Virtuoso

[prisephone-archive]

kittym​:

Kitty soaks in the tale of violence with bright eyes and an expression of delight. Looking back, she knows she overcompensates at this age — acts like she’s born to be dangerous before she even really knows what it’s like to have a knife held to her throat or to pull the trigger of a semi-automatic. She’s still cutting her teeth, learning what it means to turn deadly without sacrificing the softer parts of herself. “I guess that’s pretty fucking cool,” she says with a shrug of typical teenage indifference, the hint of a smile on her lips giving away that she’s telling the truth. And the curve of her mouth only grows when the other woman shares her name, echoing a quiet “Pris,” as if to commit it to memory, pleased with herself when she gets home later and proudly announces that she’s made a friend at community service ( her dad sighs, plants a kiss atop her head, and asks her to go and lay the table for dinner ).

“I can take care of myself.” The answer is said with certainty but Priscilla’s question, admittedly, plants a small seed of doubt in the back of Kitty’s mind. She’s never had to consider what her life would be like if her cousin — if anyone of her cousins, or the rest of her family for that matter — was not around. What would happen? With a small frown, she pushes the unwelcome thought down and laughs idly at the suggestion that the judge took one look at who she was and decided to condemn her to painting walls and picking up litter along the motorway. “Yeah, well— people get jealous of what they can’t have, don’t they? It’s not my fault my mum’s a Femenias.” Entitlement drips from her lips like gold, certainly never someone to be considered grounded or down to earth. 

Amusement colours her features, basking in the praise. Her lips part to respond when she hears their names called sharply by the supervisor who holds a bucket of paint and discarded brush aloft. Kitty scowls but knows that the sooner she gets all of this over and done with, the sooner she can focus on what matters to her: becoming a Power of Famine. “Hey, don’t worry, I’ll cover for you,” she tells the blonde as she begins back in the direction of the half-painted library exterior. “Tell them you’re pregnant and the paint fumes make you feel sick or some shit.” Flashing Priscilla a grin, she turns away and leaves her newfound acquaintance to the company of the river.

Priscilla isn’t one to crave attention, to crave praise or awards, but maybe that’s because the idea makes her uncomfortable at this point. When you’ve gone nearly your entire life on the sidelines, the kid picked last for football, or student that brings the mean down, the idea of eyes on you, of expectations, can begin to feel overwhelming. But in small doses, in the wide, thrilled eyes of a girl not too unlike herself, a young woman with enough fire to spark the blaze, with a shimmer of something more unsure too, it fills her with a burning pride. And the sudden hunger for more of that feeling. A grin touches her lips, still working to bite down sudden swells of emotion. She glances out across the river instead, though the expression lingers there for a moment, and with a shrug Priscilla dismisses the compliment while filing it away. 

“I bet you can.” Comes Pris’ genuine response. At the very least Priscilla can respect Kitty’s loyalty, and her dedication to holding her own. She’s here, by herself, paying up for sins committed with hours better spent elsewhere. It may only result in some paint stains on a three hundred pound pair of jeans or whatever the fuck, but at least she’s on her own, no cousins, or mum to do the work for her. “Doesn’t matter what they have. People are jealous of everything.” She laughs, eyes rolling to Kitty, a flat facetiousness in her voice. “Nothing is anybody’s fault, huh?” 

Their names are called from somewhere behind them, and Priscilla breathes expletives, eyes back on the fast moving water. She’s considering simply walking away, or turning back to the task at hand when Kitty speaks up. An incredulous little smirk punctuates a sharp laugh as blue eyes search the other’s face. Once she’s fairly certain it’s committed to memory, Priscilla nods. “Alright. Thanks, mate. Tell her their twins. Conjoined.” She nods her farewell, before turning back once more. “Oh, and Kitty, aim for the nuts or pussy or whatever when need be. Always works.” And with nothing more to add, Priscilla lets her newest acquaintance walk away. 

END. 

[prisephone-archive]

fletchergry​:

prisephone​:

Priscilla’s not thinking. Thats the point of PEST right? She was reminded on the dance floor, reminded that this place is for feeling, forgetting, and just fucking letting go. Too wrapped up in the reopening, in reinstating it’s former glory that she had misplaced it’s purpose, and Fletcher is the one that reminded her, and perhaps the only one that could. So here she is, back against the cold brick wall, and the warmth of Fletcher’s body drawing closer, hand at her waist pinning her there, the smell of tobacco on his breath as she reaches up to capture it– Then the sudden and abrasive feeling of her phone vibrating against her skin where it’s pinned beneath her dress. Her eyes find her Power’s for a moment, her thoughts circling the last time he stood this close, the memory of his lips against her own, a memory she can’t seem to shake. But her cellphone serves as a wake up call, a reminder that she can’t disappear into the madness like everyone else, that she has a job to do above all else. 

