come on satan!

harper "birdie" drake. twenty three years old. forger, hacker. currently unattached.

[giorgiawhighamsource]

requested by @jabberwocky1996

[alexromero]

I committed a crime, I got caught, and now I am gonna serve my time.

[birdiedrke]

FABIAN!

“I am not upset,” he snapped before reining in the very emotion he had denied, busying the attention of his gaze to his gloves as he began to roll them off his wrists. “You have caught me at a most inopportune time, and nothing more. The two circumstances have no bearing on each other.” Always a being of tension, another screw tightened at her comment, one that cut from any other voice would have been encouraging; from her, it could be anything but from his point of view. Practice! What on earth was she trying to insinuate? “Thank you, Ms. Jennings. If your feedback ends there, you are free to take your leave–”

Naturally, a departure from his domain could not be attained so easily, leaving him to suck in his lips in the most sour expression that could temporarily transgress until professionalism dictated otherwise. “It is this execrable lighting that is giving you that impression,” he defended as if he was trying to desperately keep her away from shredding the painting she was holding, the very one he was reaching out for, only to snatch it back up from the easel and hold to. “I hardly find that that will be necessary, Ms. Jennings. I am not in the mood to be given some juvenile measure of expression in the way of a paint-by-numbers activity. There is no shortcut when it comes to talent, nor is it born from the hands of those that believe it can be done with ease.”

“fine, fine!” she waived off his speech with ease. talent she found, was a good word for luck. there was nothing to it. she stumbled into painting just as easily as she might have any other hobby. and for her learning, maybe it was just practice. “you’re right anyways.” she grabbed a spare canvas from where it was leaned in the corner, angling it against her hip as though she made a particularly sturdy easel. she did not, but she’d had more practice than her boss. pencil swiftly in hand to sketch what she could remember of the work. “we can make it a competition instead.” she never took either of them to be competitive, it was in her nature to tease not to actually try. besides, it was the furthest thing from ease she could think of.

“worse vasari has to log payroll tomorrow.” as though he wasn’t her boss, couldn’t just make her do it anyways. but he always complained about how she did it anyways. so if he lost, he could do it his way. she couldn’t have cared less. it was more about watching him do something that wasn’t paperwork. what were fabian bishop’s hobbies, what was he passionate about. he didn’t leave much of an internet footprint, despite her best efforts to track him. which just left these moments. “when life gives you lemons right!”

[birdiedrke]

NIKOLAI!

Before Ljublic, Nikolai had loved abandoned churches. The ivy-covered stained glass, dressed altars left to wrack and ruin, crumbling pulpits and rusted lecterns – they all said something unexplainable about the transience of human spirituality. How quickly faith could be lost, how long its scars could remain. But he had lost his faith; rather, it had been ripped from him, replaced by something more practical. Pragmatism: never going anywhere without at least a knife, never rushing into a situation before he had some kind of backup plan. Fear, too, fear that meant as much as he could rationalise it into being perfectly safe, he still invited Birdie along to the abandoned church.

“Actually, yes.” He opened the door, getting out the car with a bitten-down wince. The way his back twinged was a lasting souvenir of Ljublic’s treatment. “This was his home church, and the trail of a completed version of The Good Shepherd stops here, hanging above the collection box.”

“i knew it.” an educated guess as it were, only half contributed to with her own research. it did help to know what she was looking for, but she’d also been fine with letting nik lead the way. it was easy to trust, especially those who weren’t out to hurt. she hopped out of the car and took in the vista, dilapidated church waiting for something to happen to it. “a classic!” she clapped her hands together, taking it as the beginning of an adventure. why not, if they drove all the way out here it didn’t have to be an easy find. “now—what if this is just the first clue.” as if she was taking nancy drew notes, hoping to get to the bottom of some mystery. in reality, she was fine with just seeing a finished cole, museums would pay for that.

the church looked run down even from a distance, crumbling at the edges, the door boarded up with plywood boards. abandon all hope ye who enter here. oh the beauty of modern ingenuity. if only the front door were the only way to gain access to a building. “his home church is going to need a back door.”

