→ bang bang that awful sound

[thedominatrix]

Who: Irene Adler & Stephanie Brown.
What: Irene and Steph hunt the same prey for different reasons.
Where: Murkside.
When: Backdated by a few days; Coardi, 23rd Ceidary.
Warnings: Violence, gangs, gore, hostage situation, mention of torture, language, possibly more TBA;

Tonight, in this cramped and humid Murkside bar named the Nine Hostages, there is going to be a fight. Still, that’s what the Tuatha are good at. They’re up-and-coming, present in the faintest whispers of brutalities; a Sharp supposedly found dead with T carved into his back but no one can prove anything and the Sharps are saying nothing, a man who won’t open his mouth who everybody knows got a little too chatty and ended up lacking a tongue…there’s even a rumour about them which would sound like Cenel does the Militia’s dirty work for the sake of a blind eye being turned if anyone dared spread it (don’t tell anyone I told you- in fact just don’t tell anyone at all, please).

The tension in the Nine Hostages is metallic in the air, copper on Irene’s tongue- she’s here for the excitement as much as she’s here to further her own interests, or as her 'true story' goes, here on the arm of a man named Ollav of some standing in the Tuatha. While he’s left her briefly to converse with another member in low, tense mutters, she’s marked out her own space in this crowded, noisy establishment, prim and pretty and blood red, attracting stares which she meets unblinkingly until the various other parties break her gaze nervously. She’s uncanny like this; wide-eyed and watching, something hungry wearing a socialite’s skin, so much so that for all her ladylike appearance she fits in here. She puts her hands on her hips, lifts her chin, and for a moment her eyes meet those of Cenel, the Tuatha’s leader, a self-styled king- who looks away, looks to Ollav, looks off to nothing with his jaw set. Yes; there’s going to be a fight tonight, and Irene can’t wait.

Except then Cenel nods at someone behind her. Then there is the cold point of a knife between her bare shoulderblades and everything seems very quiet suddenly but really, perhaps it’s not, perhaps her heart’s just suddenly louder than everything because perhaps she’s going to die.

Irene didn’t actually plan for the evening to go this way, but who does? It just happens- especially to her, she finds, although that makes it sound like bad luck rather than a direct consequence of her own knack for…adventure.

She came here to meddle, after all. Isn’t that what she’s always doing? She’s got this thing about situations like this- explosive ones- like a shark with blood in the water. And the Tuatha are nothing if not bloody- even amongst themselves. Irene can smell a power struggle, worked it out quickly from the rumours and the scraps of information Ollav has let slip to her, but mostly from the way Cenel keeps looking over his shoulder to see if Ollav’s stabbed him in the back yet. But the Tuatha have a loyalty which Irene finds frankly bewildering; Ollav has a lot of support, but Cenel’s their leader, which for some reason people seem to think is more important than being good at the job, or so Irene would rather prissily put it. The coup, when it happens, will be bloody, a question of nothing more than who has the most friends here and how many weapons did they bring. And that’s the only reason Ollav hasn’t made his move yet.

Well, that and Irene pointing out that he really ought to choose his moment carefully- darling.

Her friendship- here to be uttered in that particular tone of voice reserved for a certain type of friend, the type that pay in one way or another- with Ollav had started as so many of hers do, with a drink in the Vault which led to various other things in the Vault. She knew within moments of meeting him that he was in the Tuatha- there’s no mistaking the look, and a lot of them like the Vault. They fit in well there, melodramatic and predatory as they are. They have a common bloodthirstiness which Irene rather likes; Ollav in particular is a little wild, a little off, with worlds of ambition and desire held deep down inside of him, a kaleidoscope of ideas and wants which come spilling out into words and actions, larger than life, uncontrolled. He rants and he raves and gives the impression of being born for something outside of normal life; he’s the sort of man the Tuatha adore. A poet, really.

He’s going to be very successful. Or so Irene thinks. So Irene hopes. Because if he’s not...

Well. There’s the blade of a knife at her back and she raises her hands gracefully, like she’s dancing not surrendering, her eyes suddenly wide and snapping to Ollav in what is not so much a plea for help as a demand for action. It’s fine, it’s fine, they can play this off- this isn’t how she expected this to go but they can play this off--

Comments

[controlledvariable]

There's no way Steph's ever going to really buy anything Irene does, but the act works enough that Steph accepts the CiD without any sort of snide remark. While her hands aren't shaking either, her eyes flicker between Irene's face and the street around them rather than keeping eye contact; it's partly evasion, partly an edge of tension that leaves her paranoid.

The CiD goes into one of the pouches on her belt. It feels like something snapping - mission completed and all that - and she deflates, pushing her hand through... the wig she never took off. She's surprised it didn't fall off in the fight, but spirit gum is apparently good for something aside from holding domino masks on. This keeps her real identity at least a little bit safe.

"Right," Her gaze flits back up to Irene and she lets out a breath to try to regain some composure, "I guess you'll want a ride back to civilisation?"

The humour is forced, but it's a coping strategy that she's had since she was two years old, and it's served her well so far. Right now, a part of it is motivated by the fact she doesn't want to let Irene see how deeply she's shaken by this.