@pantheonsays with Harry Cho ( @dadivosos ), August Bell ( @noxmourners ), Emiliano del Castillo ( @emildelcastillo ), Harvey Knight ( @dxncingonmyown ), Romy McCready ( @romymccready ), Wesley Hope ( @wesleyhope )
From the very beginning of the night The Pantheon showing their hand seemed like something that was to be expected. And she had been, waiting for them, convinced things had been set up carefully enough that they'd be stopped before any damage was done. As the night wore on she'd almost begun to relax, finally finding some company that wasn't all about pleasantries and donations. Perhaps her first mistake - letting her ease at such events take over. Tempting fate in a way that it couldn't resist. Either way, when the text came through thereâd been little surprise, brow only arching slightly that the sender wasnât quite who sheâd expected.
The first notion that filled her was irritation, less at the puppeteer but at herself. What was the point of all her polished precision if in the end it made no difference? But there would be time for feelings later ( a consistent lie she told herself, never carving out space for herself to feel much of anything ) the only thing she could do was act.
She did what she did best, the signal traced only to find it had originated from the island. From there steps seemed obvious, enlisting the help of others she thought would be just as invested in locating a member of Pantheon. The Mob's efficiency alongside Augustine ensuring the man she'd identified from the footage and the trace was apprehended with little to no commotion. Perhaps the only advantage of the confusion that no one noticed a man being escorted out of the glasshouse.
But the control she'd tried to establish didn't last long, an announcement from the stage causing panic. Harry was the first she found next, instructions to find her someone who could deal with the supposed explosive if it proved to be true and not just a hoax. Others scattered to try to look for it while New York's Finest attempted to keep the peace. Part of her thought they'd get a sick thrill just from the fear they'd created, the threats no more real than the files they'd fabricated. But risks weren't something she took and she thought there was no better source than the man that had been discretely taken into her custody. "Time to talk."
And he did, eventually, the bomb not only confirmed but the location given. Information relayed to both Capos and Commissioner, police tasked with an orderly evacuation the bomb expert got to work. Time seemed to drag but no explosion came, only the eventual confirmation that the bomb had been rendered useless. What remained of it spirited away to be examined privately at a later date. Other's might have breathed a sigh of relief but it was all far from over. The damage could wait, ignoring the crunch of glass under her heels from smashed windows as she finalised them getting off the island. Comms were re-established, boats summoned once again but they all stayed at the mercy of the weather. Nothing to do but wait out the storm.
it's only a matter of time before the Pantheon lands on her doorstep. But of all the ways they can twist the knife, they pick the one that can best paralyze her. The very one that can turn everything upside down. She hides her phone almost immediately after reading the text. Was there a real threat, or was this just another wild goose chase to hide the truth?
All Amelia knows for certain - this is, at the very least, a credible source.
"Attention! Everyone--" It's madness in the room, as chaos and panic sets in. But it's not her first time trying to cajole a distracted audience, and Amelia reaches for a champagne flute, purposefully smashing it on the edge of the podium. The commotion loud enough to pull eyes her way.
"I am Amelia Dreyer, from Channel 212." She says, her voice projecting to hit the back of the glasshouse. Into her 'broadcaster' voice now as she continues; "My sources have alerted me just now. There are reports that an explosive is in the glasshouse." Amidst the murmurs and movement, she yells even louder. "There is exactly one hour left for us to find it. We must work quickly to get to safety!" Or at the very least, find a palce with minimal impact.
Glamour and dazzling lights, masks and music and plenty of drinks to keep the mood good and conversations flowing. Stella had made her rounds, chatted to far more people than she usually got a chance to. Perhaps the masks made the chatter easier, the idleness of it all. It all seemed to easy and yet she'd allowed herself to be lulled into that false sense of security that seemed to accompany so many of her days now. Not the security, no. Simply the falseness of it.
If anything could have served as proof to show how fast an evening of fun could turn into disaster, the past few months had been brimming with it. For once she'd thought the evening to be just that; a calm day, a masquerade that allowed people to shed the masks of daily life to exchange them for an altogether more luxurious version. It had seemed so simple and that had been her mistake.
