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Premiani Penthouse. 1043 Hours, 11 AUGUST 2014
It's in the lives that we lead . . . Setup for money and greed . . . A little isn't enough, we have to use it all up . . . Success, excess, the truth is inconvenient . . .
Cash smiled smugly as he leaned back upon the leather couch, lacing his thick fingers behind the back of his head that he nodded in time to the music. His cap was pulled to his brow and too-blue eyes seemed to sparkle in time with the laptop as he watched the video play. The computer was nestled in his lap and he adjusted to keep it from falling as teenagers battled within a bank upon the screen. Scrolling along the side were the proliferate comments from the watchers, those who had gambled upon the even alternating between lamenting the events that conspired against their bets and celebrating their winnings. After reading through the remarks for a moment, his gaze flickered back towards the feeds pulled from the bank's security cameras as the fight ended and the Titans regrouped.
Rape, steal, and murder . . . God bless the almighty dollar! . . . The almighty dollar . . .
Pushing off of the couch, he scooped up the laptop and stomped through the lavish apartment to the resplendent bedroom bathed in a soft light, almost amber in coloration. Golden covers floated upon a bed large enough to serve as a stage for any of Shakespeare's plays and comfortable enough to lull the actors to sleep before they could do so to the audience. Pillows, in varying shades of deep red, orange, and similar autumnal hues, covered half the alluring mattress and were more numerous than any one person could use, a testament to profligate expenditure. Soft carpet covered the floor and seemed to flatten down at the briefest of burdens, but sprang back up after their passage.
Against the wall, standing upon curved legs that artificial vines crawled about, was a magnificently lacquered vanity with the wood a cherry sort of red, and a matching divan sat before it, the cushion an arterial scarlet. Flowers were carved with seasoned diligence about the mirror, the petals hiding and directing the lights for an even glow. The drawer was decorated with a porcelain flower as a handle, continuing the theme persistent in the design. Different perfumes and various cosmetics clustered upon the top, leaving only a small space for them to be used and applied, but there was a fastidious arrangement to them that was not evident to any beyond its organizer.
On the other side of the room, a door led to a walk-in closet dominated by dresses, but containing a full array of attire. Near the head of the bed was a sturdy chair that did not match the general decor of the room, missing the abundant luxury that was otherwise omnipresent. In the corner, close to the door he had entered through, was another portal from which the gentle sound of lapping water emerged. He knocked against the door and settled along the wall beside it, setting the laptop upon his legs again as he paused the music pumping from the speakers.
"Yo, boss babe!"
"Que?" Alondra asked as the waters stilled.
"Our neoteric foray into the industry of parlay connotes assured prosperity!"
". . . Some days, Cash, I wish I could kill you," she grumbled from within her bathroom.
He chuckled as he let his head drop back against the wall and said, "You would perambulate in utter destitution without my magnanimous propinquity, boss babe. Or perish."
"I'm sure," she observed acidly. "So, I'm guessing by your tone that our new business went well?"
"Oh, most assuredly."
"Wouldn't it be easier to simply say 'yes?'"
"Indubitably. But not as fun."
"Idiota. Do you have the numbers?"
"In anticipation of such inquiries, I have conducted the necessitated calculations," he nodded as he switched screens. "With a two hundred dollar buy-in alone, we garnered near seventy-thousand dollars in profit. A disappointing accumulation given our global span, but certain to dilate. Our aggrandizement from the admittedly tentative gambling is in closer approximation to twenty-thousand though particular debts remain unpaid."
"Start tracking the perdedores who haven't paid. They have a week before I dispatching the Carogne Uccelli," she declared.
The water sloshed and stirred as she lifted from the tub and he could hear the squeak of the towel rack as the bath stilled. After several minutes, she emerged, largely dried and flanked by billowing clouds of steam. A towel of creamy white was wrapped about her svelte body, a hand at her modest bust keeping it in place while her ebony hair was bundled in another. Elegant strides carried her to the bed and she held the first towel in place with her elbows, securing it as she vigorously rubbed the second towel through her hair. She dropped it upon the floor, letting her dark locks fall in disarray about her face and Cash watched with heightening fascination.
He had always thought her curiously pale for her heritage, at times wondering if she possessed some sort of melanin deficiency, after mostly discarding his supposition of vampiric heritage. However, whenever an opportunity where such an inquiry might be appropriate arose, he found the thought would slip his mind. She strode, though it was better suit to be called a glide with her grace, to the closet on long legs, which were toned from a loyally followed training regimen and had inspired poems and sonnets from her more artistically inclined paramours.
As she perused her clothes, she serenaded them in a curious, musical mix of Spanish and Italian, alternating between the two with the ease of breathing. Finally, she emerged with a navy blue dress in one hand and lacy undergarments in the other. The former was laid upon the glamorous bed before her hand flitted to the towel hiding her body and tossed it at Cash, the damp corners wrapping about his head with a cephalopod's instinct.
Snarling in annoyance, he yanked and wrestled with it, letting loose an eloquent string of curses and murderous threats. One hand remained atop his cap, keeping it in place while the other peeled away the towel that desperately clung to his neck and head. Casting it to the floor with hatred probably undue an inanimate object, he lifted his glower to find Alondra's back to him, her black panties frothing over a shapely derrière that deserved worship. After snapping the bra's strap into place, she turned, presenting the old scar, mostly faded, that ran along her taut abdomen before it disappeared beneath the dress as it flowed along her lissome figure. She gathered her damp hair in her hands, pulling it out of the way as she brought up the two ties to the back of her neck. Not requiring any order, Cash set the computer aside and rocked to his feet, approaching her and fumbling with the strings before managing it into a serviceable knot.
"Gracias," she beamed as she turned and strode back into the restroom from which most of the steam had receded as the water had emptied from the tub. She plugged in her hair dryer but paused before activating it and looked to him. "Dimmi, how are our new business partners handling the order of things after our meeting?"
He shrugged, "None are palatable to the vicissitudes brought about by your attainment of affluence, but only an exiguous sum present the wherewithal to mitigate your thralldom. Unfortunately, they may stir placated members into a coterie if not handled succinctly. To ameliorate the situation, I advise their expeditious acquisition of an argosy of orifices."
Her gaze was flat as she regarded his broad grin that threatened to tear across his face, noting the way he uttered the final word almost lovingly, like its meaning encompassed all his cares and affection for the world. She had heard it frequently enough to know its definition by heart even if the rest of the words were purely intended to confound her in the continuation of his favorite game. Knowing the intentions he tied into the word, even if in doing so he had modified its meaning, she nodded.
