|Subject: Chapter 316 - Part 1 (16 and above)
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Date Posted: Monday, November 26, 07:25:42am
In reply to:
's message, "Chapter 307 - Part 1 (16 and above)" on Monday, October 22, 07:10:11am
Extra warning: There are some coarse thoughts, racial slurs, bad words, and violence here. I'm rating it 16 and above.
Dreams in the Dark (316/318)
by Katherine Gilbert
He couldn't believe that it had happened, that he had allowed it to; it was absolutely unprecedented. Somehow, the man he had sent off to die had returned alive. No matter how reasonable or numerous his objections, his daughter and the fool were together. And now they were going to expect to be able to live together in peace.
There were no words for how disgusted Mr. Jones was at such a notion, the very idea of his daughter sharing her life with that arrogant cur of an actor utterly galling. Still, one of his men had seen the airman returning today, had seen that he was alive and all too well. All the businessman's months of hoping had apparently been in vain. Michael Samuelle, the bastard who had so thoroughly misled his little girl, had indeed survived to get her back.
This fact appalled him, his cane tapping annoyedly against the floor, as he moved back to his desk with a small, stiff drink in hand; he couldn't stop obsessing. His employee had even reported that the actor didn't appear to be particularly injured, but now had the gall to move about with a cane as though he were far more distinguished than he actually was; Jones's own cane was leaned against the desk, as he sat himself heavily in his chair. But that little affectation of valor was far more than he could stand.
The businessman and the veteran had come about their need for aid in very different ways--but the supposed similarity only irritated the older man that much more. He didn't know exactly what that fool Samuelle had done to merit his cane--probably broken his leg after falling out of bed on some little whoring expedition with the lower classes of the world, the man's usual choice in women appalling--but he was sure that he wouldn't have given him much credit, even if he had supposedly gained it in the more usual form of battle. Still, the very fact that his daughter's misbegotten husband had apparently managed to con the military into letting him go over something so obviously minor only made the bile rise further. But knowing the petty details wouldn't have made the situation any better, anyway.
It was possible that the man was only home for a short leave--like the one Nikita's father had already been forced to endure--but that didn't make his mood any sunnier. Either way, he was now certain that the actor would find some method of conning his way out of his much-deserved service. But that his supposed "superiors" in the RCAF were buying it only made his rage that much more lethal now.
He was stewing terribly over these facts, was trying to raise his glass to drink--already braced to see his own, dire plans through--but the liquid sloshed so terribly that he had to make himself stop, anger rising all the more at the appalling truths around him, making him wait. If he were merely drunk, he could still have taken the one course he wanted; the long sigh which moved from him did little to calm his ire. But he was rational enough to know that this might not be for the best anymore.
This truth reigned tentatively--but he couldn't help dreaming of a more fitting end, nonetheless. What he wanted more than anything was to give the order he had long been yearning to--the one which would put a bullet in the tiresome actor's brain. It would be so very easy. He had even fulfilled his part of the bargain, had allowed the man to live through his days of escape in the RCAF; he had never made any promises for Michael's safety after that. Now that he was back--would undoubtedly be staying, one way or another--Nikita's father could finally take the right path, could rid his daughter of the actor's despicable presence, could free his grandchild's future of any more of the idiot man's taint. It would be for the best, for all involved; his sigh lingered. But he supposed that this better course just wasn't supposed to be.
This fact saddened him, making him dearly wish that he had already taken care of such annoyances--but there was no changing the past. As it was, his intentions had changed--had been forced to, what with the death of Hillinger and the desertion of Enquist. Now, there was only Jamie to pass on his empire to--and that boy had long ago made certain that this wasn't a true option at all.
A certain sadness accompanied this realization, but it wouldn't change his life. Once, years ago--probably even before his son had married that floozy of an actress, certainly long before the public disgrace of his being so stupidly caught in their various business dealings--Jones had been relatively certain that he would be passing his whole organization over to the boy, when he died; certainly, Jamie had always assumed it--over-privileged child that he was. Still, from time to time, Jones had considered Hillinger as a possible substitute--but he had mostly used the gunman as a rival for the boy, had meant to spur him on toward greatness. Sadly, that hadn't worked. Instead, his idiot son had taken all the wrong paths--and, by the time Jones had been forced to hide him, rather than see him either captured by the law or done in by their many business associates, he had had to recognize just how poor a successor the young fool always would have been.
The older man had spent many years bemoaning this fate--consistently annoyed by the utter irony of a superior intellect such as himself being saddled with a child such as this. But regrets would get him nowhere, could change none of the facts. Jamie was a piss-poor business associate and a worthless sort of man. In his hands, the empire his father had spend so long building would become nothing but a succession of ego--and penis--stroking. He would spend so much time with the whores that he would fail to even make any money off them; his father's sigh was harsh. And that said nothing at all about what would happen to the rest of Jones's affairs in his absence.