With a hand on his chest, Priscilla gently pushes Fletcher away as she reaches into her dress. Turning away to hide whatever wayward emotions might be playing across her features, the Virtue clears her throat and accepts the call. “Yeah?” The voice on the other end of the line is speaking urgently, almost stumbling over their words in the rush to get them out. “Wait, wait, slow down. A bomb?” Priscilla listens intently as the news is repeated, a weight settling uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. “Did anyone get hurt?” Thank god for that, but with a sickening realization, the woman realizes PEST could have been the target, and a selfish part of her is simply thankful it was the labs instead. “But we fucking paid those assholes! A billion fucking pounds!” She turns to Fletcher now, her face a picture of shock and rage. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Sure.” The line goes dead, and Priscilla slowly lowers the phone, looking at the dark screen for more answers that nobody has. 

“We’ve been bombed,” she finally says, running a hand through unruly hair. “And hacked. The medical manufacturing sector has been leaked to the public by some anonymous anarchist bullshit. So… We’re fucked.” She is silent for a moment, before “GODDAMNIT!” The word ricochets off the alleyway walls, making the silence that follows even quieter. Cold blue eyes are alight as she looks at the Power. “Can’t catch a fucking break.” Taking a deep breath she pauses, eyes flashing to Fletcher’s lips for a split second. “Thanks for the dance,” she says, before turning to pull the door open again, music flooding out. “Come on. We need to find Fazal.”

Taking a careful, tiny step backwards puts all the distance in the world between them; literal breathing room, he thinks, because he does remember to breathe. Fletcher looks away too, afraid of what he’ll see on Priscilla’s face. Afraid of what he’s done to her. Their breath fogs in the cold night air around them, and he thinks about lighting a cigarette again. He knows what will happen – what always happens. They will walk back into PEST, arms bumping companionably; they will go back to being coworkers. By unspoken consensus, they will never speak about this. It will happen again.

Fletcher doesn’t register Priscilla’s words; rather the horrified surprise in her voice when she says bomb. He inches closer, phone already in his hands to make a call – to bring security down on the heads of anyone involved. It’s so rare to see Priscilla lose her cool and that shakes him more than anything, but Fletcher keeps his face still. A bomb. A billion fucking pounds. This is information he doesn’t know what to deal with; words about a data leak, way above his pay grade. “Pris,” he says, his voice sharp, and swears under his breath. What do you need from me? 

And he doesn’t miss the flicker of her gaze on his face. “Pris,” he says again, quieter, just as she turns to head back into the nightclub. “The Labs? I can drive us.” He knows better than to ask for an explanation now, when she’ll just have to repeat herself to Fazal later. They’ll sort it out, they always do; but for now they’re back to Power and Virtue, and he doesn’t get to demand things of her. Fletcher shakes himself out of it and follows.  

END.

[prisephone-archive]

aydinsayili​:

Location: Pest Nightclub Date: March 30 Starter: @prisephone​

It’s gotten late. Late enough that Aydin is already considering skipping out on sleep altogether. It wouldn’t be the first night. I wouldn’t be the last. If today’s events have anything to say about it at least. He’s angry. He’s confused. But most of all? He wants a drink. His ascension to Seraphim was supposed to be grand and glorious. A feat to remember, but now it’s only scarred by the knowledge that Death is real. Very, very, real. He hates them for stealing his thunder. He hates Jack for his betrayal. He hates them the most for killing Ricardo. Good and loyal Ricardo. He’d deserved better. At least he’d died proud. Aydin misses him, a surprise considering they were never close, their ideals two sides of different coins. But he feels his loss keenly regardless.

He tried sleeping, tried tossing and turning until his mind gave out and he could sink into blissful sleep. But nothing. There was too much to think about, too much to consider, too much to worry about. Death had not been subtle. If Jack had been tempted who else? It’s a never ending spiral of dark thoughts. Thoughts he hardly wants to entertain any longer. Which is how he’s found himself within the comforting and familiar walls of the night club. His home away from home. It’s slower tonight, but there’s a sense of security here Aydin can find no where else.