[birdiedrke]

@cioras​

they never broke the law. morally upstanding friends on a daytrip to see some sights had no need to. even if her boss was sending questioning texts to the best of his ability. some abandoned church, in an abandoned dutch settlement, in upstate new york. a few hours in the car chattering away. she never knew if nik needed the help, or wanted the company, but she decided not to ask too many questions. only the good kind, like if they could stop at the gas station for coffee. and what on earth they were on the hunt for. it certainly sounded like trespassing from how he pitched it to her—but that wasn’t really the case. in if a law broke in a forest and nobody was around to hear it, did it really break? she decided no and didn’t ask for a second opinion.

“so this is going to be something super puritan right?” the fields aroudn them didn’t exactly indicate high society. or that it’d been touched in the last few hundred years. she wondered if the church would even need anything in the way of breaking, it might just be open for entry. “we’re not stumbling on a lost thomas cole are we?”

[birdiedrke]

NIKOLAI!

Birdie’s certainty was almost amusing; if there was anything Nikolai had gathered from six years of art dealing, it was that life was more unpredictable than anyone gave it credit for. But there was a kernel of uncomfortable truth in her words. They’d been touched by events that set them apart, sent them down different paths to even other people in the same professions. Somehow, he got the feeling those events would never relinquish them. “Ah, of course. I forgot that the world would stop spinning rather than inconvenience you.” He gave her a wry smile, though the implication was clear: my death would only be an inconvenience to you.

“Ah, but it’s hardly that simple. Even if you figure out the code word, you still have to deal with all the people they hurt while they were brainwashed.” A simple scenario, but even then there was rarely a happy ending. Her question hit home in a way Nikolai wasn’t expecting, a soft breath released before he answered: “I want to be successful.” Because honestly, he didn’t even know if he could be happy anymore.

“people don’t just take apologies for that stuff?” she tried to imagine the scenario in which it was taken seriously. brainwashing seemed obvious, akin to kidnapping. she would never blame victim for kidnapper’s crime. but perhaps she was part of the small group that didn’t think too heavily about that sort of moral quandary. not when given other things to talk about.

“aim high.” she knew he was being serious, and for that, she stifled the laugh that was threatening to spill out. it was not a joke, to want success, and yet it was so simple. it seemed possible. “some people would say you’ve already made it.” some people might even say she had too, but she didn’t feel very successful, and so it stood neither would he. “but don’t worry. now that i know your deepest desire, i can help you achieve it.” mischief twinkled in her eyes, there was no such thing as a challenge—they simply had to find the route to what he deserved. she doubted the universe played favorites for no reason, saving him was pointless if it wasn’t for some fun great reason. she wanted to stick around and figure it out. “should i practice my parkour?” 

[birdiedrke]

ZOE!

Was it safe to begin to picture a stranger as your roommate? Probably not, but money was tight. Ampersand wasn’t the New York Times, and the pay showed. The best Zoe could hope for was that Birdie would be nice to her cat and wouldn’t bring over too many strange people that would steal. The standards were attainable in their lowness. “Pablo,” she answered with a smile. “Like… Pablo Picatso?” Immediately, she took a sip of her Sangria the moment after hearing her words said out in the open. “My mom really named him. I got him as soon as I got the job for Ampersand and it’s… artsy, so.” Her shoulders shrugged slowly, holding them in their raised state for a moment before clutching to her nearly-emptied drink. “But yeah! I mean, I could be down for being roommates if you’re serious. These prices are killing me. I thought New Jersey was high.”

“i give it a 6/10, as far as puns go.” she laughed. it would fit though, walking around her studio with pablo picasso. why not! if zoe was actually serious, which it seemed she was, then who was she to stop the train of fate. there was no reason to stare it down and see if it would hit her. roommates. she’d never lived with anyone but her siblings. “i like pablo though, makes him sound very hip.” and with that there was a mother, and a name of a company, and plenty of little details filtering in without even having to be provoked. “i’ll send you some places. i guess i was getting tired of my place, so why not.” splitting the rent was not her first priority, but she wasn’t against it either. zoe could always pick up a water bill or something that she’d otherwise let fall through the cracks. “i’m thinking like, three rooms and rooftop access. do you have any requests?”

