Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

By

E. S. Young

Chapter Fifty: The Death of the King

Fifty chapters… o.o; Oy vey…um… Wow. I never really expected it to get this out of hand. Geeze… Well, I'm certainly going to go back and edit this when all is said and done. God knows it probably needs it. 9.9;; But, on another note, I was stunned to see how many were taken off guard by Zeb's last relegation. I sincerely thought it was obvious. Actually, though, taking this all from a reader's POV and knowing how I am…it would've gone over my head. I'm sure of it. In a way I'm like Sands, I suppose. I hone in on all the little details but sometimes skip right over the larger picture :D;;; Revenge, gun violence, and bloodshed ahoy!

Hanging by a single, barren thread, one whose fraying self threatened to snap at any moment, were the last of her sense, and yet Zebbidy found herself surrounded by thick, sturdy ropes. Lifelines that called out to her, their painfully shrill, silvery voices goading "Grab me! Grab me!" Each one implored her to do the same: take a hold and swing to safety. But she didn't dare move, for whatever line she chose, each outcome held the same chaos that had been brought on by her treacherous decision. While she could slip away unscathed – the possibility was great – but those around her, however, would be forced to endure the repercussions. Her only duty was to sit and watch as the turmoil began to unfold.

The lifelines, she realized, were a web. A mass of gossamer threads coalesced to form a trap that was set to ensnare hapless insects such as herself. At the heart of the adhesive labyrinth lurked fate in the form of an awesome arachnid, poised carefully, awaiting those foolish enough to enter its domain.

Sands and his team, though their genius was certain and their skills were staunch, though they were all well aware of the consequences of trespassing, had wandered amiably into the lair of Édouard Poisson, the monster. And she, Zebbidy, had played the part of the bait. Unknowingly she had lured the agents into danger, all but hand fed them to the gruesome spider. Now, they too were trapped. Their limbs, along with her own, entwined with the viscid, wispy threads of the beast's net. And while she could inevitably get away with only guilt as a burden, the chance of the agents escaping was slim.

Consumed by the sticky myriad of tangles that was the web, Zebbidy felt her muscles scream as her arms were pulled taunt, suspending her between two equally empowering beings. Sands tugged naggingly from the left, while Édouard Poisson gave his end one brutal, arduous jerk, inflicting pain upon her already throbbing limbs. Both men threw her a vitriolic glare, but, juxtaposed next to one another, the difference between the two men was clear. Though undoubtedly inundated with rage, the agent was asking her for an explanation, but the Mafia leader – her grandfather – was demanding one.

"Zebbidy," Poisson commanded sharply, his voice scything through her rumination with cold precision. "I suggest you pay attention; you know that my tolerance for disrespect is limited."

"How does she know that, exactly?" Sands intervened, his tone mordant.

"He's my grandfather," Zebbidy murmured numbly. "I should think that that would be obvious by now."

"And explain why you didn't tell him earlier," Poisson prompted drollingly. For the first time in years there was life inside the aging mobster's eyes. The ice that had once frozen his irises had vanished, melted by the fires of mirth.

Zebbidy gave an indifferent shrug.

"To be honest, I never thought that you were much of a grandfather. The bond between us never was very strong. Therefore, the telling the CIA that we were related seemed pointless, wouldn't you agree? After all, in all the years we've known one another, you never once called me your granddaughter."

"You never conquered a feat worthy enough to merit the title," Poisson returned coolly.

Zebbidy's green eyes sparked, narrowing sharply beneath a fringe of long lashes. Beside her, Ajedrez flaunted her newfound triumph by smirking broadly. Sands and Lynné wore matching scowls, looking so bitter that their anger and revulsion seemed to seep form their very pores. Switching her gaze, Zebbidy regarded Liam who appeared to be puzzled with the whole situation, but also anxious. It was as if he was anticipating an event that should have already occurred but had unfortunately been forestalled. Anger with Poisson capitulating under curiosity, Zebbidy gave a confused quirk of her brow and turned back to the Mafia leader.

"It would seem that the feeling is mutual, Monsieur Poisson," she retorted, making no effort to hide the snideness in her tone.

