ofelia zhou deals in secrets. (consultancy) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-07-27 15:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, cian wilde, ofelia zhou |
bad luck, you are a terrible laughing god.
Who: Cian Wilde & Ofelia Zhou
What: Some accidental outings at the world poker tournament. Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.
Where: The Monte Karlo casino/hotel in Anjou
When: Over the course of the weekend
Rating: Violence
Status: Complete!
Ofelia stretched her limbs and breathed in deep of the Anjou air, enjoying the warmth on her skin and the cool sea breeze rustling her hair. They’d just climbed out of their hovertaxi, luggage hefted over their shoulders as they stared up at the impressive facade of the Monte Karlo casino: soaring architecture with ornate flourish, pale green statues weathering the elements and posed triumphantly on balconies. The palm trees were rustling and the ocean stood open at the casino’s back, a long rolling blue expanse in the distance. There was a constant stream of cars pouring up the long driveway and dropping off their passengers—richly attired, in tailored suits and clinging dresses, reeking of money. She recognised several of them: actresses of the stage, diplomats and politicians (she felt a phantom ache in her tooth, despite the fact that she was now off-grid), renowned poker players she’d crossed paths with at other tournaments… all Persons of Interest. “Faram’s Mass for gamblers,” she said in an exhale for the man beside her (once upon a time they would have been strange companions to see side-by-side, but nowadays not so much). A grin twitched its way onto the woman’s face, a lightness soaring in her heart. Their fingers itched for the tables: it was a familiar feeling, one they both knew well. Aside from that, Cian felt mostly relief (well-masked) that this particular foreign locale was as unlike the Kerwonian woods as Emillion itself. Unlike Fee, who was the sort to go gallivanting off when the mood -- or business -- struck, he’d never been a traveler at all. But things were changing, and here was where the game was. He’d be lying if he said he’d never considered coming. Her grin was mirrored by his as he answered, “Minus the brats whining about wanting a baby chocobo, I’d assume. I think I’ll take this over Faram’s Mass.” He recognized enough of the important faces to suspect that he’d be lost in the crowd easily here, written off as unimportant by those many who’d never deigned to visit Emillion’s ‘lesser’ gambling establishments. The woman next to him was more likely to be known. And that suited him just fine -- it was always satisfying to take someone by surprise. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as a nearby taxi’s door was opened and a short, immaculately dressed man with dark hair emerged, followed by a willowy woman fifteen years his junior who towered half a foot over him as she clung to his side, the very picture of well-played adoration. The Dragon and his no doubt expensive escort proceeded up the stairs, and Cian’s smile took on a slightly sharper edge. Some would be more satisfying to defeat than others. Fee’s gaze followed his, trailing the triad member—one of Fumiya’s men, and a pot she steered clear of stirring. She said nothing. He offered his arm, a passable play at gentlemanly manners with no ulterior motive, and asked, “Ready to show them something interesting?” “Always,” the woman answered, taking his arm with a lady-like flourish of her own. Hotel employees practically materialised around them, plucking up their bags and carrying for the pair as they strolled up the walk towards the grand steps and entrance, their strides as confident as if they were royalty themselves. Their belongings were set aside in their separate suites, they were checked in, and night was starting to fall. Employees hurried down the carpeted hallways, lighting the lamps (it was all electricity here, not magicite, a testament to how oozing rich this casino and its royal patrons were). The building was starting to settle into its rhythm, throwing light out from its blue-tinted windows and onto the lawn. Inside, it was all gold and pillars and customers flowing through its rooms like blood in a vein, spilling gil as they went. These two, however, rested at the bar, eyeing their competition. The first match of the tournament wouldn’t be until later in the evening. “I thought he retired.” Ofelia nodded subtly towards an elderly man with drooping walrus moustaches—he was heavy in the belly nowadays, but it couldn’t hide the cunning glint in his eye. An old opponent, well-known. Cian’s eyes followed the direction of the nod, and he shook his head slightly. “Didn’t actually expect the retirement to stick. Moustache is getting more ridiculous all the time, too. Next