[Deleted]

s h a t t e r e d

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Work sucked.

It really, really fucking sucked.

Usually, Grayson’s wasn’t all that bad. There were regulars who came, stayed way too long, and tipped like shit, but there was typically enough of a turnover that he at least made enough money each night to warrant him coming in at all. Whatever was in the air that night though, he had to actually make use of the employee shower in the back – three times.

Tristan, his bar-back, had been unofficially appointed as his “sniff-tester”, and was the reason for shower number three: apparently, he’d missed a pretty big swath of vomit in the middle of his back the second time. They’d had to throw out five or six groups of people, which in and of itself had been a feat owing to the fact that they didn’t employ a bouncer and half of the guys they’d asked to leave were bigger than him and Tristan combined.

And, all the while, there was the thin, whining whisper of the universe telling him “just wait, I haven’t even gotten started yet”. “Stressful” didn’t even to begin to sum it all up, and Royal found he felt legitimate regret when he had to turn down Tristan’s invite to just crash at his place after work.

“Sorry, man. I can’t tonight.”

“Hey, no problem, brother.” Tristan looked weary enough for the two of them. “Another time.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He waved the other man off before finishing up his closing duties. The suit – and all its trappings – still hung in the back room where he’d left it. After everything was taken care of – including shower number four – he finally pulled it out and tugged it all on. The bow-tie took the longest, but he only had to re-tie it six times before it was right – a testament to his sleepless night of study and a point of marginal but genuine pride.

Though he exchanged his rings for the white ones – the colour really did compliment the rich, dark texture of the suit, after all – he kept his own in the suit’s pockets. Familiar or foreign, he could manipulate any kind of glass, but he preferred to work with stuff he already knew – kind of like how once one knew how to drive, one could drive just about anything but usually developed preferences. He liked his rings and his marbles – the latter of which he’d decided to leave at home.

The pamphlet had been pretty specific on what he was allowed, right down to an annotated “a total of six glass rings, three of which will be proved for you”. They were fucking thorough, that was for sure.

Checking himself in the grimy mirror of the bar’s employee bathroom, he let out a soft breath through his nose as he ran his hand through his hair. He looked fancy, sure, but the unruly mess on the top of his head suddenly seemed incredibly shabby in comparison. There had been a section on proper hairstyles included in the pamphlet, which meant they, at least, probably didn’t know his physical features were more or less unchanging.

Trivial, but at least it was a sign they might not know everything. Little comforts and all.

His clothes were still air drying from their shower laundering, and he didn’t want to be lugging around a bag of dripping dirties all night, so he just left them behind, along with the suit-bag. All he took with him was his wallet, his keys, and the card, which he kept separate in his breast pocket, behind his pocket square, which had been folded into a rose as the pamphlet had instructed – the second most difficult thing that he’d half cheated on, encasing the thing in a thin layer of transparent glass the moment he finally got the damn thing folded correctly.

Dressed to – ideally – impress, he locked everything up and headed out into the chill of the late-night air. Grayson’s Tavern wasn’t the fanciest of spots – above a bar, but only a rung or two up the ladder – and the fastest way to get to where he needed to go was by taxi, considering the busses had stopped a while ago.

Lennon had had the foresight to schedule a car to meet him about ten minutes after his shift ended – it was ridiculously expensive, but they weren’t sweating the price tags for tonight. He waved to the driver who rolled down the window and nodded. “You ‘RJ’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A’right, get in.”

“Thanks.” The door stuck and needed a couple good tugs to get open, but eventually, he slid into the taxi without too much more trouble. “You got the address?”

“Yeeup.” His driver – Alan Todd, by the information stuck into the folded sun-visor above his head – nodded, uninterested. “Gonna take about fifteen minutes, but it’s still gonna be the thirty-minute flat fee.”

Well, that was utter bullshit, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice given the time of night. “Uh… yeah sure. Okay.”

Alan sucked in some air through his nose as he rolled down his own window and spat out something into the street. “A’right.”