"Cuida de ella. However, keep a low profile. Make them look like accidents. I don't want any more attention on us than necessary," she instructed. She activated the dryer, shaking out her hair as her guardian, with his grin tearing across his cheeks, gathered up the laptop and departed to carry out her will.
Titans Tower. 1056 Hours, 11 AUGUST 2014
Starfire strode down the hall with her gaze set and her hands balled into fists, moving with a purposeful urgency. Thoughts whirled and whizzed through her head and she was so preoccupied by them that she nearly missed her stop. Halting in front of the avian's door, she glared at the relatively innocent barrier, as though to blame it for the private tendencies of the one within it. Straightening, she lifted one of her hands and rapped mightily upon the gate, threatening to tear it down with the force of her blows. When she received no response, she knocked again, more forcefully this time, and her pointed glower failed to note the dents left in the portal. Before she could knock a third time, the door opened into the gloomy domain and amethyst eyes glared out at her in annoyance.
"I was trying to meditate," Raven grumbled.
"Then I shall be joining you," she said as she pushed into the room, startling the sorceress.
"Come right in," she said, closing the door and following after her friend towards the circular bed. "Happy for the company."
Turning, Starfire dropped onto the bed and looked at her friend with a grim expression that startled the grey girl. She opened her mouth to ask the reason behind the unexpected visit, but the redhead cut her off.
"I dislike seeing my friends fight. It reminds me of my unintended trip with Warp."
"That was only a possible future," she dismissed the idea. "We aren't going to split up. Not like how you described it."
"I appreciate your words, friend, but I fear that they do not totally put my fears to rest," she sighed, dropping her head. She lifted it a moment later and asked, "What has happened with you and friend Beast Boy?"
"Me and Beast Boy? Starfire, nothing's wr-"
"Too often you say that when the opposite is true," she noted, eyeing her shrewdly. "Beast Boy has not done the telling of a joke to you for over a week. Something is most definitely wrong."
"We're just having a little disagreement," she muttered, dropping her head. "A private one."
"Friend Beast Boy is not one to hold the grudges. Not without chemical assistance. This is much more than a 'little disagreement.' Have you apologized yet?"
Raven glanced up at her and blinked in surprise at the demand before she answered, "What makes you think I'm the one who needs to apologize?"
Her eyes flashed and she pressed, "Are you?"
She was resolute for only a moment, but she broke and dropped her gaze as she grudgingly admitted, "Mostly. I - Yes."
"Then why have you not apologized?"
"It's not that easy."
"Nothing ever is," Starfire said beneath her breath, rolling her eyes. Focusing back upon the grey girl, she admonished, "While I understand that apologies are more the specialty of friend Beast Boy, perhaps it is the time that you began the practice them as well."
"And just how am I supposed to manage that? Every time I try to talk to him, we just end up arguing again!" she nearly shouted before realizing her tone. Shrinking back into her cloak, she closed her eyes and took steadying breaths until she continued in a more controlled manner. "For over the first decade of my life, my waking minutes were dedicated to learning self-control. I never knew what it was like to interact with kids my age, and even now, I . . . I . . ."
"It is difficult," she agreed somberly. She drew her legs up, looping her arms about them as she wistfully said, "I was not as separated as you, not at first, but I was still . . . lonely. My sister rarely had time for me, and my parents had even less. Besides my brother, who was too young, my only true companion was Galfore. Having friends is still new to me."
Lifting her head, she suddenly gave a brilliant smile and announced, "But, that makes you all the more precious to me. I do not wish to lose any of you, nor do I wish for any of you to lose the friendship you share. Ooh!"
Raven leaned back as Starfire suddenly leapt into the air, hovering there before zooming towards her and capturing her hands. Excitement rolled from her in waves as she beamed excitedly and gushed, "I have just devised the most glorious of plans to reconcile you and friend Beast Boy! A date!"
A scowl crossed Raven's face and she ducked deeper into her hood to hide her blush as she hissed, "Starfire . . ."
"Apologies," she hurried onward. "I intended to say that we should all go out to eat! We will be in public, too far for him to do the fleeing to his rock or his room or into the ocean, and he will not start an argument with you in public."
"Are you sure about that?"
She faltered, frowning briefly, but shook her head and assured her, "He has done the maturing. Oh! We shall go to Genevieve! His fear of friend Adelaide should keep him best behaved!"
"That's . . . a bit devious," she noted, gaze narrowing as she eyed her suspiciously, but Starfire merely shrugged at the accusation.
"Boyfriend Robin is, for some reason, sometimes reluctant to express the affection of being a couple. I must be . . . creative in getting him to do so at all. But, all is fair in the love and war, yes?"
"We are no far beyond my areas of expertise," Raven noted dryly as she finally pulled her hands from her friend's grasp. "Since we have a plan and everything, I'm going to get back to my meditation now. You can join if you want, but -"
"Friend Raven, we cannot do the meditating now," she scolded.
"What?"
"We must begin the selecting of what we shall wear for the date! I am thinking slightly formal attire," she mused thoughtfully as she clasped her hands together. "There is a new dress I am most excited to wear. And we must find one for you as well."
There was a moment of silence as Starfire mentally considered her wardrobe while Raven stared at her dumbly before repeating herself.
"What?"
Dr. Silbaum's Office, JCP. 1113 Hours, 11 AUGUST 2014
Dr. Katherine Silbaum was a tall woman with a near Amazonian physique, which made the wireframe spectacles perched upon her nose seem slightly ridiculous. Wiry hair of a light red hue was pulled back into a long ponytail, several strands escaping from the band to rebelliously stand up. Her strong features were coated with the basics of make-up and she forewent any accessories beyond a silvery chain hanging about her neck. She was attired in an unflattering pantsuit that disguised any allure her body might have offered to the various criminals and delinquents she met within the course of her career.
Her office was a warm room, filled with soft, neutral hues and tones while most of the floor space was taken up by chairs. A set were arranged in a small circle while another pair had been placed in front of her sturdy desk, all of them equipped with means of securing the visitors she received. Perched upon the sill of her barred window was a small cactus with a bright flower blooming from its pinnacle. Filing cabinets were stacked in the corner of her office, laden with several reference books.
"You doing all right, doc? Not gonna wet your pants, are you?"
