Chapter 64
It was very difficult to not freak out at this moment.
"I will hurt you if you don't pay attention, asshole. I'm gonna call out what level the red circle is in, and you will shoot the other two arrows. Do you or do you not understand?"
There was a brief pause through her headset, giving her a moment to reach over and take another swig from her whisky bottle. The drink burned down her throat, but she kept it down. Her hands were shaking, and she had already cracked her controller from how tight she was gripping it. This one was going to very soon end up on the scrap heap with the other three.
"Yeah, we got it, geez."
"Don't be short with me, you made us wipe six times now. The other guys have this down, right?"
"Jawohl."
"Valean, guys, please. The young guys don't live here."
"Sorry. Yes, ve are ready"
It was refreshing for once to be on the same team as her online gaming nemesis, Pu$$ySlayr69, as he was very adept at doing the weekly raids and team-based games. He was a dick in the PvP arena, but considerably better behaved in this game mode. The only issue she had with him was the exceedingly thick Atlesian accent that meant he could barely be understood except in her native language. She took another drink.
"Okay, focus puh-lease. We've been at this section for three hours, guys. Let's go, everyone jump up."
She watched her sector mate jump onto his platform in front of her, lighting it up and making it descend into the floor. The deep clanging of bells and the sound of the final boss's voice over the loudspeakers signified the beginning of their latest mistake. She smacked the loadout button, cycling to her secondary weapon, a simple yet effective Auto-Rifle. She charged forward towards the enemy spawner, tossing an arc grenade at the opening. The moment the first wave came out, they were electrified into oblivion.
"Behind you."
She spun around, grabbing the trigger with a slurred grip. The three enemies popped out from the next closes spawner. They lasted a grand total of eight seconds before being shredded to bits by the fast-firing rifle. She reloaded, switching back to her primary rifle and checking it was loaded. There was a brief pause in the action, as the game waited for the other four members of their crew finished off their own spawning enemies.
"Runners, ready."
"I'm good."
The bells tolled again, and she prepped her rifle again. The enemy spawner to the left of her pedestal opened up, revealing a shielded elite Centurion. She and the noob turned their muzzles on the enemy, quickly reducing the shield to nothing and dropping the imposing enemy's health bar to a quarter. She smiled a giddy grin, pulling the trigger again, prepared to reduce the mini-boss to a pile of loot.
No Secondary Ammo
What?! In her anger to rip her co-gamers a superlative new one, she had forgotten to collect any additional ammunution that had littered the ground before the game arena reset. And now she was staring down the barrel of a rhinoceros-sized bad guy.
"NO!"
She panicked, and grabbed the right upper bumper, slamming her fist into the Centurion's broad chest. It made a sizable dent in the remaining health. The Centurion roared at her. It wasn't dead.
"Oh...verdammte scheiße..."
It swung the barrel of its gun into her body, flinging her back towards the centre of the room, and reduced her health bar to as-near-as-made-no-difference a sliver. A papercut would kill her at this point.
"Cup is still up! Cup is still up!"
Through the haze of her vision, she managed to switch back to her primary, firing blindly towards where she had come from. She was injured. If she didn't make it back, they'd need to wipe. Again.
"Assistance to Chalice, Schnell, Schnell!"
Through some magic of luck and aligned planets, one of her stray bullets hit the Centurion square in the face from the place she had landed, and his body exploded into a pile of brightly lit ammo boxes. She sighed, sprinting back over to her quarter and taking another drink of the potent whisky at the same time.
"Whew, Okay, I'm good. Picking up my orb. You good, Slayr?"
"Alle ist gut. Vhat happened to 'Valean only', WeissRabbit?"
"Shut up. Just get in position."
"Okay."
She ran over to her platform, mashing her thumb into the action button and picking up the glowing white orb that had materialized in her area of the map. The screen flashed white, and she was transported into the outer ring of the arena, glowing ball of energy in her hand. The orange movement barrier was still in place. She took another drink of her whisky. There wasn't much left in the bottle anymore. It was an impatient wait for her clan-mate to kill the enemy that spawned the moment she was transported into the stupid platforming section.
"Hurry up, guys, I'm dyin' here."
"ONE SECOND, THERE'S STILL ADS!"
She huffed into her mic.
"There wouldn't be if you were good at this game."
"Screw you! There! He's dead!"
The orange barrier dropped, allowing her passage through the outer ring of the arena. She mashed forward on the left stick, sprinting towards the first of the platforming obstacles. The huge upright wall had nine holes in it, in the shape of a square, and was blocked by another orange barrier. The middle row was illuminated, and a bright white ball of light was suspended in the centre hole. She made the first jump.
"Cup middle!"
She watched the bullets ring out against the targets just outside the outer ring. A buzzer rang to indicate they had struck true, and the barrier dropped, allowing her to sail through the middle hole and collect her ball of light. The others called out for their side, but she managed to ignore them so they wouldn't distract her.
"Good work, good work! Keep it going!"
