cloaked in darkness

How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here forever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself. ∆ Virginia Woolf, from The Waves

maxine cutter ∘ cleaner for the eastside crime family

Truthfully, Maxine doesn't hate anyone. They may think some people distasteful or spineless, but Maxine doesn't feel like they hate them. They may just judge them critically for it, but almost everything is fair game to them. Perhaps if they were younger this list would be more comprehensive but with age Maxine has learnt that energy invested in feeling so strongly against someone isn’t really worth their time.

“you might be right,” tony nods as he slides one of the drinks towards them, the clear liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass but never spilling. “but then i’d have to look for new bandmates. don’t think there’s anyone else good enough around to replace them,” he finishes with a smile and wraps his fingers around a glass of his own, the old fashioned meant for the double bassist. he could never do that, tony thinks—replace them. through thick and thin, they’d always had his back; if he were to stop playing with them, he’d have to stop playing altogether. 

they sound like they’re not from around here, which only means one thing tonight—they’re from the new york party. it’s just tony’s luck, to start up a conversation with someone who’s about to become part of the vincelli inner circle. for all his efforts to have as little contact with that part of his city as possible, it seems like it’s harder to escape than he anticipated. 

tony doesn’t press for an explanation—not because he thinks he’s off with his assumption but because they don’t strike him as someone who’d want to spill their story to a stranger with a drink. would he? tony wonders and gets to find out when the question comes. “not really,” he replies in between sips. “i mean, i play at knock five times so i work for them. and—” tony pauses for a second, wondering if his personal connection to the family is something he wants to reveal, “and i know one of the brothers,” he eventually says, settling on an answer that’s as ambiguous as it gets. “i’m on the clock here tonight. well, i was. our set’s done now and so we drink,” tony says as he takes another look around the room to search for his friends. they’re still nowhere to be found. oh, they’re gonna get it, abandoning him like this. he turns to the other again, another question on his lips. “enjoying new orleans?”

.

“High praise,” Maxine chuckled, raising the glass he’d just passed over in cheers and thanks. They’d never been a teamwork kind of person — it always easier to get the job done if it was them and them alone. Less liability, less things that needed to be fixed if the situation went awry. Even in the Eastsides, family was more a term they’d used just to blend in; they didn’t think they necessarily had that sense of affection or brotherhood associated with that term. Loyalty, yes, but only to an extent that they still won at the end of the bargain. “As long as they’re better bandmates than friends,” they added in jest, corners of their eyes crinkling with a smirk and shrug.

They note his brief hesitation, but has no intention of pressing a civilian either. It wasn’t as though they were here to interrogate a suspect, or weasel out information from a rival gang. Instead, they nod along, showing no indication that they’d noticed anything in the first place. “Ah, I guess I have to thank you for the lovely music then,” Maxine smiled. “Have you played for them long?”

“Not on this style, no, but they are known for throwing quite the party when they do,” she says, words careful and lilting as she reaches for a nearby waiter and takes a champagne glass on hand. A sip allows her to understand it’s quality, and Minnie is delighted to find out that even the drinks are better than usual. She has no plans for getting drunk, but the quality does mean she is quite able to enjoy her favorite drinks without worry.

“That would be me, yes,” she agrees, reaching for the handshake with hands that used to have the usual callous of the working class, but have been softened with work and care. High-powered lawyers did not have hard hands, not if they were meant to impress those they were working for, so Minnie had gone through the effort to erase any hint that would give away her background. Vera and a few others knew, but most would never believe that Minerva Robinson was nothing but the child of the rich and powerful that had chosen to do something with her life instead of wasting away in hedonistic pleasure. “It is my pleasure, Maxine, truly. I am delighted to see you all in our beautiful city.”

She makes sure to give the other a firm handshake before letting her hand go and then focuses back on the conversation with interest.

“It’s been three years since I joined with the family, and I am quite of my choice,” she says, smile wide and friendly. If the other were to do research, they would find that she had begun associating with the Vincelli shortly after an spectacular failure, but not much else. Despite the loss at that case, Minerva had remained one of the best lawyers in the city, and the Vincelli had known that when they had retained their services. Even now, she has done her upmost best to go above and beyond on their every request. “That they do, after all, it is so very hard to find a good lawyer. And for a good lawyer to find good employers.”

The conversations path does bring up an aspect of the other she is curious about, and opening she can use and hope she gets and answer.

“I am afraid I was not informed of your particular role in this matter,” she confesses, tone apologetic. “Would it be too much to ask if you have worked with the Eastside family for long?”

