Jacob Davenor
Initiated
Posts: 18
Title: Street Pharmacist
Quote: "Don't fuck with the system."
|
Post by Jacob Davenor on Nov 23, 2014 23:39:56 GMT -5
Jacob Davenor enjoyed the particular noise his shoes made on the stone streets as he walked down Lorraine Boulevard. There was a certain, peculiar click-n-scrape sound created when the loafers hit the damp stone of the streets that was distinct enough that, if heard by another passer-by, would likely perk that person’s ear enough to make them glance in the direction of the sound’s source, and therefore take a gander at the gentleman it belonged to. In another district, the sound might have drawn the wrong kind of attention, acting as a calling-card for an out-of-place figure in that particular part of town – Eight district would be a good example of that phenomena. Yet, the sound was more at home in Third District than it possibly would be anywhere else: even at street-level, the average passer by in that neighborhood would be more likely to be curious where they could get such a pair of loafers rather than assuming they were out of place. Were they imports? Naturally, considering that boots were the only footware well-made so far up in the frigid north – anything less anlost had to be brought in from Azaleth just in order to avoid shoddy quality. All the financial workers and the corporate hacks wore imports, and that meant, even late at night in the thick fog of the Steam Purge and without a gaggle of co-workers to accompany him, Jax still fit in Third.
Jax took pride in his shoes – pride enough to steer wide of puddles and the occasional snow bank on the street, lest they get marred by the abominable weather markings of Vascxious Sigma. His clothes, too, garnered the same kind of pride – not imported, since tailors in the Sigma City were more than skilled enough to craft designer wares. Jax paid top-dollar for his custom-cut suits, mostly in dark blue with a light grey pinstripe here or there. His color choice, blue instead of something on the limited greyscale spectrum, set the man just a little bit apart from the bankers and traders who usually walked these streets, but his sense of style fit enough with those high-money individuals that, in a crowd, Jax could blend. That might not have been the point of the man’s personal style choices, but they perked up as a nice little bonus to a personal preference, making the Third Jax’s favored district to do above-ground business in – there was never a wry eye cast his way around here, and to top it all off, the majority of his best-paying clients were within a three-block radius. Convenient.
Jax fished his comunikay out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and flipped open the boxy little gadget, taking a quick look at its off-white screen to recheck the address of his next stop. His was a newer model, one that showed text really clearly and had a haptic interface for typing. None of it really meant a damn, considering the disposable nature of the tag number the device was attached to, but Jax enjoyed the ease of use the thing allowed, and the convenience of having a portable way to communicate with his Brokers. Geoffrey, one of his more trusted guys, had sent him a message updating him on the day’s distribution totals, and as he flicked his thumb down sharply, he could see another one had come in from his contact at Virhees. The man made a mental note to respond to the second one when he was done at Tower 14 – sales had been a bit higher than normal over the past few weeks, so he wanted to get a new batch from the med company as soon as he could collect. If he didn’t have anything to give out, he wouldn’t have any money to take in, either.
The man slipped the device back in his breast pocket and smoothed his lapels as he turned the corner, rounding the edges of Tower 13 and moving onto Jevner St, which mostly amounted to a road-sized alley between two giant financial buildings. Tower 14 was the rightmost building, and it was just outside the foyer of the closed-for-the-night building that Jax was meeting his contact, Mr. Dark-Glasses-and-Secret-Passcodes. The dealer wished he could break these agency types of their love of cinema-style sleuthing, but he also imagined they didn’t get out of the office much, so he let the odd behavior slide well enough. As he approached the spot, he could see Mr. Covert was already there, sitting on a ground-tram stop bench as inconspicuously as a dog in a cat convention. Jax smirked to himself and tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his calf-length overcoat, both for the warmth that the thing afforded and to grab the bit-o-something that he intended to give the guy. Let’s see how slick Captain Undercover could be.
Jax slid into a spot just beside the guy and spread his arms over the high back of the bench, relaxing and crossing one leg over the other like a bored banker waiting for his ride home. That his hand just happened to get so close to the other gentleman on the bench, a man with short-cropped hair, a black coat, and a dark visor even though it was goddamn dark out, was totally normal, though the quick fumbling of the other man’s hand meeting his to exchange contents before he got up and walked off in the Towerbound-direction would have been a little strange to anyone paying way too much attention. Jax snickered to himself and tucked the cheks into his coat pocket before getting up and heading off on his own merry way: he was sure the guy had to be good at his job, but the way they wanted these drops handled was pretty laughable.