The act of sprinting and drinking would be difficult for anyone else, but she had had enough practice from the previous six hours of the raid that she managed to pull it off without losing any momentum. The bottle felt a lot lighter now, and with a quick check, she realized it was nearing completion. She'd have to call one of the butlers to bring her a new one. The next obstacle came into view.
"Sun top, sun top!"
Sun would certainly top, now wouldn't he?
She choked on her drink, coughing loudly. She stopped sprinting for a moment to bang her fist against her chest.
"Vhat is problem, WeissRabbit?"
"Sorry, choked on my drink, Slayr. I'm good."
She kept sprinting forward, jumping through the top right hoop, collecting another mote of light. She was glad that the first part of this platforming section didn't have a floor that dropped out for no reason. She coughed again, her throat burning from having strong alcohol sent down the wrong hole.
"Dogs middle, Dogs mih-cough-hiddle."
She could hear the battle that was raging back in the centre of the arena. The four members of her team that remained inside were, unfortunately for her and Slayr, not exactly experienced. They seemed okay at killing the spawning enemies, managing to not die and-
GambitHero died.
"You son of a bitch, you let me die!"
Weiss panicked. Gambit was supposed to be helped at the next obstacle by...her noob partner.
"I got you, I got you, I'm right here!"
Oh good, he was close by. At least they had their revive tokens still. She checked the next obstacle.
"Okay, guys, Axes bottom, axes-"
Get_Rekt_Son died.
"Oh shit!"
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
Her body hit the barrier, blocked from passing through the wall. She was trapped. There was no way Slayr's gunners would be able to make it back over to revive both of them in time for her to finish running the outer ring. After that, two of their better players would be without the ability to revive anyone. They were screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.
"That's it! I'm dead!"
The ball of light in her hands was getting brighter. The game music was getting louder. Without the gunners, they couldn't unlock the barrier, and she was trapped, waiting for the slow release of death. They had betrayed her. Her eyes flared up. She gripped down on her controller.
The royal psions arrive...
Now they were all dead. With no one to kill the psion on their side, it was only a matter of seconds.
"Scheiße."
The screen flashed white.
Pu$$ySlayr69 died.
Paul_The_Brodster died.
Faker_Syndrome died.
WeissRabbit died.
You have failed to impress...
The skull symbol flashed on the screen, telling her that her light had faded away. Again.
"FUCKIN' SHIT!"
She gripped down on her controller and pulled her arms away from each other, ripping the blue plastic in half. She stood, her vision clouded by a sea of red. Small chunks of the controller's green circuit board fell out, clattering to the floor. Her TV flashed back to the cyan X-Station home screen.
Please reconnect controller.
She yelled something nondescript, throwing the left half of her broken controller against the far wall, where it shattered into even more pieces, littering the ground. Her chest heaved, rising and falling with each angry breath. They had betrayed her. They had promised that they could beat the raid today. That they knew what they were doing. They had lied to her. Well, Slayr hadn't. He was the most competent of them. Even if she hated him for other reasons, she respected his skill and patience for the noob and the other three.
His dedication deserved some kind of reward.
She looked down at herself. The loose pyjama pants were less-than appealing, as were the black men's size socks. The unbuttoned dress shirt, however. She smirked. Anybody would appreciate the bare cleavage and tummy she had been showing off. She reached for the bottle of whisky, feeling the slight chill of the room brush over her breasts as the shirt opened up. She sent back the very last few drops of the painful alcohol, tossing the empty bottle towards the garbage bin on on the other side of the room. It missed by a good eight feet, thunking into the wall and falling to the floor. She stumbled, the booze affecting her legs like she had been kicked.
"Fuckin'...useless partners. Waste of...time. More...drink..."
She stumbled out of her games room, back into the hallway. Her socked feet slipped around on the floor, like she was on ice. She still didn't know how to skate. Her legs, compromised by the alcohol, threatened to buckle and deposit her on the ground in spectacular fashion. Last time she was on a slippery surface like this, she was drunk. Why should she had a problem this time?
"Want...whisky..."
The hallway felt like it was twisting and bucking beneath her feet, threatening to knock her down. She had to place one wary hand against the wall just to stay upright. She was starting to hate the slippery floor and her stupid slippery socks. Slowly, yet most assuredly, she found herself at the top of the long winding staircase. She was going to fall down it if she tried to walk, given the current state of her legs.
Remembering her 'Working At Heights' training manual and the few helpful tips on the very first page, she dropped down to one knee. The vast majority of her dizzyness went away almost immediately, and the room slowed it's horrible spin. It didn't stop, however, a fact that became sickeningly clear when she stood up. She grabbed the railing with her right hand, tightening down so she wouldn't slip on the well-polished marble. It also didn't help that she was used to having a much...heavier head of hair. All that weight used to be like a counter-balance. Drunk-stairs-ing was much more difficult now that she no longer had three extra feet of hair.