The drive was more like twenty minutes, not that it really mattered as he still had a solid ten minutes of padding until he needed to be at the club, and he paid Alan without a word, waving him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Fucker.”

Drawing in a steadying breath of air – not that his body needed it, but it helped to calm down the whirling mess that was his mind – he slipped his hand into his breast pocket and carefully extracted the card: all black matte with a single glossy spade proudly displayed in the centre.

The place was so high-end it didn’t even have a sign. It was just an impressive building – modern and sleek, just like the card – with no real indication it was a business of any kind. Well, other than the fact that there were two very large, very intimidating looking men in suits that were a degree or two cheaper than his own – which, in comparison to what he usually wore, was enough to pay for his entire wardrobe fifty times over.

All the protocols swimming around in his head like lazy fish in a murky bowl, Royal made his way up the handful of steps to the front of the establishment, where he was summarily stopped with a casually outstretched hand.

Mechanically, he handed over the card, which the other man stared down at for a few agonizingly long seconds before he handed it back to him. “Arms out.”

The other man patted him down – and it was just as thorough as the pamphlet had alerted him it would be.

“He’s clean.”

The first man nodded, stepping back and out of the way. “Enjoy your evening, Mister Jennings.”

“Thank you; I plan to.” He kept his voice low, steady, and even; everything he’d read the night before suddenly sharp and focused now that he actually needed it. “Have a pleasant evening… gentleman.”

They both nodded as he passed by. The doors, black glass – real glass – slid open and led into what could only be described as a reception room. He’d expected the lounge, but a young woman in an elegantly fitted cocktail dress of a deep, dark crimson glided across the floor to meet him. “Right on time, Mister Jennings.”

If not for her tone, he wouldn’t have recognized her at all. Her eyes were now a cold, clear blue – just as striking as they had been green – and her hair, which he distinctly remembered as a conservative black, was now a striking platinum blonde, tied up into an intricate bun of braids.

“I was told not to disappoint.”

Her curved, red lips curled in just the slightest display of something that might have been amusement. “So you were.” He offered her his arm which she took with graceful fluidity. “This way, please.”

They moved across the lobby to an elevator whose doors opened the moment they approached it. It descended smoothly and without a sound, no ding to signal its arrival on the basement floor – there weren’t even buttons or a display, just impeccably clear mirrors on all sides.

Without a word, the woman pulled him forward, and he followed without resistance.

“Your majesty,” she started, slipping her arm out of his with all the careful dexterity of a dancer. “Mister Jennings has arrived.”

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[Deleted]

