THE FALL OF CRONUS
By Scarr C.
July 12th, 8:00 P.M.
Location: Desmond Fending's maisonette entrance
Status: Ostentatious
Wardrobe: Dressed to kill (In both aspects)
"Well, damn."
He looked bloody good.
"Hell yeah."
One could hardly blame his mild schizophrenia on vanity. Especially not when he was decked in that marvellous three-piece suit -which was tailored to exquisite disposition- and matching Gucci cufflinks. It also served him well that two very luscious, very comely accessories on either arm were making up for the lack of an overpriced watch.
The one on his right was carved in the form of temptation, a heavenly tumble of scarlet over porcelain flesh with lips too perfect to mark. The other implored for all hearts to be still in her ivory splendour, her stature rivalled only by her dazzling smile.
Bosley practiced his bumptious air with little improvement, and Natalie rendered his elbow a kindly squeeze.
"Bos. Relax."
He held out his invitation card and the doorman bowed them through the main entrance, where Satie's Gymnopèdies swarmed into the hallways. And then they were one with the prolific crowd – high strung, coquette, important.
Dylan felt an approaching smile.
"Keep out a good eye."
July 12th, 8:07 P.M.
Location: The Merkin
Status: Derailed
Mission: To keep out of point blank range
He always had bad taste in boots, although he did not know it. And now, what could possibly qualify as the ugliest pair of manufactured leather was pacing the mock-gangplank of the ship. Pacing was, however, an understated way of describing the mounting tantrums of Seamus O'Grady.
His footsteps came to a grinding halt and swivelled. Lower lips quirked mischievously, a shot echoed, and the man to his right instantly pitched over, falling into a lifeless heap on the floor.
Seamus, on the contrary, appeared to be paying more attention to the smoke issuing forth his double-barrelled gun. This meant that he was in a beastly mood, in a crazy sort of way. It also meant that not very good tidings were on their way to the rest of his men.
"Right, now. You boys had better know what to do."
The survivors - all seven of them, nodded stiffly.
"I don't wanna see any fuck ups."
A low murmur denoted their acknowledgement.
"For your own bloody good."
Another nod.
He strutted away, a slight limp in his gait. It was only until he had relaxed his hold on the gun when he noticed that he had cut into his own palm with a set of crudely trimmed fingernails.
July 12th, 8:10 P.M.
Location: Desmond Fending's maisonette.
Mission : Constant vigilance
Bosley flicked at his molar mic with an irate tongue, and static rippled through all four micro-receivers.
He grimaced apologetically at the two ladies by his side. "Cocktail. Stuck."
Natalie fetched him a toothpick, just as a weedy man with a terribly distracting (in Dylan's opinion) moustache sauntered up to them, looking older and more haggard than when they had last seen him on a huge televised screen.
"Mr Fending." Bosley sucked in his cheeks and made to shake his hand. Fending displayed no intention of accepting his gesture.
"Very good. I see only two of them, though."
"Oh, Alex is here." Natalie affirmed. "You'll see her around." She exchanged a knowing glance with Dylan, who returned a wane smile.
"Yeah, I always thought she looked the best in glasses."
July 12th, 8:10 P.M.
Location: Desmond Fending's maisonette, 2nd level artefact gallery.
Wardrobe: Strictly scholarly
"The tombs of pharaohs have two integral parts, the burial chamber and the burial temple. In the chamber lies the sarcophagus, which contains the mummified body of the king, and it is usually opulently furnished with gold and jewels."
The curator paced around her audience with a supercilious flair, stopping only to point at the jewel-encrusted tomb to her right.
"A casual examination of the coffin's surface reveals a wealth of detail. On the lid is an area of breakage where sculpted hands may have once been attached. Other details are modelled perhaps to suggest the appearance of inlaid jewels."
The last word seemed to catch the rapt attention of the crowd gathered before her at every mention. She proceeded to give a historical background on the exhibits, her eyes guarded and alert. Her molar mic was temporarily disabled so as to spare her colleagues from a detailed lesson on ancient catacombs, but her earpiece was kept intact.
