Siege Perilous - Part 2 continued
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xp_logsSiege Perilous Day 6 - Two thieves break into an art gallery…
When the Whitney moved into its new building downtown, the big revelation both to the casual aesthetes and the pretentious art snobs was the breadth of collection. Where, the city's museum-goers wondered, had all the art been hiding for all these years, and why had nobody known about it?
But a certain segment of the city had, indeed, taken note of Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney's appetite for collection, not just of American arts and artifacts, but of a number of more eclectic (almost mysterious) items that she'd swept up over time, and that the future directors of the museum bearing her name had also sought out. The items and books and papers rarely went on display, and access to the storage area where they were kept was strictly limited. But if you knew they were there, it was hard not to be tempted by the treasure.
Of course, that knowledge was kept to a limited few. And it was not held by most of the glitterati and art-world regulars who were gathering downtown for the opening reception of a new exhibit of surrealist art inspired by the American Southwest ("transcendent," murmured the Times's critic about one painting; "scattershot," scribbled the correspondent for Artnet news). Unknowingly, they strolled through the gallery, cocktails and hor d'oeuvres in hand, as a number of support staff flitted around them trying to ensure the evening was a success.
Felicia regarded the new exhibit over the rim of her admittedly mediocre but probably still expensive flute of champagne. She was staring down a particular Curtis piece, warm lighting, blue skies, a tub with circus flags in the middle of the sea, and while surrealism had never been in her top five, she could appreciate it, even if it was just enough to know exactly how much it was worth and to whom. Her mother, who had been involved with this board of acquisitions - but clearly not the catering - and countless before, had accidentally made sure of that.
There was a tittering and Felicia turned her head slightly, regarding another group who'd found the more suggestive cactus pieces; as good a reason as any to make another casual lap around the room.
The caterers milled about, largely unregarded and unnoticed, an anonymity Gabriel had shrewdly decided to take advantage of him so he could slip away from the art — derivative, he'd decided after a few passing glances — and down toward the basement where, at least for him, the real treasure awaited.
The Hellfire Club had gotten wind of a ledger of some kind that would lead them to acquiring control of the Soulsword. He couldn't pretend that he understood more than that, and it wasn't like he needed to. The Faux Royals were apparently convinced that the job would be tricky, and so they sent him rather than letting him outsource it.
And so, thus, a night at the museum. Having already swiped a coded badge from a security guard — surprisingly easy, the way such pilfering was when one moved three times as fast as anyone else — Gabriel discreetly put down a tray emptied of its champagne flutes and stole away to the back staircase that led underground. Though he was no art expert, Gabriel still found something exciting about the idea of being alone with some hidden Basquiats and Harings, even though what he was taking was considerably more secretive.
"You know, I always figured the waistcoat would be too ‘have you met my cat, I pet it intimidatingly at parties’ on you but honestly it works," a voice sounded from across the room. Felicia's red framed grin almost seemed to appear first as she stepped forward from a convenient shadow, flicking, flourishing a small card of plastic in and out of view in her hand. "Especially when you can't manage the curator's security badge."
"It's my build. Lean, but not too lean." Gabriel started at the sound of her voice, but he couldn't help but give the smallest smile when Felicia appeared in front of him. "I should have known," he said, because, really, he should have. "Long time no see," he said, unbuttoning the waistcoat and tossing it on top of a wooden crate in a split-second. "Here to steal a Koons?"
"While I do always appreciate art I can see myself in, I believe that may be taking it a touch too literally? Pretty as the reflection is," she returned, an automatic wink as they sidestepped, a slow barely circling of each other. "And you? How are you? If you're looking for Mitchell's The Poems I just found out MoMA wouldn't release it." Felicia's smile widened. "I'm making a very subtle reference that we're clearly both looking for a book, in case you missed it."
Gabriel did not, in fact, catch it, but he wasn't about to tell her that. "Well, that figures too — careful," he said as she took a step backwards toward some porcelain atrocity, "that's probably some priceless sculpture made by a man who went to art school but convinced everyone he suffered." This was precarious. His skill was considerable, and his powers would have facilitated an easy heist. But Felicia was wily, and this was a variable he had not planned for. "So, you want to keep doing this," he gestured in a circle, "or...?"
"I've been wasting time while I try and figure out what to do with you. I'd be biting my lip but like. Lipstick. Teeth. No." Felicia tilted her head, giving them both a moment. "Proposition. We take a private tour together, choose something pretty and, above all, valuable as compensation for our efforts, and report back that we got there too late and the ledger was already gone, oh shoot."
Half turning away from him she looked over her shoulder. "We maybe do or don't take a look at the ledger and keep the information for ourselves for later when this all goes to hell."
In the blink of an eye, Gabriel raced to the other side of Felicia, sitting at a desk at a corner table. “I need to bring something back,” he said, as he began rifling through drawers. And he did; his employers weren’t as flexible as Felicia’s.
“Doesn’t have to be everything,” he added with a shrug. “But I can’t be empty-handed. That’s not... good for me.”
"No, I suppose not," she said quietly, watching. Another beat before she added. "It's in the barrister bookcase. The red one."
“Is it?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow, without looking up. He was unsure whether to trust her and continued searching through the desk. “And you’re willing to let me have it?” He pulled out a tiny bottle of whiskey, shook it and tossed it to her. “Seems pretty generous.”
"Glass doors so no telltale dust marks, but it's the only book in there that wasn't bought as part of a set to fill the space. Real leather to match his leather chair." Felicia shrugged, catching the bottle with one hand just a moment after she should have been able to, making a point. "Things have a way of working out for me. But I've... there have have been times where I didn't have the option to fail, and I didn't like it."
Opening the door on the bookcase up she took the aforementioned book out, laying it open in front of him, and stepped back, suddenly very interested in a small collection of what appeared to be old snuff boxes, picking up one that she turned over, looking at its bottom, and slipping it into her pocket. "See? Red. Always red."
Gabriel removed a flash drive from the desk, inspecting it. The plastic case was entirely white, except for a red dot on one end. Maybe Felicia had a point. He shoved it in his pocket and slammed the drawers shut. "Disappointingly obvious," he said as he reached for the book. "The books are the jobs that always feel so anticlimactic. So much planning for... this."
"Right? And even if we didn't all carry smartphones for scanning it, it's not like it'd even be a challenge to sneak out a book. Put it with some other books, wear some glasses if you're feeling fancy, walk out, the end." Felicia idly ran her fingers along the edge of the frame of a painting, wondering if the owner - it seemed to be part of his personal collection - knew it was an, admittedly very good, fake. "I know information theft is supposed to be all cloak and dagger spy fun but I miss the good old days of nabbing art. Ooh and jewellery. Set up and pay off."
Gabriel gingerly flipped a few pages of the book. “Shiny things are fun,” he agreed, smiling a little as he stood. “And maybe more satisfying.” Though he wasn’t sure he believed that; information was power, and stealing information had its own regards if you knew how to cash in.
“Take a few photos,” he said. “We’ve been down here for too long.”
Felicia looked over at him, a momentary flash of surprise, but reached for her phone, quickly flicking through a few pages and snapping in time. "Distractions. Though, I guess it's more surprising we don't run into each other more often."
"It's not," Gabriel said rather matter-of-factly. He paused for a second. "I don't think it is," he clarified. "My bosses..." He wasn't sure what he felt comfortable saying. Telling her that the Hellfire Club suspected his loyalty was not fast and true — that felt risky. Like admitting something. And he liked Felicia — the way you liked someone in their circles, where you admired their thefts for their panache — but he had already let her in.
