[Deleted]

⊳ r o y a l ⊲

Glittering and glistening, Royal’s delicate and complicated gossamer city of glass twinkled in the early morning light that drifted in lazily through the windows of his room. Winding, twisting spires, wispy bridges, and dense, translucent forests spread out over the desk like some dream-brought-half-into-reality. The details were intricate, exact, and precise right down to the little glass people who dotted the streets and paths and windows.

With a soft groan, Royal finally opened his eyes.

It had been over a year since everything had changed for the worse, and still, he continued with his pathetically human habits. There wasn’t any real reason for it, other than that it was what he’d always done. People slept at night. He didn’t need to, but he did it anyway.

Sighing through his nose, he sat up, bare body uncovered and unhindered by clothes. He didn’t need to breathe or keep himself warm, but he did it anyway. It helped him fit in, for whatever that was worth.

But he wasn’t human anymore; not really. And sometimes… sometimes that scared him. Just a little bit. Because if he wasn’t human, what was he?

Shaking his head, hair swaying with the motion just as it would have had it not all been made of… whatever he was made of, he pulled himself from the reverie into the present. It had been a week – eight days, to be exact – since they’d gotten back from Los Angeles, and Lennon was supposed to meet back up with Josef to get the unlocked drive. 

He, like usual when it came to these sort of things, was supposed to sit and wait, twiddle his thumbs until she got back.

“Fine,” he muttered, padding across the smooth wooden floor. Lennon usually knew what was best, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do than kill time waiting. They still didn’t know anything concrete about the card he’d found along with the drive, and it had remained harmlessly in Ernie’s mailbox for the past eight days with no disturbances. 

Maybe nine was the lucky – or unlucky, depending on what might happen – number.

He kept his room clean – much cleaner than he had before everything had gone to shit. He couldn’t really smell anything anymore, and where the sniff-test had been one of his closest allies in selecting which articles of clothing among the heaps that dotted his bedroom floor were clean enough to wear a third or fourth time, only organization could save him from walking around the city in clothes riper than fat red tomato – not his own stench, of course, but whatever he’d managed to pick up during the day.

Now everything he was safe to wear was folded and hung in the room’s built-in closet. Everything else was neatly tossed into a white plastic hamper – colours and whites alike; he wasn’t that organized. Picking out a shirt and a pair of jeans for the day, he forwent socks and pants – he’d never really liked wearing them before and now he didn’t need to wear them at all.

So, no pants.

Since his changes, his body no longer secreted oils or scents or… anything, which meant unless he spritzed himself with a single press of cologne - making sure to aim for his shirt rather than his “skin”-, he didn’t really smell like anything. Lennon had impressed upon him the importance of at least smelling like something when he was trying to pass as “normal”.

He still brushed his teeth; he didn’t need to, but he did it anyway. It took a couple minutes out of the slow morning, and that was enough for him.

Eating though? Eating he didn’t do. Or drinking. Anything that went inside of him was way too messy. He missed food a little bit; he really missed alcohol; neither of them was worth gumming up his “guts” or whatever he had now. It was the only time he ever felt nauseous – when he swallowed stuff he, apparently, wasn’t supposed to anymore.

So, no breakfast.

Instead, he slipped on his shoes that he’d left by the door to their apartment, grabbed his key from a hook that stuck out from the door’s moulding, and headed out into the hallway to catch the elevator down to the ground floor.

For all the money they’d stolen, he and Lennon had kept only enough to make sure they wouldn’t need to worry about being evicted if one of them had a rough month income-wise. That meant they didn’t live in the best part of town or the ritiziest apartment complex, but he preferred it that way. What they were doing wasn’t mean to pad their own pockets. It was, quite literally, mean to be a big “fuck you” to the screwed-up state of the world.

And what better way to show it than to hand out money to people who actually needed it.

Ernie’s house was a good thirty-minute walk to the south, and Royal took his time. By the time he spotted the short, squat building that looked so out of placed crammed between a modern, all black flower shop and an abandoned, two-story cinema, the sun was high enough in the sky that the cool grey of morning had begun to fade into the sharp, golden bite of another winter’s day.