[birdiedrke]

ZOE.

There was no reason to suspect much. They were having a friendly chat, two girls in an art gallery, one of which saying things about copying another’s art while the other sipped on her sangria, trying to figure what the point was in copying if it wasn’t possible to sell. “All about that aesthetic life, huh?” she attempted to tease with a small smile, lips a little redder from her drink before she held onto it with both hands. “I guess it’s good for studying,” she went on, filling the blanks for her before tipping her head back at the next topic. I guess neither of them were making that much, at least not enough to have a whole lot after living expenses. “…How do you feel about cats? Well, really just one… I’m not the spinster cat lady.” Not yet, anyways.

“we were a dog family.” she thought for a moment, the question pointed towards some serious consideration of the joking offer. it could be fun. she did get lonely sometimes in her little apartment, but she did always think that was in spite of her work not because of it. a live in companion would solve most of those problems. “but they’re low maintenance! could be fun.” besides, she was always going to have a room to herself. she’d need a studio, for her studying. that was a great word for it, one she might even fine herself using. “as long as the name is cute.”

[birdiedrke]

NIKOLAI!

“Alright, alright, I won’t.” Nikolai knew Mitya could be trusted, he’d proven that in Russia, but everyone could be blinded by love. By fate. The three of them were bound, forger, broker, dealer, on the fringes of the law; only Nikolai was the one who refused to cross over.

“I could. Car crash, brain haemorrhage, previously unknown and undetectable heart condition…” All of those scenarios had one thing in common: they were random. no Ljublic, no traps laid, no painting that still flashed behind his closed eyes. They were quick, too, not the slow torture of a month trapped, half-starving in someone else’s sarcophagus. “It would be a better ending.” Than the one Ljublic had planned for him, at least. Birdie could think what she wanted; if you believed in destiny, her future was probably bright and exciting. “I guess he has to have a brainwashed assassin best friend, then? It’s only true to form.”

“you won’t.” she shrugged, as if there were no other answer to the events that he brought forward. they just didn’t fit, not in the grand scheme of what they had yet to accomplish. she couldn’t be pressed for specifics, it was just a general feeling. “it’s not fair to me.” she knew the sentence was selfish, that the world did not spin for her. but it was fun to joke that it did, that there was any outcome in which they got their way was pure luck. but every so often they did get their way.

“the good part about brainwashing is you just have to figure out the code word.” the scenario he pushed towards was lively if a little cliche. she was pretty sure she remembered the movie well enough, except for that one part. “then that’s a happy ending.” which was less lively than all the scenarios that he had put forward, but maybe there was something to that—even if she didn’t personally understand it. “don’t you want to be happy.”

[birdiedrke]

BASICS—

full name: harper louise drake, birdie

birthday: december 3rd

age: 23

zodiac sign: sagittarius

religion: no thank you

religious level (1-10): 0; she’s focused on other things

birthplace: las vegas, nevada

current residence: manhattan, new york

height: 5′5″

hair color: dark blonde

eye color: blue

sexuality: pansexual

romantic preference: panromantic

relationship status: she’s pretty sure she’s single

languages known: english, some french & italian, basic russian, various coding languages aha

DETAILS—

car: not in the city! in vegas she drove a volkswagen beetle

phone: motorola RAZR & GSMK cryptophone 600g

music genres: hyperpop, synthpop, dreampop, bedroom pop, anything pop!

wardrobe: fast fashion baby! dark colors, favors jeans, often has a paint stain on her shirt, shearling jacket for winter

estimated net worth: currently unknown

ransom value: depends if she can reproduce the painting you want :/

CONNECTIONS—

gideon drake; father

cynthia drake; mother

tobias drake; first born

samuel drake; second born

roman drake; third born

mauve drake; fourth born

elijah drake; fifth born

matilda drake formerly rossi; sister-in-law

june drake; her junebug, niece

fabian bishop, the boss man

mitya morozov, she dk him

nikolai ciora, work acquaintance

zoe marshall, roommate???