With a sigh, Sands pushed the interrogation further. "So you're his granddaughter."

Zebbidy confirmed, "Correct."

"Through who?" Lynné asked, leaning slightly forward in her chair. "Last I checked, neither Alphonse nor Vincent had any kids."

"Last you checked, Zeb and Poisson weren't blood related," Sands commented sardonically, throwing Zebbidy a look of loathing that didn't quite reveal the betrayal he felt.

Swallowing the lump of shame that had swelled inside her throat, Zebbidy tried her best to answer the agent's question.

"Vincent and Alphonse are not Monsieur Poisson's only sons. Or they weren't, at one point. There was a third boy – born before the others – named Gérard." She smiled faintly. "My father… He was the heir to the family business. All of the money, the houses, the cars, the power… Everything that had belonged to my –" Zebbidy gave a little cough that did nothing to mask her resentment " – grandfather would go to Gérard in the event of death."

"Let me guess," Sands drawled leisurely, "he didn't want any of it."

Zebbidy nodded.

"The Mafia business always disgusted my father. Taking so many lives and ruining so many families... Plus, there was the trust factor to consider. Mobsters are the quintessential backstabbers. There's no trust in a Mafia ring; only betrayal and lies. You can't even trust your own family –"

"Enough!" Poisson roared, exploding out of his chair, fury blazing within the once-cold depths of his eyes. Had his fuse been any shorter, Sands felt certain that the Mafia don would have lunged across his desk and wrapped his ring-encrusted fingers around Zebbidy's pale, fragile neck, letting nothing stop him from strangling his granddaughter right then and there. For his part, Sands remained impassive, his face an expressionless mask made of stone. As cognizant as he was of the limited longevity of Poisson's temper, Sands very much doubted he would spring into action should the mobster attempt to harm Zebbidy.

But you owe her, Sheldon, the voice reminded him.

Screw that, he fermented. She betrayed me, thereby revoking all debts that could've been held over my head.

"Mademoiselle Samhain," Poisson was threatening vehemently when Sands tuned back in. "If you –"

"You still call me that," Zebbidy muttered, her head slowly shaking back and forth as she lowered her gaze to the ground, eyeing the olive green carpeting. "Even though I'm a Poisson…you refuse to acknowledge the fact."

Her grandfather recoiled, his entire body going rigid, save for his hands. The rage he was struggling to suppress was coursing throughout him with such force that his aged hands shook.

"If my bastard of a son hadn't turned his back on the family –"

"Turned his back?" Zebbidy exclaimed, hatred boiling in her vivid green eyes. "If anything, you forced him into leaving! The abandonment wasn't his choice!"

"Wasn't his choice?" Poisson echoed cuttingly. "Believe me, ma chérie, your father turned his back when he chose to discard the noble, privilege of a name – the title of Poisson – and take up that impudent coquette…that foul Irlandaise…he took her name – "

"After you disowned him!" Zebbidy shouted.

Boy, Lynné thought with only a small portion of sincerity. Wish my dad would do that for me…

Zebbidy pealed away a shock of auburn hair that had broken free from the humiliatingly flimsy prison that was her ponytail. The thought that had drifted through Lynné Sands' head, as lazily as a leaf would on a placid lake, had filtered into Zebbidy's own mind, causing her train of thought to derail. But only momentarily. Her thoughts were soon back on their track, poised and armed with a hoard of curses as Poisson opened his mouth to berate:

"That damned woman – your mother – brainwashed my son –"

"If that's true, then she succeeded in doing what you never could," Zebbidy countered frostily, immensely relieved that the anger and fear that had her interior so rattled had not pushed through and made itself noticeable.

"Um, e-excuse me, but…" Liam interjected, less than eager to see Zebbidy and Poisson attack each other with another round of insults. "It…it's just that, well…aren't you kind of…forestalling Zebbidy's explanation? Both of you?" he quickly added when he saw Poisson's eyes flash a warning.

Then, slowly, a cold smile spread across the Mafia don's senescent face.