"I don't do my own jobs anymore," he finally said. "Not much, anyway. I'm very careful about where I go, and they're very careful about where they send me." Gabriel picked the book up, unilaterally deciding Felicia was done taking photos. "And I suspect yours are as well," he added. "Though I'm sure they're less obvious about it." He offered her a shrug, speeding back to where he'd discarded the waistcoat.
"You're not wrong," Felicia easily admitted, watching him move as her phone disappeared. It was flippant, but with an underlying resignation, an old resentment. "I won't go so far as to say they're the same but. I suppose at some point they became much less different than they choose to believe. Decided for us that the cost was worth it."
She gave him an awful half smile. "It's easier to decide that sort of thing when it will never affect you, I suppose. Ready?"
Siege Perilous Day 6 - Jubilee comes to Remy with what she and Charlie have managed to find, and next steps are planned.
Jubilee knocked on Remy's door before moving slowly inside. She didn't need a cane to move about but any change in temperature caused her to ache and creak like an old woman, and God forbid any degree of motormouth behavior. If the pain made her cranky, it was the lack of ability to talk like she used to that really drove her up the wall most days.
"You got a moment, Gumbo? Charlie and I got some leads from our research. Figured I might as well stop by and have a chat rather than leave it to memos."
"Remy pretty clear last time dat if you call Remy Gumbo, Remy make you take de stairs up to our offices tomorrow." He said distractedly, going over information as it piled up. "Sit and tell me your specific blend of bad news. Remy going to guess it something like 'we not sure what it is, why her, and what it ultimately could be but likely real bad', neh?"
"Remind me to make a Christmas card list so I can take you off it." Jubilee quipped, finally taking her usual seat on the other side of his desk.
Once upon a time, she'd have done something stupidly athletic like perched on it like some kind of giant crane but all that bullshit was way behind her. These days she just about cried when she made it through the day without needing an entire bottle of aspirin at the end of it, and her trusty neighborhood drug dealer to give her a bit of something to get her sleeping right. Not that she indulged often, too much of that shit and you gave someone a very easy in to blackmail or simply control you via supply and demand.
"Good news is we know her full name, Illyana Rasputin, and that she has some kind of link with the Darkhold. We definitely know this thing has a whole bunch of really fucking horrible history, especially around like, world-changing events or weird shit on massive scales. But that's all we could find out. It's too fucking much like a damn myth. Everyone and their dog claimed to have this thing at one time or another. And the best I could do with this Illyana chick is confirm she exists and was alive at least as early as a few months back. She's somewhere in the U.S, Kevin and Nat got a hit off her fake passport but she's like a fucking ghost after that. We're going to need more than what we've got, it's just too damn ephemeral right now. Maybe the others can find something? An info broker might help, some leg work. I don't know, dude. You know I hate meatspace bullshit."
"Rasputin? Rasputin... any connection wit' dat slab of stupid from Xavier's back in de day? What was- Piotr."
“Maybe?” Jubilee worried at her lip for a moment as she tried to remember the man he was talking about. “You mean the blonde guy who could like go full metal jacket?”
"Dark haired homme. Taught art and... crying, Remy think." He sighed, rubbing his eyes for a moment. "At dis point, Remy think you need to give you ex a call and see how much it cost for... 'de Cypher' to look for her."
“We didn’t exactly end things well.” Jubilee noted with a raised eyebrow.
Not that she wouldn’t set up a meeting but she couldn’t count on good feelings to get him to work with them. That ship had sailed a long time ago. Of course, the fact she’d cheated on him with a co-worker didn’t help.
Maybe he wouldn’t hold a grudge?
“I’ll see what I can do.”
"Send it through Jean and Kevin. If all else fails, they can rip de information right out of his head."
Siege Perilous Day 6 - Wanda and Adam continue the research, looking for a link between the Soulsword and the Darkhold.
Wanda looked haunted and furious as she leaned over the large wooden desk, fingers pressed down against the wood as she stood over the three tomes spread out in front of her. Chthon was roiling inside her mind, dangerously quiet but never still. The loss of Strange cut deep and she was flooded with anger and guilt but she knew how to reign it in and knew how to use it.
Even if that meant putting a lid on her murderous desires for revenge while they looked for what they needed.
"How is the girl and the book connected? There's hundreds of potential references to the Darkhold. Less that for the Soulsword, but they're still there. How is this Rasputin bird in the middle of both?" Adam was trying not to think of the loss of his mentor and teacher. Strange had turned Rack's twisted teaching into something true and powerful, at considerable time and personal cost, and had never asked anything from Adam. Between him and Tante, Adam knew he was powerful, and neither had seemed to ask anything for it.
Taking a deep breath, Wanda pushed herself away from the desk with some effort. "I don't yet know but we will, soon. With more references to Darkhold, let's focus on the Soulsword references." She shut two of the tomes in front of her as neither had mentioned the Soulsword and pushed them to the side. "From there, we cross reference anything that mentions Darkhold." She knew that Adam knew this, they'd been researching together for a while, but it was comforting to say these things out loud.
"We're missing something... the Darkhold is an ancient repository of magic knowledge. The Soulsword is the manifestation of the power and control of Limbo. These things intersect... how?" He said, almost to himself as he began to make a list of sources to check. "Strange could have bloody well could have dropped being cryptic for once about this bollocks."
"You know that was never his style," Wanda said, a tired laugh coming out, completely unbidden. She narrowed her eyes as she thought. "Control...maybe that is the key? Could the Soulsword be used to control something other than Limbo?"
"Maybe. If there's some kind of spell or ritual to enhance it, it would make sense if it was found in the Darkhold. Hell, the bloody book could have originally been written in Limbo."
A shiver ran up her back, a reaction not her own, as Chthon thought of the possibilities. "On their own, Darkhold and the Soulsword are incredibly powerful. Perhaps not the most powerful magical artifacts out there but up there. Combined or imbuing each other, however, changes the game drastically. We have to find that connection."
"There might not be a connection between them as much as a connection with the girl. If she somehow is linked to both, that's a magic user’s dream. Get the Soulsword and the bloody Darkhold? It's like being named World's Sexist Man and getting to own Manchester United at the same time."
Wanda ran her hands through her hair and sighed. "Well, I guess it's a good thing we're so very, very good at research at this point in our lives. We can see if Jubilee can dredge up anything useful on the girl for us while we look for the magical connections. I suppose we should grab some food, maybe a bagel..."
Chthon perked up. Wanda sighed again. "Make that two bagels."
"I still think it's bloody unfair you get to expense an Elder God."
Siege Perilous Day 6 - In the midst of everything, Jubilee and Felicia take some time to be normal. Or as normal as they get.
Jubilee loved few things in this world. What she had loved, she'd lost through no fault of her own, unless you counted an allowance to feel emotions as some admittance to a fault.
Still, she loved Felicia and North like family, and without them, she couldn't say where she would have been.
She and Felicia had met, much as she and Remy had met, although with slightly less formality. The Guilds were big in New Orleans, and after what had happened at the mansion she'd been numb for what had seemed an eternity of time. It had been Felicia who had seen some spark still left in Jubilee, underneath all the bitterness and fear.
It was a favour Jubilee had yet to repay. She didn't know if she ever could.
"Dude, open up, I brought Chinese."
Felicia appeared nearly immediately, door opening with one hand, and holding a dry cleaning bag with the other. "God you're loud. Come on in, babe, David's doing David things, I cleared off the coffee table and opened a bottle of wine," she said, turning and heading for the bedroom. There was a quiet scuffle inside and a muffled fuck in a battle with her closet, but she reemerged obviously victorious. "So, how was your day?"
"Fi, when have I ever not been loud?" Jubilee noted with a slightly raised eyebrow. Admittedly, it had totally been Felicia who had taught her how to do the one eyebrow raise thing but she had no compunction whatsoever of turning it back on its creator. "Besides, me being loud means you get to steal more shit while they're paying attention to me, duh."
