Love Among Thieves

[Malkavia]

From Jouets and wrestling, hmmm? Madeleine's lips pressed together as her eyes flitted to Serona and lingered. The girl was blushing, looking at the game rather than at her.

If you see that someone's embarrassed...You know, avoidant eye contact, blushing, maybe suddenly a lot less talkative? Batson had always been good at giving emotional generalities concrete signs. That's a signal—think, feel. What makes it embarrassing to be them right now?

Madeleine mentally flipped through several explanations. She's worried her game isn't good enough, perhaps. Or. Maybe. She thinks you'll find it presumptuous that she built an entire game around your reputation. Which it was, of course.

But was part of the reason that she watched "wrestling," as she called it?

The thought lingered with Madeleine throughout the interview — which, to her credit, Serona handled with poise and expertise, though Madeleine frowned when she heard about GameMaker.

"Yes, GameMaker is certainly a favorite among hobbyists," she'd remarked. By the time Serona got to the end of her spiel about how possible it would be to migrate — if only you have endless time and resources of course — Madeleine was chewing her lip. Perhaps what you need, Serona, is a reminder of the value of Jouets' time hit her mind's ear too bluntly, and she was reformulating it into a more precise dart when the wine server interrupted her train of thought.

Madeleine had not explicitly intended to soften Serona's defenses with alcohol, any more than she had intended to test her discretion with her dark hair, but even so, when she heard her partner intended to begin the day with water, she knew instinctively which way to nudge. Her own wine — a white Burgundy — was rich with notes of hazelnut, and she savored it with her eyes closed...though as the alcohol stung, bitter on the hind-palette, the hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. Inexplicably, the taste of rye, totally alien to the wine, fanned up her sinuses.

“Now… Can I ask you something?”

Hm? Madeleine crossed her legs, leaning back in her chair as her eyes lidded open. She smiled, gesturing with one hand. "Any and every time you like, sweet."

She paused after she heard the question. She lifted her head, peering at the ceiling. She bit the tip of her tongue, running one index finger along the lip of her glass before lifting it for a sip.

"That question might have a long answer. You'll be patient with the windup, of course?"

“Yeah, of course—uh. Absolutely.”

Madeleine's eyes drifted from the ceiling down to Serona. Her drink rested on the table, her nail picking idly at the base of the glass's crystal stem while another couple settled into the seat behind Serona.

"Every time I meet someone new, I have to wonder—how does this person know me? One of the possibilities, of course, is that they've seen me in the ring." Her eyes lidded, almost imperceptibly, her head crooking ever so slightly to the side while she watched her partner as intently as a lynx. "Naked, doing unspeakable things to beautiful, hungry women."

"—Meaning, of course, that they viscerally understand the things that make me attractive—my talents, determination, intelligence. My charisma. Now, Serona, do you imagine that makes these strangers like me? Do they wish me well when they say their prayers at night?"

As the question hung, Madeleine uncrossed her legs and leaned, gently, across the table. "Anyone can be born great, sweet. But — if you'll forgive my hubris — living with greatness? That takes talent."

"So, to answer your question honestly—no, it doesn't suck to manage who I am, to navigate all the...people who have ideas about what they can get from me. In fact, I enjoy the challenge."

"Now!" Madeleine clapped her hands together, finally breaking eye contact as she slid Serona's laptop back to the center of their table. Back to the red thread. "This is lovely, darling. I adore it. And I want you to make a pitch for why..." Her hand rested lovingly on the keyboard, as if it were a pet cat, while her look swung back to Serona. "...I should produce it for you."

[Monsy]

Serona stared at the bottle. She had cupped her chin, rested her elbow on the table and leaned in a tad to get a better view of Madeleine’s playthrough and examination. When it came to the question of production, Serona bit her tongue.

( She’s lovely, but— where does that leave me? )

A boss in her creative sphere yet again. Could this be another stifling? Too much of X to be the designer and too much of Y to code, then not enough experience to produce. And now she had it here: a tangible value for X and Y that spat in its face. A prototype. One that wowed, supposedly. When she struggled to open her mouth, she stared at the wine. Quick-quick-quick decisions needed to be made, even if not ironclad or details ironed out, but that statement still sounded so strong and encompassing that she wasn’t sure how to set the mood. Serona needed to be honest, but an opportunity like this was one in several—a real and enthusiastic backer with authentic resources, credibility and a layup in potential marketing.