The bespectacled woman glanced up in a flash of annoyance as the snide query interrupted her study of the file, but quickly dropped her gaze from the dark eyes that twinkled cruelly. Turning her attention back to the folder before her, she cleared her throat as she tried to push away the slivers of dread that crept into her mind. Alyx Madan-Chen, Phobos amongst the caped community, had been outfitted with a suppression band when police had arrived to arrest her and her comrade. The thin strip repressed telepathic abilities and delivered debilitating shocks when somebody tampered with it, but it could not wholly contain the fear that the young girl projected, much to the psychiatrist's consternation.
Clearing her throat again, she began, "So, Ms. Madan-Chen, you -"
"Call me Alyx," she interrupted, dropping her head back against the chair that her sturdy cuffs had been clipped to. "It's easier. On, like, everybody."
"Very well. Alyx. What did you hope to obtain by robbing that bank?"
"World peace."
"You know that I can't help you if you don't help me. Up until now, you and your partner have committed rather small-time heists. You've been careful. You avoided committing crimes in towns with some sort of superhero presences and you never stayed around for any sort of authorities," she observed, studying the impressive record that the girl had built in a year and a half.
"What can I say? I saw some boots that I just had to have. Oh, and Henry probably needed to eat," she shrugged.
"Henry. Right. Your . . . partner," she said as she scribbled down several notes. "You two have been together for quite some time. You're immune to his . . . contagious insanity? And him to your fear projection?"
"For some reason. Some dude theorized that we project on, like, the same wavelength or something, so we end up canceling each other out. But then he couldn't figure out how we could affect the same person and so on."
"I see," she mused, reading over the report she had referenced. Looking up from it again and, unable to meet her gaze, fixated on a spot on the door just beyond her ear as she asked, "Tell me, have you two ever been . . . intimate?"
"Have we - WHAT?! Did you really just - I mean, how could you even - God, that's just sick!" she exclaimed, her face twisting in disgust at the suggestion. "Are you reading my file or some porno over there? I mean, geez, that is just -"
"Reports indicate that you are both healthy and as teenagers, I can understand that you want to -" she said hastily.
"But me and Henry? I-I just can't take you seriously anymore, doc. That's just wrong. He's, like, my brother. And, most of the time, not right in the head. Isn't that, like, wrong or something?" she said, her expression appalled as she looked at the slightly abashed woman. After a moment, she sat back and a faint blush rose in her cheeks as she admitted, "A-a-anyway, I k-kinda already have a boy I like."
"Oh?"
Her eyes flashed dangerously as she looked back up to her and she growled, "And just what's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, Alyx. Tell me, is it somebody from your time at the Caldwell Home or more recent?"
She pointedly avoided meeting her gaze as she grumbled, "Why do you wanna know?"
"I'm simply curious," she answered, presenting her with an open smile.
Her vision narrowed as she slumped back in her chair and retorted, "You're nosy. Who I have a crush on, who I'm screwing - none of that is going to help you."
"Ah, somebody clearly has a degree in psychology," she observed dryly.
"Don't need one. Psychology's, like, a bunk science," she debated. "Everybody's different. You can't just go and keep applying the sorta stuff that works for one guy and hope it works for the next. People don't work like that."
"So, you don't believe that you have anything in common with anybody else?"
"Hey, that's not what I'm saying. Look, calling it 'bunk' might have been a bit much. Can we agree that it's inexact?"
"I'm willing to agree with that. Would you mind telling me what brought you and Henry out here? You two are largely east coast criminals with some forays into the midwest."
"You never felt the need for a change of scenery, doc? I needed some sun."
The elder woman pursed her lips as she took in the dark-haired girl's carefully maintained, pallid complexion and nodded after a moment, "So I see."
"Hey, being pale used to be, like, a staple of beauty," she snapped at the perceived judgment.
"Back when it was a sign of wealth as people could afford to pay others to go work in the sun for them. At least until the rise of movies in Hollywood, where everybody began to tan," she replied, surprising Alyx who stared at her before shaking the surprise from her face and giving her a dark smile.
"So, like, I should be channeling my aggression to taking them out, not breaking banks?"
"Preferably not. What do you have to be so aggressive about?"
"I'll give you the short list to save some time. Everybody's fucking scared of me, my parents ditched me at a place that was supposed to fix my powers but, like, couldn't, the chick at Starbucks the other day messed up my order, the popular kids in colorful costumes just ruined my bank heist, some -"
"You said this was the short list?" she asked, brow arching.
The youth grinned at her and responded, "Yep. You wanna hear the long one?"
"I . . . I think it's best that we save that for next time. I have a group session I need to conduct."
"And, lemme guess, I'm not invited."
"Al-"
"Save it. Story of my life. Just call that hunky guard up and I'll go to my room like a good little psychopath," she snapped sullenly before dropping back into the chair. The psychiatrist studied her for a moment, lips twisting about as she did the same to the pen in her hand before she sighed and pressed the button for the intercom on her desk.
"Gerry, we're done in here."
"On the way, Dr. Silbaum."
"Thank you."
"No problem."
Releasing the button, she regarded the surly girl silently, forcing aside the sliver of terror that stabbed through her. She internally scolded herself, squaring her shoulders as she studied the girl clearly in need of help. Used to people pushing her away from the effects of her powers, she had begun preemptively shutting them out, her hostile attitude forcing them to back away before anything else could. Forging through the fear, she took a shuddery breath and then another before she opened her mouth only to shut it again as the double doors to her office swung inward, admitting a tall, burly man in a guard's uniform. He offered a warm smile to the room's occupants and Dr. Silbaum returned it half-heartedly as the guard, defined as Atway upon his nameplate, approached Alyx who smirked up at him as she presented him her chained wrists and their tether. Hesitantly unclipping the lock on the latter, he let it drop to the floor as he helped her to her feet and guided her towards the doors. He paused to wave a farewell to the psychiatrist.
"Have a good day, doc," he offered with a warm smile that was weakened somewhat by his proximity to the girl.
"Thank you, Gerry," she returned before looking to his ward. "I'll see you next time, Alyx."
"Can't wait," she said, rolling her eyes before the door closed.