It took her a few minutes, but she managed to get down the stairs without falling, although she did stumble a few times. The feeling of the cold floor at the bottom of the staircase sent a wave of relief through her, signifying that she wasn't in danger of falling again. She let go of the railing, and stepped towards the kitchen wing.
...and then immediately found herself on the floor again. Her socked feet had found no traction on the even slipperier surface, and had deposited her face-first back on the ground. She rolled over onto her back with a pained cry and brought a hand to her face. Her nose hurt like hell.
"Snowflake, are you alright?!"
She let out a sigh.
"M'alright, Klein. Don't worry 'bout me."
He worried. In an instant, he had dashed from whatever room he had spawned from directly to her side, careful to bring her to a sitting position.
"My dear, your nose is bleeding. Are you sure you're alright? I can bring you to the infirma-"
"No, Klein, I'm fine!"
She realized she had shouted much too late, covering her mouth and looking ashamed. She appreciated the gesture, however.
"Sorry. Thank you, but I'll be fine."
Klein wasn't convinced. He worried to much, in her opinion. He fussed, scrunching up his moustache and dabbing the blood from her nose with his pristine white handkerchief, staining it an ugly red.
"If you say so, my dear. Is there anything I can get you to make you feel better?"
A pair of shoes, maybe?
Weiss shrugged, letting her arms drop and her shirt fall open again.
"More whisky?"
His eyes averted instantly as he pulled her to her feet.
"Snowflake, the last thing you need at the moment is more alcohol. You need some strong coffee, a proper haircut, and... possibly a new shirt, what in gods' name happened to all the buttons on your shirt?!"
She looked down, her legs wobbling a little. He was trying to do up the buttons on the front of her shirt, only to find that there were none. She giggled to herself.
"Oh yeah. It was hot in the games room, so I pulled it open."
"Weiss, this shirt was fine Mistralian silk, you've torn the seams. I'm getting you a new one. You stay here. Your inebriation will be your downfall. Quite literally, my dear."
He turned, and strutted away up the stairs. She sighed into herself as he left her. He would get lost in her closed, she hoped. A closet so expansive and dense that she imagined he'd be missing for weeks finding a suitable replacement shirt. She stumbled around in a small circle, discontent with the way gravity was affecting her legs. The air was quiet again in the house. Her eyelids felt heavy. She stepped forward, towards the kitchen wing again.
A vibrant and raucous noise erupted from the other end of the house. It sounded like the gods had descended from atop their mountain to rain hellfire down upon the land. She turned slightly towards the commotion. Each wave of noise surged through her body like a hammer, vibrations reverberating through the floor. Just the feeling of the noise made her giddy. She smiled. What monstrous beast had been unleashed, she wondered.
The noise was luscious. She couldn't describe its thumping attitude, and the heavy-hitting resonance it sent through the whole house. She enjoyed it for a few more moments before the noise silenced itself, returning the building to a quiet for a moment. Her body hummed from the noise. It was great. A door opened down the hall, revealing the most likely cause of the noise.
Her brother strode out, the keys to his truck spun around his finger.
She frowned at his approach. In her drunken state, she had forgot what time of day it was. Whitley's arrival signified two things; number one, it was five-thirty in the evening, and two; she needed to get the kitchen staff to start making dinner. Whatever that was going to be. She didn't quite know why, but she also felt a little upset at his arrival.
"Oh, it's you. Your stupid car can really wake the dead, you know."
Whitley paused, halfway through taking his jacket off, giving her a quick once over. Too quick to notice anything amiss, but thorough enough to be judgmental.
"Hello, sister. Drunk again, I see?"
She scoffed at him as he strode past, towards the hidden walk-in closet that lay at the base of the grand staircase.
"Pfft, again? 'Again' implies I stopped at some point."
She watched his shoulders visibly droop in shame as he hung his thick navy blue coat up in the closet, revealing his blue and white dress-shirt-slash-sweater-vest work attire. He turned, a pained expression on his face.
"Allow me to rephrase. Still drunk, I see?"
She chuckled, slurring her response.
"S'more like it, yeah. What're you gonna do 'bout it?"
"I suppose there is nothing I can do at present, sister, however I- woah-"
He stopped mid-word, shutting his eyes and turning away, holding one hand up as a shield to his face. His lips pursed and his brow furrowed. It looked like he was fighting for words in his head.
"What?"
The pause remained, and his expression grew tighter.
"I-"
She stumbled backwards a few inches, her shoulders loose. What was he going to say, she wondered.
"Do up your shirt."
She giggled, looking down. The torn garment had fallen open again, freeing her assets to the cool house air. The torn strings that once held the shirt's expensive ivory buttons were frayed outward, like little bits of wire.
"You're not my mom, you can't make me!"
She laughed at her own joke. Whitley, turned even further away, clearly not impressed even in the slightest.
"Do up your shirt. Please."
She shrugged.
"I can't. I broke all the buttons off."
His eyes opened for a second, filled with a momentary anger, only to be shut again as he turned his back fully to her. The black briefcase he carried thumped to the floor, along with his keys and his scarf. His arms came up as he pulled the sweater-vest off, separating it from his dress shirt. She watched this odd display, confused. With a look over his shoulder, he spoke again, less angry this time.
