Heidi Petrelli (walks_again) wrote in parabolical, @ 2009-01-17 16:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | heidi petrelli, narrative |
who| Heidi Petrelli
what| Wolfram & Hart's reprieve comes to an end.
when| Spanning a few weeks, culminating on Jan 16th, Morning.
where| LA; Wolfram & Hart's offices around the world.
rating| PG
status| Complete; Narrative
One of the many advantages of the reputation Heidi had built for herself as a moral, upstanding individual was that the minute there was any indication you had turned the slightest bit of coat, there were a slew of people who had spent less time on the clean and squeaky street willing to witness and eager to participate in the hopes of catching sight of your lining to see what your drycleaning habits really were. Heidi didn't have room to glean satisfaction from how many would have jumped at the veiwing, this being a job--She grimaced all the way from the parkinglot to the restaraunt door at the word.--that required a degree of close-knittedness that, for all her caution and reasoning, she wasn't entirely sure she grasped completely yet.
Her family's name pulled a great deal of weight in the financial world, and though her direct bloodline was one of the smaller branches, their crediability made up for what descendency didn't. It helped that Wolfram & Hart had upset several of their banks over the generations, and having several grandfathers lolling about in Hell dimensions irked enough offspring into action. Also, while the lawfirm kept it's accounts in good order, their laisons were, for better lack of terms and by popular office vote, assholes.
With her coat, hat, and grimace removed in the restaraunt's entryway, Heidi allowed herself a moment to remember how it was luncheon meetings went. It wasn't needed, but a quick, internal peptalk that covered the likelihood a troupe of zombie fetish nurses or hired hitmen(Or hitdemons; One musn't undermine the opposition's pragmatic equal-oppourtunity employment.) storming in from the kitchen to put an end to her plans did calm the nerves that stayed on edge. Grip readjusted on her breifcase handle and phone on vibrate in her purse, she put her smile in place and followed the host to the table she had reserved under someone else's name. Barnaby Barrowman, who's position, and the bank he held it at Heidi omitted even in her mind, looking as old and bent over as she remembered when she was an undisclosed number of years, greeted her with a hug and a handshake, and then they promptly got down to business.
She ate light at both meetings she had that day; the first because there had been too much talk for it, and the second because she was not a fan of Medditerranean deli fare. Three more meetings, spread out over the week, and invisible threads throughout the banking world formed an intricate and extremely tangled web, cackled amoungst themselves, and dissapeared again.
Nobody seemed to mind too much they might be killed for their involvement, so long as they were gaurenteed to have annoyed Wolfram & Hart in the process.
At Seven O'Clock that evening, the tiny netbook she had set up gave a whirl and a buzz as the well-padded fruit of Heidi's network of business-suited conspirators metaphorical tree dropped six of Wolfram & Hart's bank accounts into it's digital lap. She skimmed them in the back alleyway behind the internet cafe she had spotted when she'd taken a wrong turn trying to find a hardware store and wound up six suburbs from where she'd needed to be. If appearences could be counted on, it looked to be a solid investment of judgement to assume one or two of them were important. Someone had probably gotten a commendation or two over the decades for their size. Draining them took five minutes.
At 7:15PM, Heidi Petrelli wiped her fingerprints from the keyboard and outside of the netbook, and dropped it into a barrel that was cheerily burning away for the benefit of a small community of hobos. It made a horrible stench, but they all agreed it took the edge off the chill, and the circuitry inside it crunched nicely when they stomped out the embers the next morning.
At 7:20PM, James Y. Havernas of TRAMPOLINES USA, INC. was preparing to close his server down for the night, when a new order came in. At 7:22PM, he was chasing down employees in the parkinglot and dragging them back inside.
"Nobody goes home tonight." He said, panting from the exercise and, for a second, recalling the distances he could cover without shortness of breath or profuse sweating as he mopped his sagging brow with a dishtowel that, like him, had been healthier, but somehow looked optimistic in the face of a windfall that would end in better, bleachier, days. "This is the big one, boys." At TRAMPOLINES USA, INC and other manufacturers of fine recreational equipment suppliers around the world, the James Y. Havernases of the world quietly plotted their retirements, many while performing a Kelly Washington endzone dance.
5:45AM on January 16th, a small army of shipping vans began their slow and steady assault on the Los Angeles branch. Simultaneously, or shortly thereafter, also slowly and steadily at times varying with locations. As the day wore on each office, in every major city in the world, saw reflected in their windows and the faces of their front desk attendants, the fear of an endless stream of delivery vans, each one loaded beyond their legal capacity with taught and springy doom.
They choked their driveways. They clogged their shipping bays. They crowded their parkinglots. And it did not end for a long, long time.