Still, Jax admitted to himself as he rounded the corner back toward Tower 16 that the secrecy was something that might help him out in the long run. This particular drop, given to that agent of the Spec Ops department, was a pack of cyphers, for which he had been paid, interlaid with a coded comunikay key, for which he had not been paid. The coded message would relay to the man’s superiors that, yes, the Arc dealer’s location was still correct, and yes, tomorrow morning would be an optimum time to catch the whole gang in the act of packaging the stuff. Jax wasn’t a regular informant of Big Sister, but he had a sort of deal worked out with the many branches of the proper authorities: if someone was getting too far out of line, Jax would tip them off in exchange for making sure he wasn’t hassled. Most agency leaders made the smart choice and took Jax up on his offer, realizing that one fairly straight-and-narrow organization that you knew of was better than ten shady fuckers that you didn’t. The little slips of info also helped the dealer stay incredibly lucrative in the way of helping to weed out some of the more prevalent competition, but Jax was also aware of the danger presented by his choices, and therefore couldn’t come down on the secrecy of the process too hard. After all, he didn’t really want another outfit labeling him as a snitch and getting violent about it – Jax didn’t have the time to deal with that shit.
After he rounded the corner back to his usual block, Jax took another seat on another nearby street-tram bench and flipped his comunikay back open, taking the time to read the Virhees message.
I have a pick up date coming up soon. The usual, same cost as last time.
Jax didn’t have to ponder before responding. The last shipment he had gotten from Virhees had been good, heavy on the ciphers, kace, and a new down-winder called (for unknown reasons) ‘jasper’ that his guys had unloaded in half the time it normally took them to sell. If things kept going that kind of way, he might have to ask for more of the stuff to be included in the shipment, even if it jacked the price up a bit. Jax swept his fingers over the screen and clipped out a quick response, which he sent immediately.
I’ll take it. Tell Jas I liked his stuff.
The phrase would be innocuous enough if intercepted, but it would clue his Virhees contact in to the fact that jasper was hot on his list of wanted items, which might prompt him to try and rustle up some extra to add to the pickup. Jax left himself a reminder in his task list about setting up a pickup before snapping the little device closed and relaxing on the bench, watching the people go by and by.
Jax enjoyed these kinds of slow, careful nights. The majority of his business needs had been taken care of for the day, leaving him more-or-less ready for leisure time, assuming one of his special clients didn’t contact him out of the blue. Briefly, the dealer considered his food options for the evening before standing up and turning toward home, that being Tower 16 and, most importantly, the little noodle place on the corner that he knew would still be open. Buttoning the front of his coat against the increasing wind, Jax set off to walk the six blocks between himself and sweet, sweet dinner, brushing a hand through his gray hair to settle the strands before walking headfirst into the wind. After he ate, the man was sure he’d feel energized enough maybe to rustle up some trouble.
|
|
|
Post by Slade Bronden on Nov 24, 2014 0:03:31 GMT -5
{ Location: Near the Transport Station. }
Slade wrapped the worn suede tighter around her narrow frame, pulling her hood down and tucking the thick scarf tighter against her neck with one hand, clutching a bag of the remaining pastry bombs in the other. The heels of well-made boots made heavy clicks against the ramp leading up toward the main stairwell of Third District's transit hub. The Journalist tried to focus more on the information Slovchk had handed over instead of the tiny envelope containing a keycard she'd tucked into her left hand's glove so she could keep track of it. Rynd said I had to drop it, Slade. He's just looking out for me. I did my part. If you think there's something else there. . . I know how you are. I thought you'd want to see it, maybe take it farther than I can, he'd opened with that admission when she'd stepped into his kitchen─ the scent of fresh coffee and baked confections making her mouth water. And seriously? I can't just throw away this source. . .
She'd been right on both accounts: Slovchk was mildly fucking with her at the same time he was worried about his personal safety. And truthfully, he didn't even seem to be taking his work seriously. It didn't take long for Slade to figure out he was distracted with issues closer to home: he was having problems with his long-term girlfriend─ an issue Slade wasn't equipped to offer any advice on. She picked up immediately that it wasn't just about security: Slovchk didn't want to be alone. Fortunately for him, he wasn't bold enough to suggest that she stay over and he'd ended up behaving well. That was the kind of shit she'd end their tenuous 'relationship' over.