LEVELS (1-10)—

drinking: 3; if you’re paying

swearing: 5; when things aren’t going her way

smoking status: 3; only if she happens to be standing in the alley with you

drugs: 1; she doesn’t seek them out

cooking proficiency: 6; there are a few recipes she has in her back pocket

intelligence: 9; misuses it

emotional/social intelligence: 9; misuses it!

creativity: 9; triple misuses it!!

temper: 2; she’s too go with the flow to get mad at you

[birdiedrke]

FABIAN!

Fabian had the type of anger that resided in a vexed rodent: utterly ineffective with a nose twitching and eyes simply staring in irritation, unable to meet ferality. “What I do in my time of leisure is nothing to concern you,” he told her, as if the mostly blank canvas was not still hanging against the easel behind him, betraying him in every way but screaming at her. She had terrible timing! At any other given moment that he needed her, she was nowhere to be seen, and at the most inopportune times, she was lurking within an inch of his life, ready to drag him to meet his maker.

His face grew pigment, easy to spot with clean-shaven cheeks and raven-black hair to frame them. They were surely not meant to be complimentary, treacherously mocking in probability, but it hit him all the same. “No, I am most certainly not a Muse, Ms. Drake, as you should already be well-informed of,” he mumbled as he turned away, aware of the heat that skidded along his face, only fueling his own discomfort with the situation. “/Jackson/ Pollock?” he repeated, mouth acting as though it had swallowed a lemon, flattery quickly replaced by offense. “Of course not! How on Earth would you ever get the impression that I would ever be inspired by that blunderbuss? Do you not see the influence of the old master’s at work?” He looked back at the touched canvas, the splotch of putrid persimmon. With gloved hands, he took it off of the easel, hiding it from view as he lowered it. “It was only a means to practice, if you must know, and your input has been keenly noted.”

“don’t be upset!” she chided, the veneer of civility still in tact. she was only curious, she was only ever curious. of course he would get all riled up over a smeared canvas being compared to one of the only artists that was still recognized by name nowadays. it was easy to see though, how he went from flushed to the same old fab she’d come to know. “practice makes perfect i hear.” and while the words are common, her smile betrays something of a more patronizing turn. how could it not. she’d never known her boss to be anything expect a master of paper work. artist did not often have the same feeling.

“old master!” she grabbed the canvas that he was trying to put away, putting it back on the easel so that she could take a look. “if you’re going for vasari, your orange is too bright.” she had no reason to believe that he would take her advice, or do anything other than try to shutter her out of the room. she was so often a child underfoot when it came to his work. but lucky for him, she didn’t stay at the job to be well liked. she did it for these odd little moments. where people revealed themselves without meaning to. “do you have a pencil? i’ll sketch you an outline to follow.” who was she if she wasn’t overbearing, pressing into his space and ruining whatever he had planned. it didn’t have to just be about the daily paperwork! “come on, it’ll be fun.”

[birdiedrke]

FABIAN!

Fabian C. Bishop. Registrar. His office was a gleaming example of fastidiousness and antiquity. Meticulous records kept on every piece within the museum, filed away and categorized alphabetically by year and artist. Giorgio Vasari’s folder had been opened earlier in the day, browsed through upon seeing the tiniest sign of crackling to one of the paintings that were hung up. The blunderbusses within the maintenance department had to fiddle with the humidity to cause such a disaster, but it would be rectified. He shuddered at the thought of what would have happened had he somehow needed to take time away from his job, worsening its condition.

Carefully, the paints were squeezed out on the palette with Vasari’s works still fresh in his minds, inspiration taking hold as the hours for the museum were done and all the work was completed as scheduled. The brush dipped into the mellow tone of orange that had been mixed before drawing closer towards the untouched canvas, only to have a mangled brush stroke thanks to the intruder at fault.

