Claim The Crown

However, the second night finds Michael awakened in his bed by a loud crash downstairs, like something very expensive has been broken in a violent manner, hurled at someone. What follows is the sound of a scuffle between two people, four feet on the ground grinding into the expensive hardwood in their attempts to gain ground and four arms grappling and slapping to get the upper hand.

Finally, one of them does. Kitten snarls and runs up on the arm of a couch, leaping off the back and coming down hard on the other criminal. She drives her freckled knee into his throat before swinging around and wrapping her legs around his back like vice, her hard forearm over his throat, squeezing ruthlessly.

The little redhead hisses something angrily into his ear, baring her sharp teeth as he slowly suffocates and hits his knees amongst the broken pieces of the destroyed vase. He then collapses forward, dead.

She's left standing there, looking down at the body and panting, blood going down the backs of her bare legs where she'd been thrown unceremoniously on the shards of porcelain like a ragdoll. A large piece the size of her palm it is still jutting out of the side of her thigh, and she rips it out unceremoniously, tossing it to the ground with a sigh.

Kitten leans down, searches the man's pockets, and jerks a stolen tablet out from the inner pocket of his jacket. It's Michael's, and she sets it gingerly on a nearby table. It's covered in blood, but unharmed.

Michael is once again concerned by his own reaction to Kitten’s absence. It feels like a loss all on its own. A dull ache in the same place as that first stab so many years ago. He tries to get a hold of himself, remind himself that he’s here for business. Extremely important end of the world business. But Kitten has somehow found a little crevice in his mind to curl into and linger.

He’s instantly suspicious of Richard’s behavior. He didn’t expect him to mention Kitten, of course, but it was noted how pleasant he was and the mention of no problems being anticipated. When he hears the fight, he jumps from bed and without thinking, teleports to his living room. He witnesses the struggle, choosing not to interfere as Kitten was handling herself expertly. When she sets the tablet down is when he speaks up.

Then again, looking at it more closely, she realizes Michael's done a beautiful job cleaning it and wiping it down. It looks much better than it did even a few minutes ago. Awesome. The fewer lies she has to come up with at home, the better.

She washes her hands and cleans everything up in the bathroom neatly, finding it much easier to walk on her own on the way out. Kitten lets go of his arm, grinning, and limps forward a little bit.

"Do you have a broom? I'll help ya sweep up 'fore I go," she offers, nudging a few bloody pieces of porcelain around with her boot. "I'm gonna try to get back before sun-up. I'll tell 'em I got in a scrap down south if anyone asks. They'll buy that. I'm always gettin' into scraps down south."

Michael Langdon in "Boy Wonder"

However, the second night finds Michael awakened in his bed by a loud crash downstairs, like something very expensive has been broken in a violent manner, hurled at someone. What follows is the sound of a scuffle between two people, four feet on the ground grinding into the expensive hardwood in their attempts to gain ground and four arms grappling and slapping to get the upper hand.

Finally, one of them does. Kitten snarls and runs up on the arm of a couch, leaping off the back and coming down hard on the other criminal. She drives her freckled knee into his throat before swinging around and wrapping her legs around his back like vice, her hard forearm over his throat, squeezing ruthlessly.

The little redhead hisses something angrily into his ear, baring her sharp teeth as he slowly suffocates and hits his knees amongst the broken pieces of the destroyed vase. He then collapses forward, dead.

She's left standing there, looking down at the body and panting, blood going down the backs of her bare legs where she'd been thrown unceremoniously on the shards of porcelain like a ragdoll. A large piece the size of her palm it is still jutting out of the side of her thigh, and she rips it out unceremoniously, tossing it to the ground with a sigh.

Kitten leans down, searches the man's pockets, and jerks a stolen tablet out from the inner pocket of his jacket. It's Michael's, and she sets it gingerly on a nearby table. It's covered in blood, but unharmed.

Michael is once again concerned by his own reaction to Kitten’s absence. It feels like a loss all on its own. A dull ache in the same place as that first stab so many years ago. He tries to get a hold of himself, remind himself that he’s here for business. Extremely important end of the world business. But Kitten has somehow found a little crevice in his mind to curl into and linger.

He’s instantly suspicious of Richard’s behavior. He didn’t expect him to mention Kitten, of course, but it was noted how pleasant he was and the mention of no problems being anticipated. When he hears the fight, he jumps from bed and without thinking, teleports to his living room. He witnesses the struggle, choosing not to interfere as Kitten was handling herself expertly. When she sets the tablet down is when he speaks up.