A long, deep inhale of steam-'warmed' air burned through her chest and helped clear her head. Goddess she'd kill for a cigarette right now, but she already had too much to do. Slovchk had warned her that he hadn't recently checked the drop box the key was for─ the communication method for his source─ and she realized that meant she needed to check it herself before going home for the night. The pastry bag crinkled as she squeezed it, realizing it was becoming increasingly difficult to order her thoughts. Sleep deprivation had that effect. Look, I've got to pass this to you before I'm under surveillance from the police state of Vascxious Sigma, he'd been joking, but Slade realized he had a valid point. Ouroboros was dirty even if the worst thing they'd done was what Slovchk had written. Though they weren't government controlled, their resources were vast─ and probably just as powerful. The fact that they'd released a retaliatory statement to the press so quickly meant they were watching. It would be blind luck if they weren't already monitoring Slovchk and intercepting his communications. Slade groaned low in her throat as she mentally cataloged her earlier digital conversation with the other Journalist, realizing he'd directly told her he was passing her information. He was confident in his security but Slade was slightly more realistic about the situation. She was going to have to assume she was already on someone's radar and behave accordingly.
Well, her chosen career was nothing if not interesting.
At the top of the main stairwell of the transit hub Slade's gunmetal stare scanned the open area, looking for the recessed check-in kiosk Slovchk said would be there. It was the entry to one of the postal service's drop-off locations and where he'd been receiving written communications from his mysterious source in the Tower. The outline of uniform squares and the glint of rows of locks caught the Journalist's eye and she immediately changed direction, her long strides purposefully carrying her lanky form past the kiosk and into the silent storage rooms. Once out of sight of the main access Slade retrieved the envelope from her glove, flipping it open and removing the keycard from inside. 0575654 was printed on one side. Every heel click echoed impossibly loud as she passed row upon row of drop box after drop box. Finally she found the label matching the number on the keycard. She stared hard at it, making sure it was the right one before inserting it into the corresponding slot. A low, harsh droning sound made her flinch before the panel dropped forward, offering access to the interior of the storage unit. Slade cursed under her breath until she looked closer: there was nothing inside except a tiny shadow of a thing the Journalist had to lean in closer to examine. It was a comunikay key and she'd almost missed it. A quick look around to satisfy that she was alone settled her nerves before she reached for the tiny drive, setting her pastry bag down so she could pull her personal comunikay out at the same time. Steel eyes narrowed as the key was surveyed from all angles: Slade was understandably hesitant about putting a drive of unknown origin into her device, but she realized there was really no choice. There was a muted click as she plugged in and flipped it open to find out what was on it. Almost instantly the screen flashed with a loading cue before simple text appeared with a timer.
Tower 32; Lobby- Seventh District.
Slade watched the timer steadily count down, confused as she reread the address. 27:18. . .17. . .16. It took several seconds before she made the connection that it was how soon she needed to be at the listed location. A sharp intake of breath had her almost choking with panic as she realized she had less than half an hour to get from Third District to Seventh District and a Tower she'd never been to in order to meet with a source she knew almost nothing about in regards to a story that may or may not be worth losing her career or life over.
”Mithria's Fucking Chosen.”
Slade slammed the access door closed and tried to retrieve the keycard before she understood that there was no getting it back: this must have been intended to be the last drop off. Her jaw clenched as she tossed the envelope into a waste receptacle on the way out, only barely managing to keep from breaking out into a full-out sprint. Luckily she was already at a transit hub: she just needed to focus and choose the right track to get to Seventh District as fast as possible.
When this was over she was going to need to hit up Jax for something heavy.
{ End Scene - Location Change - Seventh District: thecache.boards.net/thread/20/street-level }
|
|
Jacob Davenor
Initiated
Posts: 18
Title: Street Pharmacist
Quote: "Don't fuck with the system."
|
Post by Jacob Davenor on Nov 28, 2014 23:20:01 GMT -5
{ Location: Tower 16, Penthouse }
Jacob Davenor leaned back slowly in his immensely-cushy imported armchair and spayed his fingers over his quite-portly (he imagined) stomach. The noodle place, Klevik’s, had been just way to damn busy for that time of night: when Jax had walked in, he had immediately been squeezed into a small, single table in the back because all the others had been full, and with the whole establishment envying the average broom closet for floor space it just hadn’t jived with the man’s current mood. Jax had quickly changed his order to take-out and brought the food back to his place - he tipped them well, as he always did, and he ordered far more food than he had meant to (the thought had been to save it for later – so far that wasn’t looking likely to happen) because he liked to take care of the owner, who had recently been struggling, but Jax just couldn’t bring himself to eat alongise all those yuppity Northerners. The grizzled old Vascxious Trader had apparently done something to turn his business around; Jax had never seen so many respectable-looking individuals in Klevik’s in all the many years he had been eating at the establishment: Jax was happy for his old friend Klevik Jr. and his budding business success, but that didn’t mean the dealer wasn’t a bit irate that his lovely, quiet, hole-in-the-wall had been infested with a terrible case of customers.