( There is always another game. A creative always has another idea. It could be a critical experience and no doubt would have her name. No matter what—Gh. )

It's been at least fifteen seconds…

———

“So—ya like history?”

Angelina went under the yellow-black gate arm in the car park, hitting a hard right around the corner and passing the first column of cars. She turned around, then walked backwards with her hands gripping on her leather collar.

“I’m talkin’ sengoku period. That castle as we know it was made aroooound the tail-end of it by Lord Kazumasa and his son, although there was still a whole lotta happenins ‘round then. Check it—”

Though her eyes would purposefully shift towards the working man that was passing by, then others in the vicinity both rows down that she began to turn her head towards. Not the best place to set the scene for what they were about to do, even if she doubted anyone would care whatsoever if a demon-horned American was spouting their history. Buut—an excuse it was!

“Mmm, let's get to the stairs first.”

Then without a cue, she took off and sprinted, first in long strides, then putting wind to her back and racing for a doorway with an ascending staircase. She passed through the doorway, turned the corner and disappeared.

[Malkavia]

What amazed Shimmerlace was just how...loose Angelina managed to be. She walked along, hands in her pockets, smiling and jawwing, like she hadn't just had her central nervous system readjusted in a dark alley.

Shimmerlace strolled beside her. Or tried to stroll, anyway. She felt a bit stiff to be calling it a stroll, with her hand in her pocket (the better to handle the ol' tase-a-bitch 9000) and her back straight and nose up, unsure of what to do with her tongue, let alone her face. Whatever sense of security her "Adelaide" getup had provided got blown to bits now that she was side-by-side with a girl wearing fucking horns.

You wanna take those off while we're plotting to commit a crime? She'd found herself on the edge of those words a couple times, but she never quite gave them voice. She didn't want to seem stupid, and questioning the horns felt stupid. Surely they had a purpose, right? Like—the misdirection in a magic trick. Big shiny jingle jangle to hold the audience's attention while the real game was won out of sight. But wouldn't you yourself be the number one thing to hide in a caper...?

Assuming there was a caper at all. She wanted to believe, as they tramped all over sunlight Matsumoto, past four security cameras and about a hundred potential witnesses, that this history lesson was leading up to something grand. Her imagination itched with possibility—with visions of raiding ancient crypts, of making off with jewels lifted from the emperor's secret cache of treasure, buried outside the majestic castle. But the longer Angelina went without reaching the point, the tighter Shimmerlace gripped her taser.

She was just loading up to ask how any of this related to their target when Angelina darted out of sight. "Shit—" She took off in pursuit, which of course turned a couple passersby's heads. But fuck it. She was through the door, but Angelina was already up two flights of steps, and just as Shimmerlace wondered how in Hell she got so far ahead, she jumped up on the guide rail and leaped up the central stairwell opening. Her hands clasped the railing on the next floor—and up the bitch went, scrambling, like a damn spider.

Instinct told Shimmerlace not to climb the stairs. That's what Angelina would expect—what she'd be scheming around. But she was charging up the stairs four a at time anyway. The fuck else could she do? It hit home, then, just how useful parkour could be—that in movement, options were everything. Options were freedom and power, and now she only had one option.

By the time she burst through the last door on the roof, she was gasping for breath. Her legs had begun to petrify from the workout, but she had her taser out in front of her, finger on the trigger. Just try and jump me bitch—

—And then she saw Angelina, standing casually at the end of two rows of cars, arms on the railing at the side of the roof. She called out and motioned her over. Shimmerlace blinked...then stowed the weapon.

"Er—sorry. Sorry," she muttered as she joined Angelina by the roof's edge. The view was more spectacular than one might expect from a parking deck. From the top of the building, itself atop a hill, they could see surrounding buildings and streets, clear over to the green park carved like a slice of cake from the urban sprawl, at the center of which was the tower itself—majestic and towering. Shimmerlace breathed deep.

"Y'know," she said, finally with a sigh. "If you get to the end of this enthralling historic epic and we're not set to filch the daimyou's prized armor out of that place." Her eyes slid across to the red-head. "I'm gonna be pretty fuckin' disappointed."

[Monsy]

The last word made her ankle tense. One eye slid to half-mast, then a scowl formed where her lips bent, twisted and then she popped open her mouth. “You of all people are fuckin’ banned from calling things disappointments. This is important shit! Now find Matsah-moto Castle!”

