The Field of War

"What a lovely evening," Wilhelmina looked around, flashing her brilliant smile at a couple across the room, who raised their glasses to her in response.

Marc nodded in agreement, his eyes darting around furtively as he searched for any sign of Miranda Priestly. Amanda lurked behind him. She, too, wore a worried expression—she had gone through several plates of appetizers to calm her nerves, but nothing could assuage the fear building inside of her.

Betty was still blithely unaware of the gravity of the situation; she chattered away happily with guests, flashing her braces and absentmindedly pushing up her glasses from time to time.

~*~

"Let's get this over with," Miranda muttered under her breath to Nigel, who gave a curt nod of agreement. In all honestly, Nigel loved the Annual Fashion Institute Gala, but Miranda refused to stay more than a few minutes.

Emily gave Andy a critical once-over. She leaned forward, whispering so that Miranda couldn't hear, "Now, remember what you do if you spot her?"

Andy nodded, "I tell you, so that you and Nigel can guide Miranda away from her."

"Correct," Emily turned to hurry after Miranda, whose dusky purple gown was flowing down the carpet like a war banner, rallying the Runway staff to Miranda's side.

~*~

Amanda began to choke on an olive. Marc turned to give her a swift whack on the back—then he saw it.

Miranda Priestly had entered the building.

Amanda continued to motion frantically in Miranda's direction. She finally stopped choking; she clutched Marc's elbow with a sudden sense of ferocity, "She's here."

"Don't let Willie see her," Marc whispered, quickly grabbing a champagne glass to divert Wilhelmina's attention.

~*~

Andrea smiled as she noticed the rose petals falling from the ceiling.

"Nice touch," she whispered to herself.

"Andrea, what are you babbling about?" Emily shot her a dark look. Just then, Nigel fell back into step with the two assistants.

"Look who's here," he whispered, motioning across the room. Emily spotted the Mode staff; her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Marc and Amanda glared across the room at them; Nigel and Emily returned the dark looks.

"Game time, ladies," Nigel quickly moved back to Miranda. This time, he stood on her left side, attempting to shield her view. But fate, it seems, wasn't that kind.

Miranda turned to offer her wrap to the attendant, just as Wilhelmina turned to face some well-wishers.

Suddenly, the glamazons locked gazes from across the room. Miranda shed her wrap wordlessly, allowing the attendant to take it to coat check. Wilhelmina handed her champagne glass back to Marc, moving stealthily towards her target.

The two women advanced, both moving intently towards their sworn enemy, never taking their eyes off each other—the way two panthers stare before engaging in battle. They met in the center of the ball room, surrounded by beautiful dresses and lightly falling rose petals.

It was like a moment from a classic mob movie—the part where the opposing groups come together in an abandoned warehouse and shoot it out to the bloody death. The Runway Posse advanced, Miranda at point, her icy gaze piercing the oncoming Mode people with their intensity.

Wilhelmina led the Mode Squad, her chin jutted forward defiantly. The two groups seemed to approach in slow motion, the women's trains trailing behind them like ominous thunderheads.

Marc and Nigel practically threw caustic glances at one other, as Amanda and Emily mentally sized each other up. Betty and Andy, naively unaware of the impending doom, smiled warmly at each other. There was a terse moment before either fashionista spoke.

"Miranda," Wilhelmina feigned surprise.

"Wilhelmina," Miranda forced a gracious smile as they air kissed each other's cheeks.

"So nice to see you again," Wilhelmina's voice held a false sense of warmth. Dammit, she wasn't supposed to be here yet!

"Like wise," Miranda returned coolly. Oh, someone's head will roll for this.

"So, I see you went with Chanel this year. Very classic," Willie's eyes widened. Classic. As in ancient. Like you.

"And look at you. Ford?" Miranda motioned to the dress. "It's very fitting."

In other words, I'm surprised you fit that ass in that dress, cow.

"Thank you," Wilhelmina smiled. Bitch.

"It's so…refreshing to see someone your age taking such a risk," Miranda lightly motioned to the dress. Wilhelmina bristled and opened her mouth to reply, but she was interrupted.