Then again, looking at it more closely, she realizes Michael's done a beautiful job cleaning it and wiping it down. It looks much better than it did even a few minutes ago. Awesome. The fewer lies she has to come up with at home, the better.

She washes her hands and cleans everything up in the bathroom neatly, finding it much easier to walk on her own on the way out. Kitten lets go of his arm, grinning, and limps forward a little bit.

However, the second night finds Michael awakened in his bed by a loud crash downstairs, like something very expensive has been broken in a violent manner, hurled at someone. What follows is the sound of a scuffle between two people, four feet on the ground grinding into the expensive hardwood in their attempts to gain ground and four arms grappling and slapping to get the upper hand.

Finally, one of them does. Kitten snarls and runs up on the arm of a couch, leaping off the back and coming down hard on the other criminal. She drives her freckled knee into his throat before swinging around and wrapping her legs around his back like vice, her hard forearm over his throat, squeezing ruthlessly.

The little redhead hisses something angrily into his ear, baring her sharp teeth as he slowly suffocates and hits his knees amongst the broken pieces of the destroyed vase. He then collapses forward, dead.

She's left standing there, looking down at the body and panting, blood going down the backs of her bare legs where she'd been thrown unceremoniously on the shards of porcelain like a ragdoll. A large piece the size of her palm it is still jutting out of the side of her thigh, and she rips it out unceremoniously, tossing it to the ground with a sigh.

Kitten leans down, searches the man's pockets, and jerks a stolen tablet out from the inner pocket of his jacket. It's Michael's, and she sets it gingerly on a nearby table. It's covered in blood, but unharmed.

Michael is once again concerned by his own reaction to Kitten’s absence. It feels like a loss all on its own. A dull ache in the same place as that first stab so many years ago. He tries to get a hold of himself, remind himself that he’s here for business. Extremely important end of the world business. But Kitten has somehow found a little crevice in his mind to curl into and linger.

He’s instantly suspicious of Richard’s behavior. He didn’t expect him to mention Kitten, of course, but it was noted how pleasant he was and the mention of no problems being anticipated. When he hears the fight, he jumps from bed and without thinking, teleports to his living room. He witnesses the struggle, choosing not to interfere as Kitten was handling herself expertly. When she sets the tablet down is when he speaks up.

"I'd appreciate it," she says, nodding and wringing her smeared-red hands together as she watches him clean the blood from her freckled skin. "Everyone at home would have my ass if they found out what I done."

Very important work, he'd said. I'm afraid to fail.

Kitten's brow furrows as more puzzle pieces fall into place, but the more pieces she has in her possession, the bigger the puzzle gets. The longer the equation grows, with no answer on the other side. Who is he? What is his very important work? What will happen if he fails?

Yet she knows it's not her place to ask, so she doesn't. And she doesn't need to know, isn't even sure she wants to know.

It's not time.

However, the second night finds Michael awakened in his bed by a loud crash downstairs, like something very expensive has been broken in a violent manner, hurled at someone. What follows is the sound of a scuffle between two people, four feet on the ground grinding into the expensive hardwood in their attempts to gain ground and four arms grappling and slapping to get the upper hand.

Finally, one of them does. Kitten snarls and runs up on the arm of a couch, leaping off the back and coming down hard on the other criminal. She drives her freckled knee into his throat before swinging around and wrapping her legs around his back like vice, her hard forearm over his throat, squeezing ruthlessly.

The little redhead hisses something angrily into his ear, baring her sharp teeth as he slowly suffocates and hits his knees amongst the broken pieces of the destroyed vase. He then collapses forward, dead.

She's left standing there, looking down at the body and panting, blood going down the backs of her bare legs where she'd been thrown unceremoniously on the shards of porcelain like a ragdoll. A large piece the size of her palm it is still jutting out of the side of her thigh, and she rips it out unceremoniously, tossing it to the ground with a sigh.

Kitten leans down, searches the man's pockets, and jerks a stolen tablet out from the inner pocket of his jacket. It's Michael's, and she sets it gingerly on a nearby table. It's covered in blood, but unharmed.

