knew that. His mind would implode from the boredom and he would be left a vegetable, with so much potential wasted. He signaled to the server, who rolled her eyes. “Go,” he said, and she did, despite not having heard him, headed to the bar and back. She didn’t bother with a glass, just brought the whole bottle with her.
“I need a glass,” he told her.
She looked around. “You think this crowd cares?”
“You think these assholes know good vodka when they taste it? I care. Get me a glass.” He pulled out a c-note and handed it to her. “Please.”
She twisted her mouth, but did as she was told, this time of her own volition. God, if the Boss had the common sense just to pay these idiots off, his life would be a whole lot more exciting right now. He could be watching reruns of Friends right now. Or Two and a Half Men. He hadn’t seen the first runs of either, so at least whatever happened would be a surprise.
Unlike tonight. He poured himself a shot and downed it, then three more. It wasn’t as if his “job performance” would be affected. He glanced at his watch again. 10:43. He glanced back up at the fight. Neal clearly had the upper hand, but that, he knew, was not expected to last. The smart money -- by which was meant the Boss’ money -- was on Lesner. He checked the Boss’ box. Empty. He had a few more minutes. He poured himself another shot.
10:46. Lesner began the new round with energy. Good, that was good. That made it that much more believable. And the Boss was in place now. The Boss always wanted to see the fall. Well, he was glad somebody did. He focused on the match now. He needed to catch a good hit of Lesner’s. The guy was making some punches, but nothing that said knock-out; they were still too close. Jesus, he was really going to have to micro-manage this thing. “Stumble,” he whispered, as Lesner landed a hit to Neal’s ribs. To the other spectators, it looked as if the force of Lesner’s hit was enough to throw Neal off-balance. Neal stepped back, putting his weight on the outer edge of his foot. Lesner swiped Neal’s chest, not a forceful blow, but Neal was shaky and he, Mikhail, had a job to do. “Fall,” he whispered, and Neal fell.
The crowd went wild. He poured another drink.
----------------------------
Eventually, the booze caught up with him. That was only natural, he was a Mxyzptlk, not some meteor freak with super bladder control.
He caught the Boss’ eye and nodded toward the exit. The boss nodded in return. It was getting late, the night was winding down, the A-listers had all mostly left for the comfort of somebody’s bed. He rose and walked himself to the back hall, to the grungy, employees-only toilet with the cracked mirror, and the filthy grout and the acrid odor of urinal cakes. It was so ridiculous, a toilet like this in a place where money fell out of marks’ pockets like ... piss out of a drunk. When he was a kid, America had been like a paradise he dreamed about, home of Metallica and Kurt Cobain -- of course, Cobain had killed himself, but it wasn’t until he’d come over that he’d realized why. Underneath the shiny pretty surface he’d seen in the movies and on t.v. America was full of crumbling, shoddy shit-holes that were themselves full of crumbling, shoddy people. Nobody in those places had a job but everyone had a buck, or a fight, or a life to lose
He had had to have been awfully young and naive not to have predicted that.
He washed and dried his hands, probably a futile effort in this joint but the gesture was important. He opened the door just far enough to feel it hit something solid half-way and hear a muttered, “Goddammit.”
He pushed at the door again, and again it was stopped. “Would you hold on a second? You can’t be in a hurry to get out,” the voice said. “You, move back four steps.”
“Excuse me?” he asked. The voice sounded like his server’s.
“Not you. You can come out now.” He opened the door, all the way this time, and there was his server. Standing a foot or so from the door there was also a blonde woman, with eyes fixed forward, who looked vaguely familiar.
“OK, walk into the bathroom,” the server said. The blonde woman moved forward, followed by the server, both of them resolutely ignoring him before shutting the door.
Well. That was ... unexpected. And wrong somehow, and while he definitely wasn’t the best judge of that, it was still... Something about the way the blonde girl had stared. Emotionless, and that wasn’t right, because he felt like he knew her, and that feeling said she was opinionated. And there’d been a lot of color around her, and a big bird, and -- a crow. A big, painted crow. She was that girl from the high school -- his American scholarship high school. The self-righteous one with the newspaper.