Jubilee waltzed in, moving directly to the kitchen island to place down the bags she'd brought with her. When she'd said Chinese food, what she meant was an entire banquet, and also some food for North and Fi. She'd just have to eat North's share as well if he wasn't here. Besides, she was an energy projector, just because her knees were shot and her voice was this side of a 10 pack a day smoker didn't mean she couldn't, and did spark up all over the place. Which usually meant downing the equivalent of at least half a cow most days if she didn't want to end up looking like Twiggy on a cocaine binge.
"We watching anything tonight, or just bitching about work while drinking our body weight in wine?"
"Bitching, always bitching." Lifting two wine glasses from the bar, Felicia paused, reconsidered, and pulled their stemless siblings instead. "And maybe white. You know how we get," she said, making an overly elaborate gesture with both arms that most resembled knocking a bottle over on the hand knotted rug North had agonized over. She bent, returning with a chilled bottle of dry riesling, and crossed over to the couch, placing it on the coffee table where Jubilee was starting to parcel things out from the kitchen.
"You avoiding the question on your day or just really excited about getting into the food?"
“Little from column A, little from column B.”
Jubilee stacked rice in her bowl and then started shoveling various options on top in carefully judged portions so that no one thing overwhelmed any of the others.
“Charlie and I spent way too much time learning almost nothing worthwhile, and then I got to go tell Remy about it. You and North?”
Felicia stared down the food, a mental math calculation, before serving herself a selection of steamed dumplings and chop suey and returning to the couch, grabbing the corkscrew on her way. The more important part of the meal was opened, and she poured Jubilee a generous glass. "Oh, he stayed home. Remember Prague? That man is the worst at small team sneaky sneak." She smiled over her glass, smug. "I mean, still not a complaint that the hot giant of a German for some reason continues to inundate me on the comms with inane worrying and blow my covers, he always makes up for it, but yeah. Not inconspicuous. Better sniping."
“Prague was hilarious. Although he did bring you that rare clock as an apology.”
Jubilee took her time eating, enjoying the flavour of each bite as it passed her lips. Gone were the days when she hadn’t been sure whether she’d have food the next day. She accepted her glass of wine from Felicia gratefully and toasted her friend silently before taking a sip.
“Nice, where’d this one come from?”
"Thank god the little bird inside was holding that pair of sapphire earrings inside, though. Just saying. A clock. That man." Felicia smiled, warm, happy, and mirrored the raising of glasses, taking a sip of her own. "It's a Napa, I ordered some crates from a couple of the wineries we stopped in on during the impromptu road trip. Which we should do again, by the way, I'm sure I'll be close to a mental breakdown when this whole Club business is done with."
“Road trip definitely. Somewhere with beaches and surfing, please.”
Jubilee was still a Californian girl at heart and despite the fact her life had been a circle of deeply bad decision making, she still had the odd good decision from time to time. Drinking wine tonight was definitely one of them.
She took another sip and then settled in to eat her weight twice in Chinese.
“Remind me to show you the text from the guy I matched on Bumble last week too. It’s like, you’d think you’d get better quality in New York of all places.”
Felicia laughed, leaning back to watch her friend, her food temporarily forgotten in favour of soft cushions and a glass of wine in good company. "I started dating in New York. No, I would not think you'd get better quality here. Why do you think I imported? We'll find you someone on this beach surfing road trip."
“A toast to foreign guys who can hold a conversation” Jubilee declared, holding her glass of wine out to Felicia. “And other things.”
"To good fucks!" Felicia agreed, hitting their glasses together with enthusiasm.
Siege Perilous Day 7 - Jean goes to work extracting information from a HFC flunky captured during the attack on Strange.
TW: Torture
There was a special room that had been set up for Jean's specialty. It looked like a room you might see on one of those cop shows. There was a two way glass mirror that was reinforced to withstand just about anything, simple white concrete walls and a grey concrete floor. One of the features that got people in this room particularly nervous was the drain in the middle of the floor. It was a nice conversation starter.
Her latest conversation partner sat chained in a metal chair with a bag over his head. It was very much like something out of a spy movie and Jean couldn't deny the comparison.
"I'm sure you're wondering...'what have I gotten myself into now?'" she said aloud, circling the man.
"Or are you the loyal, stiff upper lip type? Let's find out."
"Fuck you, mindwitch." The figure hissed. He wasn't scared, at least, not much. He'd survived multiple tours in the Middle East, several well paid years as a mercenary in South America, and for the last eighteen months, an elite contractor role with the Hellfire Club. He was used to getting the best equipment, but the HFC provided him with personal wards, mental shields, customized drugs; things he didn't even know he was lacking as an elite soldier, on top of a huge salary and an endless line of pussy on tap. They'd told him that he was untouchable and that belief fueled his confidence.
"Let me go, and maybe the Black Court settles for making you into a dishwasher."
Jean laughed. "Mindwitch," she repeated, leaning against the wall. "I like it."
She kept the bag over his head. There was enough in the way the bag was printed for him to know that the lights overhead were very bright but that was about it.
"Trust me, the Black Court has other plans for me if they were to catch me. Deeply painful plans. Just like you, the moment you return back to them. They frown upon weakness. You got caught. You're a liability now, sorry. So right now you have some options. Tell me what I want to know, and I let you go so you can run as far away as you can. Or...don't, and die in this room."
She smiled. "And I'll know if you're lying."
"Sure, sure. It's a very scary mask. Let me tell you everything because you're so convincing." The man snorted derisively. "Do your worst, bitch."
Jean tilted her head thoughtfully. "My worst?" she chucked. It was a light, airy sound. "Oh...dear. You wouldn't want me to do my worst. I'd like to leave you with a tongue at least. It's terribly hard to think clearly when there are body parts missing. The shock sets in awfully fast."
Footsteps echoed as she approached him. There came a rustling sound, and a rush of air as she removed the hood. He'd find that the chains around his hands snaked up toward the ceiling. She had a remote control in her hand. With one press of a button the chains jerked upward, yanking him out of his chair and off his feet. They almost touched the ground, but not quite. He was barefoot, clad only in a white t-shirt and boxers.
Setting the remote control on a nearby table, Jean picked up a simple knife, turning it over in her hands.
"But there are other methods."
"You know when I was in Iraq? They used to give the women the knives. Those bitches would cut shallow, trying to pretend what was going to happen." He gave a twist of his mouth. "I didn't believe them. I don't believe you."
Jean merely smiled. Letting go of the knife, it hovered precariously above her hand for a moment or two before slicing through the air and burying itself in his right shoulder.
"Do you believe me now?" she said with a calm, pleasant assurance.
He hissed in pain, but pulled his head back up. "Yes. I believe you're a useless bitch. You going to bleed on me now?"
Jean laughed. "No. That's your job," she said. His left leg started to move forward on its own, his knee twisting outward until it was at an unnatural angle.
"I mean---I could continue to hurt you but...I get the sense you're a doer. A go-getter. Do you prefer something with a little more mental challenge?"
"Do you prefer a dick in your mouth so you can be useful for once?" He said, although it was obvious he was labouring.
"Oh Frankie," a woman's voice spoke up behind him, cheap wine on her breath. The smell of body odor masked with perfume wafted through the room as the lights above began to flicker. With each dim of the bulb something out of place appeared among the stark whiteness of the room: a worn rug, a record player, a baseball that rolled across the floor.
"Wha-" His head whipped around, looking for the source of the voice.
"I am so disappointed," the woman said, the sight of her always just out of view, but her smell, her voice unmistakable. "But then again, you were always a little slow. 'There's something wrong with that boy,' my mother said."
"No, no... you've been dead for ten years." He moaned, a touch of panic starting to edge into his voice.