Alex Munday pinched the sides of her horn-rimmed spectacles and permitted herself a soft smile.
So far, so good.
"And over here, we have valuables from the Hellenistic Greek and Roman imperial eras. Back in the first century, one's standing in society was reflected in the type of vessels from which one dined, hence the Romans' exquisite taste for luxury dining. Displayed here is a Millefiori Bowl, also known as-"
"-A thousand flowers bowl."
The voice that had interrupted Alex belonged to a woman standing on her left, who was dressed in a stark pantsuit and no-nonsense court shoes.
She nodded warmly at the Asian girl before walking up to the artefact and continuing, "It was first used in the Renaissance to refer to Venetian glass of a similar manufacture, although it's now widely referred to as mosaic glass."
Alex remained silent, clearly impressed.
The woman turned towards her and proffered a hand.
"Delilah Suezman. I'm a close acquaintance of Fending's."
Her handshake was firm and authoritative, Alex noted as she returned the greeting. "Lisa Gan, artefacts expert and curator at the Garrington Historical Museum."
"In that case, will you be leading the auction, Miss Gan?" Delilah asked.
"I'm afraid not - that will be under the charge of Mr Winston." Alex replied. "Are you a fellow archaeologist, Miss Suezman?"
"Oh no," Delilah chuckled. "I run a company that has absolutely nothing to do with this area of specialisation. Consider this a long-time interest of mine."
"You'll be participating in the auction, then?"
"Yes, I will." A flash of sadness passed through the older woman's eyes at this particular remark, but it had vanquished so facilely that Alex was barely sure if it even occurred.
"I'm bidding in the place of an old friend, although I may pick up a trinket or two for my personal collection, " She added. "I've always been very fond of ancient Greek culture."
Alex felt an inexplicable urge to help the woman before her in any way, some way. "I could place a reservation on your items, if you like."
Delilah accepted her offer gratefully. "Yes…that would be wonderful, thank you. You see, my friend has had his eye on that lovely emerald ring-" She gestured to an exhibit behind Alex, "But since it's terribly rare and thus highly coveted for by other bidders, it would please me greatly to know that I have a primary claim over it."
Charlie's words clicked jarringly at the back of Alex's mind even before she pivoted round to face the brilliant, glittering jewel.
July 12th, 8:40 P.M.
Location: Desmond Fending's maisonette, the dining hall.
Status: Big-wig watching
Dylan sipped insouciantly at her weak champagne and eyed the shifting assembly of tuxedos and gowns before her.
"Bos, you did your research. The 411, please." She said softly.
Bosley was quick to comply, steering both her and Natalie by the waist through a haze of fraudulent laughter and expensive cigar smoke.
"Right, girls. Two o'clock, Ethan Lentford. Camera-shy grandson of the old miser behind Lentford Corporation. He's here to get a hold of some rare jewellery as a present for his girlfriend – she's the one in peach next to him."
Following which, he motioned to a handsome man in his late-forties, his right hand guiding a martini down his throat, the other arm slung around the waist of a flamboyantly dressed brunette. She was fingering the pearls on her necklace and looking immeasurably bored.
"Richard Green, managing director of Pentex Industries. No personal connection with Fending, this one. Most probably he's hangin' around for the media to capitalise on his charitable efforts. Plans to bid heavily on a bunch o' stuff he's not even interested in, the usual works. I'd say, the reporters are a plenty."
Natalie peered towards where Bosley had pointed out, cocking her head at Dylan. "Don't you just love the more glamorous parts of this job?"
"It's certainly too early to speak." Dylan gave a light chuckle. "Remember our last visit to a social event like this? Corwin's Shinto apartment sure as hell–" Abruptly, a frown overtook her features as all words abandoned themselves on the brink of her lips, and a succession of flashbacks populated her mind's eye with avid ruefulness.
Two elegant fingers, stretched aesthetically to draw a cigarette towards scowling lips; the palliative shift of a neck as smoke is hauled into a set of aching lungs.
