Disclaimer: ::mimics birds from "Finding Nemo":: Mine, mine, mine, mine...
Chapter 10
"Max, kick your carcass outta neutral! The limo's gonna be here any minute!" Alec bellowed before returning to his pacing back and forth across the floor, occasionally checking his bowtie in the dusty window.
It had taken Max even less time than Alec had accounted for to come to an executive decision. Within thirty minutes, she'd marched back into the office that had once been hers and said she'd help him on several conditions, which to sum them up basically said that Alec had to behave like a perfect gentleman. He'd agreed immediately but voiced his worry that once she saw him in his tux, she might not feel like behaving like a lady. Max had had several of unladylike phrases in response to that, and making his hands into a steeple in front of his mouth, Alec had smiled through everyone of them. Even though she'd subconsciously used her old threats and slogans, they didn't carry nearly the bite they'd once had. More generated from some unnamed emotion, which he was secretly determined to pinpoint, than her old loathing.
They hadn't much time to lose. Within minutes of her acquiescence they'd snuck out of Terminal City, heading for Sandeman's old pad now squatted by one Logan Cale. Under the cover of night was the easiest time to sneak out. Perimeter security had been relatively loose before Alec had taken out Keith and volunteerism had only waned since, especially with the transgenics being so quiet lately--the Seattle Police Department was still unaware of what Alec had affectionately dubbed "Operation: Scooby Snacks." Counting a pit stop for a quick laser touch up, the transgenics had made relatively good time, safe inside Logan's within two hours.
Logan hadn't been there to greet them, as it had been planned. Already knowing of Alec's escapade, he'd had left a note saying that he'd had some business that would keep him away from home base at least a couple of days, there was plenty of food in the fridge, and "for the love of all things holy, don't piss off Max at any inopportune moments." Alec had smiled at the last bit, subconsciously cherishing the tentative camaraderie he and Logan shared. Lately it was only when Max was quite literally in the picture that things grew tense between them.
With a good twenty hours to kill, Alec and Max had used the time wisely, covering their game plan, major players, and the major rules and boundaries of their "game." He'd also drilled her on proper etiquette for events such as these and what to use, how to use, and when to use the proper utensils during the upcoming seven course meal. Things had gone rather well for the most part, Max learning everything at Manticorian light speed.
Then Alec decided to teach Max how to waltz, or tried to actually. The problem wasn't just that Max had been in fact cursed with two left feet; all the elements had been against them at the time of the dance lesson. It had been a rainy night, as nights are wont to be in Seattle, and a brown out occurred suddenly. The lights tapered down to near nonexistence but since their battery-powered stereo remained unaffected and they had such excellent night vision, Max insisted they continue dancing until she got it right. Alec had been a splendid dancer and amazingly patient teacher until that fatal moment, but in the combination of darkness, both still damp from running around half of Seattle while it rained transgenics and transgens, and the classical music playing in the background did absolutely nothing to improve Alec's tendency to let his mind wander. He did his best to harness it and might have even proved successful if it hadn't been for Max. In her uncertainty of the steps and overcompensation for the resilient shadows, Max stepped closer to Alec than he could ever recall and his concentration was blown out of the water. Soon it wasn't her stepping on Alec's feet, but him on hers, and his was the offending forehead reaching for hers. But that wasn't all his face had wanted to reach for...
He'd pushed her away suddenly in near violence, saying she was doing well enough and "shouldn't we be getting some rest now? It's nearly three-thirty in the morning." Perplexed but reining in her curiosity, Max had left him curled on the couch. It wasn't right for him to be thinking such things, for even if she had the slightest clue about his wayward thoughts before her amnesia, she sure as Manticore puts the "Man" in any soldier didn't now. After tossing and turning for several minutes, Alec had fallen asleep to the soft patter of feet through the ceiling and the sinusoidal echo of "one, two, three" as Max continued her dance lesson on her own upstairs in Joshua's old bedroom.
He'd awoken the next morning to the sound of ham frying in the kitchen. Having rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, as even transgenics were prone to getting, Alec had blindly wandered toward the kitchen and the smell of meat, holding up the sweatpants--judging by their fit on his lean frame, had formerly belonged to Joshua and not Logan--as he went.
Max hadn't heard him coming, her multitasking brain too absorbed in reviewing for tonight's proceedings, cooking breakfast, and humming some tune Ray had taught her long ago, subliminally planted in her memory. She too, had been clad in borrowed attire, wearing a pair of Logan's basketball shorts that had hung to her knees even when the strings were secured as tightly as superhumanly possible around her size three waist, and a XXL white T-shirt that had seen better days covering all they way to her butt. 'Or maybe it hadn't seen better days,' an inner voice had chirped, letting on far more than his face would about how arresting Max truly had looked. Her thick, dark hair slapped up into that sloppy half-pony tail, half-bun thingy women always did hadn't exactly hurt her overall appearance either.
When she had finally noticed him mid-bar, Alec had made some inane mark about her being a couple of rugrats dangling from around her ankles and a pregnant belly away from looking like "White Trash Woman of the Week" with only half of his brain. The other half had been dually focused on her half-scoff, half-laugh in response and the shape of her bare calves, which thankfully Max had been too focused on her frying eggs to have seen. Sure she was of Manticore's mold, and nothing less than a nice pair of legs were to be expected, but Alec had just realized how rare it was to see those twins--seeing as Max never really wore shorts--and his mind decided to save up the image for a rainy day, or another rainy night.
Breakfast had passed in relative companionship, once Alec had resigned himself to eating green eggs--Max had added the food coloring she'd found on a shelf, "Green Eggs and Ham" by Dr. Seuss having been the first book she'd read cover to cover after her and her siblings' personal Declaration of Independence from Manticore. She had told him of her finding the book on a bus in Sacramento, California and how it had stayed with her for months before losing during a drug raid at a foster home. Alec in turn had confessed that the first book he'd read from cover to cover since freedom bells started a chimin'--if one didn't count Calvin and Hobbes--had yet to be discovered. Post-pulse BET, on the other hand, he'd come across almost instantly. Max had rolled her eyes at his TV dependency and asked if they should find him a twelve step program, and Alec had seriously replied that he could stop anytime he wanted to. The two had shared a smile.
After more drilling and a light lunch, Max and Alec had disappeared into their separate wings to get ready. That was more than two hours ago...
A knock on the door stopped Alec's trip down short-term memory lane, and he made his way across the room to answer it. An Italian guy in his early thirties stood on the porch patiently, wearing the black button down shirt and black slacks in uniform to the international dress code of limo drivers everywhere, completed by his clean-cut black hair covered by a black hat that looked like it couldn't decide whether it was from the Civil War era or a baseball cap. Or so Alec had always thought.
It was beginning to rain again. Inviting the driver in, Alec had barely shut the door behind the other man before wheeling around on one foot and calling up the stairs for the sixth time in two minutes. He whistled through his teeth and called up stairs, "Here, Maxie, Maxie, Maxie. You want to go for a ride don't you?" He patted his Armani covered thigh like he was calling a stubborn or timid dog.
"I'm coming you lousy son of a..."
"Tsk, tsk, Max! Don't use such foul language in front of our company. We wouldn't want to assail our poor driver's ears," he yelled back, followed up with some choice words against the female population in general, pitched only loud enough for himself--and judging by his ill-concealed smirk, the driver--to hear. He misjudged the volume. "I heard that!"
Alec rolled his eyes, mouthing the word "women" in exasperation to their driver, who'd by now introduced himself as Chris. Becoming more and more impatient, calculating the time they'd have to spend in rush hour traffic due to the fact that his "date's" ETA from the upstairs to the downstairs had obviously met some unexpected complications, Alec began to bounce lightly on his feet. Sensing the interesting one-man show he was throwing for Chris, he decided to fine-tune his fidgeting from his feet to his fingers, and commenced retying that blasted bowtie for the millionth time, still not satisfied with the final product.
"I'm tellin' ya, buddy, I'm an atheist at heart, seeing as my family wasn't to big on church and stuff. But if I ever converted to believing in Higher Powers it would be based solely on the fact that bowties and the gentler sex's time to ready itself have got to be living proof of demonic powers," Alec said, ripping the bowtie apart again and starting from scratch with impatient, long fingers. How in the name of GQ magazine can fingers be trained from birth to kill with a paperclip and still not understand the intricate weavings of a bowtie?
"I hear ya," Chris nodded empathetically, not feeling the need to be professionally reserved as his line of work tended to call for. He had decided he liked his client almost immediately. Mr. McDowell, or so his assignment sheet called him, was beautiful and aware of it, though he wasn't conceited by any means, and wore his beauty as easily as a butterfly her wings. It was as if Mr. McDowell was aware that something, Higher Powers or simple genetic heredity, had blessed him with good looks and he couldn't have created them himself anymore than grass deciding to make itself a healthy, rich shade of green. His eyes struck Chris the deepest, rendering Alec immortal in him memory. The hazel orbs were scarred and older than their years yet had the understanding air that life was more than pain. These eyes would be able to delight in joy all the more because they comprehended the purest of pains.
