#firebird68

My, Ms. Plus One -- along for the ride, are you? The criminal's familiar voice pierces the silence, though the teen on the mattress does not move. You may want to have a seat, as I recall I was here for.. quite some time.

This was my first home. It's not much to look at, but -- at that age, neither was I. Belonged to a man named Justin Sanders if I remember properly. As he narrates, the memory blurs, jolts a bit, and then there's light from the window and the youth on the bed is sitting up, has new clothes and is tying a tie with the ease of long familiarity. Helpfully, the voice continues It had been suggested I find a new place to make my office; it had also been suggested I would not have an office if I didn't. 

There seems to be a smile around the words, and Ronnie can probably picture the cheshire grin that would be on Jim's face at that moment if he but had lips to smile with here.

The teen shrugs on a jacket, walks to the door and raps against the doorframe. Another teen eases it open, greets the Jim of then with a brilliant smile that he seems to almost completely miss - instead of looking at his face, Jim of then is lifting his arm to glance at his watch. "The office is just down the hall - do you want to meet Clark's people there?" Jim's accent is pure Dublin when he opens his mouth to reply. "Carrey, dear, didn't we agree that I would do the thinking? Bring the chairs in here, leaves the desk. Our guests should be arriving any moment." He drops the other's- Carrey's arm, and pats it.

He returns to the bed, seats himself on it and buries his hands in his hair, tugs with elbows dug deep into his knees, head bowed. Another blur and there are two men standing in front of two mismatching chairs by the bed where Jim of then sits for all the world as though it were a throne. We met to see if my new quarters would be acceptable to them, you see. there's glee sheer and unbridled in the narrative overlay, and if she takes a moment to focus on the sheer discomfort on one of the men's faces, the way the other has a restraining hand on his shoulder the reason why should be clear.

Of course, I knew they would be; they were his son's, after all.

The man shakes off his business partner and is closing the space between the door and the bed in long, angry strides, and the Jim of then is already laughing.

Kennedy was a good actor when he wanted to be. Maybe it was like all the rest of his skills: just honed and well-practiced. Or maybe he had some fun being a dramatic little shit. Either way, it didn't take him long--just a few minutes of pacing methodically from one end of his apartment to the other--to come up with a believable persona to make his request to the company. It wasn't difficult to lie in email, though. And soon enough he had a meeting place set up at a higher-end hotel room.

Sitting on the sofa at the foot of the bed, he waited like some sort of creepy-ass Bond villain. And as lame as that was, he couldn't wait to see her face when she slinked in the door and recognized him. Unlike the last time they'd met, he was dressed to the nines. Because in his line of work, the only armor he usually got was a clean-cut suit. He didn't expect the whole thing to take very long. Drink in the reaction, feel a little smug, and deliver the message. That this had to stop here. 'I tagged you, you tagged me. Let's go our separate ways now.' And it had to be delivered in person because that was the point. She'd reached into his life and he was inserting himself into hers. Sort of a 'I know where you sleep at night' maneuver.

The Native Americans called it 'counting coup.'

It was the idea of touching your enemy and then escaping completely unscathed. The whole point was dominance, showing that you could have slit their throat, but instead you stole their shorts. 

Or put several thousand dollars into their bank account.

'Not Lola' had found him easily, but that shouldn't have driven him so crazy. He wasn't hiding. As a professional close-protection officer, he was used to being background and unnoticed, but he wasn't buried under aliases and hiding from law enforcement. Any hacker with access to a terminal could dig up military records and bank information.

It just kinda stung a little.

It took longer than he would've liked. He didn't have many allies, but he did leave a string of grateful clients in his wake. Fathers of kidnapped daughters, minor celebrities, wives of politicians who lacked bullet holes they might otherwise have. And even a few cops.

He figured a woman that good wouldn't be able to keep her head down, and he was right. It only took a few cups of coffee and six different phone calls to find and pry open some very interesting criminal records. From there, it wasn't a small leap to an even more interesting dominatrix website.

The police officer whose work station he'd hijacked gave a low whistle over Kennedy's shoulder. "Your girl's workin on givin new definition to the word 'naughty,' Carmichael."

"She's not my girl," came the automated muttered response in patient tones. Kennedy wasn't paying attention to the balding career cop behind him. An idea was forming. It was a tad more mischievous than his usual sort of plan. But he wasn't really thinking with his professional brain at the moment. Still, he managed to shrug and point to a monetary figure on the screen. "But she can be yours for the low, low price of...your entire life savings." It earned another whistle from the cop.

The elder man finally straightened and crossed the room, dropping into a chair. "No thanks. Twenty years on the force, I can smell trouble when I see it. That's trouble and a half." Patting his pockets for a cigarette, the cop decided to give more advice. "She's outta your league, Kenny."

Kennedy made an exaggerated face that the cop couldn't see, but when he spoke, it was with the same deadpan tone. "I'm not trying to date her, Bernie."

The cop laughed. "Didn't think you were. But whatever you want with her, it better be worth it."

Kennedy's jaw clenched a little. It was bad enough she'd reached into his life and poked it. Now contacts he hardly knew were calling him Kenny and making commentary that he was beaten before he started. Kennedy was a good soldier, but that stung his masculine pride a little. Hopping up out of the chair, he leaned over and grabbed the leftover bag of donuts vindictively. "You were done with these, right?" Without pausing, he spoke over the cop's protests. "Thanks for everything, Bernie! Tell your niece I said hey."

"Son of a bitch!"

Kennedy Carmichael couldn't sleep.

Which was normal. But usually it was paranoia that kept him up. Tonight it was red hair and red blood. Brain matter, and pale legs, and that voice. And the way his skin still prickled when he thought about all of it. He'd lost a client and nearly died himself. He'd failed. He'd failed and a man was dead. He shouldn't be so distracted by the exact pitch of the assassin's voice.

He'd already showered. Eaten. Had a little--ahem--decompression time. Now he was just left with lying there on his back, waiting for the ever illusive Sandman. Staring at the ceiling wasn't working. 

'Good boy.'

The purr played over and over in his head and he just got more and more pissed off, even as he just kept staring at the ceiling with the most confused look plastered over his face. Incredulity and lostness combined and focused in an accusatory glare at innocent plaster. Until finally, he sighed in frustration so loud, it grumbled in his chest.

Hades: If you could meet a person from history, who would it be and why?

Hitler. So I could punch him in his face.

Hephaestus: If you could learn a skill instantly, what would you choose?

Cooking? Yeah, I kinda suck.

Aphrodite: What do you find attractive in a partner?

Spunk, smile, sense of humor.

Zeus: If you ruled the world, what would you change?