w/ @royaljoubert

Long Live the Queen a god doesn't turn at the cries of a worm This month had been interesting. The firm that'd been hit had represented individuals related to the Spades and any business that partook alongside their background actions for over a decade. Its members were incredibly valuable allies; intelligent, sharp, loyal to the cause. The destruction of their main offices with no connection to rhyme or reason made no sense but to those who knew the true nature of the business that lied beneath the surface. In the end, all physical things could be replaced. It would take time and money - a rather annoying amount of both - but it was doable.The attacker hadn't meant to try and cripple a part of the Spades, only to grab their attention. They had it.  A new challenger had waged war. She was hung in a foggy state somewhere between anger and excitement. Were they capable? Were they strong? Would they prove a challenge to solidify her position as the apex of natural order or would they waste her time like so many others had? "Your Majesty?" Her eyes left the chess board she'd set up at the center of the low-set table to the man's voice that called from her door. The white pieces on the game board had yet to be moved, but a few of the black were situated outwards. "We found another." Her head turned to the man in he suit with a cellphone held to his ear, waiting for orders. "End them." It was accepted and relayed as plainly as it was spoken. These few rats that they'd caught... they weren't worth her time. She'd find a worthy one yet. Hopefully. To have a war, one needed to have an army. Though the Spades had plenty in resources, their new agitators' numbers were relatively hidden. Plenty of info had already been gathered, researched, melted down, and the window for approximation was still far too large for the Queen to accept. She'd given orders to her eyes and ears to pluck out every file or whisper they had for a suitable "wallflower"; a sometimes-thief, sometimes-living camera. Purposefully and consciously unassuming. It lead them to Royal Jennings, a young man with more focus than men twice his age. She'd gone looking for a minor spy - she found so much more. "Five minutes, Highness," a lower voice to her side belonged to a dark-skinned man with an equally smooth and dark suit. The only accent of light was the semi-glossed silver tie and matching, glistening ring on his right hand. The band was plain on top but the bottom told a subtle tale with an engraved, thinly lined spade. Silent handshakes spoke volumes to those that spoke their 'language'. Equally as physically intimidating as aesthetically, the sharp man was the type you'd imagine with double-digit abdominals beneath the suit. He was thin enough to look quick, broad enough to hit hard, and tall enough to look down on most. Clearly at a higher station than those standing at the doors. "And Aleksandra?" she questioned, her eyes still focused on the board at the center of their lounge's rounded sofa. "Her flight is on schedule to arrive at 2:00pm tomorrow, she'll be ready to meet us at the compound at six. We've both familiarized the agenda you sent. Mr. Rodriguez is up to speed. He'll arrive at 6:30, ample time for us to come to a decision beforehand." A hum of approval was his only response, which he visibly expected and felt confident in. Her hand lifted over the board, the dark man at her side watching with quiet interest. With hovering fingers, she thought a moment longer before finally choosing a white piece and moving it a single step forward. A pawn. For now. The man's wrist lifted, sleeve pulling back away from a watch that displayed a message over the reflecting glass screen. "Mr. Jennings arrived at the front." Her fingers drifted off of the piece and went to her bottom lip, nails occasionally tapping its surface to the beat of her thoughts. "Glasses please. Whichever drink you prefer," her interest was more on the board - minding little what her right-hand did. "Water in yours?" Her eyes looked to him briefly before he nodded, "I check twice." "I know." That was one of the reason she liked him. He shot twice, he listened twice, he memorized twice. Consistently accurate. In the meantime he'd stood from the sofa, pulling a few bottles from a side table and making what she'd asked. The third glass remained empty. With a soundless sigh, her hand left her mouth and rose with an open palm above the chess set. It and its contents moved effortlessly on the same table the man used to prep, freeing up space for the one between the couches. She leaned back, one arm draped comfortably over the back of the couch while the other lied on the armrest beside her. From head to toe, voice to posture, eyes to presence, she exuded a calm and knowing sense of power. "Your majesty," the female voice called a few yards between the room's threshold and the elevator doors. "Mister Jennings has arrived." The platinum blonde looked up to the pair - the woman and the well-dressed (albeit still somehow out of place) young man - and remained seated. The shape shifter had stepped forward, bowing lightly. "Thank you, Bridgette," the man answered from the corner of the room, turning about with the small tray of glasses that he set to the table before sitting again on the opposite side of the sofa the Queen sat on. Without quarrel, the woman left dutifully and flashed Royal a last look. Then it was just the three of them. It was silent, awkward and tense on the end of a confused young meta, but perfectly comfortable for the man that waited the Queen's words and the Queen that hadn't decided yet that she'd want to give them. For now she observed - her watch like a surgeon to a naked scan of the brain to catalogue so many things; the way he stood, the way he breathed (or didn't), if he favored weight on one side over the other, how straight he kept himself. Finally, her eyes locked onto his, seizing the attention of the air in the private room. "Royal Jennings," a statement, not a greeting. "Have a seat," her hand lifted from the arm rest momentarily, motioning to the couch across from them. There would be so many tests this night... this was simply the first of many. NOTES: Location

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[Deleted]

s h a t t e r e d

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Speak only when spoken to.

That rule had been on pages one, four, six through nine, and at the bottom of page thirteen – sort of like a signature that, instead of a name, was like a subtle “don’t be a fucking idiot”. When he was introduced, he bowed – a proper bow – toward the seated woman who was, without any doubt, the fucking Queen of Spades.