"Because you broke my heart, you little shit," the woman said, the smell of her breath starting to become tinged with rot. "How could I go on knowing you drove my husband away?"
A door that may or may not have been there before opened with a squeal of metal like a screen door, as a silhouette with a familiar masculine outline darkened the doorway. A thud echoed as the baseball bat in his man's hand hit the ground. The man said nothing, but it was easy to know that his eyes were upon him. When would he move? Would he just stand there?
"Tyler! I didn't- Tyler, I didn't- I only took the truck for a minute. They-" The first blow shattered his eye socket and the man screamed.
"They what?" his mother echoed mockingly. "No. That's you. You steal from the ones who raised you. That's all you do. Cheat, and lie, and steal. Never ran with the right crowd. Even now."
The man looked widely between the villains of his childhood, grown nightmarishly tall and angled as they closed on him, smiles as always forecasting the pain to come.
***
Kevin tossed Jean a towel as she exited the room. Chen would have his men dispose of the body and clean it thoroughly to ensure no evidence was left behind. He pocketed the drive containing the full interrogation, as always disjointed as most of Jean's interactions took place inside the victim's head while their screams and gibbered confessions were physically present. Its location in the back of the massive Chinese market was particularly effective; trucks coming and going at all times, plenty of people throughout, and even without the soundproofing, the noises of the animals slaughtered on site covered any number of security issues.
"You think you got it all?"
Jean wiped the blood from her hands with the towel. Sometimes interrogations made for catharsis but this one wasn't one of those.
"Everything he knew. At least enough for a lead."
"Best you could expect from a low level bottom feeder." Kevin said with a nod. "Can I get you a bite or do you want to follow up now?"
"I could go for both," Jean said, stretching her arms over her head before massaging her neck. "Let's walk and talk?"
"So hot dogs? I figured you'd want that."
"Hmm," Jean said thoughtfully. "Not right now. I'm thinking maybe...donuts? Smoothies?"
"You're in charge." Kevin said. "Let's head out."
Jean smirked. "Damn right I am," she said, slipping off her bloodied jacket to leave a clean green t-shirt underneath. She eyed her pants. "No stains, huh. Miracle."
"I keep telling you medical scrubs for this kind of work." Kevin tossed the jacket into the bin. More evidence to be disposed of.
"And have a reminder of my failed medical degree every time I put them on? Pass," Jean said. She grabbed a wet wipe and began to clean the blood off her skin. "You know how much of a miracle it was to find a dry cleaner who doesn't ask questions? They're harder to locate than you'd think."
Suppressing a yawn, she took a seat in a chair and went after dabbing the blood away on her shoes.
"He said something interesting though. The guy. They went after Strange because Strange himself was after a mystical weapon: the Soulsword. He hadn't found it yet, though."
"The Soulsword? Any relation to the... uh, Souldagger? Isn't that what they took from Megan..." His comments died off. The rest of Kevin's brain caught up with the analytical side, reminding him he was talking about her co-prisoner and torturee at the hands of the HFC.
Jean didn't quite look at him as she continued her work. "Most likely," she said with a laser focus bordering on problematic.
She stopped abruptly, throwing the wet wipe in the trash before finally meeting his eyes.
"Okay. Let's go."
Siege Perilous Day 8 - With the information that the HFC is seeking the Soulsword, Jean approaches one of Amanda’s former victims - the formerly-winged mutant called Pixie.
TW: Mention of torture
Megan bent towards a canvas, a shawl covering the stubs of her destroyed wings. Scars cris-crossed her skin, the light from the window catching their slightly smoother and paler texture as she painted. One was accented with indigo ink, worked into a tattoo design. She turned as she heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and pulled the shawl higher. Pitch black eyes framed by aged white hair peered curiously at Jean.
"Hey," Jean said, her hands tucked away in her pockets. Her own hair was black, like a deep, endless void. She gave her a light smile, touched by knowing, with an ember of an old warmth that had been nearly snuffed out years ago.
"Long time no see. I uh---was hoping I could talk to you about something."
"Haia lovely. Of course, sit down," came the soft reply, lacking the bubbly quality it once had. Megan gestured to a stool, covered in long-dried paint splats. She reached for her mug of tea, then frowned into it when she realized it was cold. "Shall I put the kettle on?"
Jean folded her arms. "Some other time," she said apologetically. "Unfortunately, I'm on the clock."
Sniffing, she drew in a breath, taking a step back as if to give herself some distance from what she had to say. She could feel the anger rising up. It was all she had to keep from going insane. "The Hellfire Club has been busy. They're after the Soulsword. Killed Strange along the way trying to get to it. We need to get more information about it so we can figure out what they plan on doing with it."
Megan's knuckles turned white around the handle of the mug. "No, not Stephen."
Her hand began shaking, murky liquid sloshing. She couldn't speak. If Jean said anything, she couldn't hear her. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but suddenly she felt quite clear.
"It's not tea, it's the water for my paints."
Jean waited for Megan to return to herself. It was not an unfamiliar occurrence. Her mind was as scarred and broken as her body was.
"Meg, I know it's hard, but I need you to focus," Jean said with gentle firmness. "What can you tell me about the Soulsword?"
"You know what they did to me to get the Soul Dagger, made from a piece of my very own soul. 'Tis but a sliver compared to the Soulsword. That should tell you something of its power."
Once Megan began delving into her memories, it was like falling down a rabbit hole.
"Such a small thing," she continued, placing a hand over her heart. "And I spent so many years tip-toeing around the demon magic inside me, why was it so hard to give up in the end? You know, I think I miss the Soul Dagger, in a way..."
Reaching out, Jean gently put her hand over Megan's and gave it a squeeze before pulling away. "It's not hard to miss something that was a part of you."
She let out a ragged breath. "Do you know...what can do with it? What they might try to do?" she said. They were already down that rabbit hole, but she had to be careful to be able to lead Meg back out before going too far.
"The blade disrupts magic energy. It can cancel spells and turn magical beings to dust," Megan replied, clenching air in her fist. "They could wipe out everyone on the Light Path of the Winding Way. Whoever has control of the Soulsword also rules over the demon dimension where it was forged, as well. But who would want to rule Limbo, besides a demon? It's an awful place."
Megan slowly opened her hand, and with the other began tracing the lines and scars in her palm. "Jean, do you believe that time is a river without banks? The fish playing the fiddle? Chagall saw himself as a messenger from a better, more holy world. A different stream in a complex delta, I suppose. In my time with Belasco I heard insane whispers that, in the right hands, the Soulsword controlled not just Limbo but all of it, in any stream."
Jean narrowed her eyes. "Stands to reason they may think they have those kinds of hands," she said. And what did they do back in olden times to thieves? They cut off the offending hand. Sounded like a plan to her.
"Is there anything we can do to stop them? Slow them down?"
"They've already got Strange, they must be going after powerful magic users," Megan replied sadly. "How much do they already know? Would it be possible to leak false information, lead them away for a time? When they catch up, they will sear flesh and shatter bone. That Woman will break the mind and corrupt the memory. They are going to rip out the Soulsword like they did my dagger! When I was controlled by Belasco, my very thoughts were invaded. My torture at her hands was worse in a way, because she knew me. She was my mentor and she never let me forget it!"
Jean glanced away. "I don't know how much they fully know, but wouldn't hurt to try it," she said. This was already a dangerous game. She fell silent for a few moments.
"I'll try to make her pay, for us."
Megan wiped her eyes with the edge of her shawl and picked up a paint brush.
"I hope you do, lovely," she said sincerely, beginning to add strokes of red to the surreal painting. There was a frog clinging to a pocket watch with one hand, an ephemeral sword in the other, riding a whirlpool.
Putting her hand on Megan's shoulder, Jean paused to study the painting. She smiled thoughtfully.
