harlots kiss better
Note(s): Introductions of Wang Yao (or Yao Wang, whichever you prefer) and Honda Kiku (or Kiku Honda). Also, I'm not that comfortable with technical specifics, so just pretend everything I wrote concerning software and cell phone providers is correct, okay? (CSI can only give me so much info.) -glad we got that established.
Warning(s): language and a smudge of SuFin (if you want to interpret it that way.) Shameless BBC-Holmes reference. Couldn't resist.
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last fight, fuck them – last words before you went and left again
Jump; Lana Del Rey
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Softly chiming when the door to the trodden down pawnshop opens, the silver-varnished bell stills as Bel walks into the dusty establishment; shelf upon shelf covered and cluttered with meaningless trinkets, an old-fashioned counter creaking underneath scattered documents and lease-forms and the smell of Oolong always wafts throughout the vicinity. She chuckles when a series of obscenities in Chinese flits from the private quarters, concealed by an oriental curtain. Someone stumbles out to greet their customer, a young girl with dark brown tassels and kind chocolate-brown eyes. Her lips twitch into an amiable grin when she recognizes the blonde and throws some more foreign words over her shoulder. Yao shoves the curtain aside with a ladle still in his right hand, beads of sweat swelling upon his forehead and his white apron messy with a substance she thinks to identify as soy sauce.
"You come baring gifts?" He wonders aloud with a soft smile playing upon those thin streaks that define his mouth. Her former mentor still is slender and slim despite his age, he's much older than he's willing to admit and she's not keen on receiving a whack from the ladle.
Unzipping her large Adidas sports' bag with manicured nails, she hands the Chinese man an envelope with more than a couple of Benjamin's and a bracelet, light and constituting out of silver shackles with crystals. "Swarovski." She merely states and drops both of the items upon the mahogany counter.
He opens the envelope, counts the bills meticulously and nods solemnly, "Kiku's in the back. What's the target of the evening?" His little sister, pretty in her hipster glasses with thick black frames, toys with the bracelet as Yao and herself discuss the lay-out of the operation.
Wang Yao grew up in communist China on a boiling point, witnessed the rise of capitalism in a flood of electric refrigerators, blenders and other household appliances, had seen both of his parents starve to the point of resembling skeletons, haunting and dull irises and dilated pupils, just so he could have a decent upbringing, so he could provide them with food when he was an adult; a local government official discovered his talents as a gymnast, taut muscles and subtle waist and a startling balance. He could've easily achieved a gold medal on the Olympics under the harsh training exercises. Instead he decided to use his finesse to steal from the rich, aka the uprising bourgeois with their prosperous joint ventures, and give back to the needy. He developed a Robin Hood complex when the stomachs of his parents were filled with more decadent servings.
He took his little sister with him when he moved to the States; often sending money overseas to sustain his parents' needs and continued to raid safes from wealthy citizens with the justification that the regular people deserved more. His name often pops up on small-organized foundations in the neighborhood, like the one dedicated to the prevention of aids or the community college for juvenile delinquents with second chances. Bel bites her bottom lip when she regards her own composition towards society and finds solace in helping her retired mentor. His sibling gives her an earnest smile, her lips glossed over with pink 1.95$ chapstick, when she slips through the thick brocade curtain to find her accomplice.
On the second floor in a secluded dark bedroom with the eerie blue from a laptop's screen bouncing off the stark black walls, Kiku's fingers glide over the keys of his Toshiba, tap-tap-tap echoes softly in the concentrated silence; there are numerous empty Monster cans on the desk. He doesn't notice her presence until she gently massages his tense neck muscles and he stiffens in return, his spine construed like a ramrod and hands twitching above the keyboard.
"My, Kiku…" She starts in a low lilting tone, "Are those images of pornographic content?" Blowing a stream of hot air against the base of hairline on the back of his neck, her arms wind across his chest in an awkward hug.
Clicking the window away, he exhales and turns his head to give her an accusing, uncomfortable glance, "Konban wa, Bel-chan." Figuring she has rattled him enough for the evening, the blonde tease retreats and stretches her arms above her. He takes this as a sign to carefully continue, "How are you? I take it you've come to collect your equipment for tonight's enterprise."