“Blasted!” he cursed, mild fashion always at the root but the sentiment as high as ever as his eyes snapped to her in a mixture of fluster and indignation. The palette was put aside, a sad attempt to try to cover its existence, but trapped by his own need not for it to spill and ruin his office. She was utterly incorrigible. “Ms. Drake,” he went on, strained, “I am not accustomed to being accosted in this manner, particularly when my pastimes do not concern you. We are unable to approve of overtime as of late, as well.” He started to undo the gloves on his hands, adding under his breath, “Although, I fail to see how you would qualify for such.”

“oh no—off the clock i promise!” she held up her hands as though she was being interrogated, which to some extent she was. but she learned to endure the questions, find the room around them to joking. to a lighter situation, after all he was treating her as though she’d stumbled into something far more embarrassing than it was. painting as a hobby was nothing out of the ordinary for the community they found themselves in. “it’s a professional curiosity, nothing more.” she stepped in, shutting the door behind her. if he’d asked her to leave in so many words, she still would have found a reason to stay. “what are you doing?”

canvas, gloves, a strangely mixed shade of orange. “are you a muse mr. bishop?” she loved the rumors of what lurked, knew even if the idea was close to true, it certainly wasn’t the kind of thing that her boss believed in. there were no rules for immortals, no paperwork for them to file, it must have been so frustrating. “hiding your talents from the world?” she got closer, saw that the canvas had a single orange splotch. “no reference, that’s bold.” maybe it was the only way she knew, to trace original works and mimic their brush strokes. no piece of hers came from the kind of pure original inspiration there was supposed to be. maybe michaelangelo had done the sistine chapel without a second thought. she doubted it. “you going for pollock?”

[birdiedrke]

NIKOLAI!

“I suppose.” Nikolai’s lips quirked upwards at the sight of her face, knowing what she didn’t know – yet. And already anticipating her reaction. “I’m not saying I believe everything he says.” He thinks your his soulmate, he almost added, catching himself at the last minute. That trainwreck would be a most entertaining one to watch unfold.

Nikolai sighed; the night was beginning to wear on him, not nearly enough champagne downed to make standing for so long bearable. There was a bench nearby, of course, but that would mean admitting defeat, so he just straightened a little and tried to subtly stretch his aching back. “I could die tomorrow, you know. You could, too. What would you want to be remembered for?” A legacy you’d built for yourself, or the thing that tore it down? Yet he wasn’t allowed to be melancholy and melodramatic for long, grinning at Birdie’s story. “No, the government will drag him out one day, bring him back as a Nazi-punching super-soldier. Or maybe he’s the brainwashed assassin?”

“you shouldn’t.” then, believing everything from a single source was a method of destruction. the truth, whatever it happened to be, was always from multiple sources. she knew without harsh thought, that there was some truth to her, to mitya, to nikolai; and in the middle was the truth. whatever it was this time around.

“you’re not going to die tomorrow.” neither was she. to call it fate would be too poetic, but she hardly believed in random chances, that people died in freak accidents, that there was no motive for things. nikolai wouldn’t die tomorrow, because there was something too grand about having escaped a serial killer, life was bigger for those sorts of people. who escape the obvious. she knew, she was one of them. “because that wouldn’t be a very good ending.” for either of them, though her own demise was much quicker to gloss over. “he’s got to be the good guy. it’s in the last name, all american. nazi puncher all the way.”

[birdiedrke]

ZOE!

There was a veil of confusion that captured Zoe’s face, repeating the words in her head without being able to really put it to use. “Oh,” was about what she could immediately provide back, eyes still concentrating on that thought. “I mean, how does that work? No original work? Isn’t that like… copyright infringement or something? Not that I’m a snitch, but… You know, I prob am not on the same page!” She took a sip of her sangria, nodding along in agreement with the rest of what she was saying; that /was/ something that should could get. “Right! I totally feel it. At the end of the day, we gotta pay rent, right? Trust me… I get it.” She sighed out, looking down at her drink for a moment before brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Well, if you need a roommate to help out sometime, I’m all ears!”

birdie did not steer against fate. she tried to go where it led, with only the dim sense that there would be people to buoy her on her way. when she made small talk, so rarely did it venture into anything serious, but she hung onto the thought. a reporter for a roommate. it would be a challenge, but it could be sort of fun. if zoe were to bring it up again, she thinks she might accept simply for the joke alone. “only if you sell it! no harm in art for art’s sake.” which of course, left out the statement that she was selling it. but no need to blatantly admit to crimes in public settings. it would be up to the reporter, she supposed. “with new york rent who knows!” she laughed, pushed the ball back into her court, and decided to see what happened. “people do way worse, so i hear.”

