Little Tiger

Jackson knows she’s prepared an excuse before she counters them with it — her tongue had always impressed, in more ways than one. But the man was nothing, if not a mirror, and such quips and retorts they had grown to admire from Neve now threaten to reflect upon their own surface. It hadn’t always slipped from between his teeth with such confidence, these wry and needling arguments, but Neve had once planted them beneath his breast and blossomed the words within him with the same deftness as one of her many buds. Perhaps, all along, he had been yet another of her willing seeds, just waiting by for her to caress life into him.

“I imagined you Kings would come better prepared, it being on your own turf and all,” Jackson admits with pursed lips. He knows as well as her, the chair in question is meaningless, and that somewhere hidden in a hall closet there’s a spare Neve is unwilling to relinquish. “The more the merrier, yes?” She’s too close. He can feel the tickle of her breath dancing across his skin, and within him wars the urge to lean inward, as well as that to jerk away as if it’s her knuckles that have kissed his cheek. “I’ll stand,” Jackson smiles finally, raising his glass to curved lips as a distraction from the sight before him he’d much rather drink in. 

Her question raises a curious brow, eyes narrowing the slightest as his blue hues trace the contours of her expression. “Why? Have I distracted you from the festivities, Neve?” Jackson was guilty of sneaking glances over his shoulder, bending to hear the hopeful slip of her name amongst the crowd. Had she, too, spent the evening swallowed whole by their attendance, unable to look past his glaring presence so near her own? They think yes, but needling insecurity argues it’s only foolish optimism. There was always the chance she had grown tired of this game and the anger that now laces her words is genuine, meant to be speared straight into their bleeding heart. Could they leave it, her, behind if she had?

Neve’s voice lowers to a hush, and they swallow their doubt. She would spot every fissure, they knew, and they had given her enough to prey on already. Straightening their spine they offer a conspiratorial glance in her direction, as if the breeze of her request was tempting, though she need not ask a thing for Jackson to well and truly yearn to hand over everything to the woman. The answer to her first inquiry lay on the tip of their tongue, but before it even has a chance for release it lodges itself in his throat, thick and uncomfortably heavy. 

“Does being here remind you of anything?”

His eyes fall to the bar, lips parting briefly to consider an answer that might spare their galloping heart. It reminds me of everything, Jackson thinks bitterly, and they know she’s carved her own answer from the thoughtful expression that twists their face. Still, a believable smile tugs at the corners of their lips, as if to veil the rush of emotion that only just passed. “One,” they agree with a nod, gaze rising to meet Neve’s, “would you like the answer to your first question, or your second?”

Neve tilts her head to get a better look at them; a better look at the ghost her mind has been chasing for months. Things had ended because of her, because she was unable to see how destructive she was becoming. And while she had no right to blame Jackson for leaving, her guilt twisted into something that left her angry and unwanted - a dangerous combination when they work in the same circle. 

They already know the truth the moment it falls from their lips and into her ear. Neve would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit she looked for them among the crowd, wondering if they were wearing another face that night. “You, of all people, should know I’m not the type to get distracted.” Her fingers release the glass in her hand, letting it fall against the glass as she reaches for their arm. It’s a subtle movement, one that she doesn’t even realize she makes until she feels the fabric beneath her fingers. “I’m just curious if Damien purposefully left you out so we would be more concentrated on you instead of something he planned to do tonight.” It was hypocritical, really. Neve was well aware of things set to happen that night so anything the other gangs planned was fair game. 

Her eyes trace the contours of their face, the way their lips move as they speak, and how their eyes move around the room. Jackson's natural had always been beautiful to Neve- a marble sculpture come to life just for her. Each wrinkle or freckle or mark deliberately placed for her to commit to memory. It wasn’t until she forced them from her memory all those months ago to 

LOCATION: Garfield Conservatory, The Fern Room DATE: Friday, November 15th  EVENT:  1.The Peace Treaty TIME: 10:30 PM STATUS: closed @nevekaplan

None of the members of the Kings Collective ever need to take a piss. At least that’s what you’d be led to believe by the scant number of bathrooms they’ve made available during this little swaray. Cain has had like…five, no maybe seven, no six- a lot, he’s had a lot to drink. He’s busting at the seams and the line to what is apparently the only fucking set of facilities in the building doesn’t seem to have gotten any shorter. 