"You're quite right, Monsieur Fusco," he said, his voice so soft it would have scarcely captured the attention of the room had it not been for the subtle hint of patronization that lay hidden in his tone – a mere glimmer of a condescending island amid a blasé sea. His cruel eyes flickered, coming to rest on his granddaughter. His sneer widened.

Zebbidy managed to subdue the desire to roll her eyes, but she could not help the small sigh that blew past her lips.

"Once upon a time…" Lynné offered dryly, her dark eyes tilted toward the ceiling.

Not even giving her a single glance, but recognizing her impatience nonetheless Zebbidy opened her mouth and began, taking the agent's lead and allowing the timeless opening line to pass through her mouth.

"Once upon a time…in a not-so-faraway land known as France…there lived a man named Édouard Gustave Poisson. When he turned 28, he decided to marry, choosing a beautiful young lady named Gabrielle as his bride. She was exactly what he wanted – weak-willed, docile, puerile… He wanted a woman who could be easily broken; one who would hold her tongue around guests and jump at the chance to serve him. And he found that in Gabrielle.

"But she soon proved her worth after she had given birth to their first child. A son. The very heir Édouard craved Three more sons followed shortly after that…as did Gabrielle's death.

"A single bullet to the brain was deemed 'suicide' by the mortician," Zebbidy explained, her voice gradually becoming thick with dark clouds. "Although some would say otherwise… But Édouard did not mourn over his wife's death for long; he still had four sons, after all. The eldest one was named Gérard, the second one they called Jules, the middle child went by Vincent, and the youngest, puniest, most dull-witted son was called Alphonse." She shot a pleasant smile over Poisson's shoulder when she saw Alphonse's eyes narrow.

"Now," she continued genially, "Poisson's three sons all went on to achieve great things – save for Alphonse, but that was all right because no one had expected much out of him in the first place. But Vincent excelled in the artistic world – though many suspected he was gay, but what did they know? Jules was a good boy… He even managed to elope and produce a child before he and his lovely wife perished in a car accident. And Gérard's intellect proved to be great, but that didn't satisfy his father."

Poisson scowled but said nothing. Pretending not to notice him, Zebbidy twitched her nose and continued.

"As he grew older, Gérard became more open-minded. He saw the things his father did and he didn't like them at all. When he turned eighteen, he began attending a private college in England –"

"It was that damn school that turned him against us," Alphonse spat in disgust. It is possible that his rant was not finished, but after a pointed glare from both Zebbidy and his father, Alphonse had no choice but to lapse into a brooding silence.

"It was that damn college," Zebbidy said mordantly, "that finally accomplished what thousands could not: College broke through the barrier Poisson had built around his son. After being away from his family for a year, it was all too clear to Gérard that he could not return to Paris, for he would never be content under the puissant reign of his father. And so, he – "

"Fled," Poisson finished.

"Left," his granddaughter corrected. "But not alone. While in England, Gérard met someone. A woman…by the name of Fiona. It was she who convinced Gérard to leave Europe, actually."

You mean brainwashed, Alphonse thought bitterly, but he didn't say a word, choosing instead to eye his so-called niece with extant resentment. In turn, Zebbidy paid no mind to his ire, and continued with her story.

"They were in love, although some would refuse to agree." As she said this, Sands noted that Zebbidy deliberately avoided looking at Poisson or Alphonse. She refused them a mere glance, moving onward with effortless aplomb.

"They moved to the US shortly after they had completed college, and soon changed their names –"

"Odysseus and Helena Samhain," Édouard supplied with typical impudence, indicating that he thought the choices of titles were absurd. "Such charming, honorable names," he commented sneeringly. "

Zebbidy's teeth clenched at the effrontery, but she schooled her features into stoicism. She had endured Poisson's rudeness for far to long to let it effect her now. "Gérard and Fiona – now Odysseus and Helena – settled down on a small island off the coast of Wisconsin – the island where Fiona had grown up. For, you see, she was not what you would consider normal. She had the rare, yet extremely valuable gift of precognition. ESP, as some call it. She could read minds – emotions, to be more specific – and sometimes there would be 'visions' of people in need, and Fiona would do all she could to help them.