"Arms up!"
Unknowingly, she raised her arms up over her head. In one fluid movement, he spun around and pulled the light-blue argyle vest down over her torso. She blinked a few times, her arms still raised. With a glance downward, she could see that the swest had successfully covered her up. Without giving her a second to recover, he reached forward and pulled the collar of her ripped shirt up through the high neck of the vest, neatly adjusting it so it looked right. He smiled at his work.
"There. Now you don't look like a... well, you look normal. Even if argyle doesn't match with those patterned pyjama bottoms. My, I take it back, your outfit needs an exorcism. Wow."
She rubbed her bad eye on her sleeve, shrugging.
"Don't be rude, Shitley."
He rolled his eyes at her.
"Come with me."
He took her arm, and with a fair bit of force, she found herself being dragged towards the kitchen. He had neglected his scarf and briefcase in the lobby. It was difficult to stay standing while being pulled with such force. Whitley's longer legs also made his strides considerably longer than her own, which caused even more stumbling still. The huge door to the kitchen loomed into view at the end of the hallway.
"W-wait! Slowdo-"
With a thud, he burst through the door and into the huge kitchen, the heavy wood door flying into the doorstop with a loud bang, nearly making her jump out of her skin. In the same motion, he pulled out a bar stool next to the closest long table and pirouetted her onto it. Her butt hit the padded seat with a creak of vinyl. With an exuberant twirl of his own, he moved himself to the tall, polished steel coffee maker that sat against the near wall. It hissed to life with the flick of a switch.
"That's not alcohol."
He shook his head, carefully scooping out some coffee beans in an equally polished measuring cup.
"No, it is not."
/.../
Cup number six tasted just as terrible as the first five. She hated taking her coffee black. It tasted like sin and suffering. Black coffee was the tequila of caffeinated beverages. There was no good part of it, it hurt going in, it hurt going down, and it hurt afterwards. It was just pain. He could have at least let her put a bit of milk in it. Or even some cream liqueur! Whitley swirled his own cup of coffee, sipping gently. It was still only his first.
"Feel less drunk yet?"
"Fuck you."
"I'll take that as a 'mostly'."
He placed his cup gently down on the long prep table, leaning against it and watching her suffer. In truth, she did feel sobered up quite a bit. She sighed, placing her own up down on the table. With a subtle brush of his hair, he leaned over and pulled the mostly empty cup away, sliding both out of reach down the table. She felt a little relieved to not have to drink anymore of the devil's sauce.
"Feel better?"
She shrugged.
"I guess. My head hurts."
"Mmm. My apologies. It was either this, or we stage an intervention. And Winter told me she a little 'indisposed' at the moment, so we couldn't do that. She's a little upset that she's having to postpone her wedding, as you might imagine."
Weiss sighed into the table, shutting her eyes.
"I hate myself."
"I can see that. You haven't exactly treated yourself with any sort of respect recently. Especially your hair."
She shrunk into her shoulders, levelling Whitley a sour look.
"S'wrong with my hair?"
"Looks like you cut it with a knife. Besides, the long hair suited you much more. This short hair business doesn't suit you. That's just what I think, anyways."
She looked down at her left palm, glazing over the fine white scars from where the shard of glass had lacerated her hand. He wasn't fully wrong. She turned her face away, still frowning.
"I didn't like it. Besides, lots of girls have short hair."
Whitley sighed, tapping his fingers gently against his other arm.
"No, you're right. But-"
"Didn't you date a girl in college who had short hair. Sam or something?"
He nodded.
"I did, yes. Until father told me I couldn't be cause she looked like lesbian. And she had a pixie cut, not this little fluff number you've done to yourself. The short hair suited her head, unlike you."
She stuck her tongue out.
"...That being said, if you'd let me, with twenty minutes, a razor, and some gel, I could fix that mop and make it exceptionally professional and effortlessly stylish."
"You're not touching me with a razor, Shitley."
"So rude."
She blew a half-hearted raspberry at him.
"Okay, if not that, then what can I do for you?"
She sat up, flicking her bangs out of her face. What could he do for her? He seemed willing enough to help her. Even if he had forced her to accept it. It was pleasant, she guessed, to have someone who cared. By force. Her problem at the moment was that she didn't know what she wanted from anyone, let alone her brother. What she thought she needed was more alcohol and more video games. In her heart, however, she wanted her back. That was something she knew couldn't be done. An idea came to her.
"Whit, you build cars, right?"
He paused, not expecting this line of questioning.
"I-"
"Like, for your job, right?"
His face flashed annoyance, not appreciating being interrupted so many times.
"No, actually. I'm a hybrid systems engineer. I build prototype cars for a living."
She puzzled for a second.
"But... your truck? That's not very hybrid. That's the opposite of a hybrid."
He chuckled, leaning back on his stool.