He seats himself at the bar, a few seats away from anyone else. He’s not here for the company of strangers. Just the noise that they make in the background. The bar tender doesn’t even ask, just nods and in moments a cool glass of his favorite whiskey is set in front of him. He drowns it in one go. Another appears, he takes his time with this one. The bartender serves a giggling group of girls, small bags tucked less than inconspicuously into their purses. He smiles. Small favors. His eyes roam the bar and he finds Priscilla with ease. Her blonde hair a beacon in the room. He raises his glass and his brow, a silent offer to join him. He’s not looking for company, but for Priscilla he’d gladly make an exception this evening.

• • • 

Priscilla doesn’t know what to feel, or to be more precise, which of her emotions to latch onto. She feels as though she’s been on a sickening rollercoaster, having first been annoyed when Ricardo hadn’t shown up to PEST, then confused when they’d found his apartment in shambles, nervous when an invitation appeared, and horrified with what she saw at Mortem. She felt seething rage at Jack’s disloyalty, his almost person betrayal, and disgust at Death’s theatrical show of power. But perhaps most of all, she feels fear, feels it crawling beneath her skin, taking her breath away as she realizes it could have just as easily been her on that television screen feeling the press of a needle pumping narcotics into her bloodstream. She loathes the fear the most, hates the way it makes her jumpy, and erratic. It had been cowardly, all three of the gangs gathered against a common enemy and not a single shot, not one attempt at making those godforsaken bodies fall from their perch high above. 

Priscilla had come straight to PEST from the warehouse, not bothering to change, and sat herself at the bar. She isn’t the manager tonight, nor a Virtue, instead she’s a woman forced to face her fear of death, forced to recognize that she’d never see Ricardo, or hear his laugh, or argue with his stubbornness again. One drink follows another which follows another, and only when she’s beginning to go numb does she slow down, sipping the gin now rather than throwing it back. No one speaks to her, the patrons oddly aware of her status among them, and her employees wise enough to know when to steer clear. 

Yet there are a few who would dare to offer Priscilla company in such a state, and when her cool blue eyes meet Aydin’s across the bar, his invitation is met with a little shrug of acceptance. Downing the rest of her drink, she slips from her spot, and makes her way to the newly appointed Seraphim. “Drinking your sorrows away, then?” She greets, a humorless smile on her face. “Finish that and come upstairs. I’ve got something for you.” And without another word, she turns to lead the pair through the club, and up to her office.

Priscilla closes the door on the the thumping music, muffling the sound of the revelry below. Kicking off her heels the woman makes her way behind the desk, before pausing. “Alright close your eyes. And don’t fucking peek,” she commands, opening the drawer to pull out a small box. Setting it on the desk, she collapses into her chair. “You can open them.” She’d meant to give the gift to him a little while ago, but with everything going on, the opportunity hadn’t presented itself. Now seemed as good a time as any. “Congratulation on your promotion, Aydin. I know it got a little fucked, but we can still celebrate.” 

[prisephone-archive]

darkromeo​:

“More-more,” Fazal began clarifying when he took the bottle once again. “We could go beyond Pest Nightclub and extend the night-life territory belonging to us, select the finest clubs in London, speak to the owners and find ways of collaborating if not bargaining and changing their mind with cash.” He drank, eyes focused on what was in front and yet not. It was as though he thought as he spoke, playing chess on the whim and allowing the board to shift rapidly in his mind in search for the perfect sequence of moves. “Think about it, Pris.” With that, the bottle was placed on the glass table in front as if to allow her to take it all in without any distractions other than the deep hum of music behind the walls of the VIP room.

When he faced her, it was with a hungry glint in his eyes. That same spark belonging to someone who got too used to seizing power. “We can dominate the nightclubs and lounges of London and no one will even know they belong to us. Enemies will fuel them with their visits, we’ll drive the places forward and have more grounds to distribute drugs.”

A moment of silence passed as he watched her for a reaction, and his voice turned raspy when he leaned forward with a wicked smile dancing on his lips, “How does that sound to the Queen? Because now you know what’s on my mind.” 