Of course Shimmer did in a fairly brief time, which matched Angelina’s expectations. After a few short nods, she hopped onto the railing, then spun around so her legs now dangled to the concrete below, mocking it with her little kicks.

“Alright, SO!—That jenga tower used to be Fukashi castle, built in 1504 and ever since, it's been hot potato from Ogasawara, to Takeda, to Oda to Kiso, back to Ogasawara again which remained it to Matsumoto. Then ya got Matsudaira, Hotta, and—to who we’re focusing on today, the Mizuno fucks. See, arooooound the 1680s, so about as old as ya mum, there was the Jokyo rebellion and Tada Kasuke. Scary stuff about taxes and othah communisms. When that naturally failed, about twenty-eight were executed.”

She took her arms up like she wielded a katana and stuck loosely in Shim’s direction.

"WHA-TAH!!!" She yelled, then went back to kicking the railing and crossing her arms.

“Beheaded. All of them, yo.” Then she lifted a finger. “So we thought. Turns out there’s a liiiiitle easter egg there, so says my Chinese buyer. Tada Kasuke wasn’t killed by sword, but by a matchlock. Placed right into his centre mass and KA-BOOM! Slow and agonizin' death with a lick of human barbecue sauce still stained on that rusted barrel tip, cursin the Mizuno clan and causing the castle to lean. Not one authority then wanted to admit a peasant got some special treatment, but the story persists. Any guess where that gun is kept?”

[Malkavia]

Shimmerlace shut her mouth so fast her teeth clicked. A part of her wanted to grumble: Of course she wasn't serious about disappointment. Hadn't anyone ever taught Angelina to have fun?

...But such were infant thoughts for babies of lesser intelligence. Today's real focus soon shifted where it belonged—the god damned castle.

It was a marvelous enough sight under the cool gaze of a tourist. The seven stacked roofs formed a towering symbol of authority, resting on its massive stone foundations as impervious to the passage of time outside its lush courtyards, as serene as the still lake in whose center it stood.

Then Angelina filled it with people. Armies. She conjured rebellions and beheadings, and Shimmerlace's eyes shone. She imagined poor ol' Kasuke-san's innards splattered across that courtyard like post-expressionist chum. By the time Angelina turned the spotlight on Shimmerlace, she was rocking from heel to toe, hands on the rail as she leaned out to get the best look of the place she could capture.

"Wellllll, a treasure with a story that terrible and wondrous strikes me as a kinda paradox. On the one hand, it's pure fuckin' gold, the kinda legendary booty that comes with laser-triggered alarms. Buuuuut, same time, a story like that demands a god damned AUDIENCE. It's the kinda tale that pop out of the loamy earth and roar if you tried and keep it buried."

"In short—your matchlock is a museum piece if I ever heard of one...like as not ensconced in the very heart of Matsumoto's jewel of a fortress. Tantalizingly on display, yet guarded by all the electric eyes and computerized guardian spirits modern man can devise."

Shimmerlace's fingers drummed the railing, and as a cloud passed from across the sun, illuminating the castle in such light that the white walls almost hurt to look at, she could feel her heartbeat buzz behind her eyes. She hadn't much practice with museum-grade security. She glanced sideways and up at this story's presenter.

"I'm right, aren't I Angelina?"

[Monsy]

“Youuuuu wish, Lupin the Fourth."

She stared between her feet at the lines of grey, green and patterned white that made the street levels. "We shouldn't have to worry about any grand security meas-ahs. CCTV is only at certain places around the entrances, ticket booths and the main keep, then automatic alarms on certain encasements that we'll be ignoring. The hard part is makin' sure they don't know we stole from 'em."

There was a decent survey of the web of roads at this height from here. Most of it got swallowed by obstructions, but she imagined what she couldn’t and studied the continuous roads to see where they led, if it was busy, quick or offered any wider access to any expressway they might need to use. "Which means we need a flawless exit. No screw-ups--no bad presumptions, no nothin', because I doubt they'd have any sympathy for a filthy fuckin' artifact lootah. Say goodbye to LAW after that." Though the prospect served to make herself grin. She thought about it more in-depth, think of how to approach the castle grounds and the exit if anything turned a little... complicated. The nearest Kobans would need to be avoided, obviously, but likely the train stations too as she wasn't about to let them see her commit a second series of felonies after that deal with Yuki Kazikura -- which resolved only by some miracle of LAW's home influence.