Jax stared at the pile of food boxes on his see-through coffee table and made a point to force his glance past the half-million calories lain out in front of him to look through his balcony doors instead. Jax’s apartment was the penthouse of Tower 16, and therefore just peeked above the mist line – the view had accounted for the majority of the apartment’s price, but Jax had put away money carefully and bought the place outright in Cheks. The cityscape laid out before his greedy little eyes was magnificent, and the dealer managed to never get tired of it, even when he had been cooped up for days on end with nothing but his brain and his view to keep him company. The balcony itself didn’t see much action though – the amount of wind that buffeted the seating area made it a pretty miserable way to try and relax, even with the expensive wind-barrier and little radiating heaters out there. Jax liked to sit in his favorite chair and look out, though: the view of Fourth District, with the Tower and Eight District in the background, was quiet and soothing to the man, mostly due to his strange, indefinable love of cities over nature. Jax hadn’t wanted a mountain view like most people – he would leave that sort of price to the yuppies who vacationed in Tamryn for six weeks every year. Jax had all the view he needed in the man-made metropolis in which he thrived.
The whole floor-plan of the penthouse was open, which Jax had insisted on, and also massive, which Jax had paid immensely for. His kitchen, complete with an island and a much more massive cooling unit than he could ever seem to fill, took up the left-hand third of the open floor, with his living room taking up the rightmost third: the seating space of his living area was complete with a white fur rug (imported, Western Jiv’Undus), six cushy, semi-reclining chairs which were also white (imported, Southern Azalaleth), and a three-person couch that was actually light grey in color to add some modern style (local, custom made). The coffee table doubled as a workspace: Jax had it custom built with a gesture terminal imbedded in the top, but the expensive, flickering readouts were currently covered with boxes of noodles, steamed vegetables, spicy chicken, and some kind of bread-roll with cream cheese that had a name he had never managed to learn to pronounce. The middle third of the apartments bottom floor contained the spiraling library-stack staircase leading up to the loft that contained his bedroom, shower, and office. The rest of that middle floor was open space strewn with geometrically-strategic placements of fitness equipment arranged in such a way that he had to walk directly past at least one piece no matter how he tried to cross the floor, upping the likelihood he would do himself a favor and use it a few times a day. Even glancing at the lines of weights and bars made the man want to retch, but he knew he would have to hit the heavy first thing in the morning in order to work off the meal he had just eaten – a fat dealer, in Jax’s experience, was a disrespected dealer, and to be disrespected in his profession usually led to being dead. Jax never neglected his strength training: except, of course, when he was full of fucking noodles – then those weights could rust for all the fuck he cared.
The buzzing of his pocket startled Jax enough that it assured he wouldn’t start spiraling into a food coma. The man forced himself to stand up, walk to the kitchen, and put the leftovers in the cooling unit before he sat back down and tapped the initializer on his gesture terminal, which among the numerous fantastical things it could do, redirected his many pre-registered comunikay’s messages to one spot for easy viewing. As the projection screen flickered to life, the deep red light materialized in front of his face, showing a blinking icon containing a message from a number Jacob recognized as belonging to Slade Bronden. Was it late enough for her to be up? The woman, who was a hard-hitting, award-winning Sigma City Tribune journalist, kept even odder hours than Jax himself: when the man looked at the time, he was surprised to see she was contacting him much earlier than was typical for the woman’s patterns. Jax tapped the block with his finger and opened the message.
Hey. Serious need. The usual, heavy on the rec side. Need to feel good. Plan to stay a minute? Anything you want.
The dealer read the message a trio of times before calling up the recall prompt, but Jax paused before typing a response out using the letter keys floating in the air in front of him. Slade’s message was strangely scattered and lacking the usual aire of caution she laced into her communications with him, caution taken specifically for multiple reasons. Something seemed off about the tone of the message – off enough that Jax caught wind of a definite sense of urgency seeping out of the written text. The dealer quickly went over what he had on-hand in his apartment in his mind, decided on a decent enough list of products to bring Slade, and typed a quick response before de-initializing the terminal screen and standing up.