The hall of the prison was a stark contrast to the welcoming office with its cement floor and brick walls, their white paint chipping away. Sturdy doors with thick windows interrupted the dreadful monotony of the corridor and the guard's vision flickered towards them fearfully as though expecting a threat to burst from them. Feeling his grip periodically clench upon her arm, Alyx rolled her eyes again and blew out an exasperated breath and increased her pace lightly, taking the lead as she pulled the anxious man down the hall. There was a growing clamor up ahead as a group of prisoners, chaperoned by several guards made a turn into their passage. A brief silence settled over the group at the sight of the pair and Alyx ducked her head as leers broke out across the men's faces and they began a round of risqué remarks and catcalls that caused her to flush.
"Hey, hey, what'cha doin' down here, sweet girl?"
"Give us a little shake, momma!"
"Don't get shy on us now. Why don't'cha go ahead and - unff!"
The jeers came to an end as one of the men suddenly hurtled forward, knocking over several of his comrades and causing them all to spill to the ground. Behind the fallen members of the troupe, staring at them with irritation in his orange eyes, was a burly man with fierce burn scars ranging across his scalp.
"Ah tell yah, boys these days. Don't know how to treat a lady proper," he growled before nodding to the girl, raising his shackled hands to tug on the bill of an imagined cap. "Lil' miss."
"My, my," she smirked, regaining her composure. "I guess chivalry's, like, not entirely dead."
He grinned back at her, "Not if ah can help it."
"Arson! What did we tell you about starting trouble?!"
Alyx did not hear the flippant response as her guard hurried her past the crew, but she glanced over her shoulder to catch the burnt man, refusing to acknowledge his chastisement, winking at her. A small smile bloomed upon her face as she turned forward again.
The Grand Murakami Hotel. 1241 Hours, 11 AUGUST 2014
The resplendent hotel continued its rebirth, rising like a phoenix in grand display from its ruins though its official reopening was still months away. However, many of the internal functions had been restored and several of the rooms had been modified, stripped of their carpets and other hospitable amenities. Operating tables replaced the beds while surgical tools took the place of the bibles upon the upon the wheeled stations that replaced the nightstands. IV bags replaced ice buckets, numbing the guests to whatever procedure they were visiting for. And the once noble pedigree of guests were replaced with the scions and dregs of society, those who made their business off the suffering and misfortune of others.
In one of the refitted rooms, a young thief, who had not been as quick as necessary in his latest heist, drifted through an anesthetized slumber as Dr. Sanders took the opportunity to instruct his attending nurses, his voice slightly muffled by the surgical mask covering the lower half of his face and most of his attention on a young woman whose curves were apparent under her teal scrubs. He reveled silently in the awe and admiration in her dusky eyes as she held his polished cane in slender fingers, freeing his own deft hands to conduct his craft.
"As with most wounds, you must be aware of any extraneous material that might wind up in the patient's body," he explained as they crowded about the bullet wound in the man's shoulder. "As you can see, some fabric is in here along with the bullet. Now, you must delicately reach i-"
"YO, DOC!" Cash boomed as he threw the door open and barged into the room, causing all of them to jolt and the teacher to snarl under his breath. "You present? I suffer privation for your professional opinion."
The towering man thundered into the room, grinning at the sight of his quarry before dropping into a nearby stool that squeaked in protest but ultimately held firm against his mass. He readjusted his knit cap as the medics stared at him in astonishment, their gazes flickering to Dr. Sanders, whose lips twitched in annoyance, and then back to the brute who began to spin in circles on the seat.
"Under righteous suspicions, I have been charged with -"
"I'm in the middle of a procedure," he hissed, interrupting the visitor who stopped at the annoyed tone and finally seemed to notice the man sprawled upon the table. He was silent for a moment, glimmering eyes drifting over the crowd who averted their own gaze before he finally shrugged.
"That's acceptable. I'm feeling tolerable," Cash grunted and the surgeon groaned before snapping in frustration at him.
"No, I meant that I have no time to waste on whatever trifles that have brought your dumbass to see me. Why don't you do your job and actually guard our employer from the multitude of enemies she's insistent upon making?" he suggested snidely. Silence filled the room following his statement and his pupils looked curiously between him and the giant man.
The lamps suddenly flickered, dousing the room in darkness and there was the scrape of metal against the floor. When the light returned to the room, Dr. Sanders' feet hovered off the ground as his hands clutched at Cash's sleeve, attempting to pry away the thick fingers curled in the front of his shirt. He gasped and sputtered, and the mask had slipped to hang about his neck as his uninjured leg kicked out through the air, searching for something to brace against. The nurses backpedaled away from the pair, several of them glancing towards the stool that squeaked as its seat wobbled in slow circles.
"I postulate that it would be more apt to delineate my cachet as that of consigliere," Cash reasoned conversationally, tilting his head and stroking his broad chin with his free hand as he considered the idea. "Though I hypothesize if one were to appraise me as an unmitigated Praetorian, I could capacitate such terminology as a particularly aggressive paradigm who conducts preemptive neutralization against latent exigency. While being perhaps overzealous in my duties."
"All right, all right!" Dr. Sanders grunted, spitting out the words from between his teeth. "I get it! Now put me down!"
"Posthaste," he nodded as he gently returned the doctor to the floor who immediately leaned against the table for support. Ignorant of his plight, Cash began to pace as he described the situation, "Without over-elucidating the transpirations, I have been commissioned something of a conundrum. I have been permitted clearance to attend to the disobedience of several of our neophyte retinue with the stipulation that their sudden cessations appear unmeditated. Which negates the imparting of orifices, my preferred modus operandi."
"A most confounding situation indeed," he grumbled as he straightened and reached for his surgical tools. Selecting a pair of tweezers from amongst them, he focused on his unconscious patient, plucked the remnants of his flannel shirt from the wound with remarkable accuracy and speed. He deposited the bloody fibers in a small tray as he continued the conversation, "However, if you would recall, I am a healer. Not a killer."
"Predominantly," he amended, grinning wickedly at the glare leveled at him. Refocusing on his task, the surgeon seized the round buried deep in the tissue and slid it expertly from amongst the strands of muscles. Tossing it with the rest of the refuse he had pulled from the injury, he whirled and snatched his cane from the lush-bodied nurse. Slamming it upon the ground, he stalked from the room as he barked orders over his shoulder.
"Clean the wound and then stitch him up. Once that's done, he's safe to be moved to recovery."
Balancing upon his cane, he reached for the door only to be cut off by a trunk of a limb that twisted the knob and yanked it open. Glancing upwards, he glowered at the persistent Cash and sighed before he limped into the hall and asked, "So, you want to make it look like an accident? And you thought I would be the best person to ask; why?"