thing to playing in a mask.” A subtle dig to a former player of their own little circle -- not that masks could save you from bad bluffs, at the end of the day. “I lost pretty badly to him, last time he came through town.” He’d gone all in on the final hand -- an expensive mistake. It wasn’t the sort of admission he would make to just anyone, but she’d seen him lose -- and win -- enough minor fortunes. “I’m looking forward to another go.” He wasn’t planning to lose twenty or thirty thousand this time. “You see those two?” he asked, with a nod of his own towards a young -- and very elegantly (over)dressed -- pair of men at a table in the corner. They were playing at dice, making quite the show of it. The dice themselves were gold, the cups were bejeweled, and their skill level was… “Guess some people don’t mind blowing papa’s fortunes on a lark.” Ofelia’s head tilted slightly and she looked over at the pair like a lioness surveying its supper, sizing up the fattened calves of the herd. At another uproarious outburst from the men’s table, one of them accidentally knocking over his glass of wine, she hid a smile. “Ah, but Cian,” she chided, “there’s absolutely no talent involved in taking candy from children.” “No talent, but every good businessman knows how to spot a cash cow.” He grinned. “Bad form to go challenge them to a game, you think? We could be nice.” He considered a moment, then added, “Sort of. Nicer than what’s tempting.” “Whatever are you talking about? We’re positively saints.” It was a flicker, but one that he knew well by now: Ofelia was donning her mask like a sheen of water rippling into place over her face, more of her mother’s cunning socialite look peering through (a bard that had once decorated posters and men’s arms alike). She picked up her drink – she’d been the only one ordering, out of the two of them – and they stalked off to the other table, predators descending on their meal for the night. He had to admit, this wasn’t boring. Though he also had to admit, he was getting a little desperate. He’d made his way out of the preliminary rounds with almost laughable ease, but things had gotten a great deal more serious after that. He was better than good, he knew that. But the bastard laws of the universe said there was always someone better, and this woman seated across from him, with her elegant sweep of silver hair and bright, intelligent black eyes, was going to be the end of him. His luck had given out, it seemed. A few seats down, Fee was still in as well, her expression unreadable and stony. Cian considered folding. He was going to lose catastrophically either way. Fuck it, there was a chance. A slim fucking chance. Their hands could be worse than his, and he might as well make a play at it. “Call.” It was a recklessness she’d learned to anticipate from him, Cian preferring to teeter on the brink for the risk of reward. The rest of the table nodded mutely, acknowledging his move; one could almost hear the gears turning in the players’ heads as they calculated. The tournament room was quiet, offering just the slap of cards on velvet and the occasional cough or scraping of chairs. The long silence stretched out as they stared down at the cards, hands tucked back. “Fold,” Ofelia finally sighed, still erring on the side of caution, now watching her pile of chips ebbing away. It bled away with a bleak, empty sense of disappointment. She didn’t look at Cian, but neatly placed her discarded hand in a pile on the table, now pushing herself back to watch how the rest unfolded. But no matter: her luck would come back, and she would climb up the ladder. It was a disaster, start to finish. About the only thing Cian could say in his own favor was that he’d managed to flirt with the right maid on her turndown circuit to get the right key to get into the right room. The opportunity was just too perfect to pass up -- and if he was leaving here a loser (and that much had already been set in stone), he could still manage to do something useful with his time. Ash would probably shake her head, call him a workaholic. What the fuck ever. Tiny’s money was good and would make up some of his losses. Of course, things had gone south not ten minutes after he’d entered the suite. There had been heavy, slightly uneven steps in the hall, and a telltale shrill giggle (only one woman in this hotel laughed like a screeching monkey), and then he’d had to haul ass out of there, and of course the one fucking time he really fucking needed to be invisible, it was as though those damn lessons had never happened. So then, a sheaf of randomly-grabbed papers in hand, he was fleeing as silently as he could down the hall, desperately trying every doorknob, because if he was seen, there was going to be a shootout in the hallway. Fuck, fuck fuck -- He was rescued, in the end, by