“More more,” she repeats quietly, eyebrows inching up under her bangs as she waits for more of an explanation. Perhaps it is a weakness of hers, a certainly complacency she silently harbors. Everyone around her is constantly hungry for more, gluttonous for power, prestige, money, influence. They gobble and gobble until there is nothing left. Its a hunger she has never known, a urge she is unfamiliar with. She has everything she could want here, a domain to call her own, a legion of faithful followers, and a title by which to make a living. Some would call it fear, laziness, or unambitious, but Priscilla simply finds joy and comfort in her position, in the strange stability she’s found in it. 

Still, she can appreciate a good idea, so the woman turns in her seat, curling her legs up beneath her as Fazal discards the bottle. He turns toward her, and Pris recognizes the look in his dark eyes. It sends a shiver down her spine. At the end of his spiel, a wicked smile dances on her partner’s lips, and Priscilla matches it, tilting her head to the side as she looks at him. “It sounds fucking brilliant, Faz.” She taps his temple with a finger, “You’ve got a good one up here.” And she means it, even if she doesn’t personally feel the need for expansion, this idea is beautiful, industrious opportunity. And Pestilence could sink under the weight (or lack there of) of a billion pounds they no longer have. 

“Only we’d need to increase our supply to meet that demand fucking... ten fold. Not to mention monopolizing the nightlife would mean more enemies, and more weaknesses. PEST is so successful because we own it... And because I run it. Do you really think this will work without a proper Seraphims in place? No offense to our darling Pinkett girls. But our leadership is... lacking.”

[prisephone-archive]

jacktanner​:

@prisephone​ | january 15th | remus warden’s london flat

Though it was a birthday party, Jack Tanner had pointedly not brought a gift for the man of honor, or dishonor from his point of view. Any other year he wouldn’t have bothered showing up, not for all the rare whiskey in the world, of which there seemed plenty on display around the rather sad bachelor pad. This evening was just another opportunity to gather intel for Death, though Laura’s impressive work with the eldest Warden had given them a great deal. As the evening dragged on, Jack watched as the partygoers got drunker and drama unfolded before his eyes, drinking it all up happily as he sipped on his drink. 

Eyebrows shot up as a disheveled Rita Zhang scurried towards the front door soon trailed behind a similarly mussed Remus Warden. Given what had happened between the man and Laura on their date he shouldn’t be surprised to see the couple still tangled up in their messy separation. What he wouldn’t give to have been a fly on that wall, he thought to himself as he pushes through the messes to head towards the office they’ve both just fled from to see what he can find. There’s not much, though a few papers pushed onto the floor indicate they were either on top of the desk or fighting about something. Annoyed again by the man who’s apartment he finds himself in, Jack shoves several more items off the edge of the desk out of frustration and a desire to do some damage.

A figure in the doorway has his hand pausing over the expensive looking paperweight that he’s about to throw until he realizes it’s only Priscilla. “Well, well, well, what brings you to this dump,” he asks sarcastically, hoping for her sake that she’s here as a guest rather than being hired as a bartender. “I hope you aren’t trying to stop me.” Jack tosses the paperweight on the floor where it breaks cleanly in two, which isn’t entirely satisfying so he looks around for something else that would make more of a mess.

• • • 

Priscilla doesn’t want to fucking be here. It’s written on her face, easily read as she leans against a wall, away from the chatter and flattery, sipping expensive liquor, and glancing at her watch. But, in Michaela’s words, it is a show of good faith, of camaraderie, and all that bullshit. At least there were free drinks, and entertainment in the form of the Warden-Zhang saga as she watches the tousled ex-wife to be flee from the scene. She watches her second favorite? Second to least favorite? Warden hurry after her, the picture of a man desperate to win his love back, and a little chuckle passes her lips. But no sooner are they gone, that she spots Jack Tanner heading in the opposite direction, making his way towards the newly abandoned room. Finishing her glass of champagne, Priscilla sets the glass on the nearest surface, before following in the man’s footsteps. 

What she finds is by far the most interesting thing to happen all night, and the Virtue leans against the door jam as she watches Jack swipe a number of items off of the desk. A snort of laughter betrays her presence, and she shrugs at his question. “I reckon the same thing that brought you. Our undying love for the Warden family, of course.” The paperweight drops to the ground with a satisfying little crack, and Pris slowly claps her hands. “Shit, Tanner, how old are you... ten?” But even as she teases, the woman steps inside, closing the door behind her. Her eyes land on a half finished scotch in a crystal glass, and tossing back the rest of the contents, Priscilla examines the beautiful glass work, before tossing it up in the air to shatter against the floor. “Oops.” She looks at Jack, a smirk playing at her lips, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

[prisephone-archive]

fletchergry​:

These are his people. London’s insomniacs flood through their doors seeking release, PEST turned into a temple of Morpheus; Fletcher doesn’t care for Pestilence, but this is something he would die for. In this darkness everyone’s a stranger, familiar faces distorted under the blur of lights and alcohol. But Priscilla is the exception – more familiar than ever with her back against his chest. She will say no, he thinks, and the thought almost makes him smile. That’s how well he knows his Virtue. They’ll part ways (for now, because there will always be another dance, and another, and another). Priscilla knows to back them away from the edge.