In school, he’d learned about all the different foreign forms of royalty. The kings of France, the monarchs of England, the chieftains and priestesses of the ignorantly dictated “savage lands”… It had all been information about people who were long gone. Stories and fantasies that only held a modicum of realism because they were in a floppy, overpriced textbook instead of a nicely bound historical fiction novel written in the eighteen-hundreds.

But the woman, draped over the rich, stark white of the artistically sculpted couch, like a fine drizzle of molten gold, exuded something that was so far beyond his expectations for the small and petty nature he’d come to associate with the ruling class that, even had he not spent the night memorizing and internalizing everything he could from that damn leather-bound pamphlet, he wouldn’t have had words to say anyway.

He was, quite literally, speechless.

He was also staring.

It wasn’t that she was attractive – she was, in a sort of minimalist, negative-space “here’s what you see and everything you don’t” kind of way – or that she had one of the most commanding presences he’d ever experienced. It was the way she looked at him – the way her eyes burned like two perfect stars, tearing him down into the most minuscule of pieces, turning them over and over again in her mind’s eye, and building him back up – building him… better.

It was fucking terrifying.

The silence stretched, and he remained exactly where the woman – Bridgette, the man had called her – left him. He couldn’t take his eyes away from her’s, not that it seemed to bother her. She… drank him in; appraised him like one might a wine to determine whether or not they had been ripped-off or a piece of artwork in an amateur’s show that might not be complete shit.

He stood still, and, instinctively, his back straightened, his shoulders widened, and his fingers twitched just slightly. He wasn’t the kind of person to cower, but he didn’t make a show of it either.



Less is more. Page six.

He didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing until she broke the spell of silence. And did she break it. There was no brief moment of hoarseness in her voice; it was immediately… big; not loud or bossy or even commanding. It was just there. It refused to be ignored, to be questioned, to be doubted. It was the closest thing he’d ever heard to confidence made manifest.

And the first time he’d ever heard his name sound so fucking legitimate.

He didn’t move right away – whether it was because he was trying his best not to seem over-eager or because he was wrestling with the uncomfortable fact that he was, for a handful of seconds, paralyzed with fear didn’t matter in the long run. When he did move, he moved deliberately.

It was – maybe – a total of ten steps to the couches, but it felt like he was running an entire marathon. Every step he took, he felt both pairs of eyes on him… watching, evaluating, calculating. The very small part of him that remained blissfully ignorant of the rest of his mind’s near shut-down mused over whether or not this was how those packaged meats in the white Styrofoam and plastic-wrap displayed in the ice bins of those grocery delis felt when people were standing over them.

He didn’t hesitate when he finally made it to the couch across and angled from the pair of them. He took the seat closest to her and the table between them, his gaze glued to her's, green-grey eyes burning with unbridled fascination, anxiety, suspicion, and – in spite of himself – respect.

“Thank you for seeing me,” his own voice wavered just slightly. It was clear he was not only out of his element but properly intimidated by… everything; all while still refusing to back completely down. There was strength there, however reserved. “Your majesty.” The title came slowly, and though it had sounded so absolutely fucking ridiculous every time he’d said it in his mirror the night before, face to face with the actual Queen herself? It sounded alarmingly appropriate.

God, what a woman.

She was a fucking piece of art – in the same way an edged sword was, he supposed.

Pamphlet etiquette dictated he wait for her for… just about everything. She was supposed to speak first, to drink first, to say he could go piss in the corner first. He usually didn’t mind waiting, but time seemed to move way slower there on those couches with those eyes watching him. He wondered if that was her power. Her ability. There was no fucking way she wasn’t a meta.

So, however much he didn’t want to, Royal waited, his chest slowly rising and falling in a mechanical, almost perfect rhythm – seemingly unhindered by whatever state his eyes betrayed him.