Her phone chirped. One moment in a conversation, the next she'd excused herself. It was easy to pretend like this, yet her facial expressions shifted. Had it not been for the masks the brunette's disdain would have been on full display.
Loyalty is such a performance, isn't it, Stella. [...]
How quickly a mood could sour, how fast a pulse could quicken. On the outside she was all smiles, kept her composure as she moved away with a nod and a promise to return with drinks. There would be no drinks, not this time. A quiet corner was needed, preferably one not looking too suspicious. Such a corner wasn't found as she moved through the crowd, eyes glued to her screen.
"Excuse me." Twice she bumped into someone along the way. The message on her lit up display was clear and it wasn't one she liked at all. There was more at stake than a simple, little secret. Stella could have dealt with a ruined reputation or a campaign against her, but this? It held weight, complications; a plethora of things she'd rather keep out.
[...] lock the side door of the conservatory. Keep it locked.
She was hit with a reality she didn't appreciate. A frustrated sigh slipped past her lips before the brunette took a hold of her features, the smile bright as she moved through the crowd. Fingers were rushing across the keyboard, a few texts sent. Aslan, a note for him to get out with wording that left no doubt about what was happening and yet held no more than two words.
Her eyes moved, scanning the crowd. August was nowhere to be seen. Another text sent in rushed typing, just asking if the other was okay and to stay away from the conservatory. Perhaps that's all it would take to make sure all was well. Then one last, Harvey. A polite note to get out, to meet her down by the dock simply because it didn't seem as though a simple note would do the trick. Did he know about the shadow looming?
Stella felt foolish at the thought, having dared to believe for just a fraction that the night would be simple. Glamorous and over the top but simple. Foolish indeed.
Feet carried her toward the doors, eyes moving behind the mask. Whether it was luck or the skills acquired during her other job, she made it to the door without obstruction. If things hadn't been so damming she'd have given little of a fuck about the result. Alas, in this case her hands were tied. The truth would have been far more chaotic, would have meant a potential end to what she considered freedom.
With a click the door locked, clicking shut entirely. She tossed the key, metaphorically. Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Done. And Stella hated every second of it, having to give in to these masked faces in an ocean of anonymity.
you have five minutes
to lock the main door of the conservatory
keep it locked.
all elijah could do was sigh , he did always hear about rich people having their fun but he didn't think it'd go to these lengths. who had enough time to gather everyone , get their numbers , remember all the secrets and eventually use them against them ? eyes read over the text once more , five minutes being barely any time to gather himself or his thoughts on how he was going to complete the task. he put his phone away into his pocket , eyes scanning for the few members he saw -- sonny seemed to be angry and jake -- well he was too preoccupied with the shrimp to care about anything.
head turned back towards the main door , too many people for him to think of something that would make sense , so he made his way through the crowd back out to the main hallway. eyes flickered back to the door , left eye twitching as his brain drew up a blank. memories of his past seemed to flash right before his eyes , the singular moment that made his life easier and better by a long run but could also singlehandedly ruin him.
no further instruction was given just --- lock the door , he obviously didn't have the key and had no idea who would have the key. was there even a key ? he was getting carried away with a seemingly simple task that seemed almost impossible to him. telling pantheon to fuck off didn't seem like a good plan , not if he wanted to keep his position and keep his members happy.
eyes surveyed the surroundings as waiters continued to come in and out of the various doors of the area. double doors were closed as he approached them , mind racing on the various ways to keep the doors locked. eyes then locked into something shiny , a large pole used to hang the various velvet drapes and foliage that decorated the space. pole was slid through the handles keeping the door locked in place.
quickly he made his way back into the event to avoid suspicion though one door would hardly stop anyone given they were surrounded by glass. he slowly made his way back towards the main entry way bumping purposely into a waiter who just so happened to be walking in front , various champagne glasses and champagne spilled to the floor --- an extra step for people attempting to leave through that door.
Who: @charliewindsor
Where:Â what did nolan say? phantom of the opera? bet
Cause a scene. Make it convincing.