This is quickly becoming an emergency that he’s not willing to deal with. Cain is a goddamn 38 year old man. He’s very drunk. He’s not about to piss his pants at a party he didn’t even want to go to.

The bathrooms, he figures, are a lost cause and maybe it is the liquor telling him this is a good idea- in hindsight he will know it was definitely the liquor- but there’s a side room that looks awfully empty, and the plants in that room look awfully thirsty and well, a man has needs.

He’s not an animal. He checks to make sure the room is completely empty before he does what needs to be done. He’s certain that he’s alone but it’s easy to be certain when you’re toasted and Cain is very toasted. He was toasted about two or three drinks ago. 

It’s only once it’s over and he’s turning around and zipping up that he realizes there’s a witness, a woman, staring at him as he tucks his dong back into his pants. If he were sober he might have been embarrassed by this development but as it is, he just stares at her in the vaguely befuddled way of the well and truly drunk and then asks: “Ey, you got any hand uh-” the word sanitizer escapes him so he says the next best thing that comes to mind, “-goo, you got any hand goo?”

Neve knew that time was running out. Her job for the moment was to make sure none of their guests were milling or hiding about in any of the other rooms of the Conservatory. Neither she or Ben would put it past anyone at the event to sneak away - it was a natural tendency that mutants had. If you weren’t actively hiding, there as a chance someone could find you and that was the last thing any of them wanted. 

That was when she saw him. 

“What the fuck?” It’s all Neve can manage to get out without spewing some sort of insult at the man. His request of hand goo doesn’t even register as she’s rushing toward him. The anger clouding her better judgment whispers in her ear, telling her that it wouldn’t hurt too much if she let some vines wrap around his ankles. “There’s a bathroom down the fucking hall.” 

Location: Garfield Conservatory Date: November 16th, morning Status: Closed ( @nevekaplan​​ )

Nana watched Neve’s face throughout the evening, how it morphed and twisted into a shattered visage of sorrow. Perhaps many would reconcile that an event like this was inevitable; that such a public display of power and the shattering of the tentative peace was always going to happen, but that would be deterministic and by extension false. Nana knew better; they knew different events could have occurred, influencing events into something where this night didn’t end with such a…well, bang. It was clear that Neve, at least in part, felt as if she should shouldered some of the blame for why the night became what it did. Nana was used to death, they had played their part for long enough to be directly involved in quite a few, but Neve was gentler…better. 

The fallout of the Benjamin’s action was extreme. The Conservatory was still standing but badly burnt, the alliance was effectively shattered, and injuries occurred on all sides. Nana was lucky to escape with just a burnt palm, a gift from their confrontation with Derek and a small price to pay to reign in his flames. As the chaos died down, and the just the King’s remained the hallowed halls of their home, Benjamin drew them together to plan and to rebuild. The number of King’s members slowly dwindled as night turned to dawn, each dismissed as they were no longer needed, eventually leaving just Nana, Neve, and Benjamin until even they too were told to go home. 

Nana took in the sunken eyes of their sister, the exhausted slope of her lips, and reached wordlessly to grab their hand, squeezing it gently in solidarity. With an uncharacteristically gentle voice, they murmured, “Let’s go home.” Sleep would be needed before anything else and it was something both were surely lacking. The sun’s first rays were just piercing the skyline, casting the city in a hazy, warm light. Nana reached out their hand, signaling a taxi to take the two to Neve’s apartment. 

It all came down to Neve being unable to do her job. If she was able to do the one thing she was trained to do, the entire night could have been avoided. This wasn’t any normal job where she would use her power to get the information needed. She was tasked with getting another person to tell on their boss. And had happened? Someone had died because of her, half of The Conservatory was burnt to the ground, and any trust between gangs was long forgotten. 

It was all her fault. 

Neve follows the motions, sits next to Nana throughout the night while avoiding eye contact with any of the other King's members. She’s positive that there were whispers about her passed behind hands but doesn’t bother to think about them. Her only concentration is solely the pattern on the wood desk in front of her. Ben spends hours talking about logistics and their next moves and fishes for any intel someone might have gathered. It’s only when she follows Nana out of the building and to the street, hand grasping onto their own does she come crashing down to reality. 