Michael is once again concerned by his own reaction to Kitten’s absence. It feels like a loss all on its own. A dull ache in the same place as that first stab so many years ago. He tries to get a hold of himself, remind himself that he’s here for business. Extremely important end of the world business. But Kitten has somehow found a little crevice in his mind to curl into and linger.

He’s instantly suspicious of Richard’s behavior. He didn’t expect him to mention Kitten, of course, but it was noted how pleasant he was and the mention of no problems being anticipated. When he hears the fight, he jumps from bed and without thinking, teleports to his living room. He witnesses the struggle, choosing not to interfere as Kitten was handling herself expertly. When she sets the tablet down is when he speaks up.

But finally, she looks up into his eyes and sees the willingness to help in them. Kitten nods and puts her hand in his, letting him lead her limping towards a better location. The puncture wound on the outside of her leg is pouring blood like a ritual sacrifice, but it's still not nearly as bad as it could be. The rest of the wounds on her legs are just scrapes and cuts that'll heal in a few days without even a scar if they're cared for correctly.

"Maybe you should hire me to be your security guy, huh?" she teases, limping forward with a tired little giggle. Kitten has no idea that the man wouldn't have stood a chance had his goals been different.

Then, more seriously, she decides to just be honest. "Everyone down here's just tryna find out what you're worth. They wanna know how much money you got and what you do with all of it. They wanna know why you do all your own dealin', instead of having lawyers or agents do it for you. They're willin' to do whatever it takes to find out, because they assume you must be doin' something dishonest, and if they find out what that is, they think they can get you by the throat."

She glances behind her at the dead body.

He glances up at her as she makes her comment, seeing a kinship there, “Yes. This world is ugly. The desperation and greed…”

He carefully cleans out the deepest cut on her thigh before taking some ointment to help soothe it, gently dabbing it on.

“Kitten, what I’m doing is very important work. I don’t have lackeys do it for me because it’s my responsibility.”

He’s worth more than anyone could fathom. In so many different ways.

However, the second night finds Michael awakened in his bed by a loud crash downstairs, like something very expensive has been broken in a violent manner, hurled at someone. What follows is the sound of a scuffle between two people, four feet on the ground grinding into the expensive hardwood in their attempts to gain ground and four arms grappling and slapping to get the upper hand.

Finally, one of them does. Kitten snarls and runs up on the arm of a couch, leaping off the back and coming down hard on the other criminal. She drives her freckled knee into his throat before swinging around and wrapping her legs around his back like vice, her hard forearm over his throat, squeezing ruthlessly.

The little redhead hisses something angrily into his ear, baring her sharp teeth as he slowly suffocates and hits his knees amongst the broken pieces of the destroyed vase. He then collapses forward, dead.

She's left standing there, looking down at the body and panting, blood going down the backs of her bare legs where she'd been thrown unceremoniously on the shards of porcelain like a ragdoll. A large piece the size of her palm it is still jutting out of the side of her thigh, and she rips it out unceremoniously, tossing it to the ground with a sigh.

Kitten leans down, searches the man's pockets, and jerks a stolen tablet out from the inner pocket of his jacket. It's Michael's, and she sets it gingerly on a nearby table. It's covered in blood, but unharmed.

Michael is once again concerned by his own reaction to Kitten’s absence. It feels like a loss all on its own. A dull ache in the same place as that first stab so many years ago. He tries to get a hold of himself, remind himself that he’s here for business. Extremely important end of the world business. But Kitten has somehow found a little crevice in his mind to curl into and linger.

He’s instantly suspicious of Richard’s behavior. He didn’t expect him to mention Kitten, of course, but it was noted how pleasant he was and the mention of no problems being anticipated. When he hears the fight, he jumps from bed and without thinking, teleports to his living room. He witnesses the struggle, choosing not to interfere as Kitten was handling herself expertly. When she sets the tablet down is when he speaks up.

"I... uhh..." she looks down at her bleeding legs self-consciously. "I think so."

Kitten thumbs a drop of blood away from her nose and frowns, having finally had the chance to calm down and realize the truth: this looks bad. Really bad. For all Michael knows, she was the one trying to break in and steal information about him, or at least concocted this as a ruse to try and earn his trust. Maybe she ought to have thought it through a little better before launching in on the man her own boss had hired to do what she couldn't: get intel on Michael Langdon once and for all.

When honey doesn't work, sweetheart, we have to use vinegar. You did the best you could. Now we need to hire a professional. I want to know what he's worth.