"I love it."
When the Whitney moved into its new building downtown, the big revelation both to the casual aesthetes and the pretentious art snobs was the breadth of collection. Where, the city's museum-goers wondered, had all the art been hiding for all these years, and why had nobody known about it?
But a certain segment of the city had, indeed, taken note of Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney's appetite for collection, not just of American arts and artifacts, but of a number of more eclectic (almost mysterious) items that she'd swept up over time, and that the future directors of the museum bearing her name had also sought out. The items and books and papers rarely went on display, and access to the storage area where they were kept was strictly limited. But if you knew they were there, it was hard not to be tempted by the treasure.
Of course, that knowledge was kept to a limited few. And it was not held by most of the glitterati and art-world regulars who were gathering downtown for the opening reception of a new exhibit of surrealist art inspired by the American Southwest ("transcendent," murmured the Times's critic about one painting; "scattershot," scribbled the correspondent for Artnet news). Unknowingly, they strolled through the gallery, cocktails and hor d'oeuvres in hand, as a number of support staff flitted around them trying to ensure the evening was a success.
Felicia regarded the new exhibit over the rim of her admittedly mediocre but probably still expensive flute of champagne. She was staring down a particular Curtis piece, warm lighting, blue skies, a tub with circus flags in the middle of the sea, and while surrealism had never been in her top five, she could appreciate it, even if it was just enough to know exactly how much it was worth and to whom. Her mother, who had been involved with this board of acquisitions - but clearly not the catering - and countless before, had accidentally made sure of that.
There was a tittering and Felicia turned her head slightly, regarding another group who'd found the more suggestive cactus pieces; as good a reason as any to make another casual lap around the room.
The caterers milled about, largely unregarded and unnoticed, an anonymity Gabriel had shrewdly decided to take advantage of him so he could slip away from the art — derivative, he'd decided after a few passing glances — and down toward the basement where, at least for him, the real treasure awaited.
The Hellfire Club had gotten wind of a ledger of some kind that would lead them to acquiring control of the Soulsword. He couldn't pretend that he understood more than that, and it wasn't like he needed to. The Faux Royals were apparently convinced that the job would be tricky, and so they sent him rather than letting him outsource it.
And so, thus, a night at the museum. Having already swiped a coded badge from a security guard — surprisingly easy, the way such pilfering was when one moved three times as fast as anyone else — Gabriel discreetly put down a tray emptied of its champagne flutes and stole away to the back staircase that led underground. Though he was no art expert, Gabriel still found something exciting about the idea of being alone with some hidden Basquiats and Harings, even though what he was taking was considerably more secretive.
"You know, I always figured the waistcoat would be too ‘have you met my cat, I pet it intimidatingly at parties’ on you but honestly it works," a voice sounded from across the room. Felicia's red framed grin almost seemed to appear first as she stepped forward from a convenient shadow, flicking, flourishing a small card of plastic in and out of view in her hand. "Especially when you can't manage the curator's security badge."
"It's my build. Lean, but not too lean." Gabriel started at the sound of her voice, but he couldn't help but give the smallest smile when Felicia appeared in front of him. "I should have known," he said, because, really, he should have. "Long time no see," he said, unbuttoning the waistcoat and tossing it on top of a wooden crate in a split-second. "Here to steal a Koons?"
"While I do always appreciate art I can see myself in, I believe that may be taking it a touch too literally? Pretty as the reflection is," she returned, an automatic wink as they sidestepped, a slow barely circling of each other. "And you? How are you? If you're looking for Mitchell's The Poems I just found out MoMA wouldn't release it." Felicia's smile widened. "I'm making a very subtle reference that we're clearly both looking for a book, in case you missed it."
Gabriel did not, in fact, catch it, but he wasn't about to tell her that. "Well, that figures too — careful," he said as she took a step backwards toward some porcelain atrocity, "that's probably some priceless sculpture made by a man who went to art school but convinced everyone he suffered." This was precarious. His skill was considerable, and his powers would have facilitated an easy heist. But Felicia was wily, and this was a variable he had not planned for. "So, you want to keep doing this," he gestured in a circle, "or...?"
"I've been wasting time while I try and figure out what to do with you. I'd be biting my lip but like. Lipstick. Teeth. No." Felicia tilted her head, giving them both a moment. "Proposition. We take a private tour together, choose something pretty and, above all, valuable as compensation for our efforts, and report back that we got there too late and the ledger was already gone, oh shoot."
Half turning away from him she looked over her shoulder. "We maybe do or don't take a look at the ledger and keep the information for ourselves for later when this all goes to hell."
In the blink of an eye, Gabriel raced to the other side of Felicia, sitting at a desk at a corner table. “I need to bring something back,” he said, as he began rifling through drawers. And he did; his employers weren’t as flexible as Felicia’s.
“Doesn’t have to be everything,” he added with a shrug. “But I can’t be empty-handed. That’s not... good for me.”
"No, I suppose not," she said quietly, watching. Another beat before she added. "It's in the barrister bookcase. The red one."
“Is it?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow, without looking up. He was unsure whether to trust her and continued searching through the desk. “And you’re willing to let me have it?” He pulled out a tiny bottle of whiskey, shook it and tossed it to her. “Seems pretty generous.”
"Glass doors so no telltale dust marks, but it's the only book in there that wasn't bought as part of a set to fill the space. Real leather to match his leather chair." Felicia shrugged, catching the bottle with one hand just a moment after she should have been able to, making a point. "Things have a way of working out for me. But I've... there have have been times where I didn't have the option to fail, and I didn't like it."
Opening the door on the bookcase up she took the aforementioned book out, laying it open in front of him, and stepped back, suddenly very interested in a small collection of what appeared to be old snuff boxes, picking up one that she turned over, looking at its bottom, and slipping it into her pocket. "See? Red. Always red."
Gabriel removed a flash drive from the desk, inspecting it. The plastic case was entirely white, except for a red dot on one end. Maybe Felicia had a point. He shoved it in his pocket and slammed the drawers shut. "Disappointingly obvious," he said as he reached for the book. "The books are the jobs that always feel so anticlimactic. So much planning for... this."
"Right? And even if we didn't all carry smartphones for scanning it, it's not like it'd even be a challenge to sneak out a book. Put it with some other books, wear some glasses if you're feeling fancy, walk out, the end." Felicia idly ran her fingers along the edge of the frame of a painting, wondering if the owner - it seemed to be part of his personal collection - knew it was an, admittedly very good, fake. "I know information theft is supposed to be all cloak and dagger spy fun but I miss the good old days of nabbing art. Ooh and jewellery. Set up and pay off."
Gabriel gingerly flipped a few pages of the book. “Shiny things are fun,” he agreed, smiling a little as he stood. “And maybe more satisfying.” Though he wasn’t sure he believed that; information was power, and stealing information had its own regards if you knew how to cash in.
“Take a few photos,” he said. “We’ve been down here for too long.”
Felicia looked over at him, a momentary flash of surprise, but reached for her phone, quickly flicking through a few pages and snapping in time. "Distractions. Though, I guess it's more surprising we don't run into each other more often."
"It's not," Gabriel said rather matter-of-factly. He paused for a second. "I don't think it is," he clarified. "My bosses..." He wasn't sure what he felt comfortable saying. Telling her that the Hellfire Club suspected his loyalty was not fast and true — that felt risky. Like admitting something. And he liked Felicia — the way you liked someone in their circles, where you admired their thefts for their panache — but he had already let her in.
"I don't do my own jobs anymore," he finally said. "Not much, anyway. I'm very careful about where I go, and they're very careful about where they send me." Gabriel picked the book up, unilaterally deciding Felicia was done taking photos. "And I suspect yours are as well," he added. "Though I'm sure they're less obvious about it." He offered her a shrug, speeding back to where he'd discarded the waistcoat.