"No, you're absolutely right. That I built because it's my hobby, not 'cause it's my job. Why do you ask, anyways?"
The words stopped before they could leave her mouth. She paused, holding her breath and looking away. What if he said no? It was a stupid request. She needn't say it, or worry him about it. He leaned over on his elbows, a curious expression on his face.
"Could you build me a car?"
His eyebrows shot upwards. He seemed intruiged.
"You want me to what?"
She shook her head, burying her palms into her face.
"Nah, forget it. It's stupid-"
She was interrupted by a hand on her shoulder. Whitley scooted his stool closer. She met his gaze. It looked genuine.
"No, Weiss, it's not stupid. I'll do it. If it makes you feel less self-hating, I'm willing to help you."
She sniffed.
"You are?"
"Of course! You want me to build you a car? I can do that. I'm your brother, I'm here to help you, not be a useless house guest. I'm sure Winter would do the same if you asked her. Although, I think if you asked her for a car, she'd come to me and make me do it for her. Anyway, it doesn't matter. We're here for you, you know."
A tiny laugh came to her throat.
"You'd do that... for me?"
He leaned back on his stool, smiling. He almost seemed excited to get started.
"Of course! So, what do you want, like a Klasse-5 with a motor swap, or something a little more classic?"
She hesitated. The more she tried for this, the more wrong it felt.
"Blaze-Charger. Uh, first generation."
"VHI, eh? Hmm, doesn't seem your usual style of supercars, but I'll bite."
He pulled a notepad out of his pocket, flipping it open and clicking his pen. He spun it in his fingers a few times before scribbling something into his book.
"Describe your dream truck."
She pondered. It wasn't difficult to picture the truck in her head. She spent so much time in that passenger seat. Well, passenger side of the bench.
"Burgundy-red two-tone. Chrome grille. Automatic. Four-fifty big-block-"
It was her turn to be interrupted.
"The Blaze-Charger was never sold with the four-fifty. It only came with the small six or the three-eighty eight cylinder."
She frowned.
"But... it had... forget it, can you put one in?"
He nodded.
"There's plenty of room, sure. I'll have to put in the heavy-duty axles from the pickup, but it's doable. Now, carbs or fuel injection?"
"Carbureted."
"Single or double?"
"Triple."
He stopped scribbling for a second, flicking one of his errant and product-filled strands of hair out of his face.
"That makes it easier, I can just grab a Six-Pack motor from a full-size. Keep going."
She scratched at an itch that had started in behind her ear. The shameful feeling in her gut sucked. It was like ordering a pizza while being fully aware that the person across from you was a vegan, lactose intolerant, and a celiac. She felt like she was offending everybody.
"Uh... factory brush guard? Winch?"
With every open of her mouth she felt worse. It wasn't helping like she thought it would. She needed to strengthen her resolve.
"Sure, no problem. They made the truck for thirty-seven years, I'm sure I can... find...one... wait, hang on."
Uh oh. He had stopped writing. Her breath froze in her throat. He knew, he had to at this point. She was describing a one of a kind vehicle. One that had made an appearance in their garage at least thrice weekly. He let out a sigh, placing his pen and pad down gently on the table.
"I know what you're doing, Weiss."
She wanted to cry.
"I understand you're in pain, but you can't do this to yourself. You're going to make it worse."
She had to unclench her hand, as her nails had started digging into her palm. It stung.
"I know."
"Look, there are ways to deal with loss, most of which don't involve-"
"Please? Can you just... indulge me?"
He sighed, looking down. With a shake of his well-quaffed hair, he picked up his book again, resuming his note-taking. His baby blue eyes, mirroring her own, held a new sadness in them. He seemed... disappointed.
"Alright. I will. But you can't live like this, Weiss. You're going to hurt yourself."
She nodded, not meeting his gaze.
"I know."
He stood, tapping his pen against the pad.
"Anyway, it will take a while to do this, I don't have a lot of time outside of work to build this. And it will take a while to find a clean one-"
"There's one just outside of town. I saw it on the internet this morning."
He paused, sending her a concerned look again.
"Okay, if I can get that in the shop some time this week, I won't be able to start-"
"I want this done this Friday."
Again, interrupted, Whitley paused. His eyebrows shot upwards, and a bemused smile fell against his ivory-white teeth.
"Friday? Are you nuts? You're asking me to do a full frame-up on a vehicle that I've never seen before in only four days entirely by myself? That's just not feasible. I'd need my whole design and engineering team to help if you want it done that quickly."
"Alright, I'll rent out your shop. I'll pay your team myself out of pocket, and I'll pay off your boss. Anything you need for it, I'll pay for."
Whitley seemed impressed with this. She was shaking on the inside. Her brain was running on autopilot, and she genuinely thought she was going to pass out.
"You'll rent out my shop? For this? You must really like that truck."
She shook her head.
"It's the only chance I'll get to drive it again."
He sighed, pocketing his notebook.
