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Date Posted: 13:17:18 10/24/06 Tue
Author: JayBee
Author Host/IP: adsl-67-119-203-150.dsl.pltn13.pacbell.net / 67.119.203.150
Subject: Succession, Part Two, Chapter 9.4 - rated R? NC-17? Adult themes, anyway
In reply to: JayBee 's message, "Succession, continued because the thread is getting long" on 16:31:14 10/21/06 Sat


When the door closed behind him, Charles glanced quickly around the guest room. So many hiding places, it was hard to know where to begin. He walked over to the table where the servant had placed his suitcase and flipped it open, dug under the folded garments, and withdrew a small electronic device disguised as a pen.

Device in hand, he moved through the room, tracing a slow path back and forth, going through the motions of unpacking and arranging his belongings. The green light flashed three times; inspecting those areas more closely, he spotted the tiny transmitters. One was on the underside of a lampshade; another clung to the back of a picture frame; the third was stuck behind a table leg. A red flash gave away the presence of a camera, mounted above the door. How unoriginal. Didn't Demetrios's suppliers even bother searching for these things? No wonder he took advantage of all of them.

Charles had no intention of removing the bugs, however. Instead, he placed the detector back in his suitcase and pulled out his own set of transmitters. Demetrios wouldn't be the only one eavesdropping on the conversations of his visitors -- gleaning their plans, gathering information on their activities. Keeping his movements as innocent-looking as possible, Charles hid the transmitters far from Demetrios's poorly placed ones, activated each one, and began to whistle cheerfully.

<i>Hello there, Section</i>, he thought. <i>Anyone listening?</i>

He started when, almost in answer to his question, he heard a knock at his door. He approached it, brushed out the wrinkles in his jacket, and pulled it open.

"Done unpacking?" asked Madeline -- meaning, as he knew, whether he had planted his transmitters.

"Yes."

"Good," she said, walking past him into the room without invitation. "So am I."

He closed the door and turned around to face her, and the adrenaline from earlier in the evening returned in a dizzying rush.

<i>Demetrios almost killed us</i>, he thought.

The profile called for Madeline to stand up to Demetrios, to provoke him into anger as a means of gaining his respect -- to raise her, in his eyes, to something more than just another supplier to be manipulated, something more than just a potential sexual conquest. Charles had known that, had even looked forward to seeing how Madeline chose to defy him, but he hadn't expected the man to react quite so dramatically.

When Demetrios pulled out his gun, every instinct Charles possessed demanded that he step in front of Madeline. The effort to resist that urge had left him shaking with nausea. Nevertheless, he had succeeded, forcing himself to remain rooted in place, fixated on her expression. The look in her face as she dared Demetrios to shoot her had been utterly enthralling: both relaxed and intense, both serene and fierce, it was the look of someone without fear. Someone who was ready to die. It was simultaneously terrible and beautiful to behold.

Now, however, she looked at Charles quizzically, lifting an eyebrow in a sharp reminder that it was time for him to play his part. How could he have forgotten? He was standing there, lost in thought, when 'Geoffrey' was supposed to be livid. He shook himself out of his reverie and crossed his arms in a show of anger.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" he hissed. "What were you doing?"

"Making sure he didn't think he could rip us off."

"You don't do that sort of thing with a man like him! He's not some Mercedes salesman you can dicker over terms with -- he's a criminal, for God's sake. A murderer, an arms dealer, and a terrorist!"

"So are we," she answered with a short laugh. "We've become all of those things now. We might as well act accordingly."

"But he's a big fish, and we're in <i>his</i> pond. He kills nobodies like us without a second thought."

"If you act like a nobody, then that's who you'll always be." She smiled. "As for me, I intend to grow into a very big fish, and I don't really care whose pond I'm in."

He forced his voice into an exasperated tone. "You're not going to live long enough for that, at this rate. Nor am I, thanks to you."

"Oh, Geoffrey. You need to have more faith in me. I know what I'm doing. It's all about finding whatever leverage you have and using it. I understand that -- you don't. Just leave it to me."

"Well," he said, hesitating, "since you're such an expert, what do you need me for?"

"What do you mean?" Her voice lowered, a tinge of worry entering it.