the negligence of that very same maid -- a slightly open door beckoned, clearly not shut all the way to allow for the lock to snap into place, and he all but dove for it, closing it behind him instants before the man whose room he had started tossing turned the corner. A demon’s own luck, he had. Adrenaline still pumping through him, he looked around, then let out a quiet chuckle. Of all rooms to hide in… The desk chair looked inviting, and he’d explain to Fee -- more or less -- so he plopped himself down, releasing the crumpled papers he’d taken into his lap and leaning back. In his defense -- he would claim later -- he had no intention of looking, but there were papers on this desk, too, and he couldn’t help but recognize the names. That was what would damn him; he stopped and looked, eyebrows knitting together, just as the door swung open to admit the room’s occupant. The man was rooted at her desk like a fly caught in a web, staring down at her paperwork. Ofelia’s face froze, her entire body going still. What are you doing here she was on the verge of asking, but the abandoned maid’s trolley in the hall already explained the situation somewhat—they were in the middle of cleaning, she’d popped back from a quick dinner, the hotel employees were miserable at their job, and he was here. He was here. “What, your own suite isn’t nice enough? Want to switch?” She was smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes: Ofelia leaned against the door and it settled shut with a soft click. Behind her back, with the smoothness attributed to a pickpocket’s sleight of hand, she slipped the lock closed. Other observations dogged her mind. The Dragon was just down the hall, she’d just passed him and his obnoxious companion. Some facts were starting to spin in Fee’s head and fit together like puzzle pieces, but one kept lurching out of the rest and floating on the surface: Cian had seen. “Accident.” His own papers still in hand and the concerned look wiped from his face, he shrugged. He knew her face well enough not to like the smile, though he couldn’t blame her. His own reaction to something like this was likely to have been somewhat more violent. “Just waiting out a storm.” Maybe they’d known each other long enough that that would be excuse enough. Though judging by what she was into, maybe he didn’t know her as well as he thought. Her smile flickered again, and it still didn’t look right. Caution. She was always the cautious and hesitant one of the two, all obsessive preparation and observation. But after a few steps across the room, without another word, she’d suddenly ripped a lamp out of the wall, its cable swinging as she swung, the woman leaping into quick motion. His hand instinctively went for what she assumed was a concealed weapon, but Ofelia had the element of surprise and she seized it, grabbing the advantage with both hands—the ceramic flew and cracked into Cian’s skull. The man (her friend, one of her few, possibly her best friend) stumbled, his eyes turning just that shade of hazy. But he still wasn’t out: so another strike, her lips narrowing into a thin, firm line as her heart fluttered up into her throat, and there was blood on the lamp and the man hit the floor like a sack of bricks.
When Cian eventually came to, he was strapped securely to a chair, hands handcuffed behind him, feet similarly tied to the legs of the chair. Through the grogginess, he could see Ofelia pacing, and pacing, and pacing. To Cian's credit, as he resurfaced, head pounding from the blow, only to find himself bound, he didn't panic. Cuffs, not rope on his wrists. Think. Could he get himself loose? Attempting to dislocate a thumb, break it himself if necessary -- His thoughts gained velocity as unconsciousness fled, but aside from a grimace he tried not to let them show on his face. Of the two of them, she was the one exhibiting the most distress right at the moment, though she had all the power in this utterly unexpected and shitty situation. Meaning she likely wasn't thrilled with it, either. Something to consider. He cleared his throat, grumbled, "This seems familiar," then waited. He really wanted some fucking context, here. “Do you often wake up in cuffs in someone’s bedroom?” Ofelia was still trying to sound light, but she was practically wearing a hole into the floor. A gun sat gleaming on the table beside her. “I could say yes,” he replied, still calm, “but I feel like that’s not the conversation we need to be having right now.” Not that she was likely to be derailed by that sort of talk, or he might have tried it. She had immediately rummaged through the papers on the desk to check the damage; the reports wouldn’t have meant much to the average browsing citizen, but Cian Wilde wasn’t just anyone. And he knew enough of what went on around Emillion to now see that she