"Credentials aside, you are a medical professional. A most celebrious chirurgeon," he reasoned, appealing to the dark-skinned man's ego. "You cognize readily the indicia of mortiferous calamities that would not appear to have been conducted with aforethought."
"True," he acknowledged as he jammed his finger against the button to summon the elevator at the end of the hall. Cash watched the floors as it fell with surprising rapidity and opened before them, a man pressing the button futilely before noting the figures standing in the hall. Offering them a watery grin, he slid between them and fled down the hall as they entered the capsule, the doors closing quickly behind them as Dr. Sanders selected his destination. He stepped back, placing both his hands upon his cane as they rode smoothly upward, and pointedly ignored the towering monstrosity who watched him with growing impatience in his too-blue eyes. After a moment, he broke the silence that filled the space between them.
"You want my help, but, I must ask, what is it, my dear Cash, that you could possibly do for me?"
"For you?" he parroted as the elevator dinged and the doors opened upon the extravagant hall. He proceeded down it, shadowed by the lumbering brute who was forced to follow at his gait as he smiled to himself.
"Well, yes. I have recently come to the realization that our relationship is all take and no give. I think it's time that you start to gi-"
"Sanders!"
Irritation flooded his features at the intrusion and remained in place as he turned to face the blonde woman storming from one of the rooms. Dressed in the dark armor of the Carogne Uccelli, she had hung her beaked mask from her side, revealing her grim visage. Stopping inches from the man, Krahen prodded her finger against his chest, seemingly intent on bruising his sternum, as she snarled at him, "In your showboating the other night, you ended up bruising several of the organs. They're useless now!"
"Nonsense," he scoffed, knocking her hand aside. "One of your little birds probably ruined it while transporting it."
"Right," she hissed as she backed away slightly, eyes glittering dangerously. "Because how could anything ever be the fault of the great Dr. Sanders? Except for, perhaps, that poor woman you killed on the table."
His eye twitched and he retorted hotly, "I did everything I could for her! What happened to her was not -"
"Your fault?" she sneered. "Save it, doctor. It's old news. But, perhaps for the sake of your patients, you could keep from indulging? At least until we find a replacement for you. Which, honestly, shouldn't be too difficult."
With her parting shots launched, she brushed past the men, striding down the hall as the dark-skinned man glared after her, imagining her being subjected to countless depravities before asking, off-handedly, "Do you know why I like you, Cash?"
"Because I have not attempted to instigate your premature departure from this plane of existence?" he answered evenly. As an afterthought, he added, "Yet."
"Hah. Yes. That's one reason," he acknowledged with a wry chuckle. "But there are two others. The first is that you're too dumb to ever even try to take my job."
"Customarily, I would be reversing the initial reason we remain on amicable terms at such a statement," he said nonchalantly. "But there is veracity within your comment. Proceed."
"The second is that you're not a woman."
"With great certainty, I can assure you that that is an astute observation," he nodded. "However, I don't swing that way, doc."
"Nor would I have any interest in you if I did. What I mean is, you aren't a two-faced, vindictive bitch trying to screw me out of my place. In honor of that, I'm willing to give you some help with your little project."
"And in return?"
"In return, all I want is a little solidarity amongst us men," he said, flashing him a brilliant smile and extending a hand. "Well?"
"My orifice administration schedule is already full," he grumbled and Dr. Sanders rolled his eyes.
"I don't need you to do something as gauche as killing somebody. I just need you to lend me your support when I ask for it," he pressed.
Cash took another moment, narrowing his eyes as he regarded the proffered extremity before shrugging and clasping it.
"Eh. I've struck worse bargains."
"Excellent. If you'll follow me, I can supply you with several ideas you should be able to simulate without attracting too much attention," he offered and turned. He stopped midway and faced the massive man again to advise, "Also, you may want to consider taking a break from smiling. It's starting to show on your face."
He frowned, fingers immediately reaching towards his wide mouth and tracing it before he hurried after Dr. Sanders who moved steadily down the hallway.
Common Room, Titans Tower. 1208 Hours, 11 AUGUST 2014
Beast Boy sat in the booth about the kitchen table, swirling a spoon in the fruit cup he had pulled from the fridge to sate his meager hunger, only to find he had no desire for it after the second bite. He watched the spinning pieces of peaches and pineapples jostle for position as he stirred them about their track, but his other senses were elsewhere. Snarls and snapping teeth still sounded inside his head, threatening growls that melted into a zoo's worth of other animal cries, all crashing and clamoring together until his own voice was lost in the cacophony. Strange smells flooded his nose, branding his nostrils and giving him a slight taste of their origin and his stomach roiled at the memory.
He pressed his eyes together, trying to force the visions away, but was now awash with them in greater force, images of faces consumed in terror and madness twisting beneath his eyelids. Instincts screamed within his skull, each demanding attention as they ordered him to attack, to run, to hide, to feed. Amidst the chaos, he had been able to steal to the forefront of his own mind and keep himself from adding to the danger of the situation though he had been unable to do anything to help with it. But then her scent had filled his senses and all his instincts had responded as one at the sight of her being threatened. Protect.
She had not said anything and was not avoiding him anymore than she had been beforehand, so he assumed that she had not discovered his affections while his barriers were down. He had drawn them up quickly and accepted her support as they all put their minds back in order but, afterwards, they had fallen back into silence, neither willing to make the move to close the chasm that had opened between them. The ordeal brought a headache with it that nullified even the faintest pangs of hunger and he straightened with a sigh, pushing away the fruit cup.
Almost as though waiting for it, the table jolted as a powerful hand smacked down upon and Beast Boy jumped up in surprise as Cyborg jabbed a finger towards him.
"All right, sourpuss. Monkey Mayhem Four, you and me, right now. Let's go."
While still trying to figure out how the large teen had managed to access the room without him noticing, the changeling slumped back into his seat and shook his head.
"Pass, dude. I'm -"
"Mopin' cause your lady love won't give you the time of day. Got it. Now get your keister on the couch and a controller in your hands," he ordered sternly and Beast Boy found himself sliding from the booth before realizing what he was doing. Stopping himself from advancing any further, he scowled up at his friend, his ears flattening against his skull.
"Hey, metal mouth, you wanna shout that a lil' louder? I'm not sure they heard you over on the mainland."