He waits for her to step away behind him and slides over to the other desk, mechanics, slashed open to reveal their inner wiring, small blowtorches and screwdrivers are all over the smooth surface and the Japanese man rummages around in one of the drawers. Dumping a modified earpiece into her opened palm, he propels himself back towards his laptop, the wheels of his chair squeaking when they bump against the rug. Bel scrutinizes the black item, the earpiece cool against her skin and eventually puts it into her right ear.
"I improved the audio," Kiku explains, "Tampered around with the frequency of the masts around the area to disable relocating." She nods, throwing several clothing articles on top of his bed. He unconsciously brings up his thumb to bite on the nail, "I've hacked into the security cameras to be your eyes in the dark."
Her target's office, furnished by a 600$ an hour interior architect and with a pleasant view over the city that never sleeps, would be relatively easy to break into; she duplicated his old-fashioned key a few weeks back during an excursion to the Hamptons with Ludwig and happened to run into Herre Oxenstierna during an exclusive fondue party. Bel has to admit the stern Swede, inclusive of ash-blonde hair and intensive stare, intimidated her at first, but after a few shots of bourbon, everyone mellows out and turns strangely inattentive. Must've been the cleavage. Her partner-in-crime shows her more images of the skyscraper's various floors and points out the blind spots of the cameras, mostly shadow-filled corners and obscure narrow pathways.
He twirls around and inquires stiffly, "What will be your means of transportation?" She's halfway changed into her 'cat burglar' outfit: tight-fitted black pants, stretching seductively around her curves and a matching turtleneck, suede gloves and non-descriptive flat boots.
"Borrowed Luddy's Ducatti motorcycle… The pretty one." Bel elaborates and shoves her regular clothes back into the large bag. Pulling her russet curls into a ruffled ponytail, she glances back at Kiku, "Glass cutter and USB-stick with the Trojan Horse virus?"
"Bottom drawer." Kiku deadpans and watches her smear some undefined liquid on a Venetian mask and put the object on, monochrome feathers are curling around her twinkling eyes. "Are you sure that will hold?" He inquires after a moment.
She grins smugly, "Eyelash glue. If it works on Lady Gaga, it'll work on me as well." Not entirely sure if the Japanese rolled his eyes before he turns around, the blonde thief retrieves the gadgets and stalks over to her friend.
"Don't forget what my instructions are," the technician mumbles, "Boot up his PC with the USB already in the drive. His password is T, I, N, O in capital letters and the numbers 5 and 6. Upload the virus and it'll overheat every application. Including the software of the safe."
It's cute how he still blushes when she kisses his pale cheek and asks her to wish her the best of luck.
Whizzing past the 10 o'clock evening traffic on the gold-streaked motorcycle, she takes a deep inhale to steel herself for the task at hand. Killing the engine when she parks the vehicle a safe two blocks from the office building, she puts the helmet in the compartment underneath her seat and grabs the more convenient smaller bag, full of emergency tools such as screwdrivers and lock picks, inside the Adidas one. It's lightly drizzling when Bel finds herself right in front of the double-glass doors and she peers around for a less obvious entrance. Buzzing, the static of the earplug eventually makes way for the calm reassuring voice of her accomplice.
"Special emergency exit at the right side of the scraper." Accustomed to the Japanese accent and pronunciation, she confidently stalks over to the inconspicuous door and gets down on one knee to work the hinges with her glass cutter as customary the emergency exit doesn't possess a handle but is simply blank on the outside.
One sturdy kick has the door rattling and another one creates a shallow gaping diagonal hole. Thank God for overachieving parents who adored to cheer for their little girl in the gymnastics team. Managing to worm her way into the dark hallway, she awaits further instructions and grabs a tiny flashlight to ensure better sight.
She walks forward when Kiku tells her to do as much, "Normally there should be a staircase at the end of the corridor." Noticing the cameras conspicuously rotating, she evades their trail and pushes the door with the appropriate sign open. "Omedetou gozaimasu." He congratulates in an awkward attempt at comedy, "Eighty four flights of stairs to go."