"Not long after they had arrived in America, the two were married and no more than a year later… I showed up. However, their peace only lasted about fire years. Poisson somehow learned of his son's whereabouts, he quickly sent several of his men out to…collect them."

Her diction began to falter as the wraiths of her childhood seeped into the room. Opaline, wispy figures came in underneath the door, through the cracks in the ceiling, and the open windows, unnoticed by the others, but feared by Zebbidy. As the ghastly eidolons coiled themselves around her slender throat like a silvery skein that invaded her larynx and pitilessly wreaking havoc upon her vocal cords, reducing her voce to nothing more than a thin, wavering susurration.

"Instead of going quietly, my parents struggled, choosing to fight rather than give up the freedom they worked so hard to achieve. Needless to say, Poisson's henchmen weren't pleased. Shots were fired…"

The skein tightened painfully around her neck and Zebbidy was forced to duck her head and issue a small cough. She refused to capitulate under a slew of macabre memories of her parent's deaths, no matter how difficult they were to efface.

"The rest is easy enough to figure out. My parents were shot and killed in their own home, and I suddenly found myself on the threshold of France's biggest Mafia don. Until I was fourteen, of course, and ran away to the States. I'd been moving from place to place for nearly eleven years before I finally settled down once again on that little island off the coast of Wisconsin. There I met my grandmother Ashling – my mother's mother – and she taught me everything she had taught my mother: teas, different herbs, symbology, candles… for she was a powerful healer.

"Nine years passed before Poisson caught up with me, and when he did, I did the only thing I could think of: I went to the authorities. After nine years of peace, I was tired of running, and besides…" She distractedly smoothed back a strand of auburn hair. "I didn't want to get my grandmother involved. Little did I know the CIA would hand me over to Poisson, rather than hide me."

She eyed her grandfather with dour obduracy, falling silent.

"And they lived happily ever after," Lynné finished, sounding just as sardonic as when she last spoke. "Except for the agents Sands, of course, and quite possibly Liam Fusco, who were all condemned to a good long torture session in which their testicles and/or vagina were severely assaulted."

"Oooh," Sands remarked, intrigued. "Kinky. You two should enjoy that," he added as an afterthought to his sister and Liam.

"We'll ensure they don't," Ajedrez informed him in that excruciatingly mellifluous tone that stretched his self-restraint to the limit. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to abstain from expressing his rage as he lightly replied:

"I dunno. I've seen these two perform some pretty twisted stunts."

Ajedrez's eyebrows puckered in skepticism.

"You watch?"

Sands shrugged. "I like to think it's a bad habit I got from you. After all, according to Lyn, it's not like you and your lapdog can partake in sexual activities anymore. So what choice do you have other than watching Adrián and…let's say…Rosa Hernandez…do the nasty?"

"I was deprived of my sexual privileges after you –"

"Yeah," Sands said in dubious agreement as he furrowed his brow in farce concentration. "But…most people don't turn to watching right away. My guess is –" he smiled cheekily "— you had some pre-watching in stock."

Despite its owner's best efforts, the lower jaw of Didier Abney slowly fell open, stretching his lips into a wide 'O.' As a faint blush stained his wide cheekbones, Didier quickly hid his yawning mouth with his hand. Nervously, he twirled his index finger around a chestnut colored lock of his thick, curly hair and stole a glance at the man standing next to him. From the way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, it was obvious that Didier was not the only one who was bored. Fellow mobster Gilbert Bodine was growing tired of guard duty as well. Looking up at Gilbert with his sleek, dark hair gleaming in the muted light of the hallway, each finely toned muscle encased in the soft cotton of his shirt and denim of his jeans, and his chiseled mug, Didier could not help but feel inadequate. It did not help that Gilbert was three years his senior, but the fact that the man was a sex god to the ladies only made Didier seem like less virile, and more like a prepubescent teenager. Which was why he always strived to prove his capability of handling any situation – even the most dangerous. However, making his ingenuity known was easier said than done when the only task he was given was that of a guard. His orders were insultingly juvenile: 'Stand watch outside Monsieur Poisson's office. He is having an important meeting. Do not allow anyone entrance.'