"Cheers to that," Maxine chuckled, tilting their glass towards Minerva. "Tell me about it. Employers that think they can bargain a price for your services should be taught a lesson, or two." Before they'd come into employment with the Eastsides, they'd had their fair share of contract work and those had often been the most difficult jobs — apart from the actual assignment of course, there had been clients with too little regard for the difficulty and time involved in their work ('it's just clearing the body, honey') and there were others who thought they were smart enough to abscond with their pay after the job was done ('oh, Max, I didn't expect to see you here, I was definitely not ignoring you'). Safe to say, Maxine had cultivated an appreciation for those who could see the true value of their employees' labour, and it tickled them that the Vincellis had at least that box checked off.

Minerva's question didn't take Maxine by surprise; she'd half expected it to come up in a conversation, if not today, then some other day in the future. They knew their history was often difficult to dig deep into — one they'd taken meticulous care and attention to ensure. A few crumpled Franklins slipped under the desk did half the work, and the other half they'd done on their own. Small, plausible accidental fires often did the trick, and they supposed it helped that loose lips didn't have their secrets to spill. "Not at all," Maxine shook their head with a grin, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind their ear. "I'm sure the rest of the Eastsides will tell you if you ask. I've been with them 20 years, give or take."

amaryllis : what is something or someone that your muse takes pride in ?how do they express that pride ?

Something they're really proud of is how far they've come and the level of skills they've had to pick up on their own and teach themselves, without much guidance. Maxine is not a person who seeks recognition for these things, or outwardly expresses their joy and pride that much, but alone, after completing a job of some kind, they might give a metaphorical pat on the back to themselves. Either a smile, or a quiet muttering of how great they did! ... before it kicks in that they just knifed someone up...

forget - me - not :   has your muse ever forgotten something that is or was important to them ?are they afraid of forgetting things like that ?

Something they've forgotten and wish they remembered: their real name. They're curious about who they were before Maxine Cutter, curious about the child who had a mother to care for them, and beyond that, curious about their exact lineage. Although it would probably be unlikely their real name would give any hint to who their father was (given it was probably their mother's last name anyway), they thought it might be possible to at least trace back and discover some parts of their old life (and childhood).

bay tree :   does your muse seek glory   &   accolades ,   or do they favour a simpler ,   more personal life ?

Maxine has never had any greater ambitions beyond survival — for as long as they can remember, everything they've ever done was merely to keep themselves safe, to put food on the table, and to live to see another day. The honing of their skills in their youth, and even today, was never motivated by recognition for their craft, or by the desire to be the best. In the Eastsides, they're satisfied with doing their job, following orders while they fit with their own values, and never thinking about greater power or positions that they can reach. In some sense, maybe there is some complacency involved now, having worked for the Eastsides for twenty years, given food, shelter and a sense of protection, they are not going to bite the hand that feeds them while they don't have to.

They do seek a simple end to their life, but they've not thought about what plans they have beyond working for the Eastsides just yet. If they're lucky, they get to retire, and live a quaint life on their own.

daisy :   did your muse ever feel as though their innocence had been lost ?what moment in their life could be described as the end of their innocence ?

the chuckle that greets them, despite being a mirror of their own, feels like their own performance being thrown at their face: an insult, perhaps, but connie wouldn’t hedge his bets on the other being wilfully disagreeing; he simply can’t afford to play this kind of game with her, not when he doesn’t even know what she both knows and doesn’t, except for the vaguely alarming feeling that whatever it is that she knows is already too much. cedric fairchild, antiquarian, new orleans is supposed to be a mystery, some kind of one-man act on whom the curtains will fall on one day, audience members talking about the performance itself for years to come, but never the actor — and yet here they are: the one audience member he couldn’t trick.

what the fuck is he supposed to do now?

“i thought you’d appreciate the value in building good ties,” connie says, a neutral tone in his voice: semi-agreeable, all genteel-like and placid. he takes another sip and wishes he could drink himself to drowning at this very moment. “considering, yes, both our humble beginnings.” fucking new yorkers: always acting, thinking, existing on a level that made one think they held, as their most foundational truth, that they were better than you in every which way; yes, connie thinks, something in that fucking city rots you from within and turns you from person into whatever vessel of vice you’re fit to suffer and no more.

he should know. after all, he was one himself.

“though you know i could never have stayed for long,” he continues, “not after all that — mess.” he holds his glass loosely between his fingertips, lets his weight fall evenly on his feet, widely spaced; he meets their gaze and their smile and mirrors the latter with one of his own, down to the smallness of it, as if they are both conspirators to some great and terrible secret. “but what can one do?” he says, shrugging. “you know very well how the business goes.”

(all the while, he is thinking, like a mantra: fuck new york, and fuck all new yorkers.)

“and new york,” connie finishes, “is but a drop in the ocean that is the great wide world.” here: a tip of their head to the rest of the room, almost a challenge. “have you never had the urge to go beyond it?”