had hands in pies where she realistically shouldn’t. A message from someone high up in government, a Valendian minister of state. The king’s seal. “First off, I’m sorry about this,” she said, buying herself some time. The woman kept grinding her teeth, for no immediately apparent reason. “But you saw it, didn’t you?” “I’m sure you are,” he replied. “But a job is a job, right?” And there it was, that familiarity. He had to try to be reasonable. He’d seen the gun too, and though he was trying to work his hands discreetly out of the cuffs even as he spoke, he wasn’t having much luck. Sad as it was, he had to count on sentiment saving his ass, here. Not good odds, considering she was a consummate professional, too. And maybe, considering the other things she’d hidden, she’d been quietly waiting to pay him back all along, in which case he was completely and utterly fucked. Had to pin his hopes on sentiment. What a fucking mess. “I could say I’ll stay the hell out of your business regardless of what I saw, and that I wouldn’t have foraged through your things on purpose, but I’m going to guess that’s not going to cut it for you?” This time, when the smile came, it was melancholy, an out-of-control twitch in the corner of her mouth. “It wouldn’t cut it for you, either, would it? I couldn’t even tell you the last time we had faith in something without making absolutely certain of the odds beforehand. It’s how we do things.” His word would mean nothing. Word wasn’t assurance. Word wasn’t guarantee. Ofelia paused by the table, resting her hand on the cool metal of the gun. (An orator’s weapon. She’d used it less since becoming a gambler, but it remained a part of the Bureau’s common arsenal.) It was always heavier in her hands than she expected, the weight of the bullets dragging her wrist towards the floor, reminding her of the significance they carried. Their potential. He’d never come after her with bullets, though—it had been a bat, a businesslike crack to the leg, a delivery of a message. Her knee still ached, a phantom pain worried beneath the bone. She’d long-forgiven him for it. Because they were consummate professionals, and a job was a job. “Cian…” Ofelia began, hesitantly, but then straightened out her slightly-quavering voice as she lifted the gun, thumb resting against the safety. A thousand different variables were buzzing through her head, factors and considerations and probabilities. “Fee.” He didn’t drop the name often, but it was now not only a calculated risk, but honesty. This sort of moment wasn’t made for beating around bushes. “We both know I’d rather save my own ass here, but I’m serious: you don’t want to do this.” He didn’t possess oratory skills, had no way to put weight behind his words aside from talking sense. “Even assuming you’ve got someone to tidy up for you and pin my disappearance neatly elsewhere,” and with those papers, he had no doubt she knew people with pull, the kind he only dreamed about, “it’s going to be a fucking disaster. Common sense aside, you’d regret it.” He had to believe that was true, or he was getting a bullet between the eyes. “When have you known me to break my word?” he asked. His best defense in the end was this: she knew him well enough to realize the answer was never. He didn’t make promises lightly, but when he did, he kept them. “Trust me to keep it this time.” A pause before he added a word he rarely uttered at all: “Please.” She stared at him and he stared back, level and steady. Something lurched in Fee’s chest. “Do you trust me?” she asked, the gun still trained on his forehead. Sink or swim time. He didn’t blink, holding her gaze as he said, “Yeah. I trust you’re not going to pull that trigger.” And if she made him a liar, well. At least he wouldn’t have to live with the embarrassment. The minute stretched out between them, and factors, considerations, and probabilities spun. Finally, the gun slowly lowered, safety still on. Ofelia exhaled in something close to irritation, before she pulled up a chair and sat down directly in front of him. Her nerves were rattled and jangling—she couldn’t shoot him. Or, more accurately: she could kill him, but didn’t want to. “I work for the king,” she said, the gun now resting on her knee. “As an inquisitor. You would normally be disposed of, for knowing this information. But—” Ofelia’s dark eyes were firmly locked on her friend. “I think we could use someone like you. How do you feel about the idea of government work?” The implication was clear, etched between her words: disposal, or cooperation. The offer was a desperate bid, a way to save the both of them. He might have sneered in any other situation, but not this one. It wasn’t that he had anything against the king, other than his overall disdain for rich people who knew jack shit about the way the rest of the world