But then she leads him through the crowd, his hand in hers. Fletcher’s brain doesn’t catch up until they’re almost to the doors, and he glances backward at the dancefloor they left behind. There was safety in numbers, and in the heavy bass beat of the music now muffled behind stone walls. The cold silence of the alleyway feels dangerous. Priscilla relinquishes his hand to rest against the brick wall; Fletcher wants to ask so, what now? but thinks better of it. He lights a cigarette instead, to kill the question in his throat, to give his hands something to do for a moment. 

Priscilla swears, and his eyes flick up towards her almost nervously, his mouth set in a grim line – while she grins, a reversal of their usual roles. I hate you. Fletcher shrugs and taps the ash off his cigarette. “Wouldn’t blame you if you did.” And, because orders are orders, he stubs it out half-finished against the ground and approaches. Close enough to feel the her breath against his lips, the warmth of her bare skin. Fletcher remembers the first time this happened – a little too well, to the extent that he might have misremembered it entirely. They pretend it never happened, so it might all have been a dream.

His hand comes to her waist just as her phone vibrates beneath the thin fabric of her dress, and he takes a careful step back. “Incoming.” Orders are orders; he wouldn’t move without her say-so.

Priscilla’s not thinking. Thats the point of PEST right? She was reminded on the dance floor, reminded that this place is for feeling, forgetting, and just fucking letting go. Too wrapped up in the reopening, in reinstating it’s former glory that she had misplaced it’s purpose, and Fletcher is the one that reminded her, and perhaps the only one that could. So here she is, back against the cold brick wall, and the warmth of Fletcher’s body drawing closer, hand at her waist pinning her there, the smell of tobacco on his breath as she reaches up to capture it-- Then the sudden and abrasive feeling of her phone vibrating against her skin where it’s pinned beneath her dress. Her eyes find her Power’s for a moment, her thoughts circling the last time he stood this close, the memory of his lips against her own, a memory she can’t seem to shake. But her cellphone serves as a wake up call, a reminder that she can’t disappear into the madness like everyone else, that she has a job to do above all else. 

With a hand on his chest, Priscilla gently pushes Fletcher away as she reaches into her dress. Turning away to hide whatever wayward emotions might be playing across her features, the Virtue clears her throat and accepts the call. “Yeah?” The voice on the other end of the line is speaking urgently, almost stumbling over their words in the rush to get them out. “Wait, wait, slow down. A bomb?” Priscilla listens intently as the news is repeated, a weight settling uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. “Did anyone get hurt?” Thank god for that, but with a sickening realization, the woman realizes PEST could have been the target, and a selfish part of her is simply thankful it was the labs instead. “But we fucking paid those assholes! A billion fucking pounds!” She turns to Fletcher now, her face a picture of shock and rage. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Sure.” The line goes dead, and Priscilla slowly lowers the phone, looking at the dark screen for more answers that nobody has. 

“We’ve been bombed,” she finally says, running a hand through unruly hair. “And hacked. The medical manufacturing sector has been leaked to the public by some anonymous anarchist bullshit. So... We’re fucked.” She is silent for a moment, before “GODDAMNIT!” The word ricochets off the alleyway walls, making the silence that follows even quieter. Cold blue eyes are alight as she looks at the Power. “Can’t catch a fucking break.” Taking a deep breath she pauses, eyes flashing to Fletcher’s lips for a split second. “Thanks for the dance,” she says, before turning to pull the door open again, music flooding out. “Come on. We need to find Fazal.”