"Max!"
"I'm coming!" A female voice rang down the stairs like thunder in her own impatience.
"You've been saying that for forty-five minutes!"
"Oh, are you getting bored? How about I shake it up for you: I'm NOT coming!"
"Funny!"
"I'm putting my heels on even as we bellow! By the way, I've decided you male bastards designed these things specifically for use of torture devices for females hundreds of years down the road."
There was a silence on both ends of the line, both hanging up for a moment. Alec resumed his circular tour of the living room, not trusting himself to even come within view of the stairs, knowing he was three seconds away from bounding up them and banging down the door to Joshua's old room. She was getting under his skin again.
Then there came a smaller, less confident voice from the top of the stairs, no longer muffled by the oak door barricading him from the bedroom. "Alec, you can't laugh."
Alec stopped mid-stride and pivoted on one foot towards the stairs. "What?" These were the last words he'd been expecting Max to say tonight--next to saying she'd fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with him--so he wasn't quite sure he'd heard right.
"You can't laugh. You have to promise me you won't laugh."
"Alright, I promise you won't laugh."
"Alec!" Shrill desperation took over her voice.
"Alright, alright. Chris thought it was funny anyway."
"Is Chris wearing a dress?" Alec looked over to their changed topic thoughtfully, eyeing him from head to toe as if he wasn't quite sure, even though he already knew Chris had a 9mm tucked in the back of his pants, probably by the order of his company. "No," he finally responded.
"Promise me."
"Alright already. I promise. Scout's honor. Cross my heart and hope to die. May lightening strike me. No fingers crossed. If I do, I'll die 'til I'm dead. Are you satisfied yet?"
"You promise what?"
"Oh for the love of...I PROMISE I WON'T LAUGH!"
Such a silence rang through the house that Chris forgot to laugh, afraid such a roar had indeed frightened Mr. McDowell's poor date right back up those stairs for good. He listened for the slamming of a bedroom door and was relieved to hear none, not realizing that Max's own temper--made meek by sheer fear of embarrassment--had risen in direct proportion to Alec's, giving her the gumption to take those final steps into full view.
Max worries were completely founded. It wasn't like she looked radiant or anything, the soft pink layers of her dress only accenting the rich tan of her skin. It wasn't like her hair looked perfect, the loops and twists of the tresses pulled into hairdo that looked amazingly understated, belying the forty-five minutes she must have spent on her mane alone. It wasn't like she looked like an angel, that most beings, these two men included, were amazed that such an epitome of grace and magnetism and everything good could transform from a celestial essence into a living, breathing body with feet now touching the same floor their unworthy ones had crossed only moments before.
It wasn't like Alec forgot to breathe, or his heart skipped so many beats he would have been in critical condition if not for his Manticorian physiology.
Alec remained painfully silent in trying to revive his limp tongue to its usual hustle.
Chris was shocked at her beauty rivaling Mr. McDowell's, which also carried that air of maturity, a pain and healing in a similar vein to Alec's, making it all the more rare and precious. Chris found himself amazed at these two beings who radiated so many emotions, such a strong passion that he instinctively knew they always did their utmost to bar it behind their eyes. But even hiding that fervor inside themselves was as useless as putting on sunglasses and staring into the sun, for they dimmed the objects around it far more than they could ever hope to dim the glare of the light itself, only making it shine brighter and truer.
Alec finally managed enough movement in his upper torso to clear his throat raggedly. "You look...nice." Chris' jaw dropped at Mr. McDowell's vast understatement, even as Alec resisted the strong urge to smack himself silly.
Max smiled in appreciation of Alec's lack of a sarcastic color commentary, not realizing her sweet flash of teeth was giving her poor "date" palpitations so strong he thought she'd see pounding through his tuxedo. The silence in between her appearing before him and his first words had frayed her nerves at the edges though, thinking he silence had been just a precursor to the torrent of jokes at her expense.
She'd really tried her best to look nice for tonight--which proved even harder than it had a couple years ago in Jam Pony's ladies' room before Logan's cousin's wedding, particularly without Original Cindy's advice and well-meant wisecracks to take off Max's nervous edge--and seemed to have triumphed. She'd redone her hair countless times, one curl out of place making her tear down the entire art form before starting again, and must have done her makeup seventeen different ways from Tuesday before deciding to stick with what she new best: a hint of blush here, a touch of eye shadow there, some cherry lip balm and a girl was good to go. God only knows why she'd gone to the trouble, at least He'd better, someone should after the two straight hours of fretting, and she knew she wasn't that person. Max hadn't had such a case of nerves since water solos back at her first home. If her seizures hadn't been fixed before the fall of Manticore she'd throw some extra Tryptophan in her purse, her brain chemistry had to be suffering from the stress.
Max tried not to let herself be disappointed by Alec's appraisal either. She'd tried to look nice and she succeeded; no more, no less. She contented herself on the scrap Alec threw her. 'Any beauty coming from an X5 series is to be expected and not complimented on,' the soldier inside herself said. He probably saw as much "action" these days as a soldier in 'Nam, one girl in a dress wouldn't be too impressive anyway.
"You don't clean up too bad yourself," she said. Milking the friendship blossoming between them for all its worth she added, "You look fantastic." Alec smiled in response, laced with an unusual nervousness that made him painfully resemble a guy trying to get his date to the prom--the unusual sight of him in a tuxedo wasn't hurting the image--and Max felt her stomach flip over.
"Thanks," he muttered softly, smiling in a way only Max could fully understand, but a forgotten Chris could guess a rough translation from. Remembering his place he laced his arm within hers, the illusion complete in more ways than one. "You ready?"
"I'd better be, seeing as you've spent the last hour screaming up the stairs. You're not one to talk anyway," she chastised, fingering the flaccid ends of the unraveled bowtie with arched eyebrows. She did it up quickly trying to ignore the chance brush of her hand against his chin or throat, but her trembling fingers didn't seem to get the memo. "There, all done." Alec turned toward the window, saw the exact tie he'd been trying to find all evening. It was perfect. "Thanks again."
On the topic of the bowtie, Chris was the only unbiased opinion in the room, although he had the feeling the black girl blindly eyeing him from a nearby painting would agree with him: it looked exactly the same as it had the other seven times Alec had done it since his arrival.
*****
The house, although manor or palace would have described it better, hosting their illicit soiree was staged back from the street a great distance, as if to draw more attention to itself instead of backing away with shyness. The entire castle montage was completed by a long driveway that wound around a fountain whose sheer size would have made the monument tawdry if it wasn't for the graceful arcs of water spouting from several outlets, grasping the soft yellow and white lights before splashing into the shallow pool.
The rain had tapered off long enough for Max to catch some much needed fresh air, as opposed to the barrage her senses were under from so many designer perfumes crowded inside. But as her eyes switched from the blare of crystal chandeliers and reacclimated themselves with the front lawn, something had caught her attention.
Needless to say, Max found herself impressed, albeit against her will. Although it wasn't the spacious perfectly manicured green lawns lined by the massive intertwining of rare and imported flowers, looking both carefully designed while staying true to their ethereal and untamed roots, that caught her attention. Nor was it the Parthenon columns or the valets more lavishly adorned than several of the well-off businessmen she'd made a habit of stealing from. All of these details escaped her notice, her mind focused on one sole enigma.
"How in the world did they get security cameras inside the fountain?"
A voice behind her responded to the question she wasn't even aware of posing aloud. "I'm not quite sure, Miss Wall. In fact, I think it's safe to say that the majority of our staff are blissfully unaware of their existence, which is how I figure Mr. Hawkins prefers it. You're quite observant." The shock of being caught off-guard and the irritability of knowing better, left her eyebrows tightly knit and her full lips drooping when she turned around and faced her potential mark.
The stranger behind her was well-dressed in his dark suit, but had the bearing of a butler or some other hired help. Politely cordial without being too friendly, his demeanor was quite the contrast from several minutes ago, when she and Alec had met him on the threshold of this shindig. While their attire would blend in perfectly at Logan's family bashes, this was an event, and their manner of dress was definitely subpar according to the doorman's standards. The decisive sniff he made at Max had been overlooked by her with unusual grace, not realizing her "date" had barely resisted the urge to throw his fist through the other man's face.
Max was not about to deal with anymore phony chitchat from anybody. No to mention that her cover, Isadora Wall--a name Alec had found rather amusing--wasn't about to except imitation compliments from the hired help. Stepping on the other side of the cliched tracks, Max crossed her arms over her chest, letting her scowl deepen. "What do you want?"