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[Deleted]

w/ @royaljoubert

Long Live the Queen a god doesn't turn at the cries of a worm His fingers twitched, both hands. The hand with his own familiar rings stilled quicker than that with the one's he'd been given (which continued to give a fidget here or there). He didn't stay still in discomfort, he didn't freeze to a useless nothing under the unknown's illusion of power. Good. His breath was held much longer than the color on his face deceived it to be. Then, when a flicker in his eyes turned on a dormant, subconscious light, the breaths began steadily as if not having to catch up on their lost oxygen at all. A reminder to appear normal, or perhaps more accurately, to feign comfortability. Good. His back straightened when Bridgette wasn't physically there to serve as a reminder beside him. There was still a window of time when he'd lost the confidence that his now-broad, then once-slumped, shoulders betrayed him of. A lack of overconfidence, good, but even better was the want to so badly prove his worth without daring to speak for it. He wasn't incredibly talented in its subtleties yet, but there was always room to grow. To evolve. The few seconds of absolute stillness after she'd given her first command hadn't drifted her focus in the slightest - refusing to allow his attention to wander anywhere else but the present. To confront the discomfort, to face it, to appear naked before her so that she might judge him as organically as possible. The darkly-dressed man at her side slid his eyes over to hers only to ensure her approval of such a stand-off. He made no further movement and said nothing. Four whole seconds before the young man sat; less than the horrifically displeasing and cowardly six that most took and more than the cockiness of urgency where they moved immediately or, worse, at the end of her sentence. Good. She was done physically dissecting him for now; a term almost too eerily fitting for the studious way she kept locked onto him. His eyes were shaken but his lungs remained in perfect synchronicity of seconds like a clock. It was most certainly something that wasn't necessary - unaffected by the expression on his face and more than likely the haywiring in his mind - and the image of it now as he sat on the couch (dare she say) intrigued her. What an interesting touch... How often did humans rely on knowing where another human stood in mental, emotional, and physical matters by the state of their breathing? Regardless of his execution at it, the young man had planned quite the move. Good. His tone was plain, practiced, straight-forward. He didn't demand attention nor would the common ear ignore him. Perhaps he hadn't quite found where he stood yet. Perhaps he was looking. Good. She leaned forward, the arm over the sofa sliding down it to reach forward and take a hold of the glass before her. The dark man had been holding his and occasionally sipping as they interacted. Finally, she took one of her own before tipping her chin the briefest of angles upwards. "Have a drink." Her partner's glass was filled with something lightly tinted brown and red, hers with the same clarity as the one that sat in front of Royal. He'd refused one with Bridgette... that was taken into account. Water. Interesting not to drink for a young man his age, though she doubted they shared reasons. Once he'd surely done as she'd said, she kept the glass resting in her hand along her lap comfortably before cutting into the conversation; no punches held, and still with the calm purpose of a grand speaker with an audience of once. "Tell me, Royal Jennings, what you've learned from your greatest failure." NOTES: Location

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[Deleted]

s h a t t e r e d

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Finally, she picked up her fucking drink. It was a good thing she wasn’t expecting him to do more than just sit there because Royal doubted he could do much more than that. He was irritated that she was so calm. He was intimidated by her serpentine efficiency of movement and cold, surgical stares. He was already tired of having to act like he wasn’t the piece of shit that he was.

Most of all thought? He was fucking fascinated.

It was hard to keep his thoughts all on one track. Finally getting to physically do something helped, and though his relief showed in his eyes – he’d never been great at hiding his emotions when it came to those two, frustratingly opening “windows into the soul” – he managed to move at a pretty normal speed.

His body, at least, listened to him.

Unsurprisingly, he supposed Bridgette had assumed that when he said he “didn’t drink”, he’d meant alcohol specifically, not literally any kind of beverage at all. Water was one of the least uncomfortable things to shove down into whatever had replaced his digestive system, so, while he wasn’t looking forward to it, at least he probably wouldn’t be forcibly expelling the contents of his insides. 