[prisephone-archive]

kittym​:

•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Who did you assault?” Kitty asks, tales of misdemeanours and felonies ensnaring her attention, bright-eyed at the thought of perfecting the art of crime to make herself more useful to Famine and her uncle ( she’d learn in a year or two that that’s not what makes her strong, though — that loyalty and perseverance will be the wings that turn her from Angel to Power ). At the other’s prompt, she shoots a long lingering look in the direction of their supervisors sat on their phones. With a shrug, she mimics her newfound acquaintance and slips the fluorescent orange jacket from her shoulders, balling the garment up to toss carelessly over the railing. Murky river water gobbles it up like a hungry beast, evidence of her being branded a delinquent condemned to the mud-slick depths of the Thames. Her gaze returns to the blonde as if for approval, knowing it would pay to look cool in front of— she realises she’s yet to learn the other’s name and tries to play off her desire to stick to the young woman with all the tenacity of a piece of gum on the underside of a shoe, drawling out a faux-indifferent, “I’m Kitty.”

The impressed tone from her partner-in-skiving sets her alight with a warm glow, basking in the praise. “I start the fights; my cousin finishes them.” Credit where credit was due, a fond smile slips across her lips at the thought of Marcus stepping in to protect her as he always did: a dangerous duo to get on the wrong side of, that was for certain. Kitty wrinkles her nose at the suggestion of being related to a royal or a prime minister, proud to share the truth. “Fuck no. You know Femenias Energy? The petrol stations? Bunch of other things like power plants and shit? My mum’s a Femenias.” She realises a heartbeat too late that bragging about a rich family to a criminal was likely not the smartest move, and then decides that it’s the sort of trouble that would at least give her something to talk about at Christmas dinner while the rest of her cousins discuss university.

Her brows shoot upwards in borderline delight, expression tempered as murder turns to cat-related crime — far less interesting but petty, at least. “Hope you got a decent amount for it,” she muses with a laugh, picking at a fleck of paint that’s dried into the skin of one of her knuckles. “Should have held it ransom first, though. Would have got more in the long run.”

Priscilla shoots the girl a look, side eyeing her with an amused smirk playing at her lips. “You’re awful fucking curious,” she observes out loud, though not unkindly. With a laugh, she shakes her head, taking another drag of her cigarette before answering. “Some bellend outside of a bar. He grabbed my ass and kicked him in the balls, and then... uh, broke his hand with the heel of my boot on the curb. He pressed charges.” She raises her eyebrows as if to ask the other if that satisfied her thirst for details. What Priscilla didn’t mention is that she’d been the man’s drug dealer, and he had a history  q being a little too comfortable with the petite blonde. He was the kind of man that chased uppers like it was his job, and she had come to learn that those were often the ones to watch out for. She watches as her new acquaintance follows suit in removing her mark of condemnation. The wind carries it into the river, and Priscilla watches the water take it away, a strange form of baptism, washing away their sins. Flicking her cigarette in the water to join it, she turns to Kitty with a smile. “I’m Priscilla,” she offers, “But you can just call me Pris.” 

A short laugh follows Kitty’s description, and Priscilla feels an ounce of jealousy at the thought of a partner in crime, someone who has your back no matter the circumstances. Family, so to speak. “And what happens if your cousin’s not around?” She asks, “Can you finish your own fights if need be?” There’s a difference between a partner and a crutch, though something told her that Kitty had it in her to do what needs to be done. But then she’s sharing her name, and Priscilla knows that she’ll never have to fight any battles alone as long as she lives. It’s enough to give her pause, cool gaze stuck on the young woman beside her, looking with new eyes. She isn’t some petty criminal taking the London streets with her cousin, them against the world. No, she’s the darling child of one of the most powerful crime families in the world, let alone England. “Femenias, huh? I think I’ve heard of it.” Her tone sarcastic, “But I can’t imagine why a judge would have anything against your lovely family.” She’s smiling now, teasing Kitty for her blood relation, but only because she had the audacity to brag, though Pris would have done the same in her position. 

“Fuck, you’re right,” She laughs. “I like the way you think, Kitty. We can start a business kidnapping pets and holding them for ransom. Our very own criminal enterprise.”

[prisephone-archive]

victoriapinkett​:

♛

Admittedly, Victoria can’t help but smile just a little, a laugh escaping. Despite everything, she’s clearly comfortable enough with Priscilla. “You think I’m hot?” is what she asks, a playfulness there. “I’ll have to remember that.”

Still, she sobers as Priscilla continues, nodding as she looks down at the empty shot glass that’s sitting on the counter in front of her. “No, believe me. I agree,” she admits, the confession feeling intense even in the echoing quiet of the empty club around them. “I know what she always meant to do. She wanted to keep us safe. She wanted something different for us than what her own life was, But it was never going to work that way.” Victoria sighs, a slight bitterness there as she pushes the glass toward Priscilla, her mind changed about a refill.