She doesn’t speak until they’re settled in the backseat of the taxi, eyes staring at the passing buildings. “Do you blame me too?” The words are barely above a whisper, almost washed out by the music coming through the speakers. The disappointment is evident in her voice, dragging down whatever positive affirmation should arise. Nana was someone Neve always sought to impress, forever chasing the idealized older sibling she never had, and to publicly disappoint them was a hit to everything she cared about. 

Just a few things remain as beacons: poetry, and you, and solitude. 

Neve is a welcome companion – but no less capable of feeding her to the wolves should the Kings decide to play some sort of Battle Royale style hunt in this dramatic setting of fern fronds and shimmering pools. One corner of Anastasia’s mouth curls upwards. Damien had specifically mentioned the woman before her and the request to keep her hands off the plants in the same breathe, which surely meant that plucking the flower in question would be foolish. Dumb. Idiotic. “Stick like glue?” She questions, her own curiosity far from satiated as she vacates her presence in Neve’s mind and turns to her, sneakers that she almost definitely shouldn’t be wearing to a black-tie event scuffing against the ground. “Funny. So many of the flowers that are dangerous either look pretty or smell nice.” The smile on her lips lingers, gaze flicking over the other. “Is that why you plant them? They take after you.”

“Yes, exactly. It’s a defense mechanism of sorts.” The smile on her face only widens. It had been so long since anyone has asked Neve about the plants within the building that she forgot how much she loved talking about them. Even without the influence of Anastaisa in her mind, she found herself happy, relaxing for the moment among the flowers. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replies with a smile. There’s something about Anastasia that reminds Neve of herself; the desire to impress, the lethality that’s hidden under a smile, the untouched potential yet to be molded by the right hands. Are they using her powers to their best ability? No, they would have trained her better, made her more useful to their cause. Neve wonders if the younger girl would be better suited for her own cause instead of the Jem Family. She knows she could train her properly, influence the correct parts of her power to create an unstoppable force. Emotions are, after all, the one thing most people have no control over. All she needs to do is plant the correct seed. “Have you heard of Lily of the Valley?” 

The fact that there was a mutant black-tie party made Luke scoff when he was told. Half of them were fugitives, the other half probably worse and here they were dressing up in silks and suits. He had no choice but to attend, that much was made very clear as if Alma could read his mind about not showing up. It was bad enough in his mind that he had to attend the party, but the fact that there would be other mutants only made it that much worse. He hardly tolerated those that were in the Syndicate, he hoped – and he was sure others did as well, that no one was dumb enough to piss him off enough to blow up the Conservatory. 

He meandered through the party, his eyes scanning everyone around him as he sipped on his beer in search of an isolated place. At least if he was alone this whole ridiculous event would be much more tolerable. His legs led him to the most isolating area as he paused, his back leaning against the wall an audible sigh of relief escaping his lips – finally alone, at peace.

It was so quickly gone as his eyes focused on the female that stood in front of him, his eyes rolling as he heard her accusation even if she didn’t say it outright. “Do I look like I would drink out of that stupid glass?” He didn’t care what her answer was as his lips were greeted by his beer.

Neve’s first reaction is to throw the glass at Lukes head and watch it shatter before walking away. That could be the catalyst that sets the whole night off. It’s only seconds before she goes through with it does she decide how terrible of an idea it is - the last person she wants to deal with this early in the night is Alma. Instead, she wraps her fingers around the glass and steps closer to him. 

Weapons never appealed much to Neve. To her, they always seemed to have the same personality; obedient, angry, and rude. They were the same archetypes in different bodies, following whatever orders they were given. If she met them in any other situation, there’s a possibility she would like them. But within their small world, she didn’t have time to care for them. And this was exactly how she looked at Luke. 

Her eyes rolled at their answer; useless as usual. “You look like you wouldn’t know what manners were if they slapped you across the face.” The temptation to wrap a vine around their mouth grew the longer she looked at them, annoyance blooming in her mind. Sure, she had started the conversation with an attitude. But, there was a single rule all of there were supposed to follow: don’t fuck with the plants. In her mind, it wasn’t that hard. 

Jackson notices the tell immediately; a thin line of frustration for his troubles. It had appeared only in the after. Their entire relationship seemed compounded on before’s and after’s. Before distance had clawed its way between them, pressing into their rib cage when she lie with her back to them in the night. And after, when the two remained together, but only in the technical sense where stubborn binds of the heart could not withstand the pain of severance. His gaze falls to it, and he only just catches himself from mirroring the red stain of her pout. Jackson’s illusions came undone beneath her scrutiny, they always had, but an accompanying stir of irritation now settles where inward relief had once dwelled.

