an empire of corpses.

          💸 ║ ❛   —————  Well,  he  does  get  where  her  thought  is  coming  from  but  people  saying  they  don’t  care  about  their  clothes  are  HYPOCRITES.   It  defines  personalities  and  standards,  exquisite  pieces  like  Prada  jackets  or  Versace  shirts  shouldn’t  be  wasted  on  someone  who  doesn’t  know  how  to  APPRECIATE  them.  But  maybe  that’s  just  Lance.  It’s  her  thing,  whatever.  But  the  mention  of  the  people  cleaning  up  for  her  got  him  curious.  He  himself  knows  that  if  you  take  someone  out,  the  EVIDENCE  of  your  action  needs  to  disappear  as  quick  as  possible.  Having  people  do  that  for  you  seems  easy,  yet  not  as  effective.  Well,  at  least  when  it  comes  to  his  job.  Then  again,  he  doesn’t  butcher  people  like  Emily  seems  to  do.  There’s  the  difference,  his  kills  are  clean  and  rarely  make  much  of  a  mess.

          ❝   Yeah,  okay.  I  get  that.   I  mean,  as  long  as  you  got  people  you  can  TRUST  enough  to  clean  up  your  mess.  Which  also  means  you  just  lazy.   ❞   he  shrugs,  being  well  aware  that  calling  her  LAZY  for  it  is  a  bold  statement.    ❝   I  just  think  if  you  let  the  wrong  people  clean  up  for  you,  your  fun  could  end  sooner  than  you  think.  Could  make  you  look  pretty  dumb.  No  shade  but  you  know  what  I’m  saying,  right ?   ❞

      "Tʀᴜsᴛ ᴍᴇ, I know exactly who I'm calling for things such as this."

      He might be older than her (if only just so, she is still living her best under-thirty life), but she has been around murder and intrigues of another scale all her life. Sure, she doesn't imply he had an easy upbringing, and it might have been closer to hers than many others, but she has been trained to kill ever since she was ten. Earlier, too, just not in the sense of dirtying her hands: she simply prefers that method.

      "I have an empire to rule over and to make sure it keeps running. I don't usually have the time to deal with any mess that remains, barely enough to state my points. If your little playground allows for that, that's good for you! I simply have more important things to attend to."

      If he wants to throw shade, fine. Two can play. She's not too worried about his temper; not even enough to look directly at him as she speaks, knife produced from her pockets as well as an apple to take apart with it. Has she used the very same one to gut a man for selling secrets earlier this week? She genuinely doesn't remember. It's not like there's any specs of blood on it, so it doesn't matter all that much, really.

They’re friends.

As close to a friend Jeremy can get, anyhow. But she’s no Rick. When she talks too much and refuses to get to the point, it’s irritating. Not somewhat. It is. Still, Emily can fill the silence when he’s staring off into the window, immobilized with the decanter in his hand.

Laugh now. And he does, in a voice alien to himself.

Two glasses, enough whiskey for the both of them. Jeremy gives himself extra, hands off the other to Emily.

He’s supposed to reply now.

“I’m glad someone had fun during the meeting.”

It comes out harsher than he means to. Jeremy doesn’t care.

     Sʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡs sʜᴇ's irritating at best. It's her defining quality; when almost nobody is in a position to say no to you, you start stretching what you can get away with. More and more. She found there is barely anything that will actually make someone walk away from her, or tell her to stop. Sometimes they are just scared she's going to cut off their resources, sometimes they are scared she's going to gauge their eyes out. In fairness, both options are pretty likely. Sometimes equally so.

     Her nails tap against the glass lightly as she takes it, clicking against. Another unnerving little habit; she started doing that sitting back in business talks when her mother was still in charge. The sweet princess of the Isles, just making sure everyone remembered she was there, and she would inherit.

     UNSURPRISINGLY THIS isn’t a first… at least in some regards. He’s used to getting all kinds of stares or questions - the latter ones coming mostly from children or anyone that dares going a little further and wants to know, well, why the fuck there’s a punk walking around town with an owl perched on his shoulder like it’s normal. So it’s not like the woman’s question surprises him or anything; her tone surely does, though. A question that sounds too little like one and more similar to an order. He looks at her for a long second, trying to decode any hidden intentions, but there seem to be none. Just a stranger that’s too curios not to say a word.