"Don't be like that. If you're sure, I can do it for Friday. The guys are going to enjoy building something a little more hot-rod for once, I think. Actually, that reminds me. What are you going to be driving to work tomorrow?"
"I'm not going back to work tomorrow, I'm on grief leave."
Whitley laughed. Out loud.
"You've been on grief leave for a week and a half. You need to go back. I don't think that your PA can run that much company by herself."
"I trust Sandy."
"Hmm."
"Can I borrow your truck?"
She waited patiently as the question entered his head. She watched his face change. That unbelievably loud and raucous truck shook the house every time he left or returned to the garage. He had never let her drive it, save for one time when he had asked her to back it into a parking spot a little straighter. Nobody ever got to drive Whitley's truck.
"Can y- most certainly not, dear sister. In your state, you are so compromised I fail to trust you with a can opener, let alone a seven-hundred horsepower pickup. If I gave you a breathalyser test, I'm sure it wouldn't be reading the alcohol percentage in your blood, but rather the blood percentage in your alcohol."
She let out a short snicker. He was probably right. Despite the ridiculous amount of coffee, she still felt a little drunk, and the amount of booze in her system was something like eight times the legal limit.
"Look, I love you and all, but you're not driving a one-of-a-kind custom vehicle with that much hangover. You own so many different vehicles, you're not wrapping mine around a tree, thank you."
She punched him in the shoulder. Her wrist stung a touch.
"Hey! I've driven with a hangover before!"
He laughed.
"Yeah, but in your car has sophisticated all-wheel-drive and computerized traction control. I've witnessed your hangovers. You'd be hard-pressed to drive a shopping cart. Actually, I take back what I said. I'll have Klein drive you to work tomorrow. I'll even lend you my limo if you promise to not stand up out of the sunroof."
Right. That. It had been her sixteenth birthday. She had gotten drunk. She had borrowed her younger brother's limousine, and she had done exactly that.
"No promises."
They chuckled together. It felt different to connect with her brother like this. Not bad, by any means, but good enough for her.
"By the way, I meant to ask. How is it that you know this much about cars, Weiss?"
She sighed, smiling a little.
"Well, I spend a lot of my time at work and at home on the internet. Sometimes I get distracted by-"
At this moment they were interrupted by the re-arrival of Klein, who had slipped silently in the kitchen door at some point in their conversation. He looked worried, she noticed.
"Do excuse me, children, I do apologize for the intrusion, but I regret to inform you that-"
WHAM
"WEISS! WHITLEY! What in the gods name is going on in here!? Why hasn't dinner been started yet?! We have guests coming over!"
"...Your father is home."
/.../
Weiss leaned back in her chair, kicking her feet up onto the table and almost knocking over the bottle of wine that sat between her and her brother. Whitley's face bore no expression, but the tensed muscles in his temples and the ring of sweat around his collar were proof that he was certainly not expressionless. His hands clamped down on his utensils, and as subtly as he could, he jabbed her in the leg with his fork, whispering as he did.
"Put your feet down before father comes back."
She stuck her tongue out in his direction, kicking him with her shin.
"It's my house, I can do what I want."
She recieved a slap on the leg from an increasingly irate sibling. Their mother, sitting at the end of the long table and three glasses in at this point, paid them no heed. The aging woman's eyes were downcast, into the soup she had been provided. Her faded white hair had been done up in what was likely a thousand lien bun, and her dress and gloves matched the price tag, if not the style. Even Whitley had found himself a smart dinner suit in the time it had taken to prepare the first of the many courses of food.
But Weiss? She had kept her pyjama pants and Whitley's sweater-vest, not even bothering to change the ripped dress shirt underneath. Their guests surely wouldn't care, as they seemed more interested in the artwork in the main lobby than in the food that hadn't been served yet.
"Look, I can be accommodating for you, but doing this in front of father and his guests is pushing it. Put your feet down!"
His whisper-yell was abrasive on her ears, so she sent him another raspberry. He deserved it.
"Nuh-uh. You put your feet up. As the man of the house, I give the orders and make the rules. I don't care."
The steam that was collecting inside had very nearly reached it's boiling point. Whitley looked fit to burst. They could hear the approaching footsteps and loud voice of their father, down at the end of the hall. It sounded like he was once again over-emphasizing one of the works of her maternal grandfather, claiming him to be his own father. Not many of their guests ever actually found out that he wasn't a real Schnee. Not that Weiss ever felt like one, but that didn't matter. The voices grew louder.
"Hey, Whit, do you think I could drink all the wine on the table before he comes in, leaving none for anyone else?"
"No, and if you do, I'm not helping you with that thing you wanted."
She slapped him in the arm.
"You're a jerk- Hey!"
The huge wooden door opened up slowly at the end of the dining room, and in one swift movement, Whitley had grabbed her around the ankles and dropped her feet to the floor for her. He stood as their father led the guests into the room, giving her a moment to observe them as introductions were made.
"Children, I present to you the Duke and Duchess of Winterschlaf."