"You got it, BB," he grinned before drawing in a deep breath. Panic striking across his features, the green youth leapt up to clamp his hands over his comrade's mouth as he glared into his mirthful gaze.
"I'm about to recycle you, tin man," he snarled as Cyborg grabbed the collar of his suit and peeled him off.
"Big talk for a salad head," he teased. "Why don't you put your money where your mouth is?"
Half an hour later, Beast Boy furrowed his brow and stuck his tongue from his mouth in concentration as he hammered upon the buttons of the controller, maneuvering his character about the screen. Pressed to his side and giving him the occasional competitive jostle was Cyborg who grew increasingly desperate as the lead began to slip from him. The timer ran out and it was a green simian that leapt atop the winner's podium, jumping and pumping its fists in the air as the larger teen crashed back against the couch with a sigh. Smiling smugly, Beast Boy rose to his feet to conduct the traditional victory dance while Cyborg rolled his organic eye and sat forward again.
"'Nother round?" he suggested after an instant and Beast Boy nodded eagerly as he dropped back onto the couch, pressing the button to begin another game. As the loading screen filled the immense monitor, Cyborg glanced at his friend and innocuously wondered, "So, when are you gonna let Ms. Personality that you're harborin' a lil' crush on her?"
Beast Boy fumbled with the controller, nearly dropping it before he managed to regain a hold upon it and he spared a short glance to his side as the game began.
"Cheap tricks aren't gonna save you from the losing streak you're on," he accused.
"No cheap tricks, man. I'm just sayin' that you can't keep it bottled up forever. Ain't healthy."
"Which is why you confessed to Jinx. Oh, wait a sec. No, you didn't. Then it must've been Bumble - no, wait. That was Herald."
"Little crushes," he shrugged as his fingers expertly manipulated the controls, guiding his avatar about the environment. "I was over them in, at most, a month or two. You've been moonin' over the pretty bird for - what is it now? Two years? You need to do somethin' 'bout it, man."
"It's . . . complicated," he said evasively.
"So? We're teenage superheroes. What isn't? Life's tough enough as it is with just the 'teenage' part."
"Look, she's got that whole 'no emotion' thing going on, plus I'm not totally sure that she's looking f-"
"Bull, man. You know as well as I do that she's had all that pretty much under control since that thing with her dad. And even if she isn't quite ready to jump into those noodles that you call arms, she might like to know that she has options."
"Right. I'm totally cool with being an option."
"Well, if you can't be that, why not be her friend? Rae doesn't have many and I'm not sure she can afford to lose any of them."
"I am her friend! Why else would I -"
"Not talk to her beyond the common courtesies? Leave the room when she enters? Shoot death glares at her back? One thing you ain't, BB, is subtle. Heck, I'm still not sure how she has no clue how you feel about her."
"That's not what's - it's - there's some stuff going on between us."
"Really? Couldn't tell. At all," he said dryly as he calmly guided his avatar across the map.
"It's private," he offered in lieu of explanation. He quickly added, "On her request."
"Yeah, got that from the 'private' part," he pointed out, grinning at the dirty glare.
"She did some things that I can't talk about, but really don't agree with," he struggled to delve deeper into the subject without giving anything away. "I'm . . . it's stupid, but I'm having a lil' trouble forgiving her right now."
"Hey, we all have our buttons," Cyborg shrugged as he seized victory. Beast Boy blinked in surprise as the timer ran out and his shoulders drooped as he gave a sigh. Pulling himself to his feet, the towering young man tossed his controller onto the couch and tapped his friend's head. "But, put that brain I know you hate usin' to work and think about all the times that Rae's forgiven you when she didn't have to. Then, maybe reconsider the way you're been treatin' her lately."
Turning from him, Cyborg left the shape shifter to consider his words as the sound of his victory continued to chime in the background.
Lily Auto Warehouse, Jump City. 0100 Hours, 12 AUGUST 2014
Operating as an uncostumed criminal within Jump City took patience, a willingness to cooperate, and a severe lack of ambition. The Teen Titans were rarely contacted for the more civilian crimes, but their attention could still be earned with any flashy demonstrations. Robin, in particular, was keen to the little crimes that the team often overlooked and readily lent his assistance to the police in any cases that had stumped them, eager to prove that he was every bit the detective that his mentor was. Trafficking arms, boosting cars, and similarly illicit acts came under his consideration when nothing else captured his focus and perpetrators of such deeds conducted them with great care.
The same held true for the criminal kingpins who ruled the dark underworld of the otherwise bright city. They refrained from warring and largely kept to the territories they had claimed to avoid the scrutiny of the Titans and they ran their crews like military commanders. No crimes were committed without their permission and any who transgressed upon that law suddenly found themselves without any support when the authorities descended upon them. Order but not law persisted in their realms and those who gave into the seduction of chaos or acting without the grace of one of the criminal lords were quickly expelled. It was for these reasons, and the touches of ego and greed, that the generals of the varying forces deigned to meet.
"God, this is such a cliche," muttered a stout woman with a mop of curly brown hair. Gertrude Cornell, along with her husband, ran protection scams and gambling operations within Jump City's business district. They held a sizable empire and were a frequent source of fences for independent agents though they remained ever cautious in their dealings.
She stood within a vast warehouse positioned upon the docks, Lily Auto emblazoned across the exterior of its tin roof. Vehicles of various makes and models were hidden beneath white shrouds, arranged in alleys that stretched down the vast area. Tires and spares parts were grouped in separate rows upon the concrete floor and dangling lights had been turned on sparingly, leaving much of the realm within shadow. State of the art sensors were employed liberally throughout the interior, and various other security measures had been taken to grant the vehicles within a protection rarely enjoyed by anything beyond the riches within Fort Knox.
She looked at her surroundings with distaste, eyeing the wooden table under the halo of light before her, folding chairs surrounding its circumference. Sniffing disdainfully, she folded her arms over her chest as a brawny man and woman stood stoically at her shoulders. Speaking to nobody in particular, she grumbled, "Are they sure that they didn't want to meet in the back of a poker parlor or something? I think it's the only way we could have gotten anymore stereotypical."
"Well, ain't'cha a ray of sunshine. If you don' like it, why don'cha host it yourself?" suggested a burly man as he strode from the darkness behind her, attended by gruff men in leather jackets. His smirk shone through his voluminous, russet beard that was peppered with grey and white. He was attired in a denim jacket with its sleeves torn off to showcase his thick arms, and dark goggles had been pushed atop his head. Fat fingers were looped through the straps of a helmet covered almost wholly in bumper stickers.