Not that he felt the subtle shifts in temperature. Not anymore.

As expected, everything looked the same. The mailbox remained closed, the door was still shut tight and locked, none of the windows were broken… Though he knew he should have been relieved, he was mostly just disappointed. The card was a curiosity – a mystery, even – and yet a whole grand total of nothing had come out of it. Lennon preferred it that way, but he wanted to at least know the “why” behind it, if not all the rest that surely lingered out there somewhere, shrouded in the fog of his own incompetence when it came to things like that.

But just because something looked like it was a certain way, didn’t mean it necessarily was – just like how he looked normal enough but was anything but.

A rudimentary examination of the locks and mailbox revealed that the only one who might be tampering with them was the one currently fiddling with them. Disappointing but, at this point, not surprising. The card still sat harmlessly in the exact centre of the rusted metal floor of the mailbox’s interior. The light dusting of glass he’d left over it was undisturbed.

Another sigh. Another day without any real changes.

“Ernie expecting something important?” A familiar voice came from behind him: pleasant, light, and feminine.

“Yeah, but he wasn’t sure if he wrote down this address or his place over in Salt Lake.” Lying was easy as long as he didn’t need to back it up. Stand up straight, shaking his head, he turned to face Astrid with a wry grin. “I’m betting on Salt Lake.”

“Oh, Ernie.” She mirrored Royal’s expression, dark eyes bright with amusement. “When’s he getting back anyway?” Her arms will full with a mix of bags and boxes, which she gratefully allowed Royal to take the bulk of as he followed her down the sidewalk towards the flower shop she worked at.

“Next month. He said he’s having a blast, last I heard.”

“Disneyworld, right?” Astrid chuckled the words out as she rummaged in her purse for the store’s key.

“Yeah.” Royal shifted his stance to accommodate the surprising weight of most of what Astrid had been carrying. “He uh- he said he’s still tryna find Lilo.”

“Lilo?” Astrid’s brow rose in an entertained arc. “Like Lilo and Stitch?” The door swung open and the pair of them stepped into the humid air of the shop.

“Yeah, he’s collecting them. Pictures of all the characters; said that’s what he’s wanted to do since he was little.”

At Astrid’s wave of her hand, he carefully set everything down on one of the counters at the back. “Wow, I never Ernie was so… cute.”

“You haven’t seen the pictures.” Royal grinned wide. “I’m surprised he hasn’t been thrown out.”

“God, Ernie.” Astrid flicked on the lights, rolling her eyes but smiling just as wide. “There’s children there. Like a lot of children.”

“Don’t think he cares.”

“Yeah, clearly.” She joined him at the counter, pulling out an only slightly crushed box of scones from the coffee shop about a block away. “You hungry?”

“Nah, I had a big breakfast.” He tapped his stomach as if it wasn’t a hollow mass of fleshless, glass-like material. “But thanks.”

“Alright, more for me then.” Her brows waggled playfully as she took a conservative bite of the dense, buttery triangle in her hand. “Thanks for the help, by the way.”

“Yeah, no problem. I don’t wanna see you snapping those twig arms of yours.”

“Oh my hero,” she rolled her eyes, taking another bite of the scone. “Got plans for the day?”

“Yeah… yeah, I should probably get going.” He made his way to the door, Astrid trailing behind him, her eyes more focused on the displays of bouquets, taking inventory of what she’d need to do before opening in the next twenty minutes. “I was just supposed to check up on the mail situation this morning.”

“Alrighty,” she waved a hand as Royal stepped out. “Have a good one, RJ.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Different day, same old shit.

⊳ r o y a l ⊲

[Deleted]

⊳ r o y a l ⊲

“So, get this,” Lennon started, easing down into the way-too-padded chair at her favourite café. “Everything that’s supposed to be on there is on there. It wasn’t even encrypted, just a password.”

“Well, that’s… stupid.” Royal cleared the tiny, circular table of his book and untouched cup of coffee to make room for Lennon’s laptop.