Almost instinctively, her eyes snapped up to the bustling room of attendees. As if she could x-ray vision her way past the extravagant masks to pinpoint who sent the text message now burning into the palm of her hand. Half the crowd were on their phones or checking them in some fashion, which made singling anyone out impossible... and surely this Pantheon intended on that shroud. Maybe the directive was even scheduled ahead of time; maybe they weren't actually here and no amount of scanning would reveal the entity behind the proverbial curtain.
Five minutes became the equivalent of ten seconds and Esra treated it as such, making the snap decision that she had no time to wander the crowd seeking helpâ Aslan, Troy, hell she'd take Nolan at this point. Instead she focused on what sort of diversion could be made this publicly without further risking her reputation and what sort of person she could rope into making it happen.
And then she spotted him. Like a goddamn sign from above. Oh, Charlie.
The idea snapped into place almost instantly. Without further consideration, she began sliding through the crowd in haste towards the edge of the dance floor where a microphone sat nestled in some overpaid announcer's hand.
SUMMARY: Hazal plays Pantheon Says and potentially breaks up a marriage ig
MENTIONS: @softstcps (RĂźya) + @giannarossi (only a short text).
TEXT:
You know how this goesâŚ
You have 5 minutes to cause a scene loud enough to pull the room. We donât care how. Make it convincing.
Give us the distraction and we wonât tell your team what you are capable ofâŚ
Hazal read the text once before she took it upon herself to send a short message to her cousin, as well as Gianna Rossi, one that simply read: I'd think about leaving now, if I were you, before slipping her phone back into her purse. As the message she had personally received had stated, she knew how this went. The last time? ADA Grayson was found dead. Her eyes soon lifted into the crowd of people, she didnât panic, panic was a luxury she had never been able to afford and had long since stopped reaching for. Instead something quieter happened - an internal shift, like a dial turning, and the room she had been moving through socially for the better part of the last hour had became a room she was reading professionally. The candlelight, the masks, the champagne, the music. All of it rearranged itself into data.
She needed someone volatile enough to react. Publicly. A man, was a thought she settled on - men at events like this carried their pride closer to the surface, where it was easier to reach. She needed someone with enough at stake to shatter convincingly and someone standing close enough to a fault line that a single word would do the work. She needed someone who had already done half the work for her and she found him in under sixty seconds. Standing at the bar, well dressed, masked, a glass in hand that wasn't his first of the evening - she could tell by the particular looseness in his shoulders, the way he laughed a half second too late at something the man beside him said. His wife was across the room. Hazal had already noted them together earlier, the careful distance they maintained that wasn't quite natural. The wife had been in conversation with another man for the better part of twenty minutes. Standing close. The kind of close that meant something, or could be made to.
Hazal moved, not toward her target directly - never directly, but in the slow, social drift of a woman crossing a room at a party. She came alongside him at the bar in the natural way of two guests reaching the same point at the same moment. The bartender was occupied at the far end. She reached across the bar with the ease of someone entirely comfortable in rooms like this and retrieved the open bottle of whisky sitting within reach, turning to him with the quiet offer of a refill. He accepted without hesitation. Of course he did. She poured, and in the same breath, without looking at him directly, she spoke - low enough that it belonged only to him, "The man your wife has been talking to all evening - she's been to his apartment. Twice this week. I thought you should know."
She set the bottle down close to the other and stepped back from the bar. For a moment nothing happened. She counted the seconds the way she always did - not with anxiety, but with the clean detachment of someone waiting for a mechanism to engage. His glass came down first - not dropped, but set, with the controlled force of a man attempting restraint and only half achieving it. Then he straightened before he turned, his eyes found his wife across the room with the terrible precision of someone who had perhaps already suspected the information Hazal had given and had simply needed outside confirmation. He took three steps and then the restraint left him entirely. The bottle went with it - knocked from the bar's edge in the turn of his body, hitting the floor in an explosion of glass and amber that cut clean through the music. Heads snapped toward the sound. The dancefloor momentarily stilled as his voice rose across the room directed entirely at the man his wife was in talks with, seemingly past the point of any return.