He waited until the Queen was finished speaking before he moved. He wasn’t over-eager to put anything into his mouth, let alone swallow it, but pamphlet etiquette had been pretty clear about when to refuse the Queen.

You didn’t.

There was a good chance they had spiked the water with something, and, as he drew the rim of the glass to his lips, he hesitated for just a moment. He was pretty sure he couldn’t ingest any kind of drug any more, but he wasn’t really keen on testing it out then and there. Not like he really had a choice though.

His brows rose and fell just slightly. Bottoms up. He let about a quarter of the water drain down this throat before he let the glass settle on his lap, cupped in both hands to keep himself from fidgeting. He could feel the foreign slosh of the liquid run down his throat and coat his insides. Blegh.

Whatever he’d expected next, it wasn’t what he got.

He blinked.

Do not repeat questions; one should always be listening and attentive – to ask for reiteration is to admit your attentions were elsewhere. Page four.

So that knocked “The fuck did you mean ‘my greatest failure’?” off the list of reflexive answers. It was a good thing Lennon had helped him practice that morning by asking him all manner of interview questions. He’d been half-hoping the Queen would have used the “And exactly how big is that dick of yours?” instead. At least he’d have had an answer for that one.

Bridgette’s little “suggestion” replayed in his mind; damn straight he didn’t like answering personal questions, and he knew that calculating viper of a woman sitting across from him knew he knew she knew he didn’t like answer personal questions. He was even willing to bet she probably knew exactly what jumped to mind the second she’d asked that fucking question.

Vulgarities were discouraged; page two had strongly suggested against them, but Royal was already completely out of his comfort-zone; a “shit” here or a “fuck” there was all he really had left to provide even the smallest semblance of familiarity to the posh and pristine nightmare he’d dived into.

“That the world is shit and filled with complacent, shit-eating fuckers.” His tone and voice were controlled – far too much. The rage showed in the cold, hard manner of his pronunciation; the pain in the factual, almost detached speed at which it was said.

To make his point, he took another sip from his glass of water, just like he’d seen in those old spy movies. Only, he didn’t smile and wink. His stare was hard – fiery even –, and it was crystal clear he didn’t want to talk about his past and had done it anyway. “And that you get two choices in life.” The glass once again settled into his lap, gently cupped between his carefully placed fingers as he stared directly into the Queen’s seeking eyes. “Either you do the fucking, or you get fucked.”

He’d met people during his time at the University of Washington who’d always reprimanded him for what they called his “limited vocabulary”. They’d said that vulgar language was just proof that someone didn’t know the words to properly express one’s self, that there was never a good reason to curse because there were so many words in the English language that could say something better a hundred times over.

And Royal had said the same thing to them that he now mentally tossed over to page two:

Fuck that and fuck you.

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[Deleted]