Didier rolled his eyes, debating whether he should risk a conversation with Gilbert or not when the man in question suddenly sprang to attention.

"Arrêt!" ordered Gilbert's rough voice. "Qui est là?" (Who's there?)

Didier was still fumbling with his handgun when he heard Gilbert draw a staggering breath.

"Messieurs," he murmured apologetically. "Désolé… mais vous ne pouvez pas entrer." (Sorry…but you cannot enter.)

"Je ne peux pas voir mon propre père?" (I cannot see my own father?) challenged Vincent Poisson, his composure calm despite his angered tone. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, resting lightly against his gray, tweed jacket. Beside him stood a tall, gracefully aging man whom Didier guessed had to be in his late '50s, judging by the patches of silver that sprouted from his temples. The ebony fabric of his pressed slacks swallowed up his right hand, but it was the left hand that provoked Didier's curiosity. For that hand gingerly cupped the tiny, porcelain fingers of a little girl.

"Je suis désolé," (I'm sorry,) Gilbert told Poisson's son, "mais j'ai des ordres –" (but I have orders–)

"Aussi bien que moi," (As do I,) Vincent fermented, warning flashing in his frigid eyes.

"Pourquoi est elle ici?" (Why is she here?) Didier intruded in upon their conversation, his wonder getting the better of him as he pointed a large, index finger at Joséphine. "M. Poisson a voulu qu'elle soit restée dans sa pièce–" (Mr. Poisson wanted her to stay in her room –)

"Mon père me vient d'envoyer le mode d'emploi," (My father has just sent me instructions,) Vincent informed him smoothly, "demandant que sa petite-fille être apporté à son bureau immédiatement." (demanding that his granddaughter be brought to his office immediately.)

"Il ne m'aurait pas informé d'abord?" (Wouldn't he have informed me first?) Gilbert demurred, a sharp crease of suspicion taking shape on his forehead.

Vincent shook his head. "Pas probablement. Vous savez comment occupé il est." (Not likely. You know how busy he is.)

"Exactement," Gilbert agreed evenly. "Pourquoi aurait-il le temps à vous être appelés?" (Why would he have time to call you?)

Didier's eyes widened in confusion as he tore them away from the little girl and her towering guardian to throw a stunned glance at his fellow guard, all the while wondering with fascinated trepidation what Gilbert was playing at.

"Je suis son fils –" (I am his son – )Vincent Poisson began, his lean body appearing to magnify with his ever-mounting ire.

"Je veux voir mon grand-père!" (I want to see my grandfather!) little Joséphine demanded suddenly. In an instant every set of eyes was on her elfin form – not that the child could have known this. She wrenched her hand free of the stranger's grasp and proceeded to fold her twig-thin arms over her chest and whispered fiercely, "Maintenant."

"All right… Heartwarming as it may be, let's cut the family reunion short, an focus on what's really important: my leg." Lynné observed Poisson through those dark, disingenuous eyes that seemed to harbor an erudition that expanded beyond her years. "It appears to have gone missing and I was wondering if anyone around here had seen it?"

"I could loan you one of mine," Ajedrez sighed contemptuously, "but there's the problem of length." Her smirk was acerbic as she eyed the svelte, little waif of a human being seated in the adjacent chair.

Peeking through twin thrums of long, graceful lashes, Lynné favored her with a shrug that expressed just how decrepit the obloquy had been.

"Funny," she remarked mildly. "I was just thinking the exact same thing…only it was something along the lines of: 'I could swipe one of hers, but that wouldn't work. They're much too…robust…for me to handle.'" She flashed one of her exasperating grins, cocking her head to one side. "Isn't that right, Xena?"

"Mon père m'a téléphoné avec le mode d'emploi qui a dit qu'elle doit lui être apportée." (My father phoned me with instructions that said that she must be brought to him.) Vincent ran a hand through his expertly coifed hair, his face taunt with frustration.

"Et où est votre évidence de cela?" (And where is your evidence of this?) Gilbert continued to drill.

"Évidence?" Vincent echoed. His voice had been hollowed out by disbelief, only to be occluded with a restrained anger. "Il est mon père!" (He's my father!)