The doorman was taken aback by her blunt disfavor, which only confirmed his suspicions that this dazzling young women before him was new money, not bred and trained in social airs. Or she was just a bitch in princess' clothing. But being the ever professional, Mr. Hobbes didn't let one syllable of his inner monologue bleed through the pallid skin of his weathered face. "Dinner is served."
*****
The dining room was even more impressive than the front lawns. It was every interior decorator's dream. The room itself was cavernous and decorated to perfection: filled with just enough furnishings to keep the place from looking sparse, and with enough homey touches to keep the formality of the banqueting hall from bordering on starched, like so many of the guests surrounding Max at the moment. They eyed her with open speculation and whispered behind their finely manicured hands, whether French-tipped fingernails on the ladies or more rounded nails on the gentlemen.
Max bore their curiosity with the appropriate bored air, only making direct eye contact with a frightened maid, who was thoroughly being bawled out by an obese female whose wide face was made only more insipid by the preposterous hat dangling off of her gray hair. The hat--a garish sideshow of feathers and lace--was either fingering the pulse of more eccentric fashion statement or a victim of a bad ecstasy trip. The dress wasn't much better.
A small crowd was beginning to form around them, the mini-drama proving even more colorful than the pending seven-course dinner, and the hired help shrank into herself. Resisting the urge to throw elbows, Max carried herself through the crowd towards the poor maid with feline grace that seemed fairy-like trapped inside her rustling, pink hued dress. Sensing her presence, a sliver of circle developing around the spectacle opened and closed behind her like a series of doors in hallway. As she drew closer, the muttered apologies of the maid grew muted under the droning blare of her accuser, whose precise pitch made Max's inner eardrum squeal.
"...and I will make absolutely sure that you'll never find work in this city again. You won't even be able to work a grease pit for French fries, you sniveling little wetback!"
"Is there a problem?" Max asked calmly, now fully inside the bull's ring. Several of the spectators turned to her in surprise, some just now noticing her presence and others gawking at her show of gumption in the face of such ire.
The accuser--who Max realized wasn't as heavy-set as she had seemed but had made the grave mistake of trying to fit into a dress half her size--wheeled around. Mrs. Cole, so the accuser was called, let her hawkish green eyes coolly take in the woman interrupting her rant. She was young, not even half her age, but carried herself with a certain strength of sensibleness, one the accuser herself had yet to acquire. The girl was pretty, quite beautiful actually when one looked past the overly plump lips, but those eyes! Their cool brown irises were frozen chocolate, calculating Mrs. Cole's every move, so insightful that the older woman felt the need to explain herself for fear of being made a fool in front of so many important acquaintances.
"This cretin nearly ruined my dress with her carelessness!" Mrs. Cole explained haughtily, pointing to the tell-tale evidence of a broken champagne flute next to her feet, its precious liquid so rare in Post-pulse society moving in a slow puddle around her feet. Her exclamation was pitched just loud enough to catch the attention of nearly every guest in the mansion, and those who'd overlooked the spectacle before now turned with avidly interested eyes. A silence swept out from their circle across the entire floor, the epicenter of an earthquake moving across this small, white-collar city.
Max nodded with enough false sympathy to seem understanding without overdoing it and making herself gag. "Hmm. That would be quite the dilemma." She spared a quick glance towards the maid eyeing her in open terror, sending her a quick wink under her dark eyelashes and a slight grin. Turning her attention back to Mrs. Cole, she assessed the nearly victimized dress. She continued evenly, "That would be a shame, for such intricate stitching is rare to be found. This dress was handmade, was it not?"
Mrs. Cole fairly brightened under the observation, the well-worded compliment. Only the richest could afford something so lavish as a handmade dress this day in age. This was the way she was used to being addressed, easily complimented and coveted for her wealth, and Mrs. Cole returned to a more amiable state. She touched the dress slightly as if it were a subconscious gesture, when in all actuality it was a deliberate attempt to attract attention from those who could see her. Her sharp ears were pleased to hear a murmur of appreciation among the ladies. "Yes," she responded, pride lacing her faintly nasal tone. "It was an original Julian Berrini, imported from Italy." The murmur grew louder, for the young and passionate gift of Julian Berrini had made quite the name for itself in recent years, though he normally catered solely to royal families.
"Well, take away my trust fund. A Berrini!" Max cooed, dripping with saccharine sweetness. "But then again, I just read in a newspaper somewhere that Berrini's recent fame had become tarnished and his companies were seized last night after they found he'd still been using sweatshops in Indonesia, which were banned under the United Nation's Worldwide Labor Act back in 2015. So some poor fifty-pound ten year-old whose fingers were the perfect size for such tiny stitches lost her eyesight in some dimly lit, under-ventilated sweatshop, developing asthma after prolonged exposure to the dusty and inhospitable environment, working a twenty hour day so you could pay some overstuffed, white-collar, Post-Pulse Mussolini of the fashion world thousands of dollars for a dress at least three sizes too small that same poor kid will barely see two dollars of, which will subsequently go directly to buying inadequate amounts of stale food for the rest of her twenty person, malnourished family. I'm glad to see you've done your part for humanity."
Mrs. Cole had been basking under the glow of finally being the attention of a party--her queer eyes and mousy, freckled face never was a real big hit with the teenyboppers of her era--up until "Miss Wall's" impromptu speech. She now blanched under the attention, her eyes sticking out like two marbles in a bowl of milk, as aware of every freckle that failed to fade with age from her face as much as every pair of eyes that settled on her. Her sharp ears now heard every cricket's song in the background, before the general hubbub recovered from this sharp-tongued idealist's onslaught, and suddenly decided to make a mass exodus towards dinner table. With a strong sniff and a pulverizing glare, Mrs. Cole turned on one heel and marched off, every click of her high heels grinding under the pressure of wounded, self-righteous pride.
As the crowd dispersed, Max closed the final gap between herself and the maid, who now just recovered her senses enough to start grabbing the broken champagne flute from the floor. She was young, Hispanic by descent and naturally moreno--dark-eyed and haired--not unlike Max herself. The girl was still quivering with the rush of the moment and lost control of her tray filled with crystal shards. Max's reflexes grabbed the tray before it could hit the floor and spill the shards again. Crouching down, she held the tray obligingly until the girl was satisfied the floor was free, all shards corralled on the silver tray. 'Real silver. Handcrafted, probably from Spain. I could fence this for at least 6 grand,' she estimated.
"Thank you so much," the girl said in rush, a soft Puerto Rican accent lilting in the words. "I don't know what I would've done, or even what I'm going to do now. Mr. Salino had taken a big chance in hiring me, and I just know he's going to fire me after this."
"Hey, no problem. I'll even put a good word in with your boss, as away of saying thanks."
"Thanks? Why are you thanking me?"
"These hoity-toity, rich punks need to be brought down a peg or two once in awhile," she answered honestly. 'Too bad you're supposed to be playing one,' she chastised herself, watching the maid's nearly black irises widen even further as "Miss Wall" denounced people of her own social class.
"But you're one of them." Catching her slip up, the maid blushed through her tan skin, mentally kissing this job goodbye. "I mean, I..."
Max straightened elegantly, handing the tray back to the girl. "What's your name?"
"Maria De la Cruz." If there was anything she'd learned since her illegal arrival in America a little over a year ago--although legality wasn't a real issue seeing as the United States border policy had switched from on to off with the lights of the Pulse--it was that when someone asked for your name in this kind of situation it was as good as being fired.
"A very pretty name. Actually, I myself am kind of what you'd call 'new money.' Same old story: an impossibly rich, miser aunt I'd never met kicks the bucket and leaves her favorite sister's only daughter the whole of her estate. Up until a few months ago, I was working a messenger service and squatting, just another girl tryin' to make ends meet." Well, it was partially true anyway. "And now the only way I know I'm going to get through this bitch tonight is by not being intimidated by these money-grubbing slugs. I'm terrible at holding my tongue. Some people are addicted to cigarettes, I'm addicted to speaking my mind."
"The evening has only started," Maria said.
"I know. I don't think I'm going to make it. Do you know the worst part so far though, Maria?" The other girl shook her head, her black bangs raking back and forth across her forehead like a wispy, unbalanced crown.
"The worst part is knowing that our Mrs. Cole had to have put down at least 35 G's for that dress and didn't even bother putting on control top pantyhose." That statement and the sad little "tsks" following shocked a laugh out of Maria, and before she fell asleep after coming off her shift that night, her last coherent thought was of a dolled up fellow girl of the hood who'd saved her job.
*****
A hand reached around Max and grasped the back of her chair before Max could, pulling it out for her gallantly. "You're late," she chastised lightly, not even averting her eyes from the table and the family of forks and spoons on either side of her plate. Dinner wafted in from the kitchen Max surmised was behind the cherry oak door on the other side of room, and that particular scent on her empty stomach and the flavor of her date's cologne made her feel quite heady.