"Michael!"
At the sight of him, the woman brightened and opened her arms with a small squeal to squeeze him into a hug, which he returned with a boisterous laugh, lifting her from the floor. As they enthusiastically greeted each other, their protectors exchanged guarded glares, taking each other's measure and posturing before the biker returned the woman to the earth. She laughed and beamed at him, "It feel like it's been forever! How have you been?"
Michael Garcia ran the Tribe, a motorcycle gang largely based in Jump City though it held several chapters elsewhere. The Tribe were smugglers and worked regularly with the various other organizations that populated the city's underbelly.
"Well 'nuff," he said before glancing about. A mischievous twinkle sparkled in his eyes as he looked to her and asked, "And just where, pretty lady, is that husband of yours? You finally come to your senses and leave him so that we could ride off into the sunset?"
"Oh, stop that," she chuckled, smacking his arm good-naturedly. "Danny couldn't make the meeting tonight. We couldn't get a babysitter, so he had to stay behind. It's his night to put the kids to bed."
"And how're the lil' tykes doing? Growing fast?"
"Like you wouldn't believe. I swear, it feels like it was just yesterday that I was changing Benjie's diaper and now he's walking around making potty jokes," she shook her head before looking towards the heavy man. "You should come by for a visit. The kids would love to see their Uncle Mikey."
"Well, no promises, but I'll certainly try to fit it into my schedule," he nodded as he scratched his chin with his blunt fingers. His bright gaze dulled and he growled, "Though, with the way things're headed, that might be clear a lot sooner than I was planning."
"Mrs. Cornell. Mr. Garcia. It is pleasing to see that at least two of you are punctual," noted a cold voice and they turned towards a short, thin man in an impeccable white suit with a black dress shirt beneath it. His head was shaved bald and he stared at them with unnervingly wide eyes, hands clasped behind his back. No guardians stood at his angled shoulders, but the others did not relax in his quiet presence.
"Mr. Gill!" Michael boomed as he swept forward and gathered the diminutive man in a hug. His guards exchanged nervous glances as the man stared impassively ahead until he was returned to the ground and the biker took a step back. "How've you been, you ol' psycho?"
He tilted his head and his gaze flickered away for a second as he considered the question before he looked back towards the large man and nodded, "I have been well. And I would be pleased if you would recall that I am a sociopath. Not a psychopath."
"Eh," he shrugged. "Potay-to, potah-to."
"Not at all," he insisted as Michael swept past him. His followers gave wide berth to Mr. Gill as they made their way to the large wooden table ringed with chairs. Gertrude crossed him warily, managing a small smile as she stole by him while her guards eyed him cautiously. After they had passed, he executed a sharp turn and moved soundlessly across the concrete floor upon gleaming wingtip shoes. He stopped at the head of the table, arms still held behind his back as the recently displaced crime lords settled into a pair of seats. Leaning back on its rear legs, Michael rocked himself back and forth as he glanced about the shadowy realm.
"So, where's everybody else? I thought the invite was to all for this lil' shindig."
"I'm afraid it will only be those of us with a spine," announced a lean woman as she emerged from the shadows. She was dressed in a crisp, pinstriped business suit and her ebony hair was held in a bun by a pair of long, red needles. Her dark hair contrasted with her alabaster skin and her lips and nails were painted a soft pink hue. Flanking her were a pair of spiky-haired twins in matching suits who quietly surveilled the room, poised and ready to strike at a moment's notice.
"Ms. Feng," Mr. Gill chided. "You're late to your own premises."
"I was positioning snipers," Lily Feng shrugged as one of her guards pulled out a seat for her. The prim woman daringly operated in auto theft and arms dealing, conducting her business along the waterfront. As she settled into her seat, she slid a pair of silver spheres from her pocket and began to roll them in the palm of her hand, clicking them together periodically. She explained, "I want no extra eyes watching us. This Vulture seems to know far too much for her own good as it is."
"Probably all those bird-faced freaks she's got," Michael suggested. "They're probably ninjas or something."
"They are not ninjas," Mr. Gill interjected with such utter assurance that nobody contested his declaration.
"Carogne Uccelli," Gertrude mused, scratching at a whorl upon the table. "That's what she called them."
"Anybody have any idea what that even means?" asked the motorcyclist, looking about the room.
"It's Italian. For 'carrion birds,'" Lily volunteered. "At least her theme is consistent."
"These nutjobs usually are," commented a balding, leathery-faced man as he stormed up to the table and dropped into a seat. A grey overcoat was pulled over a navy blue suit and the aging man yanked off black leather gloves that he tossed onto the table as he continued to grumble, "I swear, these days its all codenames and pajamas and a whole load of other stupid shit. Back when I was a boy -"
"You used to ride dinosaurs to school and everybody was certain that this new-fangled wheel thing would never catch on," Lily interrupted tiredly and regarded the stout man with cold eyes. "We've heard this story before, grandpa."
Brandon Doyle's eyes narrowed at the woman, his worn knuckles blanching as thick fingers tightened into fists. There had been a time where he ran most of Jump City's crime, standing atop a pile of bodies he had personally made, but the age and the rise of the Teen Titans had not been kind to him. His once sprawling kingdom had dwindled to the inner city, a place with buildings to match his venerable age, where he peddled drugs and dreamed of olden days. Unable to allow the slight to pass, he snarled, "Chink brat. Somebody needs to teach you proper respect for your elders."
Lily's guards stiffened but settled as she clicked the balls in her hand together and calmly answered, "I respect those who have earned it, Doyle. The only respect I have for you is in how you have managed to carry your miserable existence thus far - the same respect I have for any insect."
"Heh," Michael chuckled, hands folded over his paunch. "Did they call you 'Feng' before or after they learned about your bite?"
"Can we get through this meeting without the usual blustering and death threats?" suggested the broad woman. "Danny and I were talking about catching a movie tonight."
"Oh? What'cha thinking about going to see?"
"Not sure," she shrugged to the hirsute man. "He was going to look at what was playing."
"Chicken Thief V was pretty good," Lily suggested.
"You went to see that?" she asked in surprise. "It seemed a bit, I don't know . . . cheesy? Dorky?"
"It is," she acknowledged. "But it's aware of it. It doesn't try to hide the fact that it is, and it actually works fairly well."