w/ @royaljoubert

Long Live the Queen a god doesn't turn at the cries of a worm It was meant to provoke, and provoke it most certainly did. But rather than go poking and prodding immediately into what pained or irritated someone, it was always so much more fascinating to scratch around the scab's edges. She hadn't asked for a description of his failures, nor what he even considered failure. The outcome was infinitely more important; what it made of you, what you made of it, how it had or hadn't altered your path forward. Start to peel the end of the scab rather than go stabbing into the middle of it and you gave people a chance not to just show their true colors, but allow them time to piece them together in a logical fashion rather than immediately instinctive. Fight or flight was horribly overrated in terms of judging and calculating intelligent species. How two-dimensional and short-sighted. The large man beside her somehow seemed amused at Royal's response without smiling but the Queen remained stoic as she was when he arrived. Expression's gave far too much away to those that didn't understand how to monitor them, so she'd rid herself of those long ago. She showed them when she consciously wished to, naturally displaying nothing at all otherwise. "A confident response," it was a warning with almost an undertone of - dare he recognize it - respect. Something along those lines had been expected, and to be quite frank the control he carried over it for someone untouched by and uneducated in their philosophy was more than most. He didn't shy away from it nor did he allow it power over him. Rather, he confronted it head-on, even if it was without any form of grace. "I suppose that's the mindset of most 'modern day' Robin Hoods," the words sounded odd from her, intentionally so, almost derogatory. What a strangely child-like title. Still, it was what he was. He could do so much better. A small blink of light lit the dark man's watch and he looked to the incoming call, standing without a word and straightening his blazer to make his way out. He was obviously comfortable leaving when he needed to - the Queen ignoring him and keeping her attention to her guest. Nothing in the weight of the room for her had changed. "Most of those you've taken from are dull, shallow, mindless drones. It served them right if they could be taken advantage of so easily. To the victor, the spoils," she noted with a perked eyebrow, taking another drink. "One of these so-called 'complacent fuckers'," the words were stern and sharp before returning to her dark, silky rhythm, "a drone, was one of my own. Unintelligent as he was, he was a wonderful place-holding pawn and as dumb as I'd needed him to be." She let the information relay without speaking it directly. Rather than intervening his security breaches and failures they monitored, letting him fail when they knew he would. All to keep eyes on a possible asset... "I'm not often curious," she admitted, swirling the glass slowly that dangled by its rim from her fingers, not to feign mixing of alcohol - though that might've been how it appeared - but to feel the weight of the liquid within it, its movement, its push and pull. A habit. "I wonder. What will you do with the information I've allowed you and your little friend to procure if I don't kill the both of you?" It was a statement, not a threat. Threats were for those that saw room in not following through. She didn't threaten.  Would he be a simpleton Robin Hood again? Or was he slowly upping his ante? Regardless of whether it was detrimental to her business, she was considering letting him do as he pleased anyway if only to see how he would handle it. A long profit greatly outweighed a short loss. Besides, this game was mildly entertaining. NOTES: Location

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[Deleted]

s h a t t e r e d

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Maintain eye contact unless otherwise directed. Page seven.

While he was vaguely aware of the larger, more traditionally intimidating man’s slight reaction, he kept his gaze focused on the Queen. She carried the title for a reason, and how she chose to respond was all that mattered. That, and Royal wasn’t sure he could look away from those stone-blue eyes of hers – not when they were boring into him with all the ease of a scalpel through flesh.

Approval – or whatever the distant, royal equivalent was – seemed the primary push of her observation, though he didn’t miss the fact that there was no movement in her face at all, nothing given away in her eyes in the least. He had the feeling that the pale-haired woman across from him had a very precise and very accurate control over what it was she wished to display; it was probably better to reign himself in, if he could.

Don’t let a couple shitty questions fuck you up.

Though he maintained his composure, glass still calmly cradled in his hands and posture straight and steady, his eyes twitched in reflexive protest at her piercing summation of his character. He hated the idea that anyone thought what he and Lennon were doing was even remotely comparable to all those idealistic shit-for-brains “heroes” and “vigilantes” who were over-hyped on their own savior complexes.

What he hated more was that she wasn’t far off.

He didn’t look up at the man as he rose to leave – most of his focus was centered on keeping his damn mouth shut. In any other situation with any other flesh-bag who had the audacity to call him out like she’d just done – casually, factually, powerfully – he would have fired off a quick denial with a threat behind it. When it came to the Queen, though, the overwhelming pressure of her presence alone was enough to give him pause, and those cold, clinically analytical eyes of hers did an excellent job of holding him there – as long as he didn’t open his mouth.

Fortunately for him, she allowed him a few more moments of silence – a few more moments to get a handle on himself – as she continued. Unfortunately for him – and now Lennon as well –, was a verification on a theory they’d had initially: Teracorp was affiliated with the Spades. They’d taken from Teracorp which, by extension, meant they’d taken from the Spades – sort of.

She’d let them do it, after all.

From the sound of it, she’d let it play out like a test. If he could still shiver, he would have. There was something incredibly disconcerting with being told one had been under examination in an artificially constructed environment after the fact; he should have noticed. Lennon should have noticed. Neither of them had, but they’d managed to pass.