Then, of course, they'd need to dodge CCTV in the proximity of the castle and develop her alibi. The last part was already handled, but she didn't tell Shimmer that. Everywhere she looked, it seemed to be thin ice. Having a card or two up her sleeve was at least comforting. And inside her thoughts, she was mentally reviewing her flow chart of solution categories to her most-likely problems. Distraction, Feign, Strike, Bribe and Tools. None of it really answered the one problem she had an impasse on. Her eyes squeezed shut when she reached an impasse, then like film, the whole thing started entangling into a mess.

What if Madeleine turns us away?
Ooh, we’d be a little rat alright.
Forget about her calling you one, you won’t even be worth the breath. Filthy little thief.

Though something about stuffing herself in a small hidden compartment or weapon cache, all pressed up and boxed in against Madeleine’s fabrics, smell and the tickle of her golden hair and breath as they gorge on century old dust bunnies, termites and germs was making her feel all light and fuzzy inside.

( I’ll keep us safe, me amica. Just trust ol’ Kitten O’Riley, Thief Queen and urban buccaneer, better, hotter and with more teeth than the scurvy fucks from the west indies. Yeah… We’d be dead. Or worse: DIVORCED. )

Angelina looked over to Shimmer, neutral and with a finger picking at her molar gum. Then she chewed on her index nail. “Evah heard of mamorifuda? Hide a Talisman in the frame and your buildin’ gets some kinda protection against spirits. Think of this matchlock like a cursed Talisman, somewhere within the castle grounds and no one is one-hundred percent sure where.”

She turned around, lifting her legs over the side and pushing off to land on both feet.

“So, it’s less about nabbing a castle’s beatin’ heart—more that we’re scalping its hangnail that it doesn’t even know it has.”

She gestured for Shimmer to walk along with her using her head, then grabbed her wrist behind her back.

“Regardless, we’re gonna make a strong initial impression. We’ll make our faces known to them so they’ll grant us all the access we want for the time we’ll need to find it.” Angelina looked left and right, lifted her arm up, then pointed with a downward angle towards a vehicle, a Toyota Century Luxury SUV with jet blacks, grey bumpers and a blocky composition that made it look like it lived to survive car crashes.

“It starts with that.” She looked up at Shim, starting to side sneer from her machinations developing in real time. “Evah been a seismic inspectah?”

[Malkavia]

Scalping a hangnail, eh? "You make it sound soooo fuckin' romantic," she muttered. While Angelina continued to explain, She pushed off the rail and paced along the roof.

The sun was not quite directly overhead. The compressed shadows Shimmerlace and Angelina cast, devil horns beside a dome of hair, suggested perhaps 11am. The light on Shimmerlace's cheek was hot, as if she could feel the beginning of as sunburn sizzling into her skin.

"So, the key to an 18th century curse, huh?" Shimmerlace paused, her hands clasped behind her back, staring up into the sky. A plane carved through the blue sky overhead, emitting its fluffy white airtrail in a way that made Shimmerlace feel tiny beneath the sky's dome. "Imagine holding something like that in your hands—knowing it pulverized some sorry fuck's face. Real life magic, ey?" Her eyes slid back towards Angelina as she settled back beside the devil, back to the railing. She rested one arm along its cool metal surface.

"Sure, sure. Sounds like a fuckin' fantastic mark and a good plan to boot. Only bit that makes me a lil' sick is the scene where we hand it over to some Chinese dumbfuck. What's he offering you that's worth a treasure like that, huh?" Shimmerlace's eyes met Angelina's with a look like she was mentally weighing something both expensive and prone to explosion. "I know it can't just be money."

[Monsy]

"Evah heard of Qin Shi Huang? Lets say it has somethin' to do with him and leave it there for now. We do this, then you'll get the scoop." Her attention was fixed low towards the row of license plates on the left and right of her selected SUV. She pursed her lip, imagined how things are to unfurl, the timing and how or if it'll align with Madeleine's itinerary. Probably, maybe, coulda, woulda, shoulda. Blegh. It was a bit too far to swerve now, so might as well dive head-first and figure it out.