"We gonna spend the night bullshittin' or are we gonna talk about our collective problem?" demanded a burly man in a sleeveless tee and jeans as he stomped across the floor. Similar to Doyle, he moved without protection and refused to take a seat, preferring to slap his palms against the table and glare down at the others with fiery eyes. Thick muscles flowed under his dark skin and umber brown hair was cut close to his head. Lily gave a small smile at his entrance while Doyle glowered at the man's commanding presence in annoyance.
"Waiting for you, punk," he snapped.
Cole Smith did not spare the elderly mobster a glance beyond the flat stare he turned upon the members of the gathering, daring to regard even Mr. Gill with the cold gaze. The powerful man ran a small but lucrative crew that worked in acquiring the latest technologies from the numerous labs about the urban sprawl. They stole blueprints, weapons, and various other gear that they would either sell to the highest bidder or use in the advancement of Cole's own agenda. While not as established as the other members, he had been growing in powers over the years and seemed intent on gaining even more. The arrival of the equally ambitious Vulture threatened any of the plans he had created.
"Really?" he snarled, straightening as he regarded the others. "This is it? Where're all the rest of the pussies?"
"At home, in bed with the covers over their head," supposed Lily. "Or in coolers somewhere, stacked on refrigerated shelves."
"Pussies," he reiterated with a nod. "So, what are we going to do about this birdbrain bitch?"
"Her dad went to college with my brother," Doyle volunteered. "They played ball together. He came over for Thanksgiving one year. I can't imagine Carlo's fine with his daughter's behavior."
"And he's going to do what, exactly?" Lily wondered, rolling the balls in her palm. "Bend her over his knee? Spank her?"
"I could do that," Michael chuckled, earning him a slap upon his meaty arm from Gertrude. "Hey, you can't deny those buns, hun. C'mon, Brandon, Cole. Back me up here."
"How about we steer away from salivating over our mutual problem's assets?" advised the stout woman before she looked to Doyle. "Try her father. This psycho said her father was mafia, and that might just mean that she has some respect for family."
"Ms. Arnetti is not a psychopath," Mr. Gill corrected. "She is a sociopath."
An abrupt silence fell upon the assembly, even Lily ceasing the clicking of her spheres, as all gazes swiveled towards the unassuming man who remained poised under the scrutiny. The crime lords passed glances between themselves before Gertrude cleared her throat, leaning forward to rest her elbows upon the table.
"Mr. Gill. How, exactly, do you know what she is?"
"I have seen the reports."
"What. Reports?" she hissed, struggling to keep her frustration from her voice.
"We keep files on all our clients," he explained. "And while I have never worked for her personally, she is an avid employer of my other brethren."
"Then, if we need you to, you can kill her," Lily said but the man shook his head.
"The Fuma are hesitant to slay such a lucrative asset. She has lent her services to a number of my injured brethren," he answered. "However, it has been decreed that as long as we refrain from taking actions against her, we shall refrain from carrying out any of your executions as well."
"How fair of them," Lily muttered before the table clattered as calloused palms slapped against it.
"If the rest of you pussies are too scared to get your hands dirty, I can handle it," Cole snarled. "I don't need some damn shrimp to handle my business."
"Hold up now," Michael interjected as he returned his chair's forelegs to the ground. "Let's not be hasty. If this has to end in bloodshed, it ends in bloodshed. But that don' have to be the first plan."
"Any of you have one besides talking to her daddy?" asked the muscled man, eyeing the small crowd. They met his gaze but offered no further suggestions and he finally nodded as he stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest. "A'ight then. If daddy dearest can't bring her to heel, we'll handle it ourselves. Presuming the Fuma don't have a problem with that?"
"I have been instructed to watch this feud play out," Mr. Gill said. "I shall not interfere."
"All right," Cole nodded. "Meeting adjourned. Later."
He turned sharply, storming from the warehouse as Gertrude sighed and shook her head, accepting a hand from one of her bodyguard's who assisted her to her feet.
"That man. So much anger," she muttered as she adjusted her skirt. Lifting her gaze, she looked at the others and announced, "I'm going to try to talk to some of the others. Get them involved. Maybe, if enough of us join in, we can convince Ms. Arnetti to end this peacefully."
"Good luck with that," Lily scoffed as the others stood. "Have a good night, lady and gentlemen. Oh, and don't worry about the snipers. They've been told to stand down.
Outside, Gertrude pulled her coat tighter about her to ward off the chill of the ocean breeze as one of her protectors brought the car about. Michael revved his lovingly tended motorcycle, causing it to roar deafeningly, and he grinned at Doyle's annoyed glance. He wheeled forward, followed by his cronies, and he grabbed Gertrude's hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it as she gave a small grin.
"Last chance," he quipped wickedly and she gave a small shake of her head.
"As tempting as it is, I'm quite happy right where I am."
"A pity," he sighed as he released her hand and fired a final smile at her before screaming out of the parking lot.
"Hooligan," Doyle grunted.
"Oh, hush," she scolded.
Passing through the darkened streets, Michael released a hooting cry that his guardians echoed though the sound was largely lost in the rumble of their engines. He weaved about the scant passengers upon the road, delivering cheeky grins and dipping close before speeding away, flouting anything resembling traffic laws. Inside his burly chest, his heart thrummed and pounded in time with his engine and upon his steely steed, he moved with a liquid grace typically unavailable to his bulky form. The streets were his environment, his home, and he knew their intricacies better than any other. The timing of the lights, the position of the cameras, all the bumps and dips that nobody else could see until they were running over them. They were all within his domain, subjects in his kingdom.
But his position was not enough to save him from the lightless tractor trailer that plowed through its light, slamming into him with thunderous force. His followers screeched to a halt, looking on in horror as the massive vehicle slowed and stopped. Putting up the stands upon their bikes, they slid from them and raced forward, one of them all but tearing the door open to drag the blubbering man from the cab. The other stepped ahead and winced at the macabre smear, the hope he had been clutching suddenly slipping from his clutch.
And, as the two men battered the sobbing and protesting man, Cash crouched upon the edge of an adjacent roof, recording the gory stain and ensuring that its life was full and indisputably ended.
As long as they have it, the Vulture's goons use anesthesia pretty liberally. If somebody doesn't wake up from it, they just carve them up for organs - which, admittedly, is not a business practice that they broadcast.
Anyway, slightly greater focus on Cash for this chapter. Hope that you all like his scenes.
So, thanks for reading and please review!