Jesus. What the hell was she doing here? She should be nagging some poor schmuck to clean out the gutters or change the oil in the car, not wandering around the basement of this sewer. Or being pulled into bathrooms by that cow of a waitress. Under other circumstances, seeing that would have made for interesting speculation, but tonight that too felt wrong. Tonight there was something going on he didn’t understand at all.
He slouched back against the opposite wall and waited for the two women to come out. It took longer than he expected it would.
Finally the door opened. The server blinked. He smiled. The blonde stared past him at the wall.
“You gotta go again?” the server asked.
“Pretty girl,” he responded, nodding. “Where did she come from?”
The server smirked. “From the Boss, that’s where.”
“Is she his kid?”
“Not hardly.”
“So, she’s not his girl?”
“She’s off limits is what she is. You should get back to work.”
He shrugged. “My shift’s done.” He smiled again. Women seemed to like his smile, even when he didn’t tell them to. “Let me come with you. It’ll be fun.”
“No, it won’t. Besides, I think even you would get tired of having to tell her what to do every minute. She can’t even pee on her own without someone to tell her to go.”
“What happened to her?”
“I guess that’s for the Boss to know and you and I to wonder about.”
He looked at the girl again. He remembered having to hand-cuff her to keep her from interfering with his plans. She hadn’t moved once since he’d started talking to the server. That was no good.
“No,” he said. “I think you should sit.”
The server sat. He squatted down, looked at her eye to eye. “Stay,” he said. “Forget.” Her eyes went blank, not unlike the blondes’, and it occurred to him that command may have been a bit broad. Then he remembered the bottle without the glass and the way she’d rolled her eyes and shrugged. He could always let her remember later. Or not.
He stood and walked to the other girl. It had been fun, he remembered, showing her what he could do. Showing off, in fact. Girls always liked seeing it, until they realized he could use it just as easily to control them as he did to entertain them. This one though, the one in front of him, she had been the only one to try to stop him from controlling others. The only one who had stopped him.It should make him angry, remembering. Thinking about it had always made him angry before -- but when was the last time he really had? When was the last time he’d been angry? When was the last time he’d felt anything except drunk or bored?
He took her arm. “We are going for a walk, pretty girl.” He realized he was tugging at her unmoving form and remembered what the server had said about peeing. “You are going to walk with me,” he said. She picked up her foot to follow him. He curled his lip in disgust.
He had three ways out at this point: through the club, through the kitchen or through whatever was being built downstairs. The club was out for obvious reasons and there was a security guard stationed at the work site 24 hours. On the other hand there were still a couple of servers left who might be hanging out in the kitchen or by the door, smoking. It was harder to work his mojo on groups but the servers were less likely to be carrying than the guard was, so through the kitchen it was. He steered her through the swinging door, past the stainless steel bench tops and shelving, ignoring a few uncorked bottles of wine, stepping around the crates of produce on the way to the alley door, which sure enough was propped open to permit re-entry. Burnt tobacco met his nostrils, a smell that always reminded him of his mother and interminable waits on rail platforms.
“Jessica?” he guessed as he pushed the door open. He didn’t know all their names, but that one seemed common.
“Yeah?”
“I saw, I think, Krista? In the hall by the restroom. She did not look so hot. I think someone should check on her.”
“She’s not puking is she?”
“Not yet.”
“Christ. Should just let her get fired,” she said, but then stubbed out the cigarette. She turned and saw the girl behind him, her eyes widening for a split second before he whispered, again, “Forget.” Her eyes looked merely confused as she walked away. That worked better. Better than the last one, at least.
He turned to the blonde girl. This might be tricky -- it wasn’t like he could command her to become invisible. “Stay out of sight,” he told her. “Keep going until you find help -- do not stop until you find someone to help you. Don’t mention me to anyone. Okay? OK. Go.”
Then she was -- gone.
How the hell had he done that?
Author: FlyingHigh / latetothpartyhp
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama / Adventure
Pairings: Chloe/Clark, Tess/Oliver
Spoilers: through Salvation, and selectively from Lazarus
Warnings: Because of when this fic starts there will be some collateral Clois and Chlollie to begin with. There was also be strong language, some violence and some mentions of sexuality. Please be sure to check individual chapters for ratings and warning changes.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, and I am receiving no money for this story. I also make no claim to anything written by T.S. Eliot, Emily Dickinson or William Shakespeare.
Summary: The last ten years have all led up to this.