45. Will bring leftovers too.
Slade’s request had simultaneously solved the problem of what Jax was going to do with the rest of his evening and the more pressing issue of what he was going to do with all his goddamn food: the esteemed Ms. Bronden was a junk-food eliminator of stellar proportions, and therefore Jax decided to bag up the rest of his leftovers to take before addressing the other items he was going to have to bring. Having packed that bag and left it on the kitchen counter, Jax quickly climbed the spiral staircase from the living room to the loft (while trying desperately to ignore his straight bar set as he passed it, since the idea of deadlifting anything at the moment made him want to hurl) and stepped off the stairs at the top to the left-hand side, crossing into his office. Approaching a blank spot of wall behind his mahogany desk (imported, Faedrás Woods region), Jax pressed his palm against a barely-shinier-than-the-rest spot of paint and waited for the scanner to pick up his identity, causing the previously-seamless wall to drop inward and down, revealing a steel encasement safe containing the product he kept at home. Reaching past his firearm on the bottom shelf and his important document, Jax picked up a 3x5 vapor-lock container full of what little ‘jasper’ he had left, unsealed it, and placed two packs of two pink pills each on his desk. Putting that vapor-lock case back, the dealer reached around past its designated spot to grab a half-full pack of ciphers and then, carefully, a single vial of kace-alpha, a stronger version of the normally-mild stimulant that Slade tended to prefer. Placing everything on his desk, Jax went back into the safe one final time, pulling out a small, glowing-blue orb about the size of a knuckle and a grey box, into which he carefully placed all of the items he had retrieved before closing and resealing the safe. The box fit in a special pocket of his trench, which was downstairs by the door, so Jax tucked the thing under one arm and quickly shuffled down the spiraling staircase with a practiced ease. Sweeping over to the counch, the dealer swept up his sportcoat and settled in over his shoulder, caught by one finger, and headed for the door. Once he was all bundled up, Jax would give the auditory command to shut the lights off, lock the doors, and engage the security system, and would step into the lift. The mechanical contraption would drop him down to the basement, ‘product’ and food in-hand, where he would ask his on-call security guy, Leing, to drive him the short distance over to Tower Twelve in Second District.
As Jax settled into the cushy seat of the private transport and set the food beside him, he fished the comunikay out of his pocket and sent a follow up message to Slade.
Make that ten.
He knew that she never minded if he showed up earlier than he had said – she was aware of Jax’s penchant for overbearing punctuality, and was likely expecting him to arrive much quicker than he had initially promised anyway, but the dealer couldn’t shake that feeling of urgency he was getting from Slade’s message, even as he glanced back at it again. The man realized that, had it been someone else, the natural impulse to grab what was needed and head right over ran counter to his usual, deliberative manner of business: Jax only waited on a very few, select clients personally, and while Slade might have been his favorite, it didn’t usually endear her to special considerations the others didn’t receive. However, Jax couldn’t help but admit his relationship with the journalist was a bit different than those he had with his other clients: more long-standing, for one, but otherwise just different, in a sort of indefinable way.
The man smoothed the lapels of his coat and crossed one leg over the other, settling in for the short ride. Whatever was going on, dealing with a common client was a good way for him to spend the rest of his evening. After all, given what was about to go down in the underground, it was always helpful to have an alibi. You know, just in case.
{End Scene}
|
|
|
Post by Odette Marquis on Dec 22, 2014 11:11:39 GMT -5
{Location: Near Tower Eleven}
Odette Marquis breathed the steam of Vascxious Sigma’s street level air into her lungs, savoring the dirty, exhaust-ridden vapor as though it were an expensive intoxicant. The alley around Chainer was deserted, save for the small rodents climbing over each other in an attempt to reach the barest scarps of food left for their potential survival, their scribbling little claws marking each other with tiny red lines as they fought over the left-overs of the business elite. The dregs of the city were no different than those rodents, Odette thought as she smiled to herself, the click! of her heeled boots drowning out the scramble with every crushing step. It was insignificant that some of those rodents lived in nice high-rise cages, some even with views of the outside air. They were all vermin, climbing over each other to reach for the scraps left by the truly powerful and still somehow managing to think that their lives had meaning. They were pathetic, and only served to amuse Odette as she stalked between their cages, a wolf among mice. They never saw her coming, and they never would: they were too sure of their safety while they were wrapped up in their little cages, with their little connections to keep them company. None of them mattered.