"Perhaps a long time ago." Maxine held his gaze with their own at his dig; cold, piercing stare that seemed to question: how dare you insinuate a lack of ambition? But perhaps there was a grain of truth to what was implied, for what did Maxine Cutter yearn for beyond survival? They felt too old to be a dreamer, blade blunted by the coarse stone of earth, polish eroded with the passing of years. The life they'd led so far, perhaps the spinning world had left them far too jaded to even consider of anything beyond mere living. That the Eastsides had offered them some semblance of family and protection, some degree of comfort that they didn't have to keep a constant look out for their behind was an added benefit that they did not take lightly. But any greater ambitions to rise the ranks, or to find a throne for themselves? There were none.

"But a change in scenery is merely that," they added, turning away to look at the glamour of the room they sat in, the glittering promise of wealth and opulence, of power that beckoned. Yet the rot still seeped, in the taste of their drink, in the whispered words that carried down the hallways. "Shifting veneers don't change the ugliness beneath." They returned their attention to the man before them. "Been to many cities, Connie? Every one of them has its dirty secrets, no?"

Maxine shrugged, placing their empty glass on a table nearby. "Anyway, surely New York would've forgiven you," Maxine hummed, eyeing him sharply. Here was where they had to play based on feeling and blind guesswork alone; there was little known facts that could've guided them in formulating a plan, and they hated it. Maxine leaned in, as though to lower their voice, one suitable for private conversation for two. Instead, their voice was pitched just a little louder, so slight Maxine wasn't even quite sure they had done so themselves. "Shed blood is a heavy price, but the collective memory moves on quickly. Come back home to visit, won't you?"

Before they'd lifted themselves off the ground, onto their feet, the dust and grime had settled thick against their skin, so hard to scrub of that they'd wondered whether it had seeped in, down through their pores and into their bloodstream, until they were no different from it: the bottom of the barrel. The forgotten. The invisible. They'd been starving for two weeks when they'd realized that nobody was coming for them, that the world was a selfish, violent one that paid no mind whether they were dead or alive. It's a sobering thought to have at eight, one that clearly left a mark.

Nalini shakes her head. “During. And a short time after.” It is strange, the chain of motion that one decision, made a decade ago, can put in place. “I followed a boy there,” she offers, by way of explanation, and for the first time in years, she thinks of Rishi, the first man she had ever thought she loved, and her teenage fantasies seem laughable now. “It didn’t work out.” She briefly wonders if Luciano would ever become but a memory to look back on and laugh, but in her heart she knows that isn’t true, for she’s spent longer waiting for him than she even knew her first love. 

She loses herself in her thoughts for a moment, almost forgetting that there is somebody else in front of her until Max speaks again. The smile on their face is warm, and Nalini returns it in kind. “I’m due to sing tomorrow.” She snaps open her purse, pulling out a pen and a small notepad and scrawling on it in untidy writing the address and passcode to get in. Her literacy skills were lacking a little when it came to the English language. “I’d love to have you. Maybe we can share a drink afterwards.”

“Ah. I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you expected,” Maxine offered. It wasn’t something that they could fully understand — it had been clear to them early on that any sort of love was a liability, a weakness waiting to be exploited, at least within the context of their work. It was much better that they didn’t leave loose strings for their enemies to tug on, and that they operated on their own terms. But they attempted to offer some solace to Nalini, nonetheless. “At least you got to live in a beautiful city for a little.”

A flush of annoyance rushes through Vera, but she does not let it crack her exterior. She is not her brother, prone to fits of rage at every pointed comment that he decided to take as an insult. No, Vera is smarter than that, more careful, more cautious, and if Maxine is trying to get a rise out of her, she will not give it to them as easily as Luciano would. 

They should count themselves lucky for that. 

“Are you?” Her head cocks, her placid smile becoming a little more pointed. If Maxine is curious, then they will have to remain so. Vera will not volunteer to them the fact that when she looks at Anya, she sees shades of herself, nor that she sees a girl who could prove of use to her. They may be invaluable to The Eastsides, but when conversations become as sharp as this one has, she has to remind herself that they are courting her, as much as she is courting them. She will not set the expectation that she will bend over backwards, leaping to fulfil their every demand without receiving something in turn. “Call it friendly concern, then.” 

She asks about Rueng, and Vera knows she is talking about the father, not the son, a man she has never met. But the son, Art, is a different matter, and it is that blade she wields now. “You will have to ask Arthit,” she shrugs, taking the minutest of sips from her champagne. “I allowed him to handle invitations within your family. He seems quite pleased with the party, from what I can gather.” And after all, it is he who has the final say here - not Maxine. “It is curious that he would choose not to show up if he received one though, don’t you agree? And if he didn’t receive one - well, that is even curiouser.” Perhaps there are more seeds of discord within The Eastsides than Vera knew yet, and it wouldn’t hurt to turn the line of questioning back to her interrogator.

.