"Miss Slater," a handsome young man approached, champagne in hand. "I noticed you were without some refreshment."

"Thank you, darling," Willy flashed a brilliant smile at him. Suddenly, she had an ace. She turned back to Miranda with a smile, "This is Paulo—"

"Guidicelli from Patrice's agency," Miranda finished, extending her hand graciously. "Bonjourno, Paulo. I've heard a lot about you."

"Really?" Paulo's eyes lit up with childish excitement. "I cannot believe this—I mean, I didn't expect you to remember me. Miranda Priestly, the biggest name is fashion—"

"And don't you forget it," Miranda smiled smugly. Paulo excused himself with another dashing smile and Miranda returned her gaze to Wilhelmina. A Mona Lisa smile played upon Miranda's flawless face.

"How do you know Paulo?" Wilhelmina locked eyes with the Editor-in-Chief of Runway. Did you sleep with him?

"I know everyone, dearie," Miranda gave another elusive smile. Wouldn't you like to know.

"So I see," Wilhelmina admitted. Whore.

"I see the young Mr. Meade has bumped up circulation for that magazine of yours," Miranda commented dryly. She looked over her shoulder at Nigel, "What's the name again?"

"Mode," Nigel practically spat the name. Miranda smiled graciously again.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Meade seems to be quite the wonder-kid," she looked at Wilhelmina. Unlike you, you talentless fop.

"Much like Jacqueline Follet is for Runway," Wilhelmina couldn't resist the barb. Two can play that game.

The two stopped their conversation to lean forward, flashing smiles for the photographers who called to them. In that moment, with arms circled around each other and warm smiles on their flawless faces, they seemed like the best of friends. As soon as the cameras left, they parted like the Red Sea.

"Well, I must be going," Miranda gave another charmed smile. I would rather gouge my eyes out than spend another minute conversing with you.

"Likewise," Wilhelmina returned the false smile. Thank God. I was seven seconds away from slitting my wrist with that awful brooch of yours.

The two women turned and walked away, both inwardly fuming at the meeting.

~*~

"Marc," Wilhelmina didn't bother to look at him. "You know those five other curly haired assistants I have on speed dial?"

"Y-y-yes," Marc gulped, fidgeting nervously with his bow tie.

"Call them first thing in the morning."

~*~

"Ahn-dray-ah?" Miranda turned her head ever-so-slightly, waiting for her assistant's reply.

"Yes, Miranda?" Andy asked, still oblivious to the situation.

"Is your passport up-to-date?" This was obviously another barb about Paris, aimed at Emily, who seemed to tear up on the spot.

~*~

In another Matrix-like moment, the two women slowly turned to glance at each other over their shoulders as they continued to walk away. Wilhelmina arched her eyebrow in a silent challenge; Miranda merely gave her usual smirk.

Then they both turned to flash angry looks at their respective entourages.

"This had better not happen again," both women said in unison.

~*~

As the Mode Posse disappeared across the ballroom, Betty Suarez couldn't help but smile hopefully at Marc and Amanda, "They seemed nice, didn't they?"

The dynamic duo shot each other incredulous glances, but didn't respond. This girl was so beyond help.

~*~

Andrea took a small sip of champagne, "That went well."

Emily looked at her in disbelief. Already the red-headed assistant was fidgeting with her dress and following Miranda's every move as if her life depended on it.

"I mean, for Miranda and Wilhelmina to be such enemies, they seemed to get along quite nicely," Andrea continued.

"Oh, shut up," Emily growled, looking up to make sure that Miranda hadn't heard Andy's heinous comment.

Miranda hadn't, but Nigel had. He turned to look at Andrea critically, "Tell me, Sachs, how is it that you are still considered female if you can't even pick up on the basic undertones of conversation? We just survived a war, kid."

Emily took a long draught of her champagne, "Which means we'll die tomorrow."

"Most definitely," Nigel agreed, raising his glass. After toasting to their health, the two hurried to catch up with Miranda Priestly, who wore a charming smile as she made her way to the car.

Andrea Sachs looked heavenward, her brown eyes filled with confusion. "I'll never understand these people, as long as I live."

~Le Fin