She prays out-loud, "God, please tell me there's an easier way to get up." Faintly, the blonde distinguishes the sound of keys being tapped.
Kiku apparently excels at telepathy, "On the twenty fourth floor there's the moving plateau for the window cleaners. You'll have to break one of the windows there."
From the point she steadies herself upon the moving platform the mission proceeds quickly; the fresh night wind quips against her rosy cheeks as the plateau rises towards the top floor and stops with a screech, she stumbles but manages to catch herself before she topples over. Bel rummages in the small leather bag, groping around for her glass cutter and triumphantly starts her job once found. She's inside the office before she realizes it, making her way towards the large door, the walls serving as her guide in the overwhelming darkness. With her duplicate key, she opens the way towards the obscure hall leading to the elevators.
"There's a fuse box in the right corner. First switch left of the second last row is the one for the eighty fourth floor." The cabinet wouldn't budge but the side of her foot is extremely persuasive. One high kick and she can easily manipulate the building's generator.
Flipping the switch, Bel slinks back to Oxenstierna's office and turns on the computer. She takes a seat on the desk chair, the smooth pitch black leather-encased cushion squeaks underneath the weight and she wiggles to make herself comfortable. Crossing one leg over the other, the blonde thief waits patiently for the Windows logo to disappear and arches an eyebrow at the unconventional screensaver, a family portrait of five Scandinavians brightly beam at her with a genuine Christmas spirit. She puts the USB stick in the correct slot and clicks the window who proposes a scan of the files on her external hard drive away. Kiku assured her the firewall would be down in a blink of an eye once the virus is uploaded; with the main server fried, she could refract the safe instead of dealing with the complicated software.
Relatively quickly the download is completed and the screensaver blinks black a few times. The anti-virus program alerts her of an aggressive Trojan Horse. Eventually the entire room turns dark again once the virus runs rampant on the software. A smirk pulls on the corners of her lips and she stands up again, leisurely stretching her arms and cocking her head to the right and proceeding by tilting it to the left. Then, the blonde strolls over to the destination of the personal vault and crouches down. It's a modern safe considering that it's connected to the general mainframe of the company, but once that's out of use, the emergency lock is in place and it's a classical case of enter the correct code for access. Bel prefers them this way, because she's never quite gotten the hang of lifting fingerprints nor does she want to stab out someone's eyeballs to possess their retinas. We're not in CSI after all.
She realizes something's amiss when her Japanese friend swallows forcibly loud and mutters a distraught, "Uh oh."
Lights flicker on above her head, the woman mumbles a curse underneath her breath, storms towards the sturdy desk and hauls the USB out of the computer quickly. Kiku's panicking in her eardrum, "There was a hidden alarm! Abort mission! Abort mission!"
And to make matters worse… "They've shut me from the security cams. Oh, I need tea. I need tea… Yao-san!" She rolls her eyes and bolts towards the large circular hole in the third window.
Somebody kicks down the doors, she is paralyzed on the spot and slowly turns to observe a pissed-off police officer aiming his gun. She swallows when she recognizes his partner. Antonio.
"Miss…" He starts amicably, a nervous grin flitting upon his lips, "We'd like for you to get down on the ground and put your hands in your neck. Can you do that for us?" The other cop, a blonde with menacing eyes reminiscent of the skies above the Alps, points the barrel directly at her. He looks discomfortingly trigger-happy.
Her improvised French accent clings noticeably to the syllables when she speaks, "But, monsieur, I'd rather look at you and your handsome ami than at this boring carpet."
"I implore you, señorita, Vash over here," he nods at his partner, "is quite well-versed with a gun. He's more than happy to make a person such as yourself resemble Swiss cheese."
Quickly closing the space between her and the blonde officer, she offers him an unsettling seductive smirk, "Would you really shoot moi?" Her finger trails down a path down his chest and Bel notices how the firm grip on the Glock wavers for a moment.