"You're not wrong," Felicia easily admitted, watching him move as her phone disappeared. It was flippant, but with an underlying resignation, an old resentment. "I won't go so far as to say they're the same but. I suppose at some point they became much less different than they choose to believe. Decided for us that the cost was worth it."
She gave him an awful half smile. "It's easier to decide that sort of thing when it will never affect you, I suppose. Ready?"
Siege Perilous Day 6 - Jubilee comes to Remy with what she and Charlie have managed to find, and next steps are planned.
Jubilee knocked on Remy's door before moving slowly inside. She didn't need a cane to move about but any change in temperature caused her to ache and creak like an old woman, and God forbid any degree of motormouth behavior. If the pain made her cranky, it was the lack of ability to talk like she used to that really drove her up the wall most days.
"You got a moment, Gumbo? Charlie and I got some leads from our research. Figured I might as well stop by and have a chat rather than leave it to memos."
"Remy pretty clear last time dat if you call Remy Gumbo, Remy make you take de stairs up to our offices tomorrow." He said distractedly, going over information as it piled up. "Sit and tell me your specific blend of bad news. Remy going to guess it something like 'we not sure what it is, why her, and what it ultimately could be but likely real bad', neh?"
"Remind me to make a Christmas card list so I can take you off it." Jubilee quipped, finally taking her usual seat on the other side of his desk.
Once upon a time, she'd have done something stupidly athletic like perched on it like some kind of giant crane but all that bullshit was way behind her. These days she just about cried when she made it through the day without needing an entire bottle of aspirin at the end of it, and her trusty neighborhood drug dealer to give her a bit of something to get her sleeping right. Not that she indulged often, too much of that shit and you gave someone a very easy in to blackmail or simply control you via supply and demand.
"Good news is we know her full name, Illyana Rasputin, and that she has some kind of link with the Darkhold. We definitely know this thing has a whole bunch of really fucking horrible history, especially around like, world-changing events or weird shit on massive scales. But that's all we could find out. It's too fucking much like a damn myth. Everyone and their dog claimed to have this thing at one time or another. And the best I could do with this Illyana chick is confirm she exists and was alive at least as early as a few months back. She's somewhere in the U.S, Kevin and Nat got a hit off her fake passport but she's like a fucking ghost after that. We're going to need more than what we've got, it's just too damn ephemeral right now. Maybe the others can find something? An info broker might help, some leg work. I don't know, dude. You know I hate meatspace bullshit."
"Rasputin? Rasputin... any connection wit' dat slab of stupid from Xavier's back in de day? What was- Piotr."
“Maybe?” Jubilee worried at her lip for a moment as she tried to remember the man he was talking about. “You mean the blonde guy who could like go full metal jacket?”
"Dark haired homme. Taught art and... crying, Remy think." He sighed, rubbing his eyes for a moment. "At dis point, Remy think you need to give you ex a call and see how much it cost for... 'de Cypher' to look for her."
“We didn’t exactly end things well.” Jubilee noted with a raised eyebrow.
Not that she wouldn’t set up a meeting but she couldn’t count on good feelings to get him to work with them. That ship had sailed a long time ago. Of course, the fact she’d cheated on him with a co-worker didn’t help.
Maybe he wouldn’t hold a grudge?
“I’ll see what I can do.”
"Send it through Jean and Kevin. If all else fails, they can rip de information right out of his head."
Siege Perilous Day 6 - Wanda and Adam continue the research, looking for a link between the Soulsword and the Darkhold.
Wanda looked haunted and furious as she leaned over the large wooden desk, fingers pressed down against the wood as she stood over the three tomes spread out in front of her. Chthon was roiling inside her mind, dangerously quiet but never still. The loss of Strange cut deep and she was flooded with anger and guilt but she knew how to reign it in and knew how to use it.
Even if that meant putting a lid on her murderous desires for revenge while they looked for what they needed.
"How is the girl and the book connected? There's hundreds of potential references to the Darkhold. Less that for the Soulsword, but they're still there. How is this Rasputin bird in the middle of both?" Adam was trying not to think of the loss of his mentor and teacher. Strange had turned Rack's twisted teaching into something true and powerful, at considerable time and personal cost, and had never asked anything from Adam. Between him and Tante, Adam knew he was powerful, and neither had seemed to ask anything for it.
Taking a deep breath, Wanda pushed herself away from the desk with some effort. "I don't yet know but we will, soon. With more references to Darkhold, let's focus on the Soulsword references." She shut two of the tomes in front of her as neither had mentioned the Soulsword and pushed them to the side. "From there, we cross reference anything that mentions Darkhold." She knew that Adam knew this, they'd been researching together for a while, but it was comforting to say these things out loud.
"We're missing something... the Darkhold is an ancient repository of magic knowledge. The Soulsword is the manifestation of the power and control of Limbo. These things intersect... how?" He said, almost to himself as he began to make a list of sources to check. "Strange could have bloody well could have dropped being cryptic for once about this bollocks."
"You know that was never his style," Wanda said, a tired laugh coming out, completely unbidden. She narrowed her eyes as she thought. "Control...maybe that is the key? Could the Soulsword be used to control something other than Limbo?"
"Maybe. If there's some kind of spell or ritual to enhance it, it would make sense if it was found in the Darkhold. Hell, the bloody book could have originally been written in Limbo."
A shiver ran up her back, a reaction not her own, as Chthon thought of the possibilities. "On their own, Darkhold and the Soulsword are incredibly powerful. Perhaps not the most powerful magical artifacts out there but up there. Combined or imbuing each other, however, changes the game drastically. We have to find that connection."
"There might not be a connection between them as much as a connection with the girl. If she somehow is linked to both, that's a magic user’s dream. Get the Soulsword and the bloody Darkhold? It's like being named World's Sexist Man and getting to own Manchester United at the same time."
Wanda ran her hands through her hair and sighed. "Well, I guess it's a good thing we're so very, very good at research at this point in our lives. We can see if Jubilee can dredge up anything useful on the girl for us while we look for the magical connections. I suppose we should grab some food, maybe a bagel..."
Chthon perked up. Wanda sighed again. "Make that two bagels."
"I still think it's bloody unfair you get to expense an Elder God."
Siege Perilous Day 6 - In the midst of everything, Jubilee and Felicia take some time to be normal. Or as normal as they get.
Jubilee loved few things in this world. What she had loved, she'd lost through no fault of her own, unless you counted an allowance to feel emotions as some admittance to a fault.
Still, she loved Felicia and North like family, and without them, she couldn't say where she would have been.
She and Felicia had met, much as she and Remy had met, although with slightly less formality. The Guilds were big in New Orleans, and after what had happened at the mansion she'd been numb for what had seemed an eternity of time. It had been Felicia who had seen some spark still left in Jubilee, underneath all the bitterness and fear.
It was a favour Jubilee had yet to repay. She didn't know if she ever could.
"Dude, open up, I brought Chinese."
Felicia appeared nearly immediately, door opening with one hand, and holding a dry cleaning bag with the other. "God you're loud. Come on in, babe, David's doing David things, I cleared off the coffee table and opened a bottle of wine," she said, turning and heading for the bedroom. There was a quiet scuffle inside and a muffled fuck in a battle with her closet, but she reemerged obviously victorious. "So, how was your day?"
"Fi, when have I ever not been loud?" Jubilee noted with a slightly raised eyebrow. Admittedly, it had totally been Felicia who had taught her how to do the one eyebrow raise thing but she had no compunction whatsoever of turning it back on its creator. "Besides, me being loud means you get to steal more shit while they're paying attention to me, duh."