With a horrible wiggle of his moustache, he showed his guests into the room. The aforementioned Duke was a tall, elderly-looking gentleman, dressed in a surprisingly sharp black suit, and his wife, a woman far too young for him, wore an overly extravagant silver gown, complete with elbow-high velvet gloves. What was with the trend of rich women wearing gloves? Weiss made a face only Whitley could see.
"I would also like to welcome their lovely children, Maxim and Anastasia. My friends, do take a seat. Dinner will be along very shortly."
Weiss sat up nervously. The twins had intrigued her. Maxim wore a ceremonial military suit, his brownish-red hair amicably fluffy and stylish, and his facial hair was all but a suggestion. He looked young, maybe a little older than herself, but not by much. She had to admit he was very handsome.
His sister, however, intrigued her more. Both of them were quite tall people, likely six foot something, but the sister, Anastasia, was wearing a set of six inch heels that she had seen her own personal tailor, the great Gregori Armano himself creating the last time she was in for a fitting. This girl had some serious taste and some seriously deep pockets. The dress she was wearing made her nearly faint. Floor-length, form-fitting, and with a severely distracting boob-window, it made the already imposing woman even more... alluring? The rich red colour of both the dress and the woman's fabulously long and flowing ginger hair stood out vividly compared to the rest of her family.
Holy fuck, she's hot. Lemme smash.
Her mouth watered just at the sight of the woman's lusciously bare neck and shoulders. The twins sat down in the presented high-back chairs directly across from her own spot. Weiss felt quite suddenly underdressed. The sound of her father's chair being filled directed her attention back up to the head of the table, the place she usually sat when they didn't have guests. She sent a glance down at her mother, who in her inebriated state, hadn't even registered anything beyond the end of her soup spoon. Several chrome trolleys of food came out of a side door from the kitchen, pushed out by a long trail of suit-wearing waiters.
Geez, even they're better dressed than I am.
Instead of letting herself get lost in the literally sparkling beauty of the woman across from herself, she focused her attention over to her brother instead. He met her eyes, giving her a little smile, his emerald eyes shining in the evening light.
Oh, so he's hot too? Fuck me and fuck everything. Goddamn it.
She had to look away again. Whitley seemed focused on the correct orientation of his napkin on his lap, continuously adjusting the angle of the little silk square. Even he seemed nervous, his gaze never once passing the two people across from them. They both fidgeted.
"Presenting the first course, roasted boar. Fired in a wood oven using only the finest applewood, it is garnished with salt, pure black pepper, and thyme. We hope you enjoy."
Seven waiters all brought silver platters off their trolleys at once, placing them down in front of each of the diners and lifting the lids, revealing a large leg of ham for each of them. She reached for her fork, hesitating before she reached it. Her brother seemed to have done the same. Their guests, however, nearly immediately started to dig in. Her father spoke up, his mouth full of boar and his moustache full of visible disappointment.
"So. Weiss, Whitley, I should properly introduce you further to our guests, further than just names."
Her eye twitched. She didn't like where this was going. The man across the table from her smiled in her direction again. She shuddered from the smoulderingly attractive gaze. Whitley, his face red with what she couldn't tell was anger or embarrassment, looked away up at the grand chandelier above their father.
"Whitley, this is Anastasia. She's a graduate of Anfang University, majoring in political science-"
"I have a doctorate in hybrid engineering, father. Political science isn't real science."
Weiss turned to her brother, impressed by his snappy response. He winked back at her. The ginger woman seemed neither to have heard nor have taken offence to what he had said, silently eating the food that she had to admit smelled pretty good.
"As I was saying, she's well-versed and well-studied. I understand she is a little tall for your taste, however at least she is not that Sarina girl, or whatever her name was. The tramp with the short hair."
"Samiyah, father."
Weiss cringed, watching her brother squirm in his seat. The woman across the table was showing serious unwavering restraint. Whitley seemed to be running out of patience, and Weiss had started to notice a trend.
"Yes, whatever. Anyway, Anastasia may be a year or two older, but that shouldn't be a problem. She is a fine woman, if I do say so myself, my boy."
Her brother was shaking in his seat. His knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping his utensils. She looked back over at her father, who was wiggling his moustache in his son's direction. He turned his attention to his daughter for a moment. Weiss froze in place. Uh oh. She turned back to Maxim, who was still smiling his million-lien-smile.
"And Weiss, my dearest daughter..."
She turned back to him, a glare in her eye. This was going exactly how she thought it might.
"This is Maxim."
Her whole body convulsed as one. She knew it. Another attempt at finding her a suitor. Another attempt to find a man to marry into the Schnee name and claim the enterprise for their own. She stood up, sliding her chair backwards across the floor with a loud scrape. The force alone knocked the over the wine bottle closest to her.
"No!"
She pointed an aggravated finger in her father's direction. She wasn't having it today. She was done.
"I will not be sold out to every simple minded child of each of your friends, father! I don't want to be just a housewife in your little game!"
She slammed her hand down on the table, shaking the silverware and china.