     “’t’s Pyrr.” Looking back at the owl, Sy slightly shrugs with the shoulder she’s sitting on to catch her attention. “Wanna say hi, girl?” Maybe the deep chirp that follows is an actual answer, or maybe not; however, the way she spreads her wings for a few seconds and stares right into the woman’s eyes feels a little too smart to be accidental.

     Bʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴇʏᴇs ʟᴏᴄᴋ with the animal's, only to make a display of a slow blink; unthreatening. Sure, she could care about the punk on who's shoulder her new best friend rests, but frankly: she doesn't. People are people. There's so many variations maybe, but most of them dislike her for what she is, and she has long since stopped trying to make them like her. As a child it might have been desirable; now she doesn't see why she should adjust for anyone that will hate her anyway.

     (And, with one quick glance over, she is certain that there would be clashes simply for her financial status, way before they would get to her personality, and she doesn't care much for it.)

     "Hᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴠᴇʀ tried Dragonfly?"

     Legs dangle over the floor from where she had propped herself up on the desk, heels scraping over the floor just so. Maybe she leaves some scratches, maybe she doesn't. She pumps enough money into this to not care, they can fix the floors if they want to. And it's not what catches her mind right now, regardless.

i wasn’t going to do this here but Em’s result is the funniest one I’ve seen so far

Back in the day, there were kings. Back in the day, power was passed on simply by who you were born to. Nowadays, there is an illusion that changed, but it never did. The ones with money, born into it, are the new kings and queens, just more hidden away. Almost every politician follows the sound of money, and those that control wealth control the world.

Kaldwins have been old money for generations. Their company has their hands in every single pot that's profitable, and more leaders of nations and provinces on their payroll than their own countries. Leading after the death of her mother is Emily; the young heiress, the empress. A spoilt brat with twisted tastes; but you're free to do as you please when you fund practically everything of importance. Murder is the least of her crimes, and when you got enough wealth to have whole nations indebted to you, and nothing to fear, you tend to seek out more... creative outlets. Find something to fill your time.

          💸 ║ ❛   —————  Okay,  he  wasn’t  expecting  her  to  talk  about  THAT  KIND  of  meditation.  Lance  does  meditate  every  now  and  then  when  he’s  got  the  time,  just  not  like  that.  Still,  there’s  no  way  he’s  gonna  judge  her  for  it.  She’s  allowed  to  help  herself  out  however  she  wants  and  if  this  is  her  way  of  getting  her  mind  right  then  he  wouldn’t  wanna  interfere.  Emily  seems  like  she  knows  what  she’s  doing.  So  his  concern  isn’t  exactly  the  thing  she  does,  it’s  more  about  the  RESULT.

          ❝   But  isn’t  that  gonna  ruin  all  your  clothes ?❞   Carving  someone  up  doesn’t  sound  like  much  FUN  to  him,  especially  if  it’s  going  to  ruin  all  the  nice  designer  shirts.  Lance  has  never  tried  it  like  that.  But  he’s  done  some  close  up  killing  before  and  all  the  blood  splatters  are  hard  to  get  rid  of.  It’s  not  worth  his  time.  But  if  this  is  how  she  gets  her  mind  right,  good  for  her.

          ❝   It  honestly  sounds  like  too  much  work.  I  mean,  how  you  gonna  get  rid  of  all  the  mess  in  the  end ?   ❞  

     "Wʜᴏ ᴄᴀʀᴇs ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ clothes?" She's looking at him in genuine confusion. The question somehow implies that he has ever seen her in the same outfit twice, and that would be — well, it might have happened, but she wouldn't recall it. What's the point of all this money when you don't actually use it? And clothes are just that: clothes. There's no deeper end to it; there are simply too many things in which she looks good to reuse.

     "I have people for that. I never clean up after myself." A soft hum. She's too important to do her own cleanup. And this isn't meant in an arrogant way (though it might be; and she would agree), but if there was a fuck-up that could lead her murderous tendencies to her and her company — a lot of people would go down with it. Not she herself, necessarily, but there is too much money and too many politicians involved with her money.