Slovchk had been surprised to see her, sitting in his living room in the dead of night as if it were her own. He had reacted as any man might have to a woman like Odette at first glance, with a reserved sense of bewildered curiosity – men were so simple that they would rather believe a woman had paid an unexpected call on them because she had somehow hear legends of their virility and wanted to taste it for themselves. Or maybe she had been sent by a co-worker who knew he was troubled about his actual relationship and had hired an escort to help him feel better about it, even just for an evening. The way Chainer had approached him hadn’t dissuaded his curiosity: she knew the effect that she could have on those around her just by the way her body moved, and she languished in the projected confidence radiated from her every motion, and in the immediate effect that was created when she stepped around behind him and touched his shoulder. She had felt his body respond when she pressed against his back and run her gloved fingers across the back of his neck, and had delighted in the sudden seizing of paralytic fear when she had informed him of who she was. Instantly, he had known to be afraid, and Chainer had drunk in his terror with great delight as she returned to his seat, letting his stumbled explanations wash over her like the smooth torrent of warm, scented bathwater. She knew even her smile had easily displayed her contempt.
His terror had amplified when he had heard the click of Karvir’s claws on the floor behind him, heard the echoing growl of the canine-esque creature. He had begun to beg, to plead, his voice raising to the point where the neighbors would begin to hear. Odette only allowed him so many seconds of panicked whining before she let slip her hold on Karvir’s mystical chains, letting the beast lunge at his side, locking its thousands of tiny, multi-rowed teeth into his flesh. It had shaken Slovchk like a hungry dog would a squirrel – the slick of blood across his nice, new floors came with a deafening silence at its heels; once the wet crunching of Karvir’s hungry ministrations had ceased, at least.
Chainer had left no sign of her presence in the apartment, save for what was left of Slovchk. When they found him, they would be bewildered by what they saw – was it some kind of crazed animal attack? How could an animal use the elevator? Had he kept some exotic creature that had turned on him and escaped? If so, where was the cage? No human killer could have done that, could have sprayed the blood and mangled the flesh in such a way, and yet there were no tracks in it either, no paw prints or boot marks to be found in the copious red spray. It was as if poor Slovchk had been dispatched by one of his own nightmares, and reluctantly the investigation, after following up on what leads could be followed, would be closed, the file tucked away in a drawer alongside all the other unsolved cases in the city. Magic, perhaps, could have explained it, but no one thought like that anymore in Vascxious Sigma – those who used magic were a nearly extinct breed, and had one been the killer, they could never track the individual down. The world had become too quantifiable, too scientific to believe that the supernatural could even be a real possibility – that was a relic of fairy tales and legends about Guardians. They might wonder if an Akrathi could have done what they saw, making a prejudiced leap of judgment all too common for humans in unexplained situations, but there was no evidence for them to use. It would eat at them, chilling their souls to reflect on how helpless they were. It all made Odette smile.
Chainer’s evening was at an end, and soon enough she would disappear beneath the streets again, moving through the connections of the tunnels below back to the Tower, and then beneath it, through hidden means, to reach the Obscurity and take care of her own fading human needs. Odette considered checking in on her new paramour Slade Bronden before she retired for the evening, but as she pressed a finger past her lips, licking at the stray drop of blood that had landed on it and savoring its metallic taste, Chainer knew it was too soon. The news would reach the beautiful journalist sometime in the morning, and Slade would know at once the threat that was implied. Odette would wait, for now, to see what the reluctant subject of her new fixation would come up with from the information she had been given, but soon enough she would pay lovely Slade a visit. Wouldn’t she be surprised when Odette came to call on her at home? Odette relished the thought of getting better acquainted with her Slade, but she would wait the requisite amount of time and let the anticipation build, both for her and her paramour. Then, it would be all the more exciting when they saw each other again, and the tension would rise even further. Odette relished that tension, basked in it, and she would let it linger and build until it was ready to be pushed to the point of bursting. She knew it would be worth it.
For now, Odette would satisfy herself in other ways. She wondered, idly, whether Rivea would be on assignment or not: ever since she had found that little doll’s buttons, she couldn’t wait to push them again. Perhaps she would have some fun after she had eaten – Rivea wouldn’t mind if Chainer was thinking of someone else. Odette breathed out a long sigh as she turned the corner, heading briskly through the slight crowd at the top of the tunnel access. She knew tomorrow she had plenty to do: she needed to take her time to relax while she had it. As the woman descended into the depths of the city’s underground infrastructure, she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.
I’ll see you soon, Sla-ayde . . .
{End Scene}
|
|