No--this wasn't an acceptable choice, never could be. As much as Jones had once hoped that the boy would mend his ways, it was immensely clear now that he couldn't. All he, as a father, had been able to do was protect him temporarily; his gaze focused on his drink again, almost yearning now for all it would bring. But the child's time of safety was very nearly up.
There was no avoiding this truth any longer, even as he turned his glance back to the rest of the room--pondering his other lost options. True, he had thought about Hillinger for awhile--had had few other men from which to choose--but it wasn't just his young subordinate's death which had ruled that out. Greg had been a flawed employee from the beginning--worthily ambitious, yes, but not emotionally stable enough to carry such plans out. Give him half a second of temptation, and he was off torturing someone just for the hell of it; the wiser man sighed at such foolishness. Such an impetuous boss could only get this organization into endless seas of trouble.
He had liked the man's ruthlessness, then, but hadn't approved of his carelessness. Even if he were still with them, it simply wouldn't have worked. Still, his only other option--all his many other employees far better at plodding brainlessly along, blindly following their orders--had been his best; his head shook sadly. But that one had given up any possibility of succession several months ago.
This truth still goaded him slightly, Enquist's defection unexpectedly painful--and not just because he would have made a relatively-decent boss. No. He had had so many hopes for his daughter and the man, had thought that Dorian might well be the one to show Nikita her true place. But that too wasn't to be. His handpicked choice had snubbed him, running toward his old rival, instead; Jones's eyes narrowed, having to forcibly tamp down the hate. But he was at least slightly mollified by the fact that Murrin would only keep the young man alive, until his usefulness had run out.
This fact gave him some sort of hope, Enquist's days numbered--a truth which let him breathe somewhat. But it had also left him with a hole in his organization which couldn't be easily replaced; his eyes focused back on his drink. Given the time he had left, as well, even what slim chance there might have been had already been thoroughly lost. There was no way out of the inevitable anymore.
He continued to stare at the glass, barely wanting to think over all it currently represented to him; his mind moved sideways, instead. He didn't want to admit it, but it had been Dorian's desertion which had changed him, bringing on the end. Before that, he had had hope--had had plans, ones which his daughter would have been forced to follow along with in time. But now there was no one left to succeed him; his smile was rueful. If only things had been different, once again.
Such a wish did nothing to change the past, left him only with his many different dreams--ones which his one dead love had dashed so many years ago. Still, if he could have taken Nikita into his home when she had been younger, could have trained her to be the dutiful daughter she always should have been--one with Bobbie's spine and spunk, with all her ferocious desire to live--then he would still have had someone to leave behind. True, he would have had to marry her to someone else as a front, would have needed to find a man who appeared commanding but was actually vapid enough to take orders easily--but such men were a dime a dozen in his organization. Yes--it would have been so easy. If he had had the chance, he would have molded her into a fierce businesswoman, one even his other associates would have had to marginally respect; she would even have had that bastard, Murrin's, support, if only to please Adrian. If that had happened, things would now be very different--Samuelle, for one thing, nowhere in the picture; he sighed nostalgically. But such a perfect world had never been meant to be.
He had done his best already to try to change this fact, had wanted to marry his little Nikita off to Enquist in an attempt to win back some small part of this worthwhile dream--but it simply hadn't worked. Now, the traitor was off with another master--and Nikita would undoubtedly soon be reunited with her damnable seducer.
He would have given anything for this not to be true, but there was no changing it anymore; he had realized that weeks ago. True, he had been writing to Nikita almost constantly, in a final attempt to win her back to righteousness--but it hadn't been meant to be. The girl was lost to him, was lost to the world; the breath he let out was terse. No matter what he might want, nothing could be done about it anymore.
The letters had only been a dying old man's last folly, then, a small and fading dream. He had even given them up a few weeks ago, clearly getting nowhere at all. His daughter was lost to logic and morality. There was nothing to do anymore but leave her to her fate.
This wasn't a pretty choice, certainly, but there were few others left to him; his gaze on the glass glazed slightly, before he forced focus once more. Now that her idiot husband had returned, she--as well as her child, no doubt--would be forced further and further into the degradation the actor had led her to so long ago. There was no hope left. She would be his plaything, would bear his bastard brats, as he found whatever other Jewesses, slant-eyed whores--or any of a thousand other perversions--he might favor on the side. She would be the smiling, empty-headed hostess, as he carried out his various degradations in full view of anyone who was watching. Gone was the one last chance she had had of becoming a full partner to a wise and admirable businessman; Enquist's leaving had seen to that. Now, all that was left for her was a future as vile and despairing as the one her mother had chosen in leaving him; the sigh went deep. But he supposed that there was some sort of fateful symmetry to that.
He had to work hard to dismiss these dreadful images, doing his best not to mourn. It was the girl's own choice, after all. It was only right that she should finally be forced to face the blank sort of future she had preferred.
He blinked once, letting go of such certainties, a moment later, doing his best to leave the last thought of his daughter behind him. With the birth of her child--and the desertion of his one last hope--she was dead to him. His gaze moved. All he could do now was focus--before facing down his own, brief fate.
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