“Right?” Her small hands moved quickly, setting her computer down, clacking in her passwords, and pulling up the information in a matter of seconds. “And they didn’t even bother changing out the names or anything. Just… really organized information. We should still have a couple more days before they even realize it’s gone; I’ve already transferred out everything from the execs.”

“Shit.” Royal raised his brows, a clearly impressed expression on his face. “Good stuff.”

“It is good, which got me thinking…” She picked up Royal’s coffee, swirling the contents a few times before taking a sip. “Got me thinking that maybe you're right, after all.”

“Right about what?”

She took another, more liberal drink. “What is this?”

“I dunno, some kind of cookie frappe-whatever.” He waved the question away with a grimace, and Lennon nodded, not needing a reminder to coral herself back on track.

“Right about the- that… card.”

“Yeah?” Royal leaned a little bit forward, pale eyes bright with interest. “Why?”

“I mean, whoever left it would have had access to the drive. It took Josef a grand total of thirty minutes to unlock it, so even if it wasn’t the-” she took another drink, “Even if it wasn’t them, it wouldn’t take a whole lot to tamper with. And everything was untouched; no tampering – not that Josef could tell, anyway.”

“So, you’re thinking… recruitment then?” They could use the resources, for sure.

“I’m thinking… at the very least they want us to know they know what we’re doing.” Another drink. “And that they don’t have any intention to stop us, for whatever that’s worth.”

“You don’t think it was like a… ‘this is the last time’ kind of thing?”

“I mean, it could be - I guess - but,” she set the now empty cup down, precariously on the edge of the little table. “Why go through the trouble of leaving it and not saying anything at all? I think it’s way more likely to be… ‘friendly’ than a threat or warning or… you know, something like that.”

“Huh.” Royal plucked the cup as it teetered on the edge and set it back down directly in front of him, right behind the centre of Lennon’s laptop. “Well, if that’s the case though, shouldn’t they… like… contact us, or…?”

“Uh… I dunno?” Lennon rolled her eyes. “I mean, this is some pretty fanciful guesswork, RJ. I think they’re not out to get us, and I think it’s probably some kind of… ‘hey, we see you’ sort of deal but-“

“Right. Yeah, okay.” He shook his head, leaning back into his chair with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m just- it’s frustrating, you know? Not… knowing.”

The incessant tapping of her carefully manicured fingers paused. “I know.”

“So now we just… wait?”

The tapping resumed. “I… guess so? I mean, even if it’s friendly, it’s still probably better not to push our luck.”

“Then should we set like a… a timeframe? Like a month or…?”

Lennon sucked her teeth, brows knitting as she considered. “Sure. Yeah, let’s wait a month and see what happens. I’m still gathering information on-“ Catching herself, she shrugged. “I’m still working on what we’re gonna do next, anyway.”

“Alright.” Royal let his eyes wander around the mostly empty shop as Lennon continued to work. Aside from the two of them and Claire, the barista-of-the-day, there were three other people – all singles and all buried in their phones. No one really caught his eye, though he paused to smile at Claire who only rolled her eyes and grinned in reply. “You need me to pick anything up then?”

“Mhm,” Lennon pulled a little notebook out of her purse and tossed it over to him. “I ordered like… fifty? Sixty? New laptops for Sheridan High. They’re expecting a delivery either today or tomorrow, so no rush there.”

“Sure.” He flipped through the small pages of Lennon’s neat scrawl. “That ATM by the Starbucks still okay for these withdrawals?”

“No.” She reached over the table to snatch the notebook and rifled past a couple more pages before handing it back. “Use this one. Rumour is a meta messed with it so it shows withdrawals all over the place.”

“Sweet.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not ideal, but it’s better than just showing up as Boston.”

“Speaking of Boston-“

“Dead end. I mean, he was smart, sure, but not like… meta smart.” The tapping stopped again and Lennon let out a frustrated sigh. “Which sucks because-“

“Because he was hot?”

“Uh, yeah.” They shared grins. “I mean, when I’m forced to look at you twenty-four-seven…”

“Mhm.” Royal set the notepad down, closed, on the table and crossed his arms as he leaned back into his chair. “Just cause he’s not exactly what we’re looking for doesn’t mean you can’t take him for a spin.”