"Sorry," Alec whispered back without any true remorse. "The rounds took longer than I'd planned for. I nearly met up with a security guard in a very restricted area and had to wait him out while he did his rounds." Alec grimaced slightly, remembering the half hour he'd spent in hiding. "Air duct lint is hell on Armani tuxedos."
"What kind of house needs air ducts that big?" Max wondered aloud, sitting down gently. A full grown man, tampered DNA or not, would find it very difficult fitting into the air ducts she was used to.
"Have you seen the size of this place, Max?" He asked, pulling a chair out for himself. "I think it was a museum in its former life."
Mr. Anthony Hawkins, the host of their gala, stood at the end of one of the two tables that ran down the length of the dining room, designed to hold the sixty or so guests there that night. While Mr. Hawkins expressed the customary bullcrap about his pleasure at each and every guest's attendance, Alec leaned over to Max. "What's the lowdown on this palace's ground floor?"
"Security has been doubled for tonight's festivities," Max said, but her date's attention had already began to meander amongst the others at their table. Taking every opportunity to play the handsome cad, Alec roguishly winked at solidly built, pre-menopausal woman sitting directly across the table. The woman blushed with the innocent flirtatiousness of a school girl, deepening the rouge she'd caked on to a more natural level. Alec smiled charmingly at with his mission accomplished but it turned into a slight grimace as Max's stiletto heel found his toes and brought him back to more important matters. He'd roped her into this after all, the least he could do was pay attention. Max continued over the grunt and heavy glower he threw in her direction. "The west wing is about as safe to walk through as the beaches of Normandy: thermal scanners, movement sensors, the works. There is a door at the end of corridor number three designed almost perfectly to blend into the wall, which if the blue prints Logan as drew up are right, is the main security room. Now the way I see it..."
Alec interrupted her. "See, that's what I don't get about rich people. Why would anybody buy an art piece only to spend twice the money after that for security and to hide said security in a separate room?"
"Uh, Alec? Would you look at your place setting? The pure silver and 20 karat gold inlay on fine china plates alone is worth seven or eight grand for a set, more if the inflation rates on the big B.M. are working for ya. Reality check: money is no object for these people."
"That's another thing. Why is money no object? It technically is an object whether you got it hanging out the can or not. It comes in coins, bills, checks, the 401K plans of the past, stock portfolios..."
"Alec?"
"Yeah, Max?"
"Shut up. Have you always talked this much?" In the back of her mind, she remembered somebody mentioning something about Alec being a "yapper," or at least that's what echoed in her memory fogged brain. She was so absorbed in the twinges of a memory that she completely missed his next comment.
Alec answered shamelessly and somewhat absently seeing as he'd re-ignited his flirtations with the woman across the table who was nearly old enough to be his mother. "It's another genetic defect of mine. Thanks to X5-493's altered DNA I'm not only prone to psychotic breaks and serial murder but I was also born without an inner monologue."
"Huh?"
Alec rolled his eyes. He would waste a comeback on her. "Nothing."
They then lapsed into a truce of sorts for the first several courses of the long and tedious dinner, verbal parry and thrusts put aside for matters of state.
It had been decided early on that Alec would do the majority of the hands-on work he preferred. He loved the rush of the unhurried descent through a skylight on a sleek black rope--after spending agonizing hours whittling down his favorite tools to the bare necessities, the transgenic had managed to cram everything into a briefcase--almost more than the feel of crisp, green bills lining his pockets. Only two small items were to be taken, it'd be damn near impossible to sneak out something the size of the Venus de Milo. Alec's one and only target was a hefty diamond whose popularity was on par with the fictional "Pink Panther."
Max had elected to play his mole, feeding him information--through rather unreliable but completely invisible earpieces donated by Dix--on guard changes and when which alarms were being armed, deactivated, and then rearmed as elite personnel checked the corridors by hand. The boss didn't seem to have to much faith in technology these days, though given the physical capabilities of these two cat burglars, guards weren't too reliable either. Max had flatly said her maneuvering around alarms in black, skin-tight cat suits was one thing, a pink frilly dress was quite another. They were more prone to gravity's pull and setting of an alarm at an inopportune moment.
"You could just traipse up and down the halls naked," Alec countered, taking one too many beats to reflect on the image. Max didn't even notice, distracted by the words "please tell me you're gonna get naked" ringing back and forth across her brain in a tone of voice strikingly similar to Alec's.
"Speaking of getting naked," he rumbled next, tipping his head down the table. A well-endowed, Shirley Temple-headed maid was busy retrieving plates from the man next sitting on Max's opposite side. Her plates' proprietor's age was looming towards fifty-five like his belly was looming over his leather belt. Like his hand was looming dangerously over the maid's thigh. The girl's eyes widened, not in surprise as much as contemplation, trying to figure any way out from under his cracked fingers without causing a scene that would inevitably be turned around and cost her job.
Too swift for human eyes to see, Alec grabbed the salad fork he'd insisted on keeping when a maid did her earlier rounds, leaned behind Max's chair, and struck the would-be assailant's wrist; a flick designed sharply enough to catch shock and undivided attention without causing bruising. Alec addressed the shocked man with as much respect as he deemed deserving: "Show some respect, man. The girl could be your niece, you backwater inbreed."
Alec slipped back upright and to his meal again with Manticorian hustle, leaving both man and maid wondering if the whole scene really did happen. They both turned to the girl next to him, dressed in pink chiffon, but her coffee brown eyes gave away nothing more than a mirror would: a reflection of their own stupefied faces. Only Alec's knowing smile around his spoon as he stared straight ahead was any creditable evidence, the guests around them were still heavily ingratiated in their conversations of stock portfolios and personal masseuses. It had been a pause in time only the four of them were privy to.
The maid finished grabbing the plate. The man muttered something unintelligible, probably an apology. Max turned on Alec, suddenly angry at him and not knowing why.
"What?" he asked, finally turning several moments after the boring glare began to wear on his nerves.
"I could ask you the same thing."
"What? You mean that?" Alec asked, swirling one finger toward the scene of the crime with all the offhandedness of suicidal serial killer pointing out damning evidence.
"Yes. That. What was that all about?" Some dark green, unnamed emotion charged in like high tide, turning a very pretty shade of cherry Max's blood and flushing through her softly-curved cheeks.
"Damsel in distress, Max," he said matter-of-factly with a shrug. "You claim to be literate, didn't you happen across one of those in your Dr. Seuss/Disney books?"
Max's jaw opened and shut, suddenly free of any witty retorts. He charged on at her rare silence. "And don't even get on me for defending the working class rights. I heard your whole case of Berrini Mussolini Cavetelli Spaghetti vs. The United Nations Labor Movement. I nearly pissed my pants smothering my laughter in the air vent and the guard's backside was bare inches and metal grating away from my face."
"All I'm asking for is a little consistency," Max explained. "You play the flirtatious jerk for the woman who could very well be your surrogate mother, then you're some late-blooming knight in starched Armani for the hired hand."
"I'm giving them what they want, Max." The quick answer wasn't what she was looking for if glares were any indication, so he expanded his explanation. "Once you reach menopause in the upper crust where the biggest news is whose mistress got the matching bra and BMW set, you could use a little of that slightly lower-class cad across the crystal goblets to liven the spirits. Her, on the other hand," he said, pointing offhandedly to the maid he'd so gallantly rescued from near non-consensual groping. (Max thought she had a little too much switch in her hips, having not been nearly so bouncy before meeting her "knight.") "After working long, thankless hours toting champagne in those heels for these stuffed shirts, a girl could use a little rescuing."
"And what would you do if I told you the same foe you'd just saved fair damsel from has been groping my thigh all night?"
He'd shoved his spoon through the guy's trachea, that's what he'd do. But it wasn't what came out. Without so much as batting an eyelash, he deadpanned, "Max, you're notorious for your quick punch and quicker temper. If you can't find a way to take care of a suit overdosed on Viagra, you're screwed."
He paused for a moment, leaning back in the corner of his chair, spoon laying indolently across his lips, eyeing Max as if he'd was truly seeing her for the first time. Max squirmed a bit under his soul-reading stare. True to any girl's first instinct, she touched her hair lightly and brushed her hand against the side of her mouth, wondering if a curl fell or if her silk napkin failed to remove part of course number six from her cheek.
"You're jealous," he said after a pregnant pause, the mere idea sending an unwanted thrill across his barcode and down his spine as if a stray bolt of lightening from the increasing rage outside had slipped through the window unnoticed and struck the base of his skull.
"Yeah," Max scoffed. Or tried to, it felt more like she was choking. "And before the siege of Terminal City, Normal and I were a passionate couple."
"Ugh, the imagery," Alec said, pretending to gag.
"Shut up."
"Oh, yeah. There's your rapier wit I know and love." Both transgenics paused at the end of his comment, afraid to look at each other, a tension crackling between their hands. Then down the table a fork scraped loudly against fine china, breaking the trance.