Her double-edged words may pass as conversational — curiosities passed between strangers, but he knows better; can make out the underlying accusation in Neve’s tone. “That sounds an awful lot like espionage, Kaplan,” Jackson responds with the shadow of a smile, brows raising in feigned shock at her boldness. He could give her the truth, bare it to her like all those he had revealed as offerings for her love, but what was the fun in that? The truth would eliminate her purpose here, with them. The truth would rob them the satisfaction of that passion burning in her eyes, the determined and resolute fire that had brought them together, and subsequently tore them apart. 

“Can’t go giving away all my dirty secrets, can I?” He settles on, instead, leaning in nearer as if it was a secret shared by only the two of them. Immediately, regret pools vicious and warning in his stomach. Memories of this Conservatory, this woman, rush and make him lightheaded. Her coquettish whisper, dark hair twisted around around his index finger, a gentle pull and the lilt of her laugh against Jackson’s lips. God, her laugh. He would damn himself to be the cause of its delight. Uncomfortable, they swallow the thought. Not anymore.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were suggesting my name wasn’t on the list,” he hums, tilting his head in the opposite direction for some much needed distance between his lips and the tempting column of Neve’s throat. 

Kaplan. The way it rolls off of their tongue sends a shiver down her spine. It reminds her too much of when they hardly knew each other or the forced professionalism that came with their occupations. For a moment, the first time they meet flashes in her mind and a smile tries to tug at the corners of her mouth. But it’s not long before she realizes how wrong this whole charade is. The cold front she’s giving off in their hideaway doesn’t fit with the other memories they have in the Conservatory and neither does the tension sitting between the two of them. It’s tainting the better days with its atmosphere and Neve wants nothing more than to run so it stops. 

It only took one swift move for them to back Neve into a corner, to pick up on what she allowed to slip through and capitalize on it. “My job is to know how many people are coming so we have the right amount of seats.” She mirrors their movements, leaning close enough so that only they can hear. Her fingers tighten around the long-forgotten glass in an attempt to fight the urge to touch them for just one moment. “Do tell, Jackson, are they using you as a distraction now?” It’s a risk staying that close to them, the temptation to drag her mouth across their skin nagging at the back of her mind. There are too many people watching them, too many eyes and ears that are tuned to their frequency. Not that it had bothered her before, but these were their coworkers and that bothered her. If she had the option to drag Jackson to her office she would but that would bring unnecessary attention. 

Confronting them in this space was beginning to look like a worse idea with each passing second. 

“I’m sure you can give away one secret,” she whispers next. Neve knows it’s better to stay quiet, to hold her cards to her chest and put on a poker face, but she never seemed able to do that with Jackson. Every secret and thought and emotion spilled over her lips and into their ears when they were together. She shouldn’t be surprised that this room is the one they meet in - it’s not a coincidence that she saw them now and not earlier. “Does being here remind you of anything?” Her eyes flick from the plants across the room to their neck. She can’t hear their pulse, but she can see it which is good enough for her. 

Within 45 minutes of the event starting, Lenox had yet to make his grand entrance into the main room. Perpetually the sort for the fashionably late agenda than to arrive precisely on time and have to participate in inopportune chit chat. He’d been using different illusions throughout his route into the building, considering himself pretty wise to masquerade as Eoin if only because no one seemed to bother the brooding type. 

The voice of accusation doesn’t startle him, only causes a distraction for the illusion to evaporate as he turns to meet Neve’s glare. “Now, didn’t anyone ever tell you it was impolite to make assumptions?” Lenox asked before taking the empty champagne flute from the woman’s grip, his index finger pointing towards a magenta lipstick stain on the glass’s rim, “if you genuinely thought I’d be caught dead in this ghastly colour, then I fear you don’t know me at all.” 

Features soften as Lenox analyses the other’s features, a stern disposition that didn’t quite compliment the fluidity of silk on her body. “I say this because I care, you seem a little tense,” just as he’d assumed by the sheer volume of mutants encroaching upon their headquarters. “If it puts you at ease, I’m keeping an eye on lingering hands and if worse comes to worst I’m sure you can nurse the poor plants that suffer similar fates as that fern,” he reaches forward, lightly taming an out of place hair back behind Neve’s ear. “C’mon,” Lenox extended his arm, gesturing for her to accompany him, “let’s go get something to drink- preferably something with taste, I’ve had enough of this bottom shelf champagne… I assume it was only bought to satisfy the Jem members.” 