The scene had arrived and Hazal was already at the far side of the room. She didn't hurry, nor did she look back, her focus remained on her exit, moving in the current of obliviousness and toward the glass door. Once the door opened and then closed, the noise soon fell away behind her as she stood on the path outside and breathed. Not relief. She didn't allow herself relief. Just air and the small deliberate act of placing one foot in front of the other as she walked away from the glasshouse. The pantheon had given her five minutes, and Hazal had done it in four.
After Stella excused herself, August made a stop at one of the bars set up throughout the venue for a quick glass of gin before she headed outside to join a gaggle of security personnel where they stood in a loose circle, smoking and talking. Despite their vastly different upbringings, a lot of these sorts of men had a military background, and given she spent most of her life enlisted, that sort of camaraderie felt more like home than anything else ever would. With her date absent, she allowed herself the comfort of familiarity among them without the pressure of leadership or a mask to wearâliterally and figuratively. That wouldnât last, however. The insistent buzz of her phone in her pocket drew her attention and she waved vaguely as a sort of goodbye and excused herself, withdrawing it from her pocket.
You did such a clean job, Augustine. Four years and not a single loose thread.
Send every boat at the dock back to the city. All of them. Now.
Do it quietly and this stays between us. Make a scene or weâll remind you that we know exactly who cares about your mistake.
-p
Hot indignation spread from her chest and into her head in a flash, and all at once she was sixteen and in a screaming match with her mother about how her behavior affected her fatherâs re-election bid. Seventeen and holding a knitted yellow Woodstock hat soaked with blood while the adults in charge schooled her on the correct story for the news and parents. Thirty two and thanked for her service from a wheelchair at her friendâs funeral. Thirty five and sent back there again for a different man with the same agenda despite promises otherwise. Thirty eight and angry as she stared down another mafia talking head through her scope, determined to break the cycle of power abused in a way that made others playthings. Now she stared at a text telling her to do as she was told or suffer the consequences, and she would suffer. All that strife, all that fighting for some sort of ideological high ground just to be exactly where she started.
Her first order of business was Christos. After the Pantheonâs text, his was the first in her messages and currently displayed a back and forth of blurry images detailing their vastly different evenings, Augustâs all masks and glittering lights while his showed a comfortable night in with his girlfriend. One quick textâShitâs about to go sidewaysâand she dropped the phone back into her pocket. Her plan unfolded only a few steps before each action required for it. A nondescript black jacket lifted from an unmanned coat-check, an ear piece caught by nimble fingers after an incident involving a spilled drink and a too-young inexperienced member of security, and her hair secured into a bun. Sure, the lipstick might have put her at a disadvantage, but everything else combined with the posture and movements of a Marine as she approached the docks meant that detail was enough to ignore. Squared shoulders, an even tone, and the sort of confidence that came from fighting for it tooth and nail meant when she said it was a matter of security for all the boats to return to the city for the time being, no one batted an eye. It all happened with ease, as if every part of her life led to exactly this point, to destroy the evening the Kline family created with perfect, invisible precision.Â
August watched, jaw clenched, as the boats retreated towards the glow of the city, their silent forms slowly becoming little more than dancing fairy lights that glittered across the abyss-dark dark water. Once gone, she pulled her phone out again, this time opening her thread with Imani.
Theyâre here. I had to get rid of the boats, will explain laterâI promise the alternative would have been worse for us. Going to try to find them before they do whatever they came here to do.
With one quick glance at the boatsânow nearly invisible against the cityâshe turned and headed towards the masquerade at a dead sprint, hoping she wasnât too late to stop whatever was coming.
"Or you will finally realize that you're not above the law
-P"
Troy stared at the screen, almost as if he had stopped breathing altogether.
They were subtle, but at the same time impossibly not; giving him enough clues to let him know that they were not bluffing and that they knew exactly what he was hiding.
@pantheonsays
Five years ago, he'd followed the law. He was a law abiding citizen, a District Attorney, he'd had it all. Above the law became his default when he realized he had nothing to lose - when he wondered every day if it was even worth fighting for.
Back then, it was his brother and parents that kept him floating.