“Who’s saying I haven’t?” She chuckled the words out as her tapping resumed. “Besides, the guy couldn’t find a clitoris if his life depended on it.”

“Gross.”

“Fact,” she corrected him, brows raising and falling.

“Well, on that note,” Royal picked up the notepad and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “You want another? I’m gonna head out.” He waved the empty cup in front of her face, and received a light slap as she knocked it away.

“Yes, please.”

There was always something incredibly satisfying about a job well done; this time, however, it was a little hollow. The damn card had put a dampener on everything – he hated not knowing things, especially when they had the potential to be so important. He didn’t really know any good way of getting more information; he wasn’t dumb enough to try hitting the streets in hopes of finding the thugs who claimed to be part of the Spades, and he wasn’t smart enough to lure the higher-ups out – if they even existed.

He was forced into a standstill – probably exactly what they wanted. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

“That’ll be eight fifty-five.”

“Seriously? Is that how much I paid for the first one?”

Claire stared at him like he was stupid. “Uh, yeah?”

“Fine, fine. Here.” He handed over a ten-dollar bill. “Coffee is fuckin’ expensive.”

“Yee-ah... the Cookie-cookie Crumble-chino is basically hot milk with a shit-ton of sugar, so…” The register dinged as she slipped the bill in and started gathering the change.

“Nah, that’s fine, you keep it.”

“Oh, okay; thanks, RJ.”

“Mhm.” He tilted his head toward the door. “I’ve got stuff to do today, but Lennon’ll grab it when it’s ready.”

“Yeah, sure; have a good one!”

A good one. 

What did that even mean?

“Yep, you too.”

⊳ r o y a l ⊲

[Deleted]

⊳ r o y a l ⊲

The deliveries were finished, he wasn’t expected in for work until tomorrow, and there was still half a day to fill. There was always something to do, someone to meet. He didn’t mind extra time, not usually, but it was hard to enjoy any sort of break with the mysterious spade hanging over his head like some sort of executioner’s axe.

At this point, he just wanted to know if it was going to swing down or not.

“Roy? You alright out there?”

“Hm?” Right. He’d been playing a game with Sharon. It was his turn to move. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, sorry, Sharon.”

The old woman was a widower – her husband, like so many others, had been killed in one of the earlier conflicts between the self-proclaimed heroes and villains. He’d left her with a hefty debt after his life insurance refused to pay out, claiming he should have known better than to be in the vicinity of metas, and, over the course of the past year, Royal and Lennon had deposited enough charitable, anonymous donations to make up for what the company had withheld and then some.

“Oh, it’s fine, honey. You just worry me sometimes; like you have the whole weight of the world on those shoulders of yours,” she chuckled, adjusted her thick-lensed glasses – actual glass, not any of that fancy high-density plastic –, and pointed at one of her checker pieces. She always played black. “I moved here if you weren’t paying attention.”

Royal grinned, coughing out a thankful chuckle as he slowly nodded. “Alright.” Before he met Sharon Turner, he’d never considered checkers even remotely difficult, but, in the odd year since he’d met her, he’d never once won a game against her. It was a little humiliating if he was being honest with himself, but constantly losing made the chance of beating her someday seem all that more exciting, in spite of himself. 


He picked up one of his pieces, the farthest to the left, and moved it forward-to-the-right.

“You going to share what’s going on in that bushy head of yours?” Sharon, the old bat, didn’t even hesitate as she moved her next piece.

“Uh…” Royal stared down at the board, once more invested in the activity at hand. “Just… you know. Young people stuff.” The light clack of his checker piece against the board marked the end of his move.

“Young people stuff?” Sharon guffawed at the slight, her pale blue eyes lightening with mischievous mirth. “And what-“ clack “-in the world is ‘young people stuff’, hm?”

“You know, like…” Royal tapped the bottom of his lip with the tip of one of his fingers, studying the board and realizing no matter what he did, she’d be taking two of his pieces on her next turn. He chose to focus on the left of the board in a ditch effort to get himself kinged. Kinged. Queened. The Spades. He sighed through his nose as he moved his piece. “Stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” Click click clack. “You know, young man, I wasn’t always old.”