Vash is absolutely baffled when she pulls him closer and presses her pursed lips against his unresponsive ones. Inaudibly, Antonio lets out a gasp and stares when the blonde drives her patella against his partner's crotch. He clutches his groin and growls out an obscene word, with his teeth bare like a rabid canine and his features contort into a snarl. Lipstick is smeared all over his bottom lip. She winks at the tanned officer and dives towards the self-inflicted hole in the window, landing with a thump upon the moving plateau, her small leather bag at her feet.
"Shoot the platform!" He rages and Antonio winces at the harsh tone; picking up the discarded firearm and aiming at the descending tableau. Shots ring throughout the air, but the bullets don't even graze the sturdy cables.
Several police cars stand below, the blue and red lights of their vehicles blinking like a carnival below and she hopes the emergency exit through which she entered is still largely unnoticed. Flying down the staircases from the twenty-fourth floor to the storey, she manages to evade another police officer and escapes through her initial entrance. Bel dares not exhale the oxygen she's been holding in her windpipe until she's safely on the Ducati.
The few blocks to her motorcycle are absolute hell, Kiku has been uncharacteristically quiet and she can only hope the technicians of the city's police force hadn't hacked their line. She dumps the small leather bag into the Adidas one and steadies herself against the vehicle as the adrenalin seeps from her veins.
Static subsides, they're back online, "I deeply apologize for my profound silence, Bel-chan. I've deduced that the silent alarm had to be triggered when you flipped on the switch for the electricity. I could see two officers enter the elevator before they shut me out. Also, the police has set a blockade in a perimeter of three blocks. I suggest you quickly change into your regular clothes and make a swift escape." He sighs, "It's such a shame you couldn't open the safe, but at least you're unrecognized. Text me when you're home."
It's a miracle Bel manages to change clothes on the deserted parking lot without attracting attention to herself, the area is normally crowded with troubled teenagers and muggers. She puts on her helmet and ignites the engine; she barely remembers how she managed to get into the lobby of the apartment building unscathed. The doorman greets her with artificial politeness and offers to take her sports' bag but she refuses with practiced ease. Ludwig is focusing on an iPad when she enters and looks up, his eyes unnaturally small behind his nerdy glasses.
"Where were you, liebe?" He puts the tablet on the saloon table and warily removes the spectacles from the bridge of his nose. "I… I was worried..Police sirens all over the place and.."
Bel gives him a peck on the temple in passing and explains with mild theatrics, "Oh.. Well, Lizzie, -yes I can call Erzsébet Lizzie without repercussions, darlin'- has this fabulous personal trainer. Cuban, I believe. He's such a doll. Got nothing on you 'course." She gives him a soothing smile.
Nodding, he shyly returns the gesture and puts the electronic device back upon his lap, "Must've been quite the workout. I can hear your heart pounding from the sofa."
She forces a throaty laugh, "Oh, Luddy, you simply have no idea." Excusing herself to take a shower, the blonde woman first dumps the Adidas bag inside the closet for her shoes, a quite reasonable and safe hiding place for certain unsavory goods, sends a message to Kiku on her Blackberry and grabs a few towels.
She's all over the news the next morning. They nicknamed her devious kleptomaniac-counterpart 'the Thieving Magpie' after Rossini's masterpiece and the NYPD claims to be tracking her down. There's a picture of the commissioner, a blonde with bushy eyebrows and an officer, she immediately recognizes him as the one she kneed quite unceremoniously in the balls last night, on the front page with Antonio smiling absentmindedly in the background. Ludwig doesn't seem necessarily interested in the article, but reads it nonetheless.
"Thieving Magpie?" Bel echoes the title out loud as she takes her seat for breakfast.
Her beau simply shrugs and comments off-handedly, "There are worse opera pieces to be named after." He pauses, like he mostly does before supplying his statement with a quirky anecdote, "Like Die Zauberflöte by Mozart."
"Pretty sure that'd be an euphemism for a penis enlargement instead of a robber, honey." Ludwig nearly chokes on his espresso while she chuckles and pricks with a fork at her omelet.
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Penny for your thoughts?