"I've had enough! I'm not a pawn for you to play with! This is my house, this is my company, and if you had wanted to keep it under your control, you shouldn't have given it to me! But you did. So now I have control, and I'm not giving it to some snot-nosed brat who sits in his room all day and plays Prince Charming for the cameras!"
The boy across from her choked on his wine.
"Because let's be honest, here. I have no interest in getting married to this guy, or any other one of the insufferable children you try and set me up with! I made my choice a long time ago, but for some reason that wasn't good enough, and now look what's happened! I'm turning out like mother. Soaked in alcohol and miserable."
Everyone at the table sent a glance down towards the end where their mother sat, asleep and inebriated. She hadn't reacted even a little. She turned her attention back to the guests, directing the angry finger at Max.
"You, boy, look at me. Look at me!"
He seemed to retract into his suit a little.
"Do you want to be with me for the rest of your miserable, insufferable life?"
He froze, his eyes wide.
"Well, I can give you a bunch of reasons why you would loath such a marriage. Number one, and by god is it a big one; I like pussy. There, I said it. Y'all were thinking it, so I'm going to clarify it. I prefer women to men. So there would be absolutely zero sexual content to our relationship. I'm not gonna blow you, I'm not going to carry a kid for you. And I'm going to demand we sleep in separate beds, so we're not even going to cuddle!"
Whitley gagged on some air, trying his hardest not to laugh. A pitiful smile came to her face. He could laugh if he wanted to.
"If there was any man I would have sex with, it would be my boy Pu$$ySlayr69 from X-Station Online just so I could dominate him one last time. And you know what? I don't even know what he looks like!"
She paused to take a breath. All this shouting was going to get to her.
"Number two! I have a hair-trigger temper, as you might have noticed. Do you want to be remembered as the man who was stabbed to death by his wife because he didn't close the refrigerator door all the way and the milk went sour? Because I will not hesitate to gut you like a fish, motherfucker!"
Her father roared from his end of the table.
"Weiss, that's enough!"
She roared back.
"Oh, is it?! I don't think it is! You thought you could coerce me into being subservient by inviting the Duke and his kids over so I might behave myself and act to your stupid social heteronormative structure, well... I won't! The monarchy of this stupid country is entirely ornamental. You know who the richest and most powerful person is on this planet?"
Nobody dared answer. She saw her brother discreetly point in her direction.
"That's right. Me. I own ninety percent of all dust mining and refinement operations across the globe, and this wretched company controls seventy percent of all wealth! The goddamn King of Atlas answers to me! You know, last year for my birthday, King Arnolf bought me some pretty sweet stuff. I got these sweet pyjama pants, a very excellent bottle of wine, and this really rad radio control plane! The King actually came to my birthday party, here at the house! We got drunk and played SnipperClips! The actual King of Atlas, motherfucker! And you know who wasn't at my birthday party?"
She looked down the table at her father. There was nothing but a red haze of fury in her vision now. So much that it actually hurt.
"You! You never even bothered to care about your own daughter enough to get her a birthday gift, let alone attend. You've done nothing but make all three of us hate you! You shame Whitley for his choice of women, you shame me for choosing women, and you shame Winter for getting engaged to a man I can honestly say was a better father to his nieces than you were to me! And he was never around!"
The moustache twitched.
"You should watch your tone We-"
"No! I've had it! I'm done!"
She sent the angry finger around in a circle pointing to each of the dinner attendees.
"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, extra fuck you, fuck you, you're cool, I'm out!"
With a flourish, she picked up the knocked over wine bottle, held it out horizontally in front of her self, then dropped it back onto the table. She stormed her way back towards the exit of the room, using a small poorly-focused glyph to push her chair back into the table. Two more glyphs formed on the huge cherrywood double doors, blasting them open. The shouts of her father droned in her head as white noise as she stomped her way back down the hallway.
Weiss had never felt more livid with anyone or anything this bad before. Perhaps it was remnants of alcohol in her system that had allowed her to let loose like she had. She passed through the lobby, spitting in the direction of the kitchen wing as she climbed the grand staircase back up to her room. With a hearty kick, the door to said room was knocked nearly clear of it's frame, before being hammered shut again by another loose glyph. She wanted to scream, but that didn't seem like it would be cathartic enough. With her whole body shaking, she crossed the room and through the door that lead into her personal music studio, which sat adjacent to her bedroom.
With a quick scan of her collection, she grabbed the cherry-red open-body electric that hung next to the door. The very same one she had played in that little music shop in Liebesdorf, which she had bought online a few days ago and had overnighted. Grabbing a patch chord and plugging in, she switched on the ceiling-high four thousand watt amplifier. She grabbed the large gain knob and twisted as far as it would go, cranking the master volume up quickly after. The room started to hum loudly. Flicking the guitar's selector into the lower pickup and kicking the overdrive pedal on the floor, she grabbed a pick off the nearest stool. Her heart raced. She readied her hand.
PAIN
"...Without love."
She hit the first chord.
The whole house shook.