Author's Note: This fic was written for selene2 , who won the bid for my services in the legendary_women auction - I hope you enjoy it! Many, many thanks to iluvaqt for beta-reading this.
Prologue Part 1 / Prologue Part 2 / Prologue Part 3
Reunion 1.0 / Reunion 1.1 / Reunion 1.2 / Reunion 1.3
-------------------------------------
MXYZPTLK
He watched a left hook hit its mark square in the jaw and glanced at his watch. 10:30. Only 10:30. Four more hours of this to go. He wasn’t going to make it, he knew that. His mind would implode from the boredom and he would be left a vegetable, with so much potential wasted. He signaled to the server, who rolled her eyes. “Go,” he said, and she did, despite not having heard him, headed to the bar and back. She didn’t bother with a glass, just brought the whole bottle with her.
“I need a glass,” he told her.
She looked around. “You think this crowd cares?”
“You think these assholes know good vodka when they taste it? I care. Get me a glass.” He pulled out a c-note and handed it to her. “Please.”
She twisted her mouth, but did as she was told, this time of her own volition. God, if the Boss had the common sense just to pay these idiots off, his life would be a whole lot more exciting right now. He could be watching reruns of Friends right now. Or Two and a Half Men. He hadn’t seen the first runs of either, so at least whatever happened would be a surprise.
Unlike tonight. He poured himself a shot and downed it, then three more. It wasn’t as if his “job performance” would be affected. He glanced at his watch again. 10:43. He glanced back up at the fight. Neal clearly had the upper hand, but that, he knew, was not expected to last. The smart money -- by which was meant the Boss’ money -- was on Lesner. He checked the Boss’ box. Empty. He had a few more minutes. He poured himself another shot.
10:46. Lesner began the new round with energy. Good, that was good. That made it that much more believable. And the Boss was in place now. The Boss always wanted to see the fall. Well, he was glad somebody did. He focused on the match now. He needed to catch a good hit of Lesner’s. The guy was making some punches, but nothing that said knock-out; they were still too close. Jesus, he was really going to have to micro-manage this thing. “Stumble,” he whispered, as Lesner landed a hit to Neal’s ribs. To the other spectators, it looked as if the force of Lesner’s hit was enough to throw Neal off-balance. Neal stepped back, putting his weight on the outer edge of his foot. Lesner swiped Neal’s chest, not a forceful blow, but Neal was shaky and he, Mikhail, had a job to do. “Fall,” he whispered, and Neal fell.
The crowd went wild. He poured another drink.
----------------------------
Eventually, the booze caught up with him. That was only natural, he was a Mxyzptlk, not some meteor freak with super bladder control.
He caught the Boss’ eye and nodded toward the exit. The boss nodded in return. It was getting late, the night was winding down, the A-listers had all mostly left for the comfort of somebody’s bed. He rose and walked himself to the back hall, to the grungy, employees-only toilet with the cracked mirror, and the filthy grout and the acrid odor of urinal cakes. It was so ridiculous, a toilet like this in a place where money fell out of marks’ pockets like ... piss out of a drunk. When he was a kid, America had been like a paradise he dreamed about, home of Metallica and Kurt Cobain -- of course, Cobain had killed himself, but it wasn’t until he’d come over that he’d realized why. Underneath the shiny pretty surface he’d seen in the movies and on t.v. America was full of crumbling, shoddy shit-holes that were themselves full of crumbling, shoddy people. Nobody in those places had a job but everyone had a buck, or a fight, or a life to lose
He had had to have been awfully young and naive not to have predicted that.
He washed and dried his hands, probably a futile effort in this joint but the gesture was important. He opened the door just far enough to feel it hit something solid half-way and hear a muttered, “Goddammit.”
He pushed at the door again, and again it was stopped. “Would you hold on a second? You can’t be in a hurry to get out,” the voice said. “You, move back four steps.”
“Excuse me?” he asked. The voice sounded like his server’s.
“Not you. You can come out now.” He opened the door, all the way this time, and there was his server. Standing a foot or so from the door there was also a blonde woman, with eyes fixed forward, who looked vaguely familiar.
“OK, walk into the bathroom,” the server said. The blonde woman moved forward, followed by the server, both of them resolutely ignoring him before shutting the door.