[birdiedrke]

@sir-fabian-bishop​

she took the office job because it was always the best way to claim some sort of legitimate income. just on the radar enough, though if hard pressed she wasn’t even sure what contracting they did. she sent generic emails and took two hour lunch breaks, and she didn’t look for another job despite the uptight nature of her boss because she was simply too amused. she always knew where he was lurking in the building because despite his want for everything so meticulous, he was still just a fly caught in the web she spun. a completely harmless web, in which he was safe at all time, merely to be looked upon.

she opened door number one, actually surprised to see a paint tray out. though it was past five, maybe this was his hobby. “you always say no locked doors!” she greeted, as though it applied to every single door in the world, and not simply the door to her office. “what are you doing in here! don’t you know it’s quittin’ time?” she didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but who was she to turn down the sight of what looked to be her boss attempting to paint. “this doesn’t seem like paper work.”

[birdiedrke]

MAGNUS!

“People are interesting sometimes. I don’t know what you expect me to say here. I’m not some several thousand year old enigma shrouded in mystery that needs to be uncovered. I’m just an old man with some paintings.” That was mostly true anyways. “I don’t see how knowing who I bedded with nearly two thousand years ago could be in any way beneficial to you but sure,” he paused. He sipped from his cup and looked around before continuing. “Tinder? I’m not into fire. Was almost burned at the stake in the dark ages. An old man from a town lived a little longer than expected and called me out for not aging over the course of 50 years. It took a lot of will to escape the guards.”

“i wish you had some mystery. you’re a several thousand year old with the password of password.” she ribbed him with little thought, even when magnus got offended she figured it could be no worse than hearing him complain about his current artist. she was better, she was at least fun. “i just want to know! isn’t that the point of living—to love, to see things, to experience the world.” all of them were shots in the dark, none particularly convincing to her. but people had plenty of random reasons for feeling the way they did, she could list the top three and see where magnus fell. “i’ve never left the country, i’m trying to live vicariously” so what if the information gleaned went towards research that kept her preoccupied when there was nothing to paint. “and you’re kind of bumming me out. even your weird stories are about death. unless you escaped the guards with some very cool trickery. ”

[birdiedrke]

NIKOLAI!

“Is it not?” Of course, ‘insignificant’ events often led to uprooting and moving to a different state. She could brush it away all she liked, Nikolai knew how life-changing events could eat away at your awareness, a constant, pulsing reminder. “Cassius Jones does have a ring to it,” he conceded, “But more of a Second World War veteran ring.” Nicknames didn’t matter; a reputation was more than enough. “If only the history books would remember me.” Perhaps they would – but it would always be for the wrong thing, for ljublic, for the month of torture that set his life on a new trajectory. 

“new york suits me better.” she pursed her lips for a moment, the kind of tell that was supposed to be left behind in vegas. the pinprick annoyance that mitya always caused when he was brought up. she had yet to label why a single person could cause such a situation to feel more important than it was, to lend gravity to their words on presence alone. it didn’t matter. mitya wasn’t in new york—yet. “don’t let him sell you lies!“ though that always seemed to be her trade, or rather omissions of truth in some greater harper drake service.

“ and don’t talk like you’re already dead.” she wasn’t one for history books, they had the disappointing habit of only remembering a handful of the same guys over and over again it was nice for work, only a few people to mimic in a pinch—but she had to think there were more interesting stories out there. the difference of who made it into textbooks was arbitrary, some rule of fate that she had no hand in. “unlike poor cassius, went down in a fighter plane over the ocean, never to been known again. “