Was it possible for Neve to make sure every plant in the Conservatory was safe and sound? No. Was she going to try anyway? Yes. Call it helicopter parenting or micromanaging or whatever other term meant the same thing, she was still going to keep all of the plants in perfect condition. Keeping the Conservatory looking as beautiful as it does was something she took pride it, a physical thing that reminded her that she can use her powers for something other than terror. 

It kills her to admit that anyone is right, nonetheless when it’s Lenox. But she softens her expression and sighs. “It’s still exhausting to deal with,” she wraps an arm around his own before continuing. “Do you know where they hid the good alcohol? I’ve been too busy to notice where they stashed it.”

There’s a voice in the back of her head whispering that it’s time to plant the idea of betrayal to Lenox. It shouldn’t take long to root once she’s done it and keeping the idea alive wouldn’t be that hard; all Neve needs to do is convince him that his new position would be flashier, she’ll even throw in a crown if it sweetens the deal. And if she can convince him that his grand illusions can come true by helping her, she’s golden. “Which tricks have you played on our guests so far? Nothing too nightmarish, I hope.” 

Time: 15 November, 6ish Location: Garfield Conservatory Status: for @nevekaplan​

Well, this was going to be – interesting, to say the least. It hardly takes long – ten, maybe fifteen minutes – from arrival for Jack to find her amongst the crowd. Neve Kaplan: glittering crown jewel of the King’s Collective. She certainly looks the part from afar. Jack lets her be for the first hour, but keeps a close eye as he drifted between groups and hugged the perimeter. It seems like everyone wanted a piece of her, and maybe they do. Not even Jack id immune to her magnetism; just another of her plants bent towards the sun. Maybe he would be a Venus Fly Trap – all stillness and teeth. 

It was only a matter of time, then, before their orbits edged up against each other. Here the scene is Jack, elbows pressed deep into dark wood of the bar and a hand full of sweating glass. He isn’t even looking for her, and that’s the irony of it. He simply turns and she is there, as if all his thinking and watching for the last hour has kept her away. He takes a long pull of his drink – strong, either on instruction from one of the King’s men, as they were, or an underhanded insinuation from the bartender himself that Jack needed it. Truthfully, he did. 

“Do you ever get a moment to breathe?” There is, tragically, no guide book for how to greet your late-night-something in the midst of a tenuous gang treaty celebration while her ex-something-else stands across the room. Jack has never successfully improvised in his life. He takes another sip. There’s a first time for everything. “Seems like all anyone wants is to swallow up your air.”

Neve can count on one hand how many guests she’s willing to speak to tonight. One is Felix, who she’s set on aggravating as usual. Another was Isabel, who seems to be only one to control the child Blackburn calls an employee. And then there’s Jack, a welcome distraction from the rest of the chaos happening in the small space. In all honesty, he was a welcome distraction from everything. An escape from the thoughts that consumed her mind and for that, she was thankful. 

It comes as a pleasant surprise when she settles in next to him at the bar, a happy accident that made her think things weren’t going as terribly as she thought. The temptation to start a conversation burned at the tip of her tongue but instead, she settled for ordering a new drink. Her debate is void when Jack's voice wraps around her mind, pulling on the corners of her mouth. Maybe this night wouldn’t be so bad. 

“That’s the trouble with planning an event for your boss,” she can’t help that laugh that escapes as she speaks. It’s bitter and broken and she hopes it’s soft enough that he can’t hear it. “You have to socialize for him while he’s busy picking out which Chanel loafers to wear.” It was, after all, the truth. The last time she checked in with Ben he was stuck between the mint and lilac loafers. She stood there all of two minutes before pursing her lips and walking away. There was only so much patience she had and wasting it on Ben wasn’t the plan. 