“Pretty sure you’ve always been old, Sharon.” His grin was wide in spite of watching her remove two more of his already dwindling number of pieces. Another move forward.

“Fine, fine. Keep your ‘young people’ secrets. This is why you don’t have a girlfriend, you know.” The sagacity in her voice was almost compelling. “You… don’t have one still, right?” Clack.

“Maybe I’m gay, Sharon.” Not that it mattered. He hadn’t felt anything even remotely close to an attraction for anyone or thing since the Event.

“Maybe you’re just shit at dating, Roy.”

He laughed, easing back into his chair and shaking his head as he moved one of his middle pieces forward – unguarded but with time to be backed up by another before she would be able to jump over it. “Yeah, maybe.”

The game lasted a grand total of five minutes after that – yet another crushing defeat at the hands of the hoary-headed Sharon. He stayed long enough to help her clean up and, as he left, made sure to take out the trash for her – old bones and bad knees and all that. As he dropped the bags into the cans on the sidewalk, quietly clapping his hands together to knock-off whatever residue he might have picked up, he caught the unmistakable chill of being watched.

No… not watched. Approached.

She was short – shorter than he was, anyway – and dressed in a smart, black suit. From the way she moved, it was clear he was her target, not that her eyes gave anything away, shaded as they were behind a pair of expensive looking sunglasses. He’d seen more than enough movies to know she was, without a doubt, not someone to fuck with.

“Uh… hey.” He waved a noncommittal hand toward her. “Can I- um, can I help you?”

Her voice was sharp, businesslike – exactly what he expected. Her words were not. “Royal Jennings, formally Royal Caesar King?”

Eyes betraying any hope he had of keeping calm, Royal took a step back, brows knitting in distrust. “How do you- I mean, who are-“

The woman stopped just within what would have normally been a comfortable range for polite conversation. “I’m here to pick you up… Mister Jennings.” The title seemed to fall off her tongue with as much comfort as it did sounding in his ears.

“Pick me up… like in a car?”

Her face didn’t move. “Yes, Mister Jennings. Like in a car.”

“Am I- are you gonna-“

“We’re on a schedule, Mister Jennings.” She took a step back – the most non-threatening thing she’d done thus far – and gestured toward a sleek, black sedan limousine. It wasn’t one of the stretches, but it still looked incredibly out of place in the alleyway. He hadn’t noticed it until she directed his attention, and his brows rose in a positive appraisal. “Please get in the car.”

All at once, it hit him just what exactly was happening. 

“Oh shit,” his eyes widened once again, though instead of uncertainty or fear – which there were still hefty helpings of – they now burned with fascination. “You’re from the S-“

With a brusque turn of her shoulder, the woman headed for the car, completely ignoring his revelation.

“W-wait! Wait up,” he hurried after her, falling into step beside. “Sorry, I- you’re one of them though, right? Do I- shit, do I need the card? I don’t-“

She opened up the door for him.

“Uh, right.” He slid into the leather-upholstered seat that ran along the back of the limousine’s rear compartment. She followed, choosing to sit opposite him. Once the door was closed, the vehicle smoothly eased its way out of the alley and proceeded to pull out onto the street.

“Now,” she started, removing her sunglasses to reveal a pair of strikingly green eyes that had an almost uncomfortably piercing quality to them. “It has come to our attention that you, Mister Jennings, are something of an… interesting individual.” Her expression remained statuesquely neutral, and the last two words didn’t come across as particularly impressed.

“I… uh, thanks, I guess.”

“Mm,” she reached into a small compartment attached to the wall. “Are you a gin man?”

“Um, no thanks,” he waved a hand, declining as politely as he could in the frigid environment. “I, uh, I don’t drink.”

Her gaze seemed to teeter on the edge of withering, but she didn’t say anything else on the matter. Instead, she let the compartment close and settled her empty hands in her lap. “You had some questions, which is understandable, but first allow me to relay everything I’ve been asked to tell you.”

“Y-yeah, sure.” He blinked twice and fidgeted in his seat. He’d never been in any kind of motorized vehicle with as smooth a ride as the one they were currently in. “Thanks.”