“I don’t know.” She says, and it’s painfully honest. “I never really had a choice. Pestilence - the labs and the gang - it’s my birthright. That’s what I was always told.” She looks up then. “But it’s mine, you know? It’s mine. And I want it.” She shifts there in her seat. “….Just reckon I’m going to need more help than I’d really like to admit.”

Priscilla smiles as Victoria teases out the compliment, cool gaze catching the dark eyes of her Seraphim. She holds it for a moment, knowing she’s toeing a threshold better left untouched. “You better,” she finally says, leaving it at that. 

She can read Victoria’s disappointment, her frustration with the situation her mother has placed her in, and Priscilla feels a little bit sorry for the other woman. But as quickly as the rushes up, she smothers it. Pity has never helped anyone, and it wouldn’t serve to help Victoria in any way. No, what she needs is further guidance, someone to continue to beckon her towards the darkness she could one day rule. Smirking as Victoria pushes the glass in her direction, Pris doesn’t hesitate to fill it up. After pouring her own, she pauses, allowing the other to finish her thought before picking up the shot. 

“There’s nothing wrong with needing help, Vic. But if you really want this, you’ll need to accept every part of it. The chaos included.” She gestures around the club. “But luckily for you that’s my specialty. So, you’ll help me, and I’ll help you. We’ll get the club back on it’s fucking feet, and we’ll get you up to speed as a true Seraphim of Pestilence.” And with a smile on her face, Priscilla taps her glass to Victoria’s and tips her head back to down the shot. 

“Let’s get started, then.”

END. 

[prisephone-archive]

kashvis​:

priscilla.

Priscilla hadn’t joined this life for peace and quiet. She doesn’t want serenity, and stillness. She feeds off of the chaos, the madness of not knowing what the next day brings, the havoc of living a life that’s completely invisible to so many. When you’ve felt unseen your whole life it just makes sense to make it your home, when you’ve been forced to embody a calmness you’ve never felt, it’s only natural to turn against it in every way possible. It’s strangely comforting to her, this world of lost souls, of blood and bone and power. And now that life is being threatened by some group of righteous cocksuckers with confused moral compasses. Some sort of rebellion against crime with more crime, forcing people with very few options out of a job in the name of glorious purpose. If it weren’t so fucking lame then maybe she’d try and find it in herself to look at it from their perspective. Whoever they are. She belittles it, drinks the issue into oblivion, but the entire ordeal is disconcerting at best, and fucking terrifying at worst. 

“Don’t we all.” Priscilla says, her smile lingering. She takes a sip of her water in preparation for the rest of the night, knowing it’s nowhere near complete. There are game plans to draw up, contacts to reach, and angels and powers to corral. Everyone needs to be on the same page as soon as fucking possible, and Priscilla and Fazal are Michaela’s boots on the ground, carrying the heaviest burden without the gorgeous titles bestowed to her daughters. Nodding, Pris swallows, shaking her head as she gestures over her shoulder. “Toss it out with the rubbish,” she commands. Make light of it, reduce their power in any way possible. 

Placing a hand over her heart in mock sentimentality, Priscilla taps it a couple of times before dropping her little act. Only to be left laughing at Kashvi’s observation. “Oh the highest. And we would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids.” It’s said in jest, but below their friendliness is certain tension, a knowledge that they would both act without remorse at any moment. “Your bullets buy wars,” Priscilla points out, referring to the one lodged in Jack’s waterlogged body, “So here we are… Trading blows.”

One thing Kashvi can appreciate about those that share a similar ranking as her, is the confidence. So often in her life, she has been chastised for her confidence, told to tone it down when she has never seen any reason to. Kashvi knows what she is worth, and in her eyes it’s quite a lot. Even if she is a terrible shot and sometimes so proud that it blinds her. But what Priscilla says is interesting — they all think they are wise, which means some must be wrong in their convictions. Kashvi refuses to entertain the thought that it is her who is wrong. She, so deeply convinced of her own righteousness even if she so often refuses to voice her truest, deepest opinions. The alcohol starts to swirl in her mind, making her more pensive than she prefers to be, and Kashvi lets the subject go. “I’ll get everyone a digital clock.” She smiles. “No more mysterious ticking.”