OPEN TO ALL  •  15 November  /  Garfield Conservatory

Being an informant is prestigious. It’s a position of tact, of secrecy; of being able to win others around without suspicion, coaxing the sweet song of information from their mouths. But, above all, to Anastasia at the very least, it meant – for what felt like the first time in her life –  that she was important. A cog in a well-oiled machine. A well-oiled machine that was particularly well-dressed, if the familiar faces flitting around the conservatory ( bad choice, in her opinion, the risk of high humidity mixing with sleek hairstyles and silk was a wardrobe disaster waiting to happen ) in tailored suits and glamorous gowns were anything to go by. Dark eyes are drawn from bodies to leaves, from jewels to petals. Anastasia pauses, admiring the faint aroma of a flower growing from rich black soil, allowing her power to join its scent in the air until it finds a mind to wrap around like a grapevine. She plants curiosity safely amongst their homegrown emotions. Leaves it to take root. To blossom. “What do you think?” she asks airily, attention settling on the chosen companion. “We’ve been warned against touching the plants, but surely picking one little flower won’t hurt anyone?”

Breaks from the small talk were few and far between, but that didn’t mean Neve wasn’t going to sneak off to avoid it. The mundane conversation that consisted of filler statements, ‘how are you’ ‘what are you up to’ ‘ how’s your job’, was enough to set her on the edge when the night had barely started. On top of that, the humidity within some of the rooms was too much to handle so she avoided them altogether. She took up a spot against a tree that was wide enough to hide her, closed her eyes, and hoped for the best. It was only when the annoyance that had been swirling in her mind was gone did she open them again. Her eyes land on Anastasia then float over to whichever flower had grabbed her attention. Of course. It was one that Neve personally loved, ivory petals with leaves twice the size of the flower. A truly beautiful plant. “I’d be careful if I were you.” It’s not a warning exactly. Not one that includes her anger at least. “They can stick to your skin if you’re not paying attention. It’ll leave evidence.” 

date  : november  15th location  :  garfield  conservatory involved  :  @nevekaplan​

          “Shit.”

The  word  slipped  free  when  he  should  have  been  preoccupied  drinking  his  whiskey,  wondering  how  long  would  be  socially  acceptable  for  him  be  present  at  the  celebration.  A  ridiculous  thought  considering  Felix  knew  himself—he  would  end  up  staying  until  every  Blackburn  member  had  left  to  one  place  or  another  or  Alma  said  otherwise.  The  protectiveness  that  seemed  ingrained  in  his  body.  Felix  spent  far  too  much  of  his  time  worrying  about  those  he  took  care  of  and  it  didn’t  help  that  the  protest  outside  made  him  worried  for  everyone.  He  knew  that  the  celebration—as  extravagant  as  it  may  be—was  for  a  good  cause  and  everyone  should  feel  a  night  of  relief.  If  only  it  were  that  easy.

Another  downside  to  the  celebration  came  in  the  form  of  the  five  foot  nine  brilliant  hurricane  coming  right  into  his  direction.  How  many  times  had  he  previously  been  in  this  situation?  Felix  looked  left  and  right  to  see  if  someone  else  could  be  her  target  but  no,  tragically  he’s  the  only  one  in  the  general  area.  Was  he  too  close  to  one  of  the  plants?  No,  he’d  moved  away  from  all  of  them.

Neve  would  always  be  a  double  edged  sword  for  Felix.  On  one  hand,  she  had  a  habit  of  messing  with  him  constantly.  It  was  clear  she  found  some  fun  out  of  it  and  while  Felix  found  himself  cracking  a  smile  on  rare  occasions—most  of  the  time  he  only  rolled  his  eyes  so  many  times  he  worried  they’d  end  up  that  way  forever.  But  Neve  was  also  helpful—had  given  him  an  open  door  to  a  practice  of  medicine  that  his  abilities  had  no  claim  over.  There  was  also  something  admittedly  charming  about  Neve  and  they’d  had  a  number  of  good  conversations.  However,  when  Neve  Kaplan  came  walking  like  a  woman  on  a  mission  right  in  his  direction?

Felix  quickly  took  a  sip  from  the  glass  of  whiskey  as  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  attempted  to  walk  in  the  opposite  direction.

Mixing all three gangs was an idea Neve didn’t think would work. Of course in thought, it would run smoothly. All members existing in harmony for one night was the dream. But when executed, it was never as perfect as one would want. There were protestors outside, shifty eyes glancing around the room, and enough tension from previous years to break through the glass. She assumed it would only take one accident, a bump or a spilled drink or even a throwaway comment, to set the whole thing off. 