Jubilee waltzed in, moving directly to the kitchen island to place down the bags she'd brought with her. When she'd said Chinese food, what she meant was an entire banquet, and also some food for North and Fi. She'd just have to eat North's share as well if he wasn't here. Besides, she was an energy projector, just because her knees were shot and her voice was this side of a 10 pack a day smoker didn't mean she couldn't, and did spark up all over the place. Which usually meant downing the equivalent of at least half a cow most days if she didn't want to end up looking like Twiggy on a cocaine binge.
"We watching anything tonight, or just bitching about work while drinking our body weight in wine?"
"Bitching, always bitching." Lifting two wine glasses from the bar, Felicia paused, reconsidered, and pulled their stemless siblings instead. "And maybe white. You know how we get," she said, making an overly elaborate gesture with both arms that most resembled knocking a bottle over on the hand knotted rug North had agonized over. She bent, returning with a chilled bottle of dry riesling, and crossed over to the couch, placing it on the coffee table where Jubilee was starting to parcel things out from the kitchen.
"You avoiding the question on your day or just really excited about getting into the food?"
“Little from column A, little from column B.”
Jubilee stacked rice in her bowl and then started shoveling various options on top in carefully judged portions so that no one thing overwhelmed any of the others.
“Charlie and I spent way too much time learning almost nothing worthwhile, and then I got to go tell Remy about it. You and North?”
Felicia stared down the food, a mental math calculation, before serving herself a selection of steamed dumplings and chop suey and returning to the couch, grabbing the corkscrew on her way. The more important part of the meal was opened, and she poured Jubilee a generous glass. "Oh, he stayed home. Remember Prague? That man is the worst at small team sneaky sneak." She smiled over her glass, smug. "I mean, still not a complaint that the hot giant of a German for some reason continues to inundate me on the comms with inane worrying and blow my covers, he always makes up for it, but yeah. Not inconspicuous. Better sniping."
“Prague was hilarious. Although he did bring you that rare clock as an apology.”
Jubilee took her time eating, enjoying the flavour of each bite as it passed her lips. Gone were the days when she hadn’t been sure whether she’d have food the next day. She accepted her glass of wine from Felicia gratefully and toasted her friend silently before taking a sip.
“Nice, where’d this one come from?”
"Thank god the little bird inside was holding that pair of sapphire earrings inside, though. Just saying. A clock. That man." Felicia smiled, warm, happy, and mirrored the raising of glasses, taking a sip of her own. "It's a Napa, I ordered some crates from a couple of the wineries we stopped in on during the impromptu road trip. Which we should do again, by the way, I'm sure I'll be close to a mental breakdown when this whole Club business is done with."
“Road trip definitely. Somewhere with beaches and surfing, please.”
Jubilee was still a Californian girl at heart and despite the fact her life had been a circle of deeply bad decision making, she still had the odd good decision from time to time. Drinking wine tonight was definitely one of them.
She took another sip and then settled in to eat her weight twice in Chinese.
“Remind me to show you the text from the guy I matched on Bumble last week too. It’s like, you’d think you’d get better quality in New York of all places.”
Felicia laughed, leaning back to watch her friend, her food temporarily forgotten in favour of soft cushions and a glass of wine in good company. "I started dating in New York. No, I would not think you'd get better quality here. Why do you think I imported? We'll find you someone on this beach surfing road trip."
“A toast to foreign guys who can hold a conversation” Jubilee declared, holding her glass of wine out to Felicia. “And other things.”
"To good fucks!" Felicia agreed, hitting their glasses together with enthusiasm.
Siege Perilous Day 7 - Jean goes to work extracting information from a HFC flunky captured during the attack on Strange.
TW: Torture
There was a special room that had been set up for Jean's specialty. It looked like a room you might see on one of those cop shows. There was a two way glass mirror that was reinforced to withstand just about anything, simple white concrete walls and a grey concrete floor. One of the features that got people in this room particularly nervous was the drain in the middle of the floor. It was a nice conversation starter.
Her latest conversation partner sat chained in a metal chair with a bag over his head. It was very much like something out of a spy movie and Jean couldn't deny the comparison.
"I'm sure you're wondering...'what have I gotten myself into now?'" she said aloud, circling the man.
"Or are you the loyal, stiff upper lip type? Let's find out."
"Fuck you, mindwitch." The figure hissed. He wasn't scared, at least, not much. He'd survived multiple tours in the Middle East, several well paid years as a mercenary in South America, and for the last eighteen months, an elite contractor role with the Hellfire Club. He was used to getting the best equipment, but the HFC provided him with personal wards, mental shields, customized drugs; things he didn't even know he was lacking as an elite soldier, on top of a huge salary and an endless line of pussy on tap. They'd told him that he was untouchable and that belief fueled his confidence.
"Let me go, and maybe the Black Court settles for making you into a dishwasher."
Jean laughed. "Mindwitch," she repeated, leaning against the wall. "I like it."
She kept the bag over his head. There was enough in the way the bag was printed for him to know that the lights overhead were very bright but that was about it.
"Trust me, the Black Court has other plans for me if they were to catch me. Deeply painful plans. Just like you, the moment you return back to them. They frown upon weakness. You got caught. You're a liability now, sorry. So right now you have some options. Tell me what I want to know, and I let you go so you can run as far away as you can. Or...don't, and die in this room."
She smiled. "And I'll know if you're lying."
"Sure, sure. It's a very scary mask. Let me tell you everything because you're so convincing." The man snorted derisively. "Do your worst, bitch."
Jean tilted her head thoughtfully. "My worst?" she chucked. It was a light, airy sound. "Oh...dear. You wouldn't want me to do my worst. I'd like to leave you with a tongue at least. It's terribly hard to think clearly when there are body parts missing. The shock sets in awfully fast."
Footsteps echoed as she approached him. There came a rustling sound, and a rush of air as she removed the hood. He'd find that the chains around his hands snaked up toward the ceiling. She had a remote control in her hand. With one press of a button the chains jerked upward, yanking him out of his chair and off his feet. They almost touched the ground, but not quite. He was barefoot, clad only in a white t-shirt and boxers.
Setting the remote control on a nearby table, Jean picked up a simple knife, turning it over in her hands.
"But there are other methods."
"You know when I was in Iraq? They used to give the women the knives. Those bitches would cut shallow, trying to pretend what was going to happen." He gave a twist of his mouth. "I didn't believe them. I don't believe you."
Jean merely smiled. Letting go of the knife, it hovered precariously above her hand for a moment or two before slicing through the air and burying itself in his right shoulder.
"Do you believe me now?" she said with a calm, pleasant assurance.
He hissed in pain, but pulled his head back up. "Yes. I believe you're a useless bitch. You going to bleed on me now?"
Jean laughed. "No. That's your job," she said. His left leg started to move forward on its own, his knee twisting outward until it was at an unnatural angle.
"I mean---I could continue to hurt you but...I get the sense you're a doer. A go-getter. Do you prefer something with a little more mental challenge?"
"Do you prefer a dick in your mouth so you can be useful for once?" He said, although it was obvious he was labouring.
"Oh Frankie," a woman's voice spoke up behind him, cheap wine on her breath. The smell of body odor masked with perfume wafted through the room as the lights above began to flicker. With each dim of the bulb something out of place appeared among the stark whiteness of the room: a worn rug, a record player, a baseball that rolled across the floor.
"Wha-" His head whipped around, looking for the source of the voice.
"I am so disappointed," the woman said, the sight of her always just out of view, but her smell, her voice unmistakable. "But then again, you were always a little slow. 'There's something wrong with that boy,' my mother said."
"No, no... you've been dead for ten years." He moaned, a touch of panic starting to edge into his voice.