Chapter 10
"Max, kick your carcass outta neutral! The limo's gonna be here any minute!" Alec bellowed before returning to his pacing back and forth across the floor, occasionally checking his bowtie in the dusty window.
It had taken Max even less time than Alec had accounted for to come to an executive decision. Within thirty minutes, she'd marched back into the office that had once been hers and said she'd help him on several conditions, which to sum them up basically said that Alec had to behave like a perfect gentleman. He'd agreed immediately but voiced his worry that once she saw him in his tux, she might not feel like behaving like a lady. Max had had several of unladylike phrases in response to that, and making his hands into a steeple in front of his mouth, Alec had smiled through everyone of them. Even though she'd subconsciously used her old threats and slogans, they didn't carry nearly the bite they'd once had. More generated from some unnamed emotion, which he was secretly determined to pinpoint, than her old loathing.
They hadn't much time to lose. Within minutes of her acquiescence they'd snuck out of Terminal City, heading for Sandeman's old pad now squatted by one Logan Cale. Under the cover of night was the easiest time to sneak out. Perimeter security had been relatively loose before Alec had taken out Keith and volunteerism had only waned since, especially with the transgenics being so quiet lately--the Seattle Police Department was still unaware of what Alec had affectionately dubbed "Operation: Scooby Snacks." Counting a pit stop for a quick laser touch up, the transgenics had made relatively good time, safe inside Logan's within two hours.
Logan hadn't been there to greet them, as it had been planned. Already knowing of Alec's escapade, he'd had left a note saying that he'd had some business that would keep him away from home base at least a couple of days, there was plenty of food in the fridge, and "for the love of all things holy, don't piss off Max at any inopportune moments." Alec had smiled at the last bit, subconsciously cherishing the tentative camaraderie he and Logan shared. Lately it was only when Max was quite literally in the picture that things grew tense between them.
With a good twenty hours to kill, Alec and Max had used the time wisely, covering their game plan, major players, and the major rules and boundaries of their "game." He'd also drilled her on proper etiquette for events such as these and what to use, how to use, and when to use the proper utensils during the upcoming seven course meal. Things had gone rather well for the most part, Max learning everything at Manticorian light speed.
Then Alec decided to teach Max how to waltz, or tried to actually. The problem wasn't just that Max had been in fact cursed with two left feet; all the elements had been against them at the time of the dance lesson. It had been a rainy night, as nights are wont to be in Seattle, and a brown out occurred suddenly. The lights tapered down to near nonexistence but since their battery-powered stereo remained unaffected and they had such excellent night vision, Max insisted they continue dancing until she got it right. Alec had been a splendid dancer and amazingly patient teacher until that fatal moment, but in the combination of darkness, both still damp from running around half of Seattle while it rained transgenics and transgens, and the classical music playing in the background did absolutely nothing to improve Alec's tendency to let his mind wander. He did his best to harness it and might have even proved successful if it hadn't been for Max. In her uncertainty of the steps and overcompensation for the resilient shadows, Max stepped closer to Alec than he could ever recall and his concentration was blown out of the water. Soon it wasn't her stepping on Alec's feet, but him on hers, and his was the offending forehead reaching for hers. But that wasn't all his face had wanted to reach for...
He'd pushed her away suddenly in near violence, saying she was doing well enough and "shouldn't we be getting some rest now? It's nearly three-thirty in the morning." Perplexed but reining in her curiosity, Max had left him curled on the couch. It wasn't right for him to be thinking such things, for even if she had the slightest clue about his wayward thoughts before her amnesia, she sure as Manticore puts the "Man" in any soldier didn't now. After tossing and turning for several minutes, Alec had fallen asleep to the soft patter of feet through the ceiling and the sinusoidal echo of "one, two, three" as Max continued her dance lesson on her own upstairs in Joshua's old bedroom.
He'd awoken the next morning to the sound of ham frying in the kitchen. Having rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, as even transgenics were prone to getting, Alec had blindly wandered toward the kitchen and the smell of meat, holding up the sweatpants--judging by their fit on his lean frame, had formerly belonged to Joshua and not Logan--as he went.
Max hadn't heard him coming, her multitasking brain too absorbed in reviewing for tonight's proceedings, cooking breakfast, and humming some tune Ray had taught her long ago, subliminally planted in her memory. She too, had been clad in borrowed attire, wearing a pair of Logan's basketball shorts that had hung to her knees even when the strings were secured as tightly as superhumanly possible around her size three waist, and a XXL white T-shirt that had seen better days covering all they way to her butt. 'Or maybe it hadn't seen better days,' an inner voice had chirped, letting on far more than his face would about how arresting Max truly had looked. Her thick, dark hair slapped up into that sloppy half-pony tail, half-bun thingy women always did hadn't exactly hurt her overall appearance either.
When she had finally noticed him mid-bar, Alec had made some inane mark about her being a couple of rugrats dangling from around her ankles and a pregnant belly away from looking like "White Trash Woman of the Week" with only half of his brain. The other half had been dually focused on her half-scoff, half-laugh in response and the shape of her bare calves, which thankfully Max had been too focused on her frying eggs to have seen. Sure she was of Manticore's mold, and nothing less than a nice pair of legs were to be expected, but Alec had just realized how rare it was to see those twins--seeing as Max never really wore shorts--and his mind decided to save up the image for a rainy day, or another rainy night.
Breakfast had passed in relative companionship, once Alec had resigned himself to eating green eggs--Max had added the food coloring she'd found on a shelf, "Green Eggs and Ham" by Dr. Seuss having been the first book she'd read cover to cover after her and her siblings' personal Declaration of Independence from Manticore. She had told him of her finding the book on a bus in Sacramento, California and how it had stayed with her for months before losing during a drug raid at a foster home. Alec in turn had confessed that the first book he'd read from cover to cover since freedom bells started a chimin'--if one didn't count Calvin and Hobbes--had yet to be discovered. Post-pulse BET, on the other hand, he'd come across almost instantly. Max had rolled her eyes at his TV dependency and asked if they should find him a twelve step program, and Alec had seriously replied that he could stop anytime he wanted to. The two had shared a smile.
After more drilling and a light lunch, Max and Alec had disappeared into their separate wings to get ready. That was more than two hours ago...
A knock on the door stopped Alec's trip down short-term memory lane, and he made his way across the room to answer it. An Italian guy in his early thirties stood on the porch patiently, wearing the black button down shirt and black slacks in uniform to the international dress code of limo drivers everywhere, completed by his clean-cut black hair covered by a black hat that looked like it couldn't decide whether it was from the Civil War era or a baseball cap. Or so Alec had always thought.
It was beginning to rain again. Inviting the driver in, Alec had barely shut the door behind the other man before wheeling around on one foot and calling up the stairs for the sixth time in two minutes. He whistled through his teeth and called up stairs, "Here, Maxie, Maxie, Maxie. You want to go for a ride don't you?" He patted his Armani covered thigh like he was calling a stubborn or timid dog.
"I'm coming you lousy son of a..."
"Tsk, tsk, Max! Don't use such foul language in front of our company. We wouldn't want to assail our poor driver's ears," he yelled back, followed up with some choice words against the female population in general, pitched only loud enough for himself--and judging by his ill-concealed smirk, the driver--to hear. He misjudged the volume. "I heard that!"
Alec rolled his eyes, mouthing the word "women" in exasperation to their driver, who'd by now introduced himself as Chris. Becoming more and more impatient, calculating the time they'd have to spend in rush hour traffic due to the fact that his "date's" ETA from the upstairs to the downstairs had obviously met some unexpected complications, Alec began to bounce lightly on his feet. Sensing the interesting one-man show he was throwing for Chris, he decided to fine-tune his fidgeting from his feet to his fingers, and commenced retying that blasted bowtie for the millionth time, still not satisfied with the final product.
"I'm tellin' ya, buddy, I'm an atheist at heart, seeing as my family wasn't to big on church and stuff. But if I ever converted to believing in Higher Powers it would be based solely on the fact that bowties and the gentler sex's time to ready itself have got to be living proof of demonic powers," Alec said, ripping the bowtie apart again and starting from scratch with impatient, long fingers. How in the name of GQ magazine can fingers be trained from birth to kill with a paperclip and still not understand the intricate weavings of a bowtie?
"I hear ya," Chris nodded empathetically, not feeling the need to be professionally reserved as his line of work tended to call for. He had decided he liked his client almost immediately. Mr. McDowell, or so his assignment sheet called him, was beautiful and aware of it, though he wasn't conceited by any means, and wore his beauty as easily as a butterfly her wings. It was as if Mr. McDowell was aware that something, Higher Powers or simple genetic heredity, had blessed him with good looks and he couldn't have created them himself anymore than grass deciding to make itself a healthy, rich shade of green. His eyes struck Chris the deepest, rendering Alec immortal in him memory. The hazel orbs were scarred and older than their years yet had the understanding air that life was more than pain. These eyes would be able to delight in joy all the more because they comprehended the purest of pains.