Even as only a shadow of the man that he had once been, they were what kept him going.
Working for crime organizations, and for his own gain, was easy. His brother was in one, and upon meeting Aslan - it was two people tying him to a world that he had once fought against. For the city. For his job. The switch had been automatic; in a way, Troy didn't even have to lie to himself.
He would do anything for his family.
That included his secret.
A secret that could not only ruin his career but his life. And his life was now once again tied to someone else. Not just his girlfriend but so many other people.
His decision was made on the spot.
There wasn't an option, and he'd done way worse for less.
No second thoughts or regrets.
He had been checking in with the NYPD informant that he kept around for cases that were lead by clean cops - Detective Ward remained remarkably opposed to selling himself, it seemed. He was aware of the pieces of evidence slowly reaching his desk.
All he needed to wait on was for the case to hit the ADA's desk, and then Troy could make sure it was signed off. This was easy - almost part of his routine, but the annoyance was clear in the way his shoulders set.
-----
It would take a few days before the file was finally in his power.
Less than an hour later, Troy knocked on ADA Romero's door, closing the door behind him; a clear idea of what to say and how to ensure his task was completed.
Optimism had been a stranger too him for most of his life. So much of his experience continually tugging him towards a cynicism that he struggled to shake. Time after time he'd been taught not to expect the best so it had hardly been surprising that his current case had met dead end after dead end despite how many hours he'd poured into it. So expectations had been low when the tape had arrived on his desk, disgruntled more than anything that he'd have to dig out something equally as ancient to play it on. Though it hardly reflected well on his youth that he found pushing the tape into the player so nostalgic.
Eyes watched the images on the screen, recognising Councilman Hope but not the other man. After watching it through once he rewound it, this time looking for any trace that the footage could have been doctored or edited. Damn AI was making things a little too convincing now. Notes were taken so he could remember what it showed before he dropped it off with tech to check its validity. It all felt a little too neat and a little too convenient for him to get excited about but it was more than he'd had in weeks. Phone buzzed in his pocket before he could get to work, pulling it out to see a number he didn't recognise.
There's no room for rookie mistakes now...
Hand rubbed over his face, as though the movement would somehow bring him some kind of comfort. Or make the text go away. One step forward and ten fucking steps back. Somewhere, he was fairly certain the God he barely believed in was laughing at him. No matter what he did it felt like it was never enough, never able to truly get ahead of any of it. He'd borne responsibility and the need to do what was right for years. The weight of it had always been too heavy and yet he shouldered it anyway, chained in place by the sense of duty he'd bound himself with. As if he could somehow rival Atlas.
But there wasn't time for anything close to self pity nor the indulgence that he felt reflection would be. There never was. Too much to be done and too little time to do it. Always striving to feel as though he was making a difference and yet moments like these reducing him to the realisation that his efforts would forever be nothing more than a drop in the ocean. Heel of his palms were driven into his eyes, rubbing them once more, clearing his head before he looked at the text again. Seeking some kind of a solution.
All the clues.
It hardly too his detective skills to work out that there'd be more 'evidence' to come, the use of the plural enough to feel safe in that theory. The choice that was left up to him was whether he'd accept it or not. His integrity or his career. Vow had been made long ago to do what was best for the city, with a stubborn refusal to get sucked into its underbelly whether that be through financial incentive or blackmail. But surely nothing good would come from him confessing to the crime he'd covered for his foster sibling? It had been a petty thing but another strike against their name. Maybe he could weather the storm that its release could bring.
But it was a risk he wasn't sure he wanted to take. A demotion at best or losing his badge at worst. And the added blow to his pride that it might make him look like a hypocrite. It was better for him to stay in his position, wasn't it? To keep doing what he was doing, keep caring when it felt like so few others did. He wondered if all his fellow officers who'd succumbed to the whims of the city's gangs had made similar justifications to themselves. Was he really conceited enough to believe that he mattered that much?
The first step seemed to be to look into the Councilman, to see for himself whether this solution that was being forced his way was even viable. As much as he hated to admit to it his mind was almost made up. The more he thought about it the trade wasn't as simple as his career or his integrity. It was between his mission in life and his ability to look himself in the mirror. And, well, what was another sacrifice for the greater good.