-Eyes of a most opalescent blue, harsh tones and preying lights – a bristle of untamed rage, the unsheathing of a sword as thin and pronounced as its owner himself –
Dylan shook her head fervidly, surprising herself with details of a photographic memory she never knew she possessed until now.
It then came to her notice that Natalie was looking at her with a strange, hooded expression in her eyes.
"…Dylan?"
"I'm fine," came her unintentionally curt reply, but Natalie bobbed her head gently with nary a word. Little had been discussed between Dylan and the other Angels with regards to the showdown against Madison Lee and the O'Grady bunch, and Natalie assumed that it was mainly on Dylan's part to get the ball rolling and tighten certain loose ends. An unvoiced mystery had lingered in the office on the day after that mission, but no one had seemed particularly enthused to expound on any related theories.
No bodies were recovered in the alley.
Granted, there was a significant amount of red liquid matter splattered over everything in sight. There were stains on the walls, the gravel, the metal grilles that lined the constricting drains.
Before she could dwell upon the series of events which occurred on that fateful night, however, a striking woman in her early thirties stepped into view.
"Delilah Suezman, philanthropist and chairperson of Suez Enterprises, third largest biotechnological company in the country." Bosely had scarcely completed his run-down before their object of attention loomed before them, a disarming smile in tow.
Bosely slipped back into a lofty demeanour, every inch the corporate aristocrat. "Henry Usher, please to meet you."
"Delilah Suezman, I'm a close friend of Fending's. I trust you're enjoying yourselves?"
Bosley made a proficient effort to stop himself from raising an eyebrow. Fending never mentioned anything about associates or peers, let alone close friends. But that was probably a slight on his behalf.
Small talk ensued, and Delilah proved to be an amiable conversationalist. Natalie felt herself relax marginally as she and Dylan withdrew to a corner of the room and proceeded to take their dialogue onto a more personal level.
"So you're an orphan too, if you don't mind me asking?"
Dylan tilted her shoulders into a modest shrug. "Well, I suppose I qualify. My mother passed away when I was a kid, and my dad's officially AWOL. I did fine though, had plenty of support from my friends." She threw Natalie and Bosley a meaningful look. "Wasn't it hard for you?"
Delilah's eyes were the colour of burnt sienna, her irises soft-edged but gilded with a sense of one who was jaded and worldly. Her thin lashes were baited in the dim lighting, forming wreaths of darkness around both eyes. "It wasn't the most difficult time I had, actually. I…I was taken into a catholic orphanage at the age of nine."
Dylan pursed her lips, contemplating. "Wasn't it strict then, living in an orphanage like that?"
"Oh, not at all," Delilah said, a hesitant smile spreading across her face. "Well, perhaps it was, a little, but you knew that you were always cared for in the Lady of Perpetual Virginity Church."
For the second time that night, Dylan felt like a block of ice in her stomach had melted all too quickly and filled her insides with smouldering cold. It was an unpleasant sensation, and she berated herself inwardly for succumbing to it.
"I- I have a friend at that Church." She found her throat operating beyond her control. Natalie's head turned sharply to face her.
"You do?" Delilah gave a small bark of laughter. "What a coincidence! And who might that be?"
Dylan was now sorely tempted to kick herself. Hard. For no plausible reason at all, she had just blurted out the most ludicrous enquiry in front of her colleagues and it was far too late to switch to a different topic.
"Uh," She couldn't possibly answer with "Oh, this creepy thin guy with an unsound fetish for hair" now, could she?
"Anthony. His name is Anthony." A voice rang out so flatly that it startled even her, and much to her chagrin, she identified it as her own. "He was named after St. Anthony of Padua, healer of the mute."
It was at this very moment that a surge of embarrassment rose within her, and Dylan was beginning to find it increasingly hard to maintain any eye contact with Natalie.
She returned her attention to Delilah, and for a transient, instantaneous moment, what seemed like a flicker of cognisance swept across her mature features, but they were no sooner replaced with bewilderment, and Dylan's heart sank.