"Max!"
"I'm coming!" A female voice rang down the stairs like thunder in her own impatience.
"You've been saying that for forty-five minutes!"
"Oh, are you getting bored? How about I shake it up for you: I'm NOT coming!"
"Funny!"
"I'm putting my heels on even as we bellow! By the way, I've decided you male bastards designed these things specifically for use of torture devices for females hundreds of years down the road."
There was a silence on both ends of the line, both hanging up for a moment. Alec resumed his circular tour of the living room, not trusting himself to even come within view of the stairs, knowing he was three seconds away from bounding up them and banging down the door to Joshua's old room. She was getting under his skin again.
Then there came a smaller, less confident voice from the top of the stairs, no longer muffled by the oak door barricading him from the bedroom. "Alec, you can't laugh."
Alec stopped mid-stride and pivoted on one foot towards the stairs. "What?" These were the last words he'd been expecting Max to say tonight--next to saying she'd fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with him--so he wasn't quite sure he'd heard right.
"You can't laugh. You have to promise me you won't laugh."
"Alright, I promise you won't laugh."
"Alec!" Shrill desperation took over her voice.
"Alright, alright. Chris thought it was funny anyway."
"Is Chris wearing a dress?" Alec looked over to their changed topic thoughtfully, eyeing him from head to toe as if he wasn't quite sure, even though he already knew Chris had a 9mm tucked in the back of his pants, probably by the order of his company. "No," he finally responded.
"Promise me."
"Alright already. I promise. Scout's honor. Cross my heart and hope to die. May lightening strike me. No fingers crossed. If I do, I'll die 'til I'm dead. Are you satisfied yet?"
"You promise what?"
"Oh for the love of...I PROMISE I WON'T LAUGH!"
Such a silence rang through the house that Chris forgot to laugh, afraid such a roar had indeed frightened Mr. McDowell's poor date right back up those stairs for good. He listened for the slamming of a bedroom door and was relieved to hear none, not realizing that Max's own temper--made meek by sheer fear of embarrassment--had risen in direct proportion to Alec's, giving her the gumption to take those final steps into full view.
Max worries were completely founded. It wasn't like she looked radiant or anything, the soft pink layers of her dress only accenting the rich tan of her skin. It wasn't like her hair looked perfect, the loops and twists of the tresses pulled into hairdo that looked amazingly understated, belying the forty-five minutes she must have spent on her mane alone. It wasn't like she looked like an angel, that most beings, these two men included, were amazed that such an epitome of grace and magnetism and everything good could transform from a celestial essence into a living, breathing body with feet now touching the same floor their unworthy ones had crossed only moments before.
It wasn't like Alec forgot to breathe, or his heart skipped so many beats he would have been in critical condition if not for his Manticorian physiology.
Alec remained painfully silent in trying to revive his limp tongue to its usual hustle.
Chris was shocked at her beauty rivaling Mr. McDowell's, which also carried that air of maturity, a pain and healing in a similar vein to Alec's, making it all the more rare and precious. Chris found himself amazed at these two beings who radiated so many emotions, such a strong passion that he instinctively knew they always did their utmost to bar it behind their eyes. But even hiding that fervor inside themselves was as useless as putting on sunglasses and staring into the sun, for they dimmed the objects around it far more than they could ever hope to dim the glare of the light itself, only making it shine brighter and truer.
Alec finally managed enough movement in his upper torso to clear his throat raggedly. "You look...nice." Chris' jaw dropped at Mr. McDowell's vast understatement, even as Alec resisted the strong urge to smack himself silly.
Max smiled in appreciation of Alec's lack of a sarcastic color commentary, not realizing her sweet flash of teeth was giving her poor "date" palpitations so strong he thought she'd see pounding through his tuxedo. The silence in between her appearing before him and his first words had frayed her nerves at the edges though, thinking he silence had been just a precursor to the torrent of jokes at her expense.
She'd really tried her best to look nice for tonight--which proved even harder than it had a couple years ago in Jam Pony's ladies' room before Logan's cousin's wedding, particularly without Original Cindy's advice and well-meant wisecracks to take off Max's nervous edge--and seemed to have triumphed. She'd redone her hair countless times, one curl out of place making her tear down the entire art form before starting again, and must have done her makeup seventeen different ways from Tuesday before deciding to stick with what she new best: a hint of blush here, a touch of eye shadow there, some cherry lip balm and a girl was good to go. God only knows why she'd gone to the trouble, at least He'd better, someone should after the two straight hours of fretting, and she knew she wasn't that person. Max hadn't had such a case of nerves since water solos back at her first home. If her seizures hadn't been fixed before the fall of Manticore she'd throw some extra Tryptophan in her purse, her brain chemistry had to be suffering from the stress.
Max tried not to let herself be disappointed by Alec's appraisal either. She'd tried to look nice and she succeeded; no more, no less. She contented herself on the scrap Alec threw her. 'Any beauty coming from an X5 series is to be expected and not complimented on,' the soldier inside herself said. He probably saw as much "action" these days as a soldier in 'Nam, one girl in a dress wouldn't be too impressive anyway.
"You don't clean up too bad yourself," she said. Milking the friendship blossoming between them for all its worth she added, "You look fantastic." Alec smiled in response, laced with an unusual nervousness that made him painfully resemble a guy trying to get his date to the prom--the unusual sight of him in a tuxedo wasn't hurting the image--and Max felt her stomach flip over.
"Thanks," he muttered softly, smiling in a way only Max could fully understand, but a forgotten Chris could guess a rough translation from. Remembering his place he laced his arm within hers, the illusion complete in more ways than one. "You ready?"
"I'd better be, seeing as you've spent the last hour screaming up the stairs. You're not one to talk anyway," she chastised, fingering the flaccid ends of the unraveled bowtie with arched eyebrows. She did it up quickly trying to ignore the chance brush of her hand against his chin or throat, but her trembling fingers didn't seem to get the memo. "There, all done." Alec turned toward the window, saw the exact tie he'd been trying to find all evening. It was perfect. "Thanks again."
On the topic of the bowtie, Chris was the only unbiased opinion in the room, although he had the feeling the black girl blindly eyeing him from a nearby painting would agree with him: it looked exactly the same as it had the other seven times Alec had done it since his arrival.
*****
The house, although manor or palace would have described it better, hosting their illicit soiree was staged back from the street a great distance, as if to draw more attention to itself instead of backing away with shyness. The entire castle montage was completed by a long driveway that wound around a fountain whose sheer size would have made the monument tawdry if it wasn't for the graceful arcs of water spouting from several outlets, grasping the soft yellow and white lights before splashing into the shallow pool.
The rain had tapered off long enough for Max to catch some much needed fresh air, as opposed to the barrage her senses were under from so many designer perfumes crowded inside. But as her eyes switched from the blare of crystal chandeliers and reacclimated themselves with the front lawn, something had caught her attention.
Needless to say, Max found herself impressed, albeit against her will. Although it wasn't the spacious perfectly manicured green lawns lined by the massive intertwining of rare and imported flowers, looking both carefully designed while staying true to their ethereal and untamed roots, that caught her attention. Nor was it the Parthenon columns or the valets more lavishly adorned than several of the well-off businessmen she'd made a habit of stealing from. All of these details escaped her notice, her mind focused on one sole enigma.
"How in the world did they get security cameras inside the fountain?"
A voice behind her responded to the question she wasn't even aware of posing aloud. "I'm not quite sure, Miss Wall. In fact, I think it's safe to say that the majority of our staff are blissfully unaware of their existence, which is how I figure Mr. Hawkins prefers it. You're quite observant." The shock of being caught off-guard and the irritability of knowing better, left her eyebrows tightly knit and her full lips drooping when she turned around and faced her potential mark.
The stranger behind her was well-dressed in his dark suit, but had the bearing of a butler or some other hired help. Politely cordial without being too friendly, his demeanor was quite the contrast from several minutes ago, when she and Alec had met him on the threshold of this shindig. While their attire would blend in perfectly at Logan's family bashes, this was an event, and their manner of dress was definitely subpar according to the doorman's standards. The decisive sniff he made at Max had been overlooked by her with unusual grace, not realizing her "date" had barely resisted the urge to throw his fist through the other man's face.
Max was not about to deal with anymore phony chitchat from anybody. No to mention that her cover, Isadora Wall--a name Alec had found rather amusing--wasn't about to except imitation compliments from the hired help. Stepping on the other side of the cliched tracks, Max crossed her arms over her chest, letting her scowl deepen. "What do you want?"
The doorman was taken aback by her blunt disfavor, which only confirmed his suspicions that this dazzling young women before him was new money, not bred and trained in social airs. Or she was just a bitch in princess' clothing. But being the ever professional, Mr. Hobbes didn't let one syllable of his inner monologue bleed through the pallid skin of his weathered face. "Dinner is served."
*****
The dining room was even more impressive than the front lawns. It was every interior decorator's dream. The room itself was cavernous and decorated to perfection: filled with just enough furnishings to keep the place from looking sparse, and with enough homey touches to keep the formality of the banqueting hall from bordering on starched, like so many of the guests surrounding Max at the moment. They eyed her with open speculation and whispered behind their finely manicured hands, whether French-tipped fingernails on the ladies or more rounded nails on the gentlemen.
Max bore their curiosity with the appropriate bored air, only making direct eye contact with a frightened maid, who was thoroughly being bawled out by an obese female whose wide face was made only more insipid by the preposterous hat dangling off of her gray hair. The hat--a garish sideshow of feathers and lace--was either fingering the pulse of more eccentric fashion statement or a victim of a bad ecstasy trip. The dress wasn't much better.
A small crowd was beginning to form around them, the mini-drama proving even more colorful than the pending seven-course dinner, and the hired help shrank into herself. Resisting the urge to throw elbows, Max carried herself through the crowd towards the poor maid with feline grace that seemed fairy-like trapped inside her rustling, pink hued dress. Sensing her presence, a sliver of circle developing around the spectacle opened and closed behind her like a series of doors in hallway. As she drew closer, the muttered apologies of the maid grew muted under the droning blare of her accuser, whose precise pitch made Max's inner eardrum squeal.
"...and I will make absolutely sure that you'll never find work in this city again. You won't even be able to work a grease pit for French fries, you sniveling little wetback!"
"Is there a problem?" Max asked calmly, now fully inside the bull's ring. Several of the spectators turned to her in surprise, some just now noticing her presence and others gawking at her show of gumption in the face of such ire.
The accuser--who Max realized wasn't as heavy-set as she had seemed but had made the grave mistake of trying to fit into a dress half her size--wheeled around. Mrs. Cole, so the accuser was called, let her hawkish green eyes coolly take in the woman interrupting her rant. She was young, not even half her age, but carried herself with a certain strength of sensibleness, one the accuser herself had yet to acquire. The girl was pretty, quite beautiful actually when one looked past the overly plump lips, but those eyes! Their cool brown irises were frozen chocolate, calculating Mrs. Cole's every move, so insightful that the older woman felt the need to explain herself for fear of being made a fool in front of so many important acquaintances.
"This cretin nearly ruined my dress with her carelessness!" Mrs. Cole explained haughtily, pointing to the tell-tale evidence of a broken champagne flute next to her feet, its precious liquid so rare in Post-pulse society moving in a slow puddle around her feet. Her exclamation was pitched just loud enough to catch the attention of nearly every guest in the mansion, and those who'd overlooked the spectacle before now turned with avidly interested eyes. A silence swept out from their circle across the entire floor, the epicenter of an earthquake moving across this small, white-collar city.
Max nodded with enough false sympathy to seem understanding without overdoing it and making herself gag. "Hmm. That would be quite the dilemma." She spared a quick glance towards the maid eyeing her in open terror, sending her a quick wink under her dark eyelashes and a slight grin. Turning her attention back to Mrs. Cole, she assessed the nearly victimized dress. She continued evenly, "That would be a shame, for such intricate stitching is rare to be found. This dress was handmade, was it not?"
Mrs. Cole fairly brightened under the observation, the well-worded compliment. Only the richest could afford something so lavish as a handmade dress this day in age. This was the way she was used to being addressed, easily complimented and coveted for her wealth, and Mrs. Cole returned to a more amiable state. She touched the dress slightly as if it were a subconscious gesture, when in all actuality it was a deliberate attempt to attract attention from those who could see her. Her sharp ears were pleased to hear a murmur of appreciation among the ladies. "Yes," she responded, pride lacing her faintly nasal tone. "It was an original Julian Berrini, imported from Italy." The murmur grew louder, for the young and passionate gift of Julian Berrini had made quite the name for itself in recent years, though he normally catered solely to royal families.
"Well, take away my trust fund. A Berrini!" Max cooed, dripping with saccharine sweetness. "But then again, I just read in a newspaper somewhere that Berrini's recent fame had become tarnished and his companies were seized last night after they found he'd still been using sweatshops in Indonesia, which were banned under the United Nation's Worldwide Labor Act back in 2015. So some poor fifty-pound ten year-old whose fingers were the perfect size for such tiny stitches lost her eyesight in some dimly lit, under-ventilated sweatshop, developing asthma after prolonged exposure to the dusty and inhospitable environment, working a twenty hour day so you could pay some overstuffed, white-collar, Post-Pulse Mussolini of the fashion world thousands of dollars for a dress at least three sizes too small that same poor kid will barely see two dollars of, which will subsequently go directly to buying inadequate amounts of stale food for the rest of her twenty person, malnourished family. I'm glad to see you've done your part for humanity."
Mrs. Cole had been basking under the glow of finally being the attention of a party--her queer eyes and mousy, freckled face never was a real big hit with the teenyboppers of her era--up until "Miss Wall's" impromptu speech. She now blanched under the attention, her eyes sticking out like two marbles in a bowl of milk, as aware of every freckle that failed to fade with age from her face as much as every pair of eyes that settled on her. Her sharp ears now heard every cricket's song in the background, before the general hubbub recovered from this sharp-tongued idealist's onslaught, and suddenly decided to make a mass exodus towards dinner table. With a strong sniff and a pulverizing glare, Mrs. Cole turned on one heel and marched off, every click of her high heels grinding under the pressure of wounded, self-righteous pride.
As the crowd dispersed, Max closed the final gap between herself and the maid, who now just recovered her senses enough to start grabbing the broken champagne flute from the floor. She was young, Hispanic by descent and naturally moreno--dark-eyed and haired--not unlike Max herself. The girl was still quivering with the rush of the moment and lost control of her tray filled with crystal shards. Max's reflexes grabbed the tray before it could hit the floor and spill the shards again. Crouching down, she held the tray obligingly until the girl was satisfied the floor was free, all shards corralled on the silver tray. 'Real silver. Handcrafted, probably from Spain. I could fence this for at least 6 grand,' she estimated.
"Thank you so much," the girl said in rush, a soft Puerto Rican accent lilting in the words. "I don't know what I would've done, or even what I'm going to do now. Mr. Salino had taken a big chance in hiring me, and I just know he's going to fire me after this."
"Hey, no problem. I'll even put a good word in with your boss, as away of saying thanks."
"Thanks? Why are you thanking me?"
"These hoity-toity, rich punks need to be brought down a peg or two once in awhile," she answered honestly. 'Too bad you're supposed to be playing one,' she chastised herself, watching the maid's nearly black irises widen even further as "Miss Wall" denounced people of her own social class.
"But you're one of them." Catching her slip up, the maid blushed through her tan skin, mentally kissing this job goodbye. "I mean, I..."
Max straightened elegantly, handing the tray back to the girl. "What's your name?"
"Maria De la Cruz." If there was anything she'd learned since her illegal arrival in America a little over a year ago--although legality wasn't a real issue seeing as the United States border policy had switched from on to off with the lights of the Pulse--it was that when someone asked for your name in this kind of situation it was as good as being fired.
"A very pretty name. Actually, I myself am kind of what you'd call 'new money.' Same old story: an impossibly rich, miser aunt I'd never met kicks the bucket and leaves her favorite sister's only daughter the whole of her estate. Up until a few months ago, I was working a messenger service and squatting, just another girl tryin' to make ends meet." Well, it was partially true anyway. "And now the only way I know I'm going to get through this bitch tonight is by not being intimidated by these money-grubbing slugs. I'm terrible at holding my tongue. Some people are addicted to cigarettes, I'm addicted to speaking my mind."
"The evening has only started," Maria said.
"I know. I don't think I'm going to make it. Do you know the worst part so far though, Maria?" The other girl shook her head, her black bangs raking back and forth across her forehead like a wispy, unbalanced crown.
"The worst part is knowing that our Mrs. Cole had to have put down at least 35 G's for that dress and didn't even bother putting on control top pantyhose." That statement and the sad little "tsks" following shocked a laugh out of Maria, and before she fell asleep after coming off her shift that night, her last coherent thought was of a dolled up fellow girl of the hood who'd saved her job.
*****
A hand reached around Max and grasped the back of her chair before Max could, pulling it out for her gallantly. "You're late," she chastised lightly, not even averting her eyes from the table and the family of forks and spoons on either side of her plate. Dinner wafted in from the kitchen Max surmised was behind the cherry oak door on the other side of room, and that particular scent on her empty stomach and the flavor of her date's cologne made her feel quite heady.
"Sorry," Alec whispered back without any true remorse. "The rounds took longer than I'd planned for. I nearly met up with a security guard in a very restricted area and had to wait him out while he did his rounds." Alec grimaced slightly, remembering the half hour he'd spent in hiding. "Air duct lint is hell on Armani tuxedos."
"What kind of house needs air ducts that big?" Max wondered aloud, sitting down gently. A full grown man, tampered DNA or not, would find it very difficult fitting into the air ducts she was used to.
"Have you seen the size of this place, Max?" He asked, pulling a chair out for himself. "I think it was a museum in its former life."
Mr. Anthony Hawkins, the host of their gala, stood at the end of one of the two tables that ran down the length of the dining room, designed to hold the sixty or so guests there that night. While Mr. Hawkins expressed the customary bullcrap about his pleasure at each and every guest's attendance, Alec leaned over to Max. "What's the lowdown on this palace's ground floor?"
"Security has been doubled for tonight's festivities," Max said, but her date's attention had already began to meander amongst the others at their table. Taking every opportunity to play the handsome cad, Alec roguishly winked at solidly built, pre-menopausal woman sitting directly across the table. The woman blushed with the innocent flirtatiousness of a school girl, deepening the rouge she'd caked on to a more natural level. Alec smiled charmingly at with his mission accomplished but it turned into a slight grimace as Max's stiletto heel found his toes and brought him back to more important matters. He'd roped her into this after all, the least he could do was pay attention. Max continued over the grunt and heavy glower he threw in her direction. "The west wing is about as safe to walk through as the beaches of Normandy: thermal scanners, movement sensors, the works. There is a door at the end of corridor number three designed almost perfectly to blend into the wall, which if the blue prints Logan as drew up are right, is the main security room. Now the way I see it..."
Alec interrupted her. "See, that's what I don't get about rich people. Why would anybody buy an art piece only to spend twice the money after that for security and to hide said security in a separate room?"
"Uh, Alec? Would you look at your place setting? The pure silver and 20 karat gold inlay on fine china plates alone is worth seven or eight grand for a set, more if the inflation rates on the big B.M. are working for ya. Reality check: money is no object for these people."
"That's another thing. Why is money no object? It technically is an object whether you got it hanging out the can or not. It comes in coins, bills, checks, the 401K plans of the past, stock portfolios..."
"Alec?"
"Yeah, Max?"
"Shut up. Have you always talked this much?" In the back of her mind, she remembered somebody mentioning something about Alec being a "yapper," or at least that's what echoed in her memory fogged brain. She was so absorbed in the twinges of a memory that she completely missed his next comment.
Alec answered shamelessly and somewhat absently seeing as he'd re-ignited his flirtations with the woman across the table who was nearly old enough to be his mother. "It's another genetic defect of mine. Thanks to X5-493's altered DNA I'm not only prone to psychotic breaks and serial murder but I was also born without an inner monologue."
"Huh?"
Alec rolled his eyes. He would waste a comeback on her. "Nothing."
They then lapsed into a truce of sorts for the first several courses of the long and tedious dinner, verbal parry and thrusts put aside for matters of state.
It had been decided early on that Alec would do the majority of the hands-on work he preferred. He loved the rush of the unhurried descent through a skylight on a sleek black rope--after spending agonizing hours whittling down his favorite tools to the bare necessities, the transgenic had managed to cram everything into a briefcase--almost more than the feel of crisp, green bills lining his pockets. Only two small items were to be taken, it'd be damn near impossible to sneak out something the size of the Venus de Milo. Alec's one and only target was a hefty diamond whose popularity was on par with the fictional "Pink Panther."
Max had elected to play his mole, feeding him information--through rather unreliable but completely invisible earpieces donated by Dix--on guard changes and when which alarms were being armed, deactivated, and then rearmed as elite personnel checked the corridors by hand. The boss didn't seem to have to much faith in technology these days, though given the physical capabilities of these two cat burglars, guards weren't too reliable either. Max had flatly said her maneuvering around alarms in black, skin-tight cat suits was one thing, a pink frilly dress was quite another. They were more prone to gravity's pull and setting of an alarm at an inopportune moment.
"You could just traipse up and down the halls naked," Alec countered, taking one too many beats to reflect on the image. Max didn't even notice, distracted by the words "please tell me you're gonna get naked" ringing back and forth across her brain in a tone of voice strikingly similar to Alec's.
"Speaking of getting naked," he rumbled next, tipping his head down the table. A well-endowed, Shirley Temple-headed maid was busy retrieving plates from the man next sitting on Max's opposite side. Her plates' proprietor's age was looming towards fifty-five like his belly was looming over his leather belt. Like his hand was looming dangerously over the maid's thigh. The girl's eyes widened, not in surprise as much as contemplation, trying to figure any way out from under his cracked fingers without causing a scene that would inevitably be turned around and cost her job.
Too swift for human eyes to see, Alec grabbed the salad fork he'd insisted on keeping when a maid did her earlier rounds, leaned behind Max's chair, and struck the would-be assailant's wrist; a flick designed sharply enough to catch shock and undivided attention without causing bruising. Alec addressed the shocked man with as much respect as he deemed deserving: "Show some respect, man. The girl could be your niece, you backwater inbreed."
Alec slipped back upright and to his meal again with Manticorian hustle, leaving both man and maid wondering if the whole scene really did happen. They both turned to the girl next to him, dressed in pink chiffon, but her coffee brown eyes gave away nothing more than a mirror would: a reflection of their own stupefied faces. Only Alec's knowing smile around his spoon as he stared straight ahead was any creditable evidence, the guests around them were still heavily ingratiated in their conversations of stock portfolios and personal masseuses. It had been a pause in time only the four of them were privy to.
The maid finished grabbing the plate. The man muttered something unintelligible, probably an apology. Max turned on Alec, suddenly angry at him and not knowing why.
"What?" he asked, finally turning several moments after the boring glare began to wear on his nerves.
"I could ask you the same thing."
"What? You mean that?" Alec asked, swirling one finger toward the scene of the crime with all the offhandedness of suicidal serial killer pointing out damning evidence.
"Yes. That. What was that all about?" Some dark green, unnamed emotion charged in like high tide, turning a very pretty shade of cherry Max's blood and flushing through her softly-curved cheeks.
"Damsel in distress, Max," he said matter-of-factly with a shrug. "You claim to be literate, didn't you happen across one of those in your Dr. Seuss/Disney books?"
Max's jaw opened and shut, suddenly free of any witty retorts. He charged on at her rare silence. "And don't even get on me for defending the working class rights. I heard your whole case of Berrini Mussolini Cavetelli Spaghetti vs. The United Nations Labor Movement. I nearly pissed my pants smothering my laughter in the air vent and the guard's backside was bare inches and metal grating away from my face."
"All I'm asking for is a little consistency," Max explained. "You play the flirtatious jerk for the woman who could very well be your surrogate mother, then you're some late-blooming knight in starched Armani for the hired hand."
"I'm giving them what they want, Max." The quick answer wasn't what she was looking for if glares were any indication, so he expanded his explanation. "Once you reach menopause in the upper crust where the biggest news is whose mistress got the matching bra and BMW set, you could use a little of that slightly lower-class cad across the crystal goblets to liven the spirits. Her, on the other hand," he said, pointing offhandedly to the maid he'd so gallantly rescued from near non-consensual groping. (Max thought she had a little too much switch in her hips, having not been nearly so bouncy before meeting her "knight.") "After working long, thankless hours toting champagne in those heels for these stuffed shirts, a girl could use a little rescuing."
"And what would you do if I told you the same foe you'd just saved fair damsel from has been groping my thigh all night?"
He'd shoved his spoon through the guy's trachea, that's what he'd do. But it wasn't what came out. Without so much as batting an eyelash, he deadpanned, "Max, you're notorious for your quick punch and quicker temper. If you can't find a way to take care of a suit overdosed on Viagra, you're screwed."
He paused for a moment, leaning back in the corner of his chair, spoon laying indolently across his lips, eyeing Max as if he'd was truly seeing her for the first time. Max squirmed a bit under his soul-reading stare. True to any girl's first instinct, she touched her hair lightly and brushed her hand against the side of her mouth, wondering if a curl fell or if her silk napkin failed to remove part of course number six from her cheek.
"You're jealous," he said after a pregnant pause, the mere idea sending an unwanted thrill across his barcode and down his spine as if a stray bolt of lightening from the increasing rage outside had slipped through the window unnoticed and struck the base of his skull.
"Yeah," Max scoffed. Or tried to, it felt more like she was choking. "And before the siege of Terminal City, Normal and I were a passionate couple."
"Ugh, the imagery," Alec said, pretending to gag.
"Shut up."
"Oh, yeah. There's your rapier wit I know and love." Both transgenics paused at the end of his comment, afraid to look at each other, a tension crackling between their hands. Then down the table a fork scraped loudly against fine china, breaking the trance.