“Mhm,” her thin fingers slid into another, slimmer compartment between her chosen seat and the one on her left. Withdrawing a slim, black folder, she opened it up and flipped through several pages. The whole ceremony of it was like something straight out of a crime drama, and though his body didn’t sweat anymore, Royal felt like if it was going to ever happen, it was going to happen then. “I see you graduated with a bachelor’s in… biology from the University of Washington?”

“Uh…”

“Ah. I apologize. That wasn’t a question.” The folder closed and was settled neatly on her lap. “Let me be frank, Mister Jennings, we know everything there is to know about you.”

He blinked, no words really coming immediately to mind.

“What we don’t know is whether or not you’ll prove to be an asset or an… annoyance.” They took a sharp turn, and both their bodies swayed to the right for a few moments before correcting. “My employer is interested – in the prior possibility, of course- and-“

“Of course.”

She offered him a warning stare which he took to mean “no more fucking interruptions, Mister Jennings”. “And she would like to arrange a meeting with you.” She left just enough of a pause that Royal drew in some air to ask a question before she continued right along, cutting him off in what he suspected was a very intentional display of power. Or a test of his ability to follow directions. Or both. “But you should know, she doesn’t meet with just anyone. And then, she doesn’t meet with people who aren’t prepared to meet with her.”

Whatever that meant.

“We’ve prepared a suit for you, and, seeing as you’re… middle-class, at best, I’ve put together a pamphlet on proper etiquette that you’ll be expected to display while in the presence of her majesty.”

It was the first time there had been any real concrete reference to the Queen, and the little rush of vindication he felt was more than enough to keep him quiet as he accepted the extended portfolio. It was encased in leather, heavy for its size, and, as he opened it and flicked through the pages, it was more like a thin book than an instructional pamphlet.

“No one likes to see her majesty disappointed, Mister Jennings. Please do your best to see to it that you uphold her expectations.”

“Uh, yeah. Okay.”



“Page three.”

“What?”

“Page three. Of the pamphlet.”

He blinked and stared down at the thin book in his lap. Obediently – or as close to it as he ever got – he flipped to the page she’d indicated. It only took a few seconds of skimming for him to find what it was she was referencing. “Oh. Uh… ‘I will do my utmost best to see that I... um... do not disappoint’.”

“Mhm,” she didn’t sound nor look impressed, but in the five minutes they’d known each other, he was beginning to expect that. “You’ll be expected tomorrow at three in the morning – after the end of your shift at Greyson’s Tavern, of course – and the card we left you will be all the identification you’ll need.” One of her neatly plucked brows arched. “I suggest you retrieve it from Mister Bertrand’s mailbox. Its connotative value is worth more than that gentleman’s mortgage.”

“Wha-“

“I’m not finished.”

He shut his mouth and nodded. Tendrils of annoyance had already started creeping up the back of his spine, but he wasn’t an idiot – at least, not entirely. He could play patient.

“We are well aware you don’t like answering personal questions about yourself, but I suggest you make an exception for her majesty.” She shrugged and added a dismissive, “That is, however, purely a personal suggestion.”

He nodded his understanding.

“This is an invitation, Mister Jennings.” The car slowly rolled to a stop. “I would like to impress upon you just how very rare this sort of thing is.” She reached over to her left and pulled a hanging suit-bag from a hook on the car’s wall. “Put in a more simplistic and, perhaps, familiar way?”

She handed him the bag as the limousine’s door was opened, half assisting, half pushing him out.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

⊳ r o y a l ⊲

[Deleted]

⊳ r o y a l ⊲

Arms full and eyes wide and confused, he watched the limousine drive off. He didn’t bother memorizing the license plate – there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it wouldn’t turn up shit if he had Lennon work on it. Instead, he found himself standing on the sidewalk right outside of their apartment, and the weight of everything that had just transpired hit him square in the stomach.

He hadn’t felt this sick since the last time he’d tried to eat spaghetti.

They knew his name, his history, where he lived… they probably even knew about his abilities. Scratch that – they definitely knew. There was no way he would have been approached like that if they didn’t. 