"Anthony?" A furrow of eyebrows lined her puzzled expression. "I don't believe I've heard of him, unfortunately. I must have left the orphanage before he was admitted."
"Oh."
"Was he…a close friend?"
"Well." Dylan's tongue was sticking wildly to the back of her throat like cotton. "Not really."
Delilah smiled again, her arm shifting awkwardly as if she had wanted give the younger girl's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Just then, her eyes caught upon something to her left, and it seemed to distract her.
"Mr Usher, I'm afraid that…there's something else that calls for my immediate attention. It's been pleasant talking to you."
Dylan did not reply, unable to mask the look of disappointment on her face. Bosley dipped his head politely.
"If you would excuse me, then." She returned a nod. "I'll promise to look you up if I remember anything about a thin white boy, though."
And with that, she disappeared into the hoard of guests, the click of her heels amalgamating seamlessly with the portentous music.
It took precisely three seconds for Dylan to recognise two fallacies in Delilah's words. One was a chronological error, plain and indubitable; the other was a deadly slip of tongue.
Alex sounded alarmingly loud in her ear, confirming her suspicions.
"Nobody said anything about the Thin Man's physical description, you know."
It required no more than a decisive nod from Dylan to Natalie for all three Angels to arrive at a consensus, and as Alex descended the stairway into the grand hall, they began to venture towards where Delilah Suezman was last seen to be heading.
The Angels were met with an extremely rude interruption, however, which came in the form of four motorbikes ramming headlong through the French windows of the building.
The sound of exploding glass signalled the advent of pure chaos.
Within moments, the air was thick with petrified screams and the skittle of polished heels on marble as guests and servants alike scuttled behind pieces of furniture and around the colossal pillars that bedecked the area for cover.
Instantly, the Angels sprung into action.
Dylan's crimson skirt was detached and flung to one side, revealing a pair of fitting black pants underneath. Natalie had slipped out of the gauze-like train she was wearing, her gown immediately transformed into a short but spacious dress that posed barely a restriction to vigorous movement. Alex wrenched off her spectacles and joined her partners in the centre of the room, her own long-sleeved shirt and lady's trousers already suitable for packing a mean punch.
The motorbikes were cruising across the first level in a predatory fashion, their engines pugnacious and ear splitting. There were two men on each bike; all of them clad in black uniform-like apparel, their faces effectively hidden with a type of netted covering that was reminiscent of a fencing mask. At least four of them were wielding clubs and pistols, issuing a few random shots into the air.
The guests cowered and shrieked as heaps of debris tumbled from the ceiling and buffeted painfully on unprotected skin, creating billows of grey dust on the carpet.
Without wasting a moment, the Angels tore after the havoc-causing bikers with astounding dexterity. Acting on pure impulse, Dylan grabbed a silver platter from an abandoned table, and shaking the cockles and garnishes off it with a sweep of her arm, flung the makeshift weapon like a discus at a pair to her right.
Her aim was guided with a precision which took out the driver with an ill-sounding clip to the back of his head, knocking him out of balance. His motorcycle skittled out of control and collided with the foot of the staircase, both riders hitting the floor with a thud as they were flung out of their seats.
Before the two men could regain their bearings or even garner a proper footing, however, a pair of boots had landed squarely on their chests, knocking the wind straight out of their stomachs. Alex Munday then proceeded to administer a second blow to their collarbones, her expertly-trained pressure on their nerves rendering both men unconscious with little fuss.
"Way to go, Xena."
Dylan responded with a thumbs-up sign.
Natalie, on the other hand, was barely idle while her comrades delivered their moves onto the band of gatecrashers. As a motorbike speeded towards her, she grabbed the nearest pillar for support and vaulted over the banister of the staircase behind it. Just as her advancing foes drew closer, her legs flew out with unexpected alacrity, swinging clockwise with the momentum of her body and landing harshly upon the chest of the biker in front, fracturing rib and sending him hurtling backwards into his partner.
Both men crashed into a pain-wracked heap onto the floor, just as Natalie released her grip on the pillar and landed deftly next to them.