She turned towards Shim by the railing. "Pick your plate." Her foot tapped onto the back bumper of a sedan. One-two, tap-tap. Then she walked towards the driver side of the SUV door. "We're gonna do a little trickery with it once we get there." In the holster inside her leather coat jacket sat a loose homemade lockpicking tool that was virtually her best friend. A little rusted, a worn lever grip and stripped screws holding together what looked like a mangey swiss army knife coming part or picked from a trash-bin. Scrap-metal 3-D printed, lathed, cut and welded from Shop-Class. An end of semester project.

She started to flip through them, then went to work on the driver door lock, sticking in her first tool. "First, though. We're gonna get some cheap suits. Know where you get those, Shim?" Her head turned towards the Fairy, still mindlessly working at the door, taking out the first tool to try the next.

[Malkavia]

Shimmerlace's eyes lingered on Angelina's tool—first at the battered picks themselves, then at Angelina's technique.

But—no time to gawk Shimbo! She kneeled to her own car and began unscrewing the plate. Why? Who the fuck knew. Angelina knew. And that was enough.

"Yeah, I got a place—spent a bit of this morning wandering around a Sanroku." Nice shop, cool ambiance. They carried western formal wear alongside kimonos and all the other lovely nameless-to-Shimmer finery of Nihongo. "By the by. Mind if I check out that pick of yours while we drive?"

—

The more Madeleine prodded, the further Serona seemed to retreat into her own head. She mumbled through half-answers, clumsily obscuring her uncertainties while her eyes drifted to the side — the computer screen, the window. Anywhere but Madeleine's gaze. Her hands rested on the table, one folded over the other.

"Listen, sweet." Madeleine reached across the table to rest over Serona's knuckles. She smiled, leaning in until Serona finally gave her real, if reluctant, eye-contact. "I've had the good fortune of seeing a lot of new prospects in your situation—and I understand it can be intimidating."

She squeezed, gently, before leaning back in her seat. She picked up her wine glass by the stem, spun it once, twice, then let it slip down her throat, smacking her tongue appreciatively against her hard palette as the warmth of the alcohol played in her veins.

"It's natural, when you're young and unproven to wonder—are you really ready for the big leagues? Don't you need a little longer solo to really refine your skills? It feels like the whole world might collapse if you take your one shot and fail." Madeleine hummed, as if nostalgic, as she peered up at the ceiling. In fact, she found Serona's reluctance increasingly irritating, and she spun that irritation inside her like a coin between her fingers. But the wistful look in her eyes never wavered. "But trust me, kitten, it's far better to try and fail than to spend your whole life preparing. You see that. Yes?"

[Monsy]

It was...

Yes. Madeleine was right in a lotta ways. With such independence, the new grade of creative was a deep pool with no ladders and a high elevation on the sides, like the pool was only half-full but still deeper than eyes beheld. Sink or swim, but once you try, how to swim, where to swim, how to lunge and get over the hump was going to be blind. Sure, she had her insurances, but she knew exactly what weighs her down in her old job. "Mhm." So she nodded in agreement, struck the eye-contact albeit with flinching to cope with the pink across her cheeks, the warmth of Madeleine's fingers travelling up her arms and into her face, making her cross big-toe over small one when she coined a nickname.

I am... Cute? >/////<

Serona looked down at her arms, turned one palm over then settled her knuckles into it. She pulled them back, straightened her posture, crossed her legs and watched Madeleine drink some wine. Customarily, she did the same. Gingerly and slowly at first, but continuously to sit—at least with a small illusion—to be tranquil, present and dare she say natural. The wine had a sugary bitterness with a little kick. A manageable, almost spicy soda. It wouldn't be a regular thing, but she found it easy to enjoy well-enough.

After Madeleine's second sentence, she lowered the glass and listened more fully. She bit the inside of her lip. "That's true..." But the inner turmoil was hard to hide around it. "May I be honest?" Her finger touched the rim of the glass, then glided along it. "I've been meanin' to strike out on my own for a long time. I was initially wanting to be a programmer, but got denied. Instead, I found the finance side. I've made a few demos, some prototypes and GDDs and pitched them to my boss. I was brushed aside, obviously, because corporate has to make decisions based on what they think is best for the sales. This—This is a little niche. A gesture—a game with not much depth yet. Are the same types of people going to change this game into what they want?"

She sighed. "What I mean is. Who's at the helm?"