lived. And he wasn’t kidding, either, when he’d said he wanted to save his own ass. So his answer, carefully formulated: “Depends on how drastically your people would want to clean up my life.” He had to suspect not very -- his usefulness for that sort of task in her eyes was likely linked to resources. Legal up the org, and those went away. “Generally speaking, I’ve worked for masters I’ve liked less.” He’d had about the same choice then, too: comply or die. He was good at surviving. “We don’t want you clean,” Starling said. And now there was a hint of something else in her voice: the impersonal we, an organism the sum of its parts. “What makes you useful is exactly what makes you unsavoury, and I mean that in the best of ways.” “Naturally,” he drawled. But he’d relaxed slightly, now that he wasn’t at gunpoint, and his hands were still as he waited for her to complete the offer. He would need more information before he went all in, she knew. That was their way. So Ofelia shifted slightly in her seat, her fingers still curling around the handle of the gun, though her grip had loosened. “You already knew that I broker information. You just didn’t know to what purpose. I want Emillion stable for His Majesty. We maintain the balance—which is why I’d rather that one organisation, the Wilde syndicate, keeps their fist on Emillion rather than a war breaking out between you and the Dragons.” The woman was peeling back the layers, delivering trust born of necessity. The reason she’d thrown in her lot with the criminals, ghosting along in Cian’s wake like a remora at the underbelly of a shark (amongst other reasons, none she cares to voice). “Ci, I can recommend you for induction if you promise to protect it. And me.” “Funny enough, I’d prefer to come out on top of those assholes myself. And no one likes war.” No one half-sane. “I’d try to keep the balance with or without a royal commission. I’d rather not watch my people die and fend off assassins every other fucking week, you know. Even if taking those bastards down would be satisfying.” But he hadn’t answered the offer, he knew. With a sigh, he said, “Can I consider, at least, or is this do or die? Obviously I’ll take care not to throw you to the wolves either way.” But it would be nice to have the illusion of choice, at least. He didn’t want to go back to a place where he acted out of coercion. “You can,” she said. “I’d need to write up the report, anyway, before anything official can happen.” And she couldn’t mention this accidental outing—Starling was protecting her own hide as much as her companion’s. Game theory spun out behind her eyes. The prisoner’s dilemma, she thought as she rose to go for his handcuffs. Or the hawk-dove game. Perhaps that could even be his code name, the last Hawk had died a few years ago— She was getting ahead of herself, however. Ofelia paused, her hands fluttering across Cian’s brow where she’d decked him with the lamp (twice): there was a livid bruise, a blooming bump that looked like it would ache for a few days. “I have some potions on hand,” she said, with the click of the key and then the handcuffs were loose. The woman immediately sprang backwards from the chair, just in case it all fell apart and he opted for retribution. He kept his word, though -- be a shame to break it now -- and just rolled his shoulders, trying to get the stiffness out, taking these few moments to consider before he spoke again. He hadn’t really wanted or needed this complication, but life was an unpredictable thing, and Lady Luck was a capricious bitch most of the time. He’d play the hand he’d been dealt, and decide later what to do about the offer. At the very least, when he made the call, he wouldn’t be cuffed at someone’s mercy. “I could use that potion,” he told her, “since you’re offering.” “Perfect host, me.” To the well-trained ear accustomed to her tics and habits over the years, Ofelia sounded skittish, like a wild animal that had suddenly snapped at its owner’s hand and was now cautious and leery, pacing around the hume. But she nodded, and they could feel the agreement being made, being forged into place between them. She could take the fledgling bird for a test run, perhaps. “There he is,” she said, staring at the severe-looking man with the twisted lip at the bar. “Ordalian diplomat. Alexandre Maximilian. We suspect he’s here to negotiate a clandestine deal with one of the smaller neighbouring kingdoms. How good are you at distractions, darling?” “I don’t have the figure for it,” he said dryly, “but I’ll work something out.” He knew the guy now that he was looking at him -- he’d won half a small fortune off of him at the roulette table just the day prior. He had a notion the man would remember him, too -- even if his primary aim here hadn’t been gambling, no one liked a loss that cataclysmic. He’d