Even now, Kitten couldn't explain what made her drive over here in the middle of the night to stop the man she knew had been hired in the act of doing what she knew was her job from the beginning. All she knows is that she's standing there, red-handed, with nothing at her defense.

"I'm real sorry about the vase," she says, quietly, nudging a few of the bloodied pieces with the toe of her boot. "I can pay for it."

The air outside is humid and boiling hot, and it smells like salt and asphalt, not too much unlike Los Angeles, probably. That's where Papi said Michael had come from—Los Angeles. The angels, in Spanish. Maybe that's why he's so beautiful, and stunning, and smart. Maybe he's an angel?

Yes, that must be it. One of God's own. Kitten's never considered herself religious but if that explains how someone like him is on earth, she'd believe it in a heartbeat. Makes a lot more sense than a mere mortal being that way.

Michael opens the door, dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and trousers. More casual than she might have seen him before. Even his golden hair is tucked behind his ears, somewhat brushed from his face to frame his carved cheekbones. He smiles, raising an eyebrow, “Didn’t want to try out the new security system?”

He, of course, had no new security system installed, but had still left the window open. He made a mental note to close it when she left.

But at his confession, Kitten can't stop herself from reaching a soft hand over, hesitating only a moment before laying it on his knee. It's not a sexual or sensual touch at all. It's just there, the warmth of a truly human connection that neither of them get to feel often enough. Her palm warms his skin even through his dark slacks.

"I'm real sorry, Michael." It's the first time she's used his first name. She doesn't dislike how it feels on her lips. "But... you're gonna have lots of people love you, through your life. I just know it. You got that... I dunno. That energy, y'know? The kind that makes people love you a lot. People are gonna do whatever it takes to make you happy."

She gives him a reassuring smile. It might seem like empty praise from someone who has no idea who he is or what relationship he has to the other people in his life, but she's not lying, either. Something tells her he's a person who could inspire a great deal of love and loyalty in people.

Michael looks at her scarred abdomen, studying it as if he’s trying to discern the story behind each one, find the secrets etched into her skin. He thinks about reaching out to touch them, but knows that would be wildly inappropriate.

Dark Prince

The air outside is humid and boiling hot, and it smells like salt and asphalt, not too much unlike Los Angeles, probably. That's where Papi said Michael had come from—Los Angeles. The angels, in Spanish. Maybe that's why he's so beautiful, and stunning, and smart. Maybe he's an angel?

Yes, that must be it. One of God's own. Kitten's never considered herself religious but if that explains how someone like him is on earth, she'd believe it in a heartbeat. Makes a lot more sense than a mere mortal being that way.

Michael opens the door, dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and trousers. More casual than she might have seen him before. Even his golden hair is tucked behind his ears, somewhat brushed from his face to frame his carved cheekbones. He smiles, raising an eyebrow, “Didn’t want to try out the new security system?”

He, of course, had no new security system installed, but had still left the window open. He made a mental note to close it when she left.

"You? Fail?" she exclaims, pointing at him for emphasis. "Oh, come oooon... I ain't known you longer than a week and I already know that's never gonna happen! That's like me bein' afraid of dyin'... I dunno... upside down on a Tuesday by bein' run over by zebras on an oil rig! It ain't gonna happen!"

Kitten shakes her head with a giggle. The very idea of him not achieving something he's set out to do is laughable to her—even coming from a world like hers where men try and fail all the time—and she doesn't even need to hear his goals to know he'll achieve them with flying colors.

She's known him a few days and has more genuine faith in him than many of his followers.

"Come on. Somethin' real. Tell me somethin' real. Tell me somethin' that's actually a threat to you. Because we both know failure ain't it."

She deserves the full truth, he decides. A reward for such faith.

The air outside is humid and boiling hot, and it smells like salt and asphalt, not too much unlike Los Angeles, probably. That's where Papi said Michael had come from—Los Angeles. The angels, in Spanish. Maybe that's why he's so beautiful, and stunning, and smart. Maybe he's an angel?

Yes, that must be it. One of God's own. Kitten's never considered herself religious but if that explains how someone like him is on earth, she'd believe it in a heartbeat. Makes a lot more sense than a mere mortal being that way.

Michael opens the door, dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and trousers. More casual than she might have seen him before. Even his golden hair is tucked behind his ears, somewhat brushed from his face to frame his carved cheekbones. He smiles, raising an eyebrow, “Didn’t want to try out the new security system?”