Well. That was ... unexpected. And wrong somehow, and while he definitely wasn’t the best judge of that, it was still... Something about the way the blonde girl had stared. Emotionless, and that wasn’t right, because he felt like he knew her, and that feeling said she was opinionated. And there’d been a lot of color around her, and a big bird, and -- a crow. A big, painted crow. She was that girl from the high school -- his American scholarship high school. The self-righteous one with the newspaper.
Jesus. What the hell was she doing here? She should be nagging some poor schmuck to clean out the gutters or change the oil in the car, not wandering around the basement of this sewer. Or being pulled into bathrooms by that cow of a waitress. Under other circumstances, seeing that would have made for interesting speculation, but tonight that too felt wrong. Tonight there was something going on he didn’t understand at all.
He slouched back against the opposite wall and waited for the two women to come out. It took longer than he expected it would.
Finally the door opened. The server blinked. He smiled. The blonde stared past him at the wall.
“You gotta go again?” the server asked.
“Pretty girl,” he responded, nodding. “Where did she come from?”
The server smirked. “From the Boss, that’s where.”
“Is she his kid?”
“Not hardly.”
“So, she’s not his girl?”
“She’s off limits is what she is. You should get back to work.”
He shrugged. “My shift’s done.” He smiled again. Women seemed to like his smile, even when he didn’t tell them to. “Let me come with you. It’ll be fun.”
“No, it won’t. Besides, I think even you would get tired of having to tell her what to do every minute. She can’t even pee on her own without someone to tell her to go.”
“What happened to her?”
“I guess that’s for the Boss to know and you and I to wonder about.”
He looked at the girl again. He remembered having to hand-cuff her to keep her from interfering with his plans. She hadn’t moved once since he’d started talking to the server. That was no good.
“No,” he said. “I think you should sit.”
The server sat. He squatted down, looked at her eye to eye. “Stay,” he said. “Forget.” Her eyes went blank, not unlike the blondes’, and it occurred to him that command may have been a bit broad. Then he remembered the bottle without the glass and the way she’d rolled her eyes and shrugged. He could always let her remember later. Or not.
He stood and walked to the other girl. It had been fun, he remembered, showing her what he could do. Showing off, in fact. Girls always liked seeing it, until they realized he could use it just as easily to control them as he did to entertain them. This one though, the one in front of him, she had been the only one to try to stop him from controlling others. The only one who had stopped him.It should make him angry, remembering. Thinking about it had always made him angry before -- but when was the last time he really had? When was the last time he’d been angry? When was the last time he’d felt anything except drunk or bored?
He took her arm. “We are going for a walk, pretty girl.” He realized he was tugging at her unmoving form and remembered what the server had said about peeing. “You are going to walk with me,” he said. She picked up her foot to follow him. He curled his lip in disgust.
He had three ways out at this point: through the club, through the kitchen or through whatever was being built downstairs. The club was out for obvious reasons and there was a security guard stationed at the work site 24 hours. On the other hand there were still a couple of servers left who might be hanging out in the kitchen or by the door, smoking. It was harder to work his mojo on groups but the servers were less likely to be carrying than the guard was, so through the kitchen it was. He steered her through the swinging door, past the stainless steel bench tops and shelving, ignoring a few uncorked bottles of wine, stepping around the crates of produce on the way to the alley door, which sure enough was propped open to permit re-entry. Burnt tobacco met his nostrils, a smell that always reminded him of his mother and interminable waits on rail platforms.
“Jessica?” he guessed as he pushed the door open. He didn’t know all their names, but that one seemed common.
“Yeah?”
“I saw, I think, Krista? In the hall by the restroom. She did not look so hot. I think someone should check on her.”
“She’s not puking is she?”
“Not yet.”
“Christ. Should just let her get fired,” she said, but then stubbed out the cigarette. She turned and saw the girl behind him, her eyes widening for a split second before he whispered, again, “Forget.” Her eyes looked merely confused as she walked away. That worked better. Better than the last one, at least.
He turned to the blonde girl. This might be tricky -- it wasn’t like he could command her to become invisible. “Stay out of sight,” he told her. “Keep going until you find help -- do not stop until you find someone to help you. Don’t mention me to anyone. Okay? OK. Go.”
Then she was -- gone.
How the hell had he done that?