And even though Felix played doctor for the Syndicate, he was a fun case study for Neve. In some ways, they paralleled each other - both taken in by their respective boss, both pressured to live up to that name, both desperately trying to be their own person. She could almost see that the responsibility of being who he was weighed on his shoulders, straining on his ability to just be. It made her wonder just how long someone could go on living like that - and she plans on finding out how long they can wear their disguise that night. 

It’s not long before she spots them nursing a drink in one of the hallways, all alone. Perfect. With her own glass in her hand, she makes her way towards them. It’s only when she notices him spot her and turn away does she raise her voice. “Doctor Alvarez, how are you tonight?” She always started simply with Felix, trying to reign him into her orbit so that he wouldn’t walk away before she got what she wanted. “Is Alma enjoying our humble abode?” 

Jackson knows it’s her before she speaks, can make her out by the sleek black strands that settle in their peripheral. From physical appearance alone, she needs no introduction. They fear they’ll remember the click of her heels, the fragrance of her perfume, the stain of color painted across both lips, forever. And, in the same breath, they fear they will forget. Moments they’d spent tediously memorizing those qualities with a lover’s desperation pool unwanted and achey in their thoughts. How they had so longed to unravel the mystery of Neve, then. How they now longed to unravel the mystery of Neve again, after intrinsically knowing her, after letting her settle beside the trembling organ beneath their ribcage. Would they always be damned to peer at her through this stranger’s gaze? 

Eyes flicker between brown hues, and Jackson fights against all natural instinct to raise his brows in surprise. Instead, he takes a weighted moment to sip the drink in his grip, allowing the silence to grow thick in the narrow distance that settles between them before forcing a smile. “Having a drink,” they deadpan, raising the glass in a cheers motion, “thank Ben for his hospitality for me, won’t you?” They know what she means, but it brings them a giddy delight to appear as ambiguous to Neve as she does to them. Had she rushed through the list, skipping names, to R, only to find Angela, and no Raemers? If it had been Damien hosting the party, perhaps Jackson would have been to eager to do the same, but Neve doesn’t need to know that. 

She’s given them no time to prepare, and the fraudulent smile tugging at their lips droops ever so slightly as they give her a once over. Neve is, as always, stunning, and Jackson bites his tongue so as not to tell her so. It was fitting they would meet again at the Conservatory; their own Garden of Eden, with Eve pinned against the bar in all her glory. Or perhaps she was meant to be the apple, with Jackson as Eve in this interpretation; tempted and greedy for more, in spite of the consequences. 

Neve wants nothing more than to rip their glass from their hands and throw it at the ground, to cause a scene and end the whole charade that was happening around them. The movement they give is enough to press her lips into a flat line - and enough to make her remember a time when she found it She’s keenly aware of how close they’re standing, finally inhaling their cologne and noticing how blue their eyes looked when the light hit them just right. Her lips press into a thin line. “I’ll make sure he gets the message.” An empty promise. The last thing she needs is Ben knowing anything about Jackson. She’s kept the two completely separate from the beginning, two moons orbiting a planet but never crashing into each other. It was an attempt on her part to have the best of both worlds, Even now she fought to keep them separate when they threatened to collide. 

Neve has to remind herself that they’re surrounded by both their colleagues, that they’re here for peace, that there’s a plan in motion. And everything was going according to that plan except for this one factor. Jackson was the grain of sand caught within the oyster, irritating and annoying what used to be calm. How was she supposed to say ‘Get the hell out of here’ without setting their alarm bells off? It was foolish to try. And yet, the part of her that wanted to save Jackson was screaming at her. It was telling her to push them out of the Conservatory by any means possible, save them from seeing what was set to save. Save them from having to see the monster she had become.

“Are you using a new name when you acquire a new face these days?” She can’t help the jab from bubbling up and filling what little space lays between them. While it might’ve seemed like passing curiosity to any other mutant, her question was filled with desire; she needed to know how they slipped through the cracks, how they crash-landed into their former hideout, how they were so willing to reopen old wounds that never healed properly for either of them. 

DATE: November 15

LOCATION: Garfield Conservatory

STATUS: Open

Derek had always hated the Conservatory. It was just too much of a symbol, the sparkling gem in the crown of King’s Collective, a way to lord over everyone else how cultured they were, unlike the rest of those newer, classless gangs. Unlike Derek, itching in his new suit. At least he’s in all black still. Don’t make a scene, but don’t let them forget who you are either, Damien had said. It made sense– Derek was a symbol himself, one of the walking threats amongst the Jem’s arsenal, their resident shadow. There were going to be a lot of those out tonight, all the gangs sure to show off their best and brightest. And all of them stuck here together, in a big glass box full of alcohol and decades of interpersonal vendettas. Awesome. Just a great idea.