He, of course, had no new security system installed, but had still left the window open. He made a mental note to close it when she left.

Still, Papi's voice is in her mind, telling her to push, push forward, get him to tell you what it's for... come on, baby. Do what you need to do. Keep pushing.

After her own moment of hesitation where she engages in the brave activity of ignoring her Rick's orders, she shrugs it off with a happy little meh!

Her friendship with Michael is quickly becoming more important than the orders she has to help bring him to heel. That's never happened before.

"Well, it's good you ain't scared of nothin', I guess! I'm scared of lots of things. People think I'm not but I am! One time I got stung by a jellyfish and I ain't never gone to that part of the beach ever again even though you know that one jellyfish probably died a long time ago. In my head it's still out there, and it's got it out for me!"

She lifts her leg and points to the side of her smooth, freckled calf.

"It was right there."

There's nothing there, of course, but sometimes it's like she can still feel the buzz, the burn.

“Well, let me know if you see it again, I’ll protect you.”

It’s lighthearted…yet there’s something that rings true in it. He means it.

“What else are you scared of?”

She tilts her head and leans in, stroking a strand of his golden hair back so she can study him playfully. It would be an intimate act from anyone else, but she genuinely just seems to be an enormously friendly person.

After a moment, he fully processes her question, “Something I’m afraid of…”

The air outside is humid and boiling hot, and it smells like salt and asphalt, not too much unlike Los Angeles, probably. That's where Papi said Michael had come from—Los Angeles. The angels, in Spanish. Maybe that's why he's so beautiful, and stunning, and smart. Maybe he's an angel?

Yes, that must be it. One of God's own. Kitten's never considered herself religious but if that explains how someone like him is on earth, she'd believe it in a heartbeat. Makes a lot more sense than a mere mortal being that way.

Michael opens the door, dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and trousers. More casual than she might have seen him before. Even his golden hair is tucked behind his ears, somewhat brushed from his face to frame his carved cheekbones. He smiles, raising an eyebrow, “Didn’t want to try out the new security system?”

He, of course, had no new security system installed, but had still left the window open. He made a mental note to close it when she left.

Still, Papi's voice is in her mind, telling her to push, push forward, get him to tell you what it's for... come on, baby. Do what you need to do. Keep pushing.

After her own moment of hesitation where she engages in the brave activity of ignoring her Rick's orders, she shrugs it off with a happy little meh!

Her friendship with Michael is quickly becoming more important than the orders she has to help bring him to heel. That's never happened before.

"Well, it's good you ain't scared of nothin', I guess! I'm scared of lots of things. People think I'm not but I am! One time I got stung by a jellyfish and I ain't never gone to that part of the beach ever again even though you know that one jellyfish probably died a long time ago. In my head it's still out there, and it's got it out for me!"

She lifts her leg and points to the side of her smooth, freckled calf.

"It was right there."

There's nothing there, of course, but sometimes it's like she can still feel the buzz, the burn.

“Well, let me know if you see it again, I’ll protect you.”

It’s lighthearted…yet there’s something that rings true in it. He means it.

“What else are you scared of?”

The air outside is humid and boiling hot, and it smells like salt and asphalt, not too much unlike Los Angeles, probably. That's where Papi said Michael had come from—Los Angeles. The angels, in Spanish. Maybe that's why he's so beautiful, and stunning, and smart. Maybe he's an angel?

Yes, that must be it. One of God's own. Kitten's never considered herself religious but if that explains how someone like him is on earth, she'd believe it in a heartbeat. Makes a lot more sense than a mere mortal being that way.

Michael opens the door, dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and trousers. More casual than she might have seen him before. Even his golden hair is tucked behind his ears, somewhat brushed from his face to frame his carved cheekbones. He smiles, raising an eyebrow, “Didn’t want to try out the new security system?”

He, of course, had no new security system installed, but had still left the window open. He made a mental note to close it when she left.

"What else is a hurricane shelter for?" she asks, sitting down next to him and crossing her bare legs comfortably. They've never sat this close before. He smells like some sort of ancient incense, like dark fragrant wood smoldering underneath a flame. She just smells like tea tree oil conditioner and sea salt. Kitten went swimming this morning, and her hair is still damp and sticky from the ocean water. Her knees are a little bit sunburnt, like her whole body is blushing from the proximity they're sharing.