He shook his head for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “What the actual fuck…”

Lennon wasn’t going to be home for at least an hour or two more, so he had plenty of time to sweep the suit-bag for any obvious bugs or trackers – not really paying attention to the suit itself – and hurry over to Ernie’s to grab the card out of the mailbox. Astrid had already closed up the store and was gone by the time he got there, which, by the time he made it back home, left him about forty minutes to wait for Lennon.

The limousine ride wasn’t really the sort of thing to discuss over text, after all.

So, with time to kill, he settled onto their worn-out couch, flicking on the even older lamp that stood with its head hung low and weary on their sturdy end table and set to reading over the pamphlet the woman had given him.

It wasn’t rocket science; mostly it was a compilation of phrases, reminders not to use “vulgar language”, and a smattering of actual rules on etiquette. One of which being the proper depth of a bow, which was apparently something he was expected to display “with accuracy”. Whoever the Queen was, it looked like she took herself pretty seriously – and everyone below her as well.

By the time he finished, Lennon’s keys were rattling in their front door’s finicky lock, and he shut the leather binding with a sharp snap and hopped up off of the couch to let her in.

“Hey.”

She slipped in past him, kicking off her shoes and nudging him fondly with her shoulder. “Hey yourself.”

“So, uh… something happened today.”

Lennon let out a soft snort through her nose. “Yeah?” She swung her bag off of her shoulder and dropped it off next to the worn lounge they’d meant to throw out years ago but had never gotten around to. “What?”

“Well, I uh, played checkers with Sharon-“

“You lose again?”

“…yeah.”

Lennon laughed through her nose in two sharp chuckles of amusement.

“Anyway, after that, I uh… took a ride. In a limo.”

“What?” She’d made her way into the kitchen – a titled section of the rest of the room that was only separated by an island of counter-space. “Like a… like a limousine?” The incredulity was echoed in Royal’s nod. “Shiiiiit, RJ.” The glass bottles in the fridge’s door shelves clinked together as she pulled it open to grab an apple from the bottom drawer. “Why?”

“Well, I think half of it was to shit all over my self-esteem,” he mumbled to start.

“What?”

“It was to invite me to meet with her majesty.”

“Her… what are you even talking about?” She was out of the kitchen and settling onto the couch already, and he moved to join her, picking up her feet and gently setting them on top of his thighs.

“Her majesty, Lennon. Like the fucking Queen of Spades, majesty.”

Lennon’s eyes widened mid-bite, and she coughed as she inhaled some of the juice. “What?”

Royal just nodded; his own expression a mirror of her own disbelief.

“Wait, what did you- holy shit, RJ.” Immediately her surprise was pushed aside for concern. Her brow furrowed, and she sat up, apple-juice-free fingers on her left hand quickly and gently pressing against the side of his face. “Are you okay?”

He brushed her hand away. “Yeah, I’m-“

She took another bite and mumbled a “Let me-“

“I’m fine, Lennon.”

Her eyes widened in mock hurt. “M’kay.” Leaning back down, she sighed out through her nose, thoughtfully munching on her crunchy mouthful. “So?”


“So, I’m supposed to meet her tomorrow. They even bought me a fucking suit.”

She coughed out some strangled laughter and was forced to sit up again to swallow before she could get any air in. “What?”

“Yeah, it’s hanging up in my room. I haven’t tried it on or anything but…”

“Wow. This is like…” The apple made a lazy orbit around her rotating wrist. “Like insane. Like what the fuck.”

“Should I… go?”

“Uh,” Lennon raised both her brows. “Even if this is a prank, I’m gonna go with… ‘yes’.”

“She uh-“

“She?”

“The lady that I talked to. In the limo.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Anyway, she knew… a lot. About me. About us, apparently.”

Lennon frowned again. “What do you mean?”

“She knew my name – like my actual name – and, uh… she dropped me off here. In front of the building.”

“What?”

“Yeah, so… I’m thinking it’s probably not a prank.”

Lennon pulled her feet off of his lap and sat up straight, setting her apple on the smudged glass of their coffee table and swallowing her last bite with a half grimace. “They know where we live?”