"Je veux voir mon grand-père!" (I want to see my grandfather!) Joséphine repeated, her demand bordering on the brink of a wail. But that was the plan. Be loud; not so loud that her grandfather overheard, but just enough to worry the guards into submission. The scheme Oncle Vincent had formulated was almost insultingly simple, but highly effective. No sooner had Joséphine begun to fuss than one of the guards' tough, outer walls began to quiver, becoming no stronger than the shell of a chicken egg. Five seconds later, it had cracked, leaving a jagged hamartia between two halves of a smooth, pearly blockade.

"Gilbert," Didier began, his feeble bricolage of an exterior already beginning to crumble under the burning, arduous gaze of the tiny child. It would not be long before his shell ceded completely and was reduced to nothing more than a pile of shattered worthlessness.

"Gilbert," he implored again. "Laissez-les passer. Nous devrions les laisser passer." (Let them through. We should let them through.)

"M. Poisson serait furieux," (Mr. Poisson would be angry,) was the clipped response.

"Mais... Je dois le voir," (But…I must see him,) the child insisted meekly, ardor replaced by need. "S'il vous plaît…laissez-moi le voir." (Please…let me see him.)

Joséphine could almost hear a creak as Gilbert's will began to bow to her while its owner fought to abstain it.

"Vous seriez sages pour réaliser la demande de l'enfant," (You would be wise to fulfil the request of the child,) Vincent warned the pair of guards. "Elle peut commencer à crier - un son que mon père ne voudra pas entendre. Et je suis sûr que il ne serait pas heureux si vous avez attristé sa petite-fille." (She can begin shouting - a sound that my father will not want to hear. And I am sure that my father would not be happy if you saddened his granddaughter.)

Joséphine's lower lip began to tremble, crushing Gilbert's protective shell for good. He gave a short, jerk of a nod and a tense: "D'accord," and turned to open the door by which he stood.

With Gilbert facing the door and Didier's attention focused on little Joséphine, neither man noticed when Poisson's son and the stranger drew two pistols from their coats, raised them high above their heads, and brought them with crushing force down on the guard's heads.

"There is no need to be concerned for your leg, Mlle Sands," Poisson ensured them in that infuriatingly correlating tone of his. "Shortly, you will find it completely unnecessary."

"Could we take that as a threat?" Sands intervened lightly.

Poisson's features coalesced into a cold grin.

"You could."

"Oh. Cuz I'm not," the agent replied, glancing idly at his fingernails which were suddenly much more interesting than the irate Mafia leader.

A scowl immediately egressed Poisson's antique face, and the mobster opened his mouth, perhaps to warn Sands that he would be wise to express more concern for his well-being, but a sharp knock at the door of the office severely ruined any caution Poisson might have expressed.

"What?" Electricity seemed to radiate from his every pore as his voice thundered and his gray eyes flashed in fury.

"Adrián," Ajedrez commanded silkily, casually brushing her long fingers against her fiancé's ear. "Answer the door."

"Then shake hands with whoever's there, then roll over," Lynné chided, ignoring the malevolent glare she was receiving from Ajedrez and the veneer of anger Adrián put on as the brass doorknob was swallowed up by his large palm.

"Then fetch Ajedrez her slippers –"

"You forgot 'play dead,'" a gruff voice reminded Lynné.

No one saw Adrián's eyes widen as he was drenched with cold, fearful realization. No one took notice of his body as it went rigid in the vice grip of terror. But they heard the voice, and the deafening bang that followed.

The muscular form of Ajedrez's fiancé now lay crumpled at the feet of its attacker. Already it was growing stiff with rigor mortis as thick waves of crimson gushed from the black chasm in its chest, tarnishing the thick carpeting below. All was quiet, staring in fascinated horror at the desiccating body of Adrián Gallardo. Silence reigned supreme, commanding them all with an iron fist until –

"Adrián!"

Ajedrez's piercing shriek of anguish was equivalent to a blow to Sands' already revolving head. He longed to offer a few words of comfort to the poor woman. After all, loosing Adrián wasn't the end of the world. With the amount of power and money she had in stock, Ajedrez could always buy a new lapdog.