Coat was grabbed, intent on wasting no more time, busy adjusting it so it didn't look so much like he'd slept in it. He'd just grabbed his phone when it buzzed again, swearing under his breath as a frustrated exclamation left him. "What now." But the irritation vanished as soon as he saw the contact name. Sense of relief mingled with hesitation filled him as he saw Kennedy's name, the one person who could help him make sense of it. Message was fired back that he could meet her, sinking suspicion that it was too much of a coincidence.
all you have to do is make it look like our prime suspect took matters into his own hands.
if you donât, say goodbye to your badge.
-p
@pantheonsays
kennedy almost ignored it. after all, her phone buzzed daily with scam alerts about highway tolls sheâd never skipped and remote positions sheâd never applied for. but right now, a fake job offer from a scammer would be a welcome relief compared to the text glowing on her screen. she stared at it for a moment.
who the fuck did they think they were? all that was missing was xoxo gossip girl. the dramatic little signature, the ominous tone. it was almost embarrassing. and yet? her stomach dropped anyway. because someone knew. for a second, the room kept moving without her. the world stayed normal while something inside her shifted. she recognized the feeling immediately. adrenaline. she was a cop, she knew adrenaline. it was the same rhythm she got before going through an uncleared door. before drawing her weapon. before telling a mother her kid wasnât coming home.
hope you remember how to do this.
kennedy had never been one to wallow. you donât get that luxury when youâre fourteen and signing your drunk motherâs name on school permission slips, cooking dinner for your siblings, raising kids before you can legally drink. no, what rose in her chest now was something far more useful, something that had gotten her through situations before: pure, clarifying anger. anger at the situation. at herself. at her fucking idiot brother, jackson, and what she did for him. what she covered up to keep him out of jail.
and the most fucked up part of it?
her brother still fucked off, left her to support their siblings while he disappeared into whatever new mess heâd found. just another person who disappointed her; she was used to it. but now here she was, being threatened with what she did to protect him. she swallowed hard. if she lost her badge, she lost everything. the paycheck that covered josieâs extracurriculars, the books, and uniforms at the private school she worked so hard to get into. the insurance that paid for mckinleyâs occupational therapy and audiologist appointments. reaganâs college support. all gone. and what about all the good she could do? for the city. for girls who grew up like her.
another buzz.
coordinates. she stared at them for half a second. and that was all she allowed herself before grabbing her jacket.
her mind wasnât spiraling. it was building. timeline. forensics. angles. how much sheâd need to adjust. she had done this before. she hated that that was true. kennedy was first on scene. she did what needed to be done, came up with the narrative that would make sense when the report was written and rewritten and read in court someday.
ââŚprime suspect, overwhelmedâŚâ
ââŚguilt catching upâŚâ
ââŚfear of impending arrestâŚâ
ââŚtook matters into his own handsâŚâ
backup arrived. lights flashed. questions were asked, she answered them. she nudged assumptions where they needed nudging. and by the time she was back in her cruiser, it was done. the adrenaline lingered, holding her upright. it wasnât until she parked later, alone, that it began to fade, and her hands began to shake. her old secret was still there, but now she had a new one. worse, maybe. this wasnât just a firing offense. this was the kind that came with potential jail time for conspiracy and cover-up.
this job had been her only option once, a steady income for a teenage mother with too much on her plate. somewhere along the way, the badge had come to mean something. sheâd actually believed the oath, wanted to serve. protect. now look at her, trembling in a squad car, covering up a crime. what a joke. what a goddamn fool sheâd been. through it all, her mind kept circling back to one person:
conall.
the one who inspired her to become a cop in the first place. the one person who had never let her down. not when she was new to new york, seventeen, pregnant, and terrified. not in the academy. not once, not ever. her thumb hovered over the screen of her phone. she didnât know what she was more afraid of. the blackmailer, or the look on conallâs face when he found out what she did. but she texted him anyway. because in this moment, she couldnât think of anyone else she needed more than him.