All three parties were up and poised for a round of fists within a flash, but Natalie was quicker. She dealt the thug on her right with a curt blow to the temple while executing a roundhouse kick to his friend, who impacted with a priceless Ming vase that had until then, miraculously remained intact throughout the little motorbike fiasco.
The man who was struck first recovered with notable swiftness, and he drew a hand inside his jacket.
Natalie performed a well-timed backflip just as it emerged with a revolver and opened fire at her.
Bullets penetrated the impairing air frenziedly but failed to come into contact with flesh, ricocheting off antique lamps instead and embedding themselves into the walls of the room.
"Hey, YOU!"
Dylan Sanders was certainly not one to appreciate burly masked men taking a couple of wild shots at her friend, and the thug had barely a chance to face the source of her hollering before he was bequeathed with a double-kick to the bottom region of his spine. Gurgling helplessly, he slumped onto the ground, his back twisted in an agonising position as a pair of stilettos trod unflinchingly over him.
Dylan frowned.
"Damn, Alex. I so need those boots back."
She and Natalie locked arms and twisted over each other to grace two more fallen bikers with a broken nose and a twisted neck respectively.
And then there were two.
The final pair of motorists, however, had a dirty trick up their sleeves, which came in the form of a gasping, writhing woman dressed in a dishevelled pantsuit with a knife at her throat and a gun to her temple.
The Angels regrouped into a common position and turned to face the last of their adversaries, fists balled and legs taut in a pre-emptive stance.
The thugs barely gave them an opportunity to blink. The man holding his weapons against Delilah stepped aside to unveil a semiautomatic in the hands of his partner.
Oh, crap.
Once again, Natalie, Alex and Dylan launched themselves into the air as soon as his fingers hastened towards the trigger, cartwheeling and somersaulting into various directions so as to prevent a successful hit from taking place.
Delilah had almost ceased struggling now; the feeble kick of her legs a warning sign that she was slowly being gagged to death.
This was the cue for all Angels to advance an offensive, and simultaneously, they sprang into combat, legs outstretched, aimed to strike.
All of a sudden, Dylan felt her head snap back excruciatingly as something - or someone - snagged roughly onto her hair. The wrench was almost as instantaneous as the following retraction, and her scalp began to burn with furious protest.
Involuntary tears formed in her eyes that were half-lidded in pain, and partially distracted, she swerved around frantically, her heart ensnared in her pulsating throat, her mind half-hoping and dreading at the same time -
She met nothing but an equally baffled crowd of suits, and yet she could have sworn the air behind her carried with it an incalescence in its path, the slightest hint of cigarette smoke hanging torpidly –
"DYLAN!"
Natalie's urgent cry had her senses cannonading into a harsh jolt as her feet carried her to her fellow Angels and the sound of breaking glass yet again, just in time to see the sole-standing thug whisk an unconscious and bleeding Delilah onto his bike and disappear out of the window.
July 12th, 9:55 P.M.
Location: A lone alleyway past the Fending maisonette.
Status: Cool pursuit
The motorbike was zipping past a series of dank alleyways with the driver facing the arduous task of issuing control over his steering, and keeping his hostage upright.
Delilah Suezman was flopped over behind him, her thin waist held in a vice-like grip by his right arm while his left concentrated on winding the bike into the misbegotten night.
Upon rounding a sharp corner, he nearly lost his balance as his grasp on the woman behind him slipped, and Delilah came precariously close to rolling off the speeding vehicle.
A string of curses met with the fleeting wind as it pounded wrathfully against his mask in a futile attempt to blind him.
However, those words were also the last he ever uttered as he discovered the pointed end of a rapier emerging from the centre of his chest.
The bike sputtered towards a violent death as its driver collapsed into a gutter, and the woman behind him found herself soaring through an inkwell of sky-
-Until a pair of wiry arms met with the middle of her back and the skin behind her knees, and as her eyes clamoured to unclose the last thing Delilah Suezman remembered seeing was a coat of arrant pinstripes.
_______________
To be continued