“And where I graduated from, where I work… definitely what we do in our spare time and… I dunno, probably a shitton more.” Saying it out loud, it sounded way more sinister than he’d been playing it up in his head.

“Uh… okay…” Lennon’s voice quieted to a murmur of stream of consciousness. “We’ll need to shift some things around and-“

“Yeah but what if we don’t?”

“What?”

“What if it’s not a… you know, like, not a threat threat, but like a… preview. A ‘here’s the kind of shit we’re capable of if you join us’ kind of thing?”

She stared at him for a second or two. “They know where we live, RJ.”

He sighed, leaning back into the couch. “Yeah, I know. There’s fuck-all we can do about it now though.”

“Yeah, now, but I only need-“

“Okay,” he interrupted. “Okay. You do your thing; I’ll get ready for the meeting tomorrow and… hopefully, it’ll work out fine.”

Lennon scoffed. “When does it ever work out fine?”

His turn to stare for a few seconds, he eventually yielded to her intense, expectant gaze. “…yeah. Right.”

“Look,” she started, putting a hand on his knee and forcing him to meet her eyes again. “Even if the… the Queen – or whoever – wants to help us out, do you feel comfortable knowing she knows everything about us?”

“No?”



“Right. So, worst case scenario, you go to the meeting, she wants nothing to do with you and tries to off you to tie up the loose end of you knowing who she is.”

“Uh-“

“Worst case, RJ.”

“Ok, sure.”

“Sure, so,” Lennon arched her back and fumbled blindly behind her for a second or two before she managed to snatch the strap of her bag that had her laptop in it. “So, let me at least get some precautions ready. I’ll use funds they shouldn’t be able to trace from… literally any job except Teracorp, and - if all else fails - at least we won’t be completely shit-out-of-luck. ...okay?”

He sighed, running his fingers through the delicate strands of glass-like hairs that stuck out at all angles from his head. “Shit.”

“I mean,” she added, flipping her laptop open and tapping in her passwords with practised speed. “Best case, she really likes you, we get to tap into their resources, and everything's fine.”

“Yeah.” Unbidden, the woman’s stern – and very unimpressed – face came into focus in his mind’s eye. “Right.”

“They just wanted to meet with... you, right?” There wasn’t anything bitter in her voice. She knew just as well as he did which of them was the more interesting in terms of assets. 



“Yeah.” 



“Alright, well… sounds like you might wanna consider what you’re gonna say when you meet her.”

“Right? She gave me a pamphlet.” He tapped the leather-bound document, and Lennon raised a dubious brow.

“They… wow. Okay.” Tapping away at the worn keys of her laptop, she inclined her head toward his room. “I guess… try the suit on, take that pamphlet seriously, and…” She shrugged, pursing her lips.

He shrugged in turn. “Okay.”

The suit, to his surprise, fit perfectly – from the cut of the shoulders right down the exact dimensions of the inseam to best fit his form. The tailor had even, apparently, taken into account that Royal didn't wear pants. The uncomfortable wonders never ceased. 

Along with the suit itself was a silken bow-tie – the real “tie-it-yourself” kind that had instructions on page ten –, pearl cufflinks, Italian leather shoes, and three glass rings with a smooth, milky white pattern on the inside. He’d never worn anything so fancy in his entire life, and though even he had to admit he looked fucking fine in the clothes, it didn’t make him feel any less out of place wearing them.

He wasn’t sure if he was excited or afraid or annoyed – he was definitely something, though. Something that would have to wait until after everything had gone down because even if he didn’t know how he should be feeling, he at least knew what he should be doing.

It had been a hot minute since he’d last really studied anything, but one of the benefits of possessing a body that didn’t need to sleep was being able to pull an all-nighter without any real negative side-effects. Aside from, maybe, a little bit of a muddled mind swimming with too much information.

Carefully removing the smooth black suit, he folded it back onto the hangers and slumped down naked onto his bed, leather pamphlet in hand and card stored on his bedside table.

“Alright,” he muttered, opening up to page seven where the more complicated conditional procedures were listed.

“Here we fucking go.”

⊳ r o y a l ⊲