Something tells me that now isn't the best time to say that, the voice whispered needlessly.

No shit, was Sands' automatic response as his attention was glued to the shuddering Ajedrez who was making vain attempts to revive her fallen lover. Even from his far off position, Sands could see that any hop of resurrection was false. Ajedrez's little love-slave had danced that last tango in Paris, and he had not required a partner.

Guess nobody told him it takes more than two to tango.

Too bad.

Behind him, Poisson had risen from his chair, his weathered face aflame with rage. In three mammoth strides he had crossed the room, gun raised, ready to shoot whoever stood just outside the door.

"Vincent?"

"Father."

"Get down!" someone yelled.

Sands didn't need to be told twice. With one hand on top of his sister's head and the other gripping the back of Zebbidy's neck, Sands dove to the floor, pulling the two women down with him.

"Nobody has a gun on 'em, right?" Lyn's voice sounded muffled, as if she was speaking into the floor.

"Uhh…"

Three pairs of eyes – two deep brown, one vibrant green – turned to witness the crouched form of Liam Fusco unzipping his fly and retrieving a small, jet-black handgun wit the greatest care. Smiling nervously at the wary look on Lynné's face, Liam held out the pistol.

His partner shrugged.

"Well, they trust you more than I do."

Shots roared overhead as bullets pelted through the air. They mercilessly shattered the massive windows that stood at one end of the room, and splintering the mahogany door at the other. The two couches that faced each other on either side of the office were being destroyed, stuffing bleeding from wounds in their green velvet skins. The bookshelves that rose from floor to ceiling and ran the length of the office were being demolished. Shreds of paper raining down as indistinguishable fragments of poetry, art, history of war, science, mathematics, and family trees littered the air.

Still the gunfire went on, ravaging the once immaculate office without remorse. The team of CIA agents and Zebbidy quickly sought shelter behind Poisson's gargantuan desk while the war between father and son raged on. By now Alphonse had joined the fight, shooting blindly into the darkened hallway. It was not long before he fell with a bullet implanted in his spine, compliments of Lynné who miraculously remained unseen.

With a leonine roar, Édouard Poisson launched himself at Vincent, his son, the last remaining male heir to the family business. It didn't matter that Vincent had been in line before Alphonse. Never mind that Alphonse had not lived up to his father's, Édouard Poisson's expectations – at least he had made an effort. Even if Alphonse's attempts to be an efficient son had ended in failure, in Poisson's eyes, he had accomplished more than Vincent ever would. And now he was dead, brought down by his querulous, wayward brother. It was more than Édouard Poisson could bear.

He tore through the room, dodging bullets with the vigor of a man half his age. Revenged fueled his arthritic limbs as he raced toward Vincent. Fury pulsated throughout his body as he watched his only remaining heir pull the trigger, intending to kill his own father and walk away without a single trace of guilt.

A dull click echoed throughout the room.

Édouard Poisson knew he needn't look upon Vincent's face to understand what had happened. The shock in his son's voice was proof enough.

"Merde!"

The trumpets of victory sounded – a beautiful fanfare in Édouard's elated ears. The glorious music roared all around him, but its deafening volume was irrelevant to the Mafia leader. To him the only sounds that mattered were the cold click of a worthless gun and Vincent's cry of anguish. Édouard gave an indolent shrug, excess grace sliding from his shoulders like water as he waved his own pistol vaguely.

"Désolé, mon fils," (Sorry, my son,) he apologized tonelessly."Mais vous le méritez." (But you deserve this.)

With the triumphant music still blaring in his ears, Poisson trained his firearm on his son. The commotion caused by the glorious brass instruments thundered ceaselessly, but the mobster's gaze was unobstructed and his thoughts were lucid. He aimed his gun, pointing it directly at Vincent's left collarbone. He didn't intend to kill his son – death was not a fitting punishment for what Vincent had done. If his son was merely left with a paralyzed arm, then Édouard's thirst for retribution. His fingers tightened around the handle of his firearm. His index digit itched to pull the trigger, but first Édouard had to favor his only son with a smirk. In his ears, the trumpets played on, plaguing him with their brassy melodies until he began to wonder if he had gone mad with the loss of Alphonse.