"Because you broke my heart, you little shit," the woman said, the smell of her breath starting to become tinged with rot. "How could I go on knowing you drove my husband away?"
A door that may or may not have been there before opened with a squeal of metal like a screen door, as a silhouette with a familiar masculine outline darkened the doorway. A thud echoed as the baseball bat in his man's hand hit the ground. The man said nothing, but it was easy to know that his eyes were upon him. When would he move? Would he just stand there?
"Tyler! I didn't- Tyler, I didn't- I only took the truck for a minute. They-" The first blow shattered his eye socket and the man screamed.
"They what?" his mother echoed mockingly. "No. That's you. You steal from the ones who raised you. That's all you do. Cheat, and lie, and steal. Never ran with the right crowd. Even now."
The man looked widely between the villains of his childhood, grown nightmarishly tall and angled as they closed on him, smiles as always forecasting the pain to come.
***
Kevin tossed Jean a towel as she exited the room. Chen would have his men dispose of the body and clean it thoroughly to ensure no evidence was left behind. He pocketed the drive containing the full interrogation, as always disjointed as most of Jean's interactions took place inside the victim's head while their screams and gibbered confessions were physically present. Its location in the back of the massive Chinese market was particularly effective; trucks coming and going at all times, plenty of people throughout, and even without the soundproofing, the noises of the animals slaughtered on site covered any number of security issues.
"You think you got it all?"
Jean wiped the blood from her hands with the towel. Sometimes interrogations made for catharsis but this one wasn't one of those.
"Everything he knew. At least enough for a lead."
"Best you could expect from a low level bottom feeder." Kevin said with a nod. "Can I get you a bite or do you want to follow up now?"
"I could go for both," Jean said, stretching her arms over her head before massaging her neck. "Let's walk and talk?"
"So hot dogs? I figured you'd want that."
"Hmm," Jean said thoughtfully. "Not right now. I'm thinking maybe...donuts? Smoothies?"
"You're in charge." Kevin said. "Let's head out."
Jean smirked. "Damn right I am," she said, slipping off her bloodied jacket to leave a clean green t-shirt underneath. She eyed her pants. "No stains, huh. Miracle."
"I keep telling you medical scrubs for this kind of work." Kevin tossed the jacket into the bin. More evidence to be disposed of.
"And have a reminder of my failed medical degree every time I put them on? Pass," Jean said. She grabbed a wet wipe and began to clean the blood off her skin. "You know how much of a miracle it was to find a dry cleaner who doesn't ask questions? They're harder to locate than you'd think."
Suppressing a yawn, she took a seat in a chair and went after dabbing the blood away on her shoes.
"He said something interesting though. The guy. They went after Strange because Strange himself was after a mystical weapon: the Soulsword. He hadn't found it yet, though."
"The Soulsword? Any relation to the... uh, Souldagger? Isn't that what they took from Megan..." His comments died off. The rest of Kevin's brain caught up with the analytical side, reminding him he was talking about her co-prisoner and torturee at the hands of the HFC.
Jean didn't quite look at him as she continued her work. "Most likely," she said with a laser focus bordering on problematic.
She stopped abruptly, throwing the wet wipe in the trash before finally meeting his eyes.
"Okay. Let's go."
Siege Perilous Day 8 - With the information that the HFC is seeking the Soulsword, Jean approaches one of Amanda’s former victims - the formerly-winged mutant called Pixie.
TW: Mention of torture
Megan bent towards a canvas, a shawl covering the stubs of her destroyed wings. Scars cris-crossed her skin, the light from the window catching their slightly smoother and paler texture as she painted. One was accented with indigo ink, worked into a tattoo design. She turned as she heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and pulled the shawl higher. Pitch black eyes framed by aged white hair peered curiously at Jean.
"Hey," Jean said, her hands tucked away in her pockets. Her own hair was black, like a deep, endless void. She gave her a light smile, touched by knowing, with an ember of an old warmth that had been nearly snuffed out years ago.
"Long time no see. I uh---was hoping I could talk to you about something."
"Haia lovely. Of course, sit down," came the soft reply, lacking the bubbly quality it once had. Megan gestured to a stool, covered in long-dried paint splats. She reached for her mug of tea, then frowned into it when she realized it was cold. "Shall I put the kettle on?"
Jean folded her arms. "Some other time," she said apologetically. "Unfortunately, I'm on the clock."
Sniffing, she drew in a breath, taking a step back as if to give herself some distance from what she had to say. She could feel the anger rising up. It was all she had to keep from going insane. "The Hellfire Club has been busy. They're after the Soulsword. Killed Strange along the way trying to get to it. We need to get more information about it so we can figure out what they plan on doing with it."
Megan's knuckles turned white around the handle of the mug. "No, not Stephen."
Her hand began shaking, murky liquid sloshing. She couldn't speak. If Jean said anything, she couldn't hear her. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but suddenly she felt quite clear.
"It's not tea, it's the water for my paints."
Jean waited for Megan to return to herself. It was not an unfamiliar occurrence. Her mind was as scarred and broken as her body was.
"Meg, I know it's hard, but I need you to focus," Jean said with gentle firmness. "What can you tell me about the Soulsword?"
"You know what they did to me to get the Soul Dagger, made from a piece of my very own soul. 'Tis but a sliver compared to the Soulsword. That should tell you something of its power."
Once Megan began delving into her memories, it was like falling down a rabbit hole.
"Such a small thing," she continued, placing a hand over her heart. "And I spent so many years tip-toeing around the demon magic inside me, why was it so hard to give up in the end? You know, I think I miss the Soul Dagger, in a way..."
Reaching out, Jean gently put her hand over Megan's and gave it a squeeze before pulling away. "It's not hard to miss something that was a part of you."
She let out a ragged breath. "Do you know...what can do with it? What they might try to do?" she said. They were already down that rabbit hole, but she had to be careful to be able to lead Meg back out before going too far.
"The blade disrupts magic energy. It can cancel spells and turn magical beings to dust," Megan replied, clenching air in her fist. "They could wipe out everyone on the Light Path of the Winding Way. Whoever has control of the Soulsword also rules over the demon dimension where it was forged, as well. But who would want to rule Limbo, besides a demon? It's an awful place."
Megan slowly opened her hand, and with the other began tracing the lines and scars in her palm. "Jean, do you believe that time is a river without banks? The fish playing the fiddle? Chagall saw himself as a messenger from a better, more holy world. A different stream in a complex delta, I suppose. In my time with Belasco I heard insane whispers that, in the right hands, the Soulsword controlled not just Limbo but all of it, in any stream."
Jean narrowed her eyes. "Stands to reason they may think they have those kinds of hands," she said. And what did they do back in olden times to thieves? They cut off the offending hand. Sounded like a plan to her.
"Is there anything we can do to stop them? Slow them down?"
"They've already got Strange, they must be going after powerful magic users," Megan replied sadly. "How much do they already know? Would it be possible to leak false information, lead them away for a time? When they catch up, they will sear flesh and shatter bone. That Woman will break the mind and corrupt the memory. They are going to rip out the Soulsword like they did my dagger! When I was controlled by Belasco, my very thoughts were invaded. My torture at her hands was worse in a way, because she knew me. She was my mentor and she never let me forget it!"
Jean glanced away. "I don't know how much they fully know, but wouldn't hurt to try it," she said. This was already a dangerous game. She fell silent for a few moments.
"I'll try to make her pay, for us."
Megan wiped her eyes with the edge of her shawl and picked up a paint brush.
"I hope you do, lovely," she said sincerely, beginning to add strokes of red to the surreal painting. There was a frog clinging to a pocket watch with one hand, an ephemeral sword in the other, riding a whirlpool.
Putting her hand on Megan's shoulder, Jean paused to study the painting. She smiled thoughtfully.
"I love it."