"Am I going to meet the same fate Ted did, now that I've served my purpose?"

"Geoffrey! How could you say that?"

He said nothing.

She stepped toward him and placed her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs lightly stroking back and forth. "I need you, Geoffrey," she murmured, "I'll always need you." She began moving her hands -- along his shoulders, circling to his chest, and back. "I have the ideas, you take care of the details," she continued, her voice soft and reassuring. "That's how it's always worked. That's not going to change." She pressed up close against him. "Besides," she said teasingly, "you know the effect you have on me."

"I'm sorry, Annette," he said, and he slipped his hands around her waist. "I shouldn't have said that. Tonight was just a bit stressful."

"Well," she said, landing light kisses along his neck and chin, "now that you've stopped worrying over nothing, I think we should celebrate. We're about to become very, very rich."

"What kind of celebration do you have in mind?" he asked, laughing softly.

"I see you have no imagination whatsoever. You can leave that to me, too."

With that, she touched her lips to his in a lingering kiss that sent his heart into painful leaps. He tried to keep his thoughts in order, but found them spinning hopelessly out of control -- it was time, finally, to commence the part of the act that he had been trying not to think about. The part that had left him in dumbfounded shock when he had first read the profile, not sure whether to be thrilled or apprehensive. The part that was a dream come true, except for one thing. It wasn't real.

No, it wasn't real at all. Not any of it. He had no right to expect it to be. And yet a part of him couldn't resist indulging in the hope that somehow, on some level, it was. Or could be. If only she could see how much he cared for her, illusion could merge into reality. If only…no, he couldn't allow himself to think that way. This was a mission, nothing more. As they embraced and fell onto the bed, he repeated that admonition in his mind, again and again.

<i>A mission, nothing more.</i>

The night passed too quickly, and yet in exquisite slowness. Indeed, time seemed to vanish altogether, reappearing only in irregular moments when he remembered, reluctantly, that an audience was observing -- that the audience was the entire point. However, those moments came less and less frequently -- eventually, not at all. Gradually, everything outside disappeared -- the audience, the mission, their false personas -- leaving only a sea of sensation and emotion, a current that pulled him farther and farther out, until the waves broke over him and he sank beneath the surface.

So there was something, after all; he felt it in the tenderness of her touch, sensed it in the softness of her voice. He had found what he wanted -- something substantive, meaningful, permanent. Finally, with someone, there was something real. Overcome, he closed his eyes and held her tightly, pressing his face against the side of hers.

He stayed like that -- clutching her to him, unwilling to move -- for several moments. Then he lifted his head and reached out to stroke her face, and that's when he saw it. She had glanced -- briefly, discreetly, but very noticeably -- at the clock on the bedside table, her expression subtle, but clearly impatient.

<i>My God</i>, he thought, growing cold with horror, <i>she was wondering when I would finally finish.</i>

For her, this was a job. A duty. Nothing meaningful, not on any level. He had imagined it all. Mortified, he stared at her face; when she returned her gaze to him, her expression transformed into one of embarrassed recognition. She saw, he could tell. She saw exactly what he was thinking, what he was feeling -- and her eyes softened in a mixture of pity and silent apology.

Without a word, he pulled away from her, stood up, and walked into the bathroom. Hands shaking, he twisted the tap on and allowed the icy water to flow across his hands. He bent over the sink and splashed several handfuls of water on his face, then straightened and stared at himself in the mirror, disgusted.

What had he been thinking? He had been a fool, clinging to an impossible hope that she could somehow, eventually, be convinced to see something in him. But what was there to see? The reflection that gazed back at him showed nothing to admire -- he was too plain, too old, too...pitiful.

He had been reduced to an object of pity. Yet he hadn't always been that way. What had happened to the man he used to be? The adventurer who defied his parents' wishes to join the military, the man who had been secretly happy when he was recruited to the Section -- where had he gone? That man, apparently, had shriveled up and disappeared - too many years of living as a ghost had robbed him of his vitality. Too many years of following the rules had drained him of any character. Now, he was cautious, dull, dependable -- and desperately lonely.

He turned off the tap and looked back at his reflection, a question echoing in his mind.

<i>Is this my life, then?</i>

The hollow-cheeked face in the mirror stared back, unable to answer.

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