Or had they?

He got the feeling that the test wasn’t over, that Teracorp had just been the first interview and that there were many, many more hoops he was expected to jump through. He could see himself reflected in the faded colors of her eyes – just barely – and he wondered what it was exactly she thought of him behind that flawless mask of indifference.

Did she consider him just another expendable game piece or was she hoping for – or, more accurately, tentatively investing in – something more?

And did he even possess the fucking follow-through, either way?

At some point, he’d stopped breathing. The glass in his hands had begun to subtly shift and warp: slimmer, more slender, more delicate, more elegant. All the preparation in the world wouldn’t have been enough to keep him truly calm in the presence of that quiet behemoth, and he managed as best he could.

At least he managed not to flinch at her next question; and a question he considered it, lost as he was when it came to that sort of rhetoric.

If she expected some grand, nefarious plan to rival her own, she was going to be disappointed, but, while he was pretty quick on his feet, Royal wasn’t that fast. If they’d known Teracorp had been connected to the Spades, they probably wouldn’t have hit it in the first place – and if they had, he doubted Lennon would have been content with just the accounts they stole. 

Go big or go home when you’re a David to a Goliath.

“Redistribution of personal funds.” Fucking Robin Hood. “A f-” Pausing, Royal caught himself, tapping one of his fingers twice on the side of the now gracefully curved vessel that was more art than dishware. “A… correction to last year’s salaries.” It was probably chump change to someone like the Queen who undoubtedly had her hands in more pockets than he could count with deep ones of her own. “Most of it’s already finished.”

Lennon worked quickly, and their window of opportunity when it came to using the accounts had been pretty limited.

“I-“ Correction. “We appreciate not being dead.” It wasn’t really so much of a “thank you” as a statement that he was aware they were alive by grace – or whatever the fuck she had that was close enough to its cousin. He didn’t regret taking from Teracorp. They deserved it, and a whole lot of other shit companies like them. He did regret that it had been connected to the Queen.

Corporate idiots were one thing.

Mob bosses – gangster fucking royalty – was another.

He took a slow, deliberate breath. The glass sculpture – as it was no longer much of a cup any longer – slowly rotated in hands, his fingers absent-mindedly turning it with slow and careful movements. “I might be speaking out of turn, or whatever,” He’d read the pamphlet hundreds of times and he still wasn’t clear when it was okay to ask questions – if it even ever was –, but after being scolded – or close too it – without any given repercussion, he was at his limit of managing the itching, burning irritability of not knowing shit. “But what do you… want?”

A vague question for a fucking uncertain state of mind, to be sure.

“I mean,” he continued, gaze steady and searching and - just a little bit - afraid, “I’m here, you’re curious – which you said you’re usually not – and,” he blinked, twice. And what? The question “Are we in trouble?” came to mind, but it was so incredibly juvenile that he doubted he’d get any real answer from it. “And I’d like to know where I stand. With you. With the Spades.” It wasn’t really much of a demand, more a quiet request.

“We didn’t know Teracorp was one of yours; clearly we’ve some sh- some… improvements to make,” his shoulders raised slightly in shrug. No excuses – they should have known. “And you know about us. Who we are, what we do.” The sculpture – now a curved hollow vessel of three hollow bowls filled just slightly with what was left of his water linked by a thin, winding stem – had made a full rotation and was starting its carefully controlled second. “We can play games, if you want,” He sure as fuck couldn’t stop her. “But I might – we might – be more… useful-” Or at least less of a nuisance. “-if we knew what it was you wanted.”

His eyes flashed for just a moment – it wasn’t a challenge, exactly, but rather a brief moment of unhindered intrigue. All his life, he’d struggled with saying the right things at the right time. He wasn’t stupid or slow; he just wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. Lennon was so much better at it – saying what people wanted to hear when they needed to hear it. But Lennon wasn’t here right now.

Just he and she.

And she was intimidating as fuck, but even she, the Queen of Spades, was human.

And humans were always wanting more.

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