She joins easily in Priscilla’s laughter, even if she knows that Pestilence’s actions of that day have not gone forgotten. Gabrielle Warden demanded blood in return for every drop of her own that had been spilled that day, and Kashvi doubted that the fallen bodies at PEST had satiated her bloodlust. “You would have gotten away with it if your Seraphim were better at handling knives,” Kashvi adds, her words dripping in smugness. Such a mistake would not be made by any of War’s heirs, after all. Michaela Pinkett’s insistence on keeping her daughters in the dark had bitten her in the arse nice and well.

The mood seems to turn, the freshly drawn enemy lines becoming more apparent. Not that Kashvi minds: she may be a compassionate and loving creature, but she isn’t nice. She tips her head to the side, “Hm, I like to think wars buy our bullets. Supply and demand, that’s all it is.” If people wished to shoot others up, they’d find a means to an end one way or another. Kashvi’s family preferred to profit from it. She lets out a soft laugh. “Trading blows … not the kind of fight one would expect from two warring gang members, hm? Kind of tame of us, really.”

END. 

[opalvscent]

pestilence + pantone’s birthday colours

[prisephone-archive]

fletchergry​:

There’s something satisfying about a comeback – like the universe righting itself at last, giving PEST the place in history it deserves. No one else does pure hedonism like they do. “I can’t see you ever getting hooked on anything.” Fletcher grins lazily. “Unless you wanted to.” It’s true, and it’s another reason why he trusts the Virtue. Priscilla knows where to draw the line - has lapsed only once in the years he’s known her, and since then they’ve never come close to that same precipice.

Not for lack of trying. He sees the flash of surprise on Priscilla’s face, mirrored in his as soon as she takes his hand. Fletcher registers now that something about tonight feels different, that on this dance floor, even they are given respite from their respective roles. And when she slides her arm around his neck, he has to bite back something he might regret. Their proximity makes him feel like a bow pulled taut, a familiar anticipation that something – good or bad, but something nonetheless - is going to happen at the end of a long night. The hand that isn’t fixed to Priscilla’s waist comes up to tuck her hair behind one ear.

Theirs is a loaded, heavy silence. When you share eight years of history, there’s little else to talk about. Fletcher loves to mouth off, to push buttons, to get a reaction; nothing ever feels like too much. But with Priscilla it’s like he has his foot in his mouth, like anything he could say to her would be disingenuous. Silence is the only thing that feels honest. His hand traces a line up her spine to settle against the middle of her back, holding them together. Offering a firm support as Priscilla tips her head backwards and loses herself to the thrum of music, and Fletcher watches the curve of her neck, the line of her jaw, as her eyes fall shut.

It’s impossible to tell how long they’ve been here, or how long they’ve been dancing. Fletcher just keeps time, unthinking, and steadily matches the sway of Priscilla’s hips. Somehow they stay upright in the press of bodies around them. When he feels the music ebb, the shirt sticking to his back, Fletcher stops thinking with his brain and leans down to ask the dangerous question. “Do you want to get out of here?”

• • • 

Reckless at heart, Priscilla has trained herself to slow down, to consider, and make decisions based on logic rather than rash emotions, and pure instinct. She has to, otherwise the woman would lose herself to the magnitude of her desires, to the power of how she feels. It would be dangerous to let herself be ruled by her heart, and the whims that sometimes capture her. She has to pick and choose when to trust her intuition and when to ignore it in favor of reason. It keeps her sane, keeps her safe, and keeps some semblance of order to her life. Yet, there are the moments when Priscilla knows she should disregard her initial urge, should pause and contemplate, but does not. Moments when the smart decision, the right decision, are pushed so that impulse reigns. Maybe she’s high off the night’s raving success, the fulfillment of her purpose, her role. Or it could be the alcohol in her system, the sweet relief of handing some power over to liquid courage. Yet neither feel quite right as she  she finds herself in the center of the dance floor, Fletcher’s body solid and firm against her own, his hand forging a path up her back, along the ridge of her spine. Despite the sweat that thinly coats her skin, a shiver runs from the nape of her neck to her tailbone, before settling somewhere between her hips. 

And in the ecstasy of letting go of control, she finds exactly what they all come here for, what makes PEST a refuge, a necessity. Priscilla knows Fletcher can feel it too, doesn’t need to speak to him to know they’re experiencing the same exhilaration, the same anticipation, reveling in their hard work and each other. She’s not planning, not counting the songs, or thinking about her