just have to make the rematch tempting -- and keep it close until he knew it was time to wrap up. “Try not to fall asleep up there,” he said by way of parting words; if she took long enough, he might have to start losing to keep the guy’s attention, and that was taking this a bit far, even considering the situation. A man had his pride after all. He wasn’t much of an actor -- he was better at carefully not expressing things than expressing them -- but he could make his gait a bit uneven, implying questionable sobriety, and call the bartender to attention with a loud slap of gil against his table that had most of the bar’s occupants turning their heads toward him. His target, too, turned, looked, narrowed his eyes. Cian knew the look of pride, so he grinned, almost mocking but not quite, and said, “Hey, buddy, thanks again for financing my run. Let me buy you a drink -- though I guess it’s sort of like buying your own. How’s your luck running tonight?” When the diplomat stood from his seat and approached with a chilly smile, Cian considered the deal sealed. About twenty minutes later, right when Maximilian was starting to work up a momentum and feel that the night was turning around very nicely indeed, Starling reappeared at the back of the room, her hair bound up into a bun, her head nodding slightly. She gave a discreet signal from across the room and she watched as the man made his excuses and managed to disentangle himself from the game, having lost some gil but not too much. It looked like Cian had managed the balance well, competently maintaining the act as required. They disappeared into the halls together, to discuss and debrief. Ofelia found herself eyeing the man lazing on the other side of the airship cabin, peering at Cian over a sheaf of paperwork and notes scribbled in shorthand. Which, translated, read something like: Asset CW evaluated while on mission in MK (AX). Targets successfully acquired; see attached file #134-A. Recommend CW for B. recruitment. Possesses many valuable contacts & resources in criminal underworld. Likely useful factor in E. landscape, upper-level influence in It trailed off there, for now. It wasn’t how she meant for the trip to go—the two halves of her life were never meant to collide like this, crashing headlong and ripping open at the top—but there was something strangely cathartic and relieving about having them do so. Someone finally knew, and she wouldn’t have to kill them for it. “No hard feelings?” she asked, suddenly. “Besides, there’s a very good paycheck in it, you know. Good compensation.” And you understand, she didn’t say. If there was one thing Fee knew he understood, it was self-preservation. Cian couldn’t deny that he had nothing against a good paycheck -- making money had always been a particular hobby. It bought things like private cabins with views of clouds, to be shared with old friends and their unexpected secrets. He spent a few moments thinking it over, watching the patches of clouds pass by over the desert far below before saying, “No point in hard feelings, is there?” he asked after the silence threatened to stretch just a bit too long. “Shit happens. Work comes first. I already make a decent paycheck, but I’m giving it serious consideration.” He owed her at least that much. And hey, he didn’t have a hole in his forehead, so it could’ve been worse. “Work comes first. Knew you’d understand.” Ofelia was wearing a wry smile now, somewhat wearily—but when she stopped to think about it, she realised she’d made an exception for once in her Faram-damned life. It had not come first, for one of the first times ever. It wasn’t something she liked pausing to consider. “Birds of a feather,” she mumbled to herself, the pen tapping against the paper. His thoughts meandered down a similar path; as dysfunctional as some might classify this relation of theirs -- this carefully calculated, symbiotic friendship founded on all the wrong reasons and a healthy dose of mutual respect -- he doubted there was anyone in Ivalice who understood him better, even with the shadowy corners in his life to which she was not privy. Everyone kept secrets. He levered himself out of of his seat, saying, “I could use a drink.” An admission, of a sort, that his mind was not entirely at ease, but at this point, he didn’t really give a fuck about appearances. He figured she’d make note of it but be too wise to comment. “Want anything?” One eyebrow raised slightly, but then Fee simply said, “Yes, please, that’d be wonderful. You know my usual.” They were starting to fall back into their usual friendly rhythm: mending the hole as if nothing had happened, as if they hadn’t skirted this close to death before yanking themselves back. And as the door of the cabin clicked shut behind him, Starling turned her attention back to her report. |