They raised a brow at her sudden curtness. Curious. Perhaps they had gone too far in withholding praise and gratitude, but it seemed to Maxine more likely that Vera's interest ran deeper than just 'friendly concern' — and something she did not think Maxine should be privy to. Either way, they didn't think they should push her buttons any further, and instead made it a note to convey their observations to Alina later on.

"Your concern is appreciated," Maxine hummed, letting a bigger smile grace her lips for Vera. Plain and simple, perhaps even some part genuine. They were not made for this game — one where words pushed the pieces across the board, where a less than appropriate connotation triggered a wave of dominoes falling. So it seemed for the best they stepped away before they fell too deep in. Instead, they offered a slice of insight, an olive branch of sorts, if it was willingly received in that way. "I suspect she's homesick: a terrible affliction."

"My mistake," Maxine drawled, smile never faltering, "I will ask him."

They shrugged off their companion's blatant attack, in part unwilling to partake in any serious stand off at such a joyous ceremony, and in part because they didn't deem it any actual threat. It was either an attempt to probe for information into the intricacies of the family's ties, or an attempt to sow seeds of doubt in Maxine's mind — but they did not break that easily. With a chuckle and smirk, they added in jest, "Perhaps New York has been giving Rueng a harder time without us."

“wouldn’t that constitute malpractice?” he asks with a curious cant of his head. lazily, he unfurls his shirtsleeve but doesn’t bother with redoing the buttons or replacing his cuff links. those are buried somewhere in his pockets, hoping they make it home safely.  “i suppose it’d make it harder to forget you if that had been the case, but no - i’ve got the mind of an elephant when it comes to lovely faces who won’t indulge a bone weary soldier.” a cheeky grin flits across his face as he offers his arm to maxine, tired of lingering in an empty alleyway. the police, once they recognize him, won’t hassle him but he doesn’t feel like having to deal with them at all tonight.

together with fulvio, he guides them out of the alley and turns up the street. “what sort of nurse has to take a work trip?” he asks with a glance down at her. from somewhere, jazz music drifts out of an open window. fulvio trots ahead of them, as if without a concern in the world for anything in the world, and his heavy collar jingles with every step. “unless you’re lying to me and you are, in fact, moving here permanently and searching for a job now that your desperate search for the one soldier who got away has come to an end at last.” again, his grin returns. “am i close?”

hibiscus :   how does your muse view the gentler ,   daintier things in life ? as things worth preserving   &   caring for ,   or things only bound to wither   &   disappear ?

Maxine's opinions lie somewhere in between: they can acknowledge the gentle beauty in the world — like in the softness of art or music, in the blooming of spring as the frost melts away — but they also think that rot, disappearance and death are inevitable and a natural process in the cycle of life. In some ways, they see it as fruitless to go against the fate of nature, and sees it as naive to think otherwise. In their appreciation of the dainty things in life, there is that underlying cynicism that grounds it and a skepticism that shadows it. They make no effort to preserve it beyond its lifespan, but that does not mean that they do not care for these things.

snapdragon :   is your muse merciful ? why or why not ?

The face in the mirror beside her was far from unfamiliar. Anya had watched Maxine lurking around the family for as long as she could remember, shadow-like in their mannerisms, the way they quietly observed. Now they were her shadow, looming threateningly and ever-present. She had hoped that they would at least take a month or so to settle into the role of babysitter, learning her patterns of thought through trial and error, but it appeared they were much better at their job than predicted. Say what you would about her father, he rarely hired idiots.

“Oh no, I’d let you. In fact, I’d encourage you.“ She took a large gulp of her drink, half-expecting to have the glass snatched out of her hands before she had the chance, and gestured wildly as she spoke again. "Take the day off! Better yet — the year. See some sights, get some sun. You’re looking pasty.” 

The question makes her pout, offended by both the implication she’s stupid enough to go out without money and the idea that she wouldn’t have any to spend. “Of course,” she replied sulkily, demonstrating her point by fishing around in her purse and pulling out a fistful of bills, tossed onto the bar where they caught the eye of the suddenly attentive bartender. “Don’t make me go back already — I just got here and I’m already climbing the fucking walls in that apartment. Come on, you’re here now. Have a drink with me, Maxy.”

Maxine watched as Anya threw back the drink quickly, already foreseeing the massive hangover that would hit her if they didn't stop her. Frankly though, Maxine thought a hangover wouldn't have been half-bad; it might even keep the child confined to her bed for longer. They were, moreover, tasked to keep an eye on Anya, not control her every action. So they let her keep the drink. And maybe if Anya were to buy an extra drink or two, they thought, half-humoured, it might help them with knocking her out later to carry her back. If it had to come down to that, of course.

They didn't grace Anya's jab with a response, the only sign that they'd even heard her was a raised brow and a quivering lip that threatened to break into a small smirk.