He’s hovering at the edge of the party with his hands in his pockets, glancing behind him every once in a while to make sure he doesn’t trip into a cactus or something. He feels dirtier just for stepping though the door, like some feral street creature who wandered in at the smell of hors d’oeuvres, just waiting for someone in a tux to ask him if he’s on the guest list, sir? With some knowing, pretentiously arched eyebrow. Because he can’t help but see this generous gesture for what it really is. A celebration of neutrality could have been hosted at any of the perfectly good neutral territories around the city, but the King’s had brought them all here on their turf. Under their roof. And Derek knows a power play when he sees one.

He’s casing the room for a subtle exit, somewhere to slip away for a cigarette, when he feels someone bump into him, their drink tipping onto the shoulder of his suit. And so the forced socializing begins. “You good?”

Neve made sure that everything was perfect. Every bar was stocked, each table had the right amount of place settings, and the right music was filtering through the speakers in each room. She made sure that everything was in full bloom regardless of the season - droopy flowers were not about to ruin her reputation if she had any say in the matter. The work she put into the whole night was enough to sleep for a week, but that didn’t matter to her now. Even with the whispers of how over the top everything was, Neve was happy that things were exactly as she had originally pictured. 

And then it happens. The crack in the floor was the least of her worries as she rushes around the room. So when her heel gets caught in it she’s just as surprised as the person she bumps into, frowning that she spilled something on them. She recognizes the voice, but can’t place the face. It’s only when she turns to see which guest it is, does she plaster a smile on her face. “Forgive me, it’s just water.” 

Neve holds a level of respect for the other interrogator, it’s something that she has for any in their profession. It’s not an easy job by any stretch of the imagination, but all three of them were exceptional at it. She knows how dangerous Derek is, how the whole place could go up in flames if he so wished it to, and that type of power deserves to be recognized. “Are you enjoying yourself?” 

Their name hadn’t been on the list. 

Neve would’ve remembered seeing Jackson’s name on the list from Damien. It wasn’t a particularly memorable name, but she would remember it even in passing. She can only see them from the back, but she’s certain it’s them by the way their hair is parted and the pattern of their jacket; a memory of them wearing it out to dinner flashes in her brain before she can stop it. Then, she hears it. A laugh that carries across the room and sends a shiver down her spine. How long had it been since she let that sound turn the corners of her lips up? How long has she been repressing the part of her that missed this? 

Their god damned name hadn’t been on the list. 

All of her emotions were happening at once; anger, excitement, longing, annoyance. It had been months since Neve even allowed her mind to wander onto the thought of them. But now they were here, in the flesh. It made her wonder which face they were wearing that night. Would they change it after they saw her? The thought was enough to convince her to finish her drink and get a new one. And in order to do just that, she’d have to come face to face with them. She slid between Jackson and the bar, one hand clutching the glass in her hand and the other gripping the wood for balance. The sudden closeness was almost too much and one glance at their eyes was enough to make her dizzy. “What are you doing here?” 

Neve hated the celebration before she got out of bed that morning. She had known it was coming for weeks, prepping the Conservatory for the onslaught of people, but that didn’t mean she was excited for it. Not even being dressed in ivory silk was enough to lift her sour mood. 

She hated that there were so many people crowding The Conservatory, too many unknowns filling the spaces between her and the other King’s members. This was her space, her domain, and the rival mutants were breaking into her home. None of them apperciated the beauty and aesthetic of the flowers- barely any of their own members did. How was she supposed to trust that the others would? It was enough to make her lock the doors and keep them in the cold Chicago weather. 

Even with mutants still filtering in, Neve couldn’t help but walk through the rooms to check on the plants. It only took her one step into the Fern Room to regret it. Her eyes landed on a glass sticking upside down from one of the pots. She plucked the glass from the pot and turned to the closest person, assuming it had been their doing. “Didn’t your boss tell you not to touch the plants?” Or are you just dumb?

This is not a threat, I promise I promise This is not a threat, I promise It's a warning, baby, I just want you to know.