And then, quite suddenly, the noise stopped. For a moment, silence ruled with a clumsy hand, wielding a crooked scepter. All held their breath in tacit wonderment as the Mafia don glared around him in fury.

His silver pistol fell to the floor with a clatter so soft that Édouard barely acknowledged it. His entire arm had gone stiff as a dreadful numbness began to overtake his entire body. From some far off corner of his slowly depleting mind he was aware of the sudden drop in temperature that wasn't caused by the pair of shattered windows behind him. The only warmth he felt was the strange, viscid substance that now coated his fingertips.

"Désolé, mon copain," a gruff voice murmured at the doorway just as Édouard Poisson brought his hands from the leaking bullet wound at his chest and crumpled to the floor.

This was originally to be much longer, however, after so many days of writer's block, I decided to go ahead and cut this chapter a little short and paste the scenes that followed that last one onto Chapter Fifty-One. (shrug) At least this one's kinda long. And a lot happens in it too, so it's not like it's completely uneventful. :D

Oh, and everybody go and check out Sands and Lynné's dead journal, if you please. I recently had some free time during school – time that I made use of by making some changes to their journal, ones that I think you'll all find very amusing. ;D So go take a look!

Also, for everyone who was reading Impromptu, it's been taken down. I came to realize that, despite my meticulous perusing, I'd overlooked one major flaw in the story. Plus I've read several Mary-Sue bashing fics and noted that the Sues that were being lambasted shared several qualities with my female character. So, I took the story down. However, after this is finished, Impromptu shall be posted again if people are still willing to read it. :)

And as a quick note: Never. Use. Community. Stage makeup. Especially against your own will. It only ends in tragedy, as well as prolonged writing projects. Believe me.

Author's Thanks and Review Responses:

morph: Glad the twist caught you off guard. :D I honesty thought I was being too obvious about it, but most of my worries have ceased by now. u.u I love the idea of Sands performing Morse Code because he seems like the kind of guy who would have all of these seemingly worthless skills and then find a way to put them to use. Liam's a loser, most definitely. u.u But he's really the perfect guy for Lyn, as strange as that sounds. She's tried dating bad boys before and doesn't care for them. I think it's because she needs someone weak that she can push around, whereas Sands can pretty much order anyone around and they'll listen. :D

vanillafluffy: I cracked up over Queer Eye for the Straight Don X3 Knowing Poisson, he's too preoccupied to pick out his own attire, so he most likely has someone else do it for him. And I know the Queer Eye Guys did an Euro trip at some point. O.o And Sands still isn't too quick on the uptake as far as family history goes. You'd think after Ajedrez he's know better, but then again, Zeb covered her tracks pretty well and he didn't have any reason to suspect her of anything. (shrug)

Dawnie-7: If you laughed out loud at the thought of Sands banging Josey, then I have fulfilled all of my goals for the last chapter :D

fanfiction fanatic: There has been a severe lack of OUaTiM fics as of late. Hardly anyone has updated and the few new stories that are being posted border dangerously close to Mary-Sue fics. I will most definitely try to hurry up with the next installment. Thankfully, I'm already halfway done with the chapter.

Lynx Ryder: Thanks to you, I've taken to referring to Lyn and Liam as PKIs:D I severely wish I knew Morse Code, if only for that brief bit in the story. Same thing goes for Latin, but there's no one in this area who's willing to teach it :( Sands should've known better than to think that Poisson was implying that he and Josey were "an item," but you can blame me for the density of the comment – I only wrote if for the laughs :D; Olsen Twins…yes XD It's most likely the largest in-joke in this entire story, but the short explanation is that, when he's not being plagued by nightmares about Ajedrez, Sands is having dreams about shagging the Olsen Twins. Somewhere, there's a post in Lyn's Dead Journal in which he describes the first dream. And once again, I sincerely apologize for the long wait. I'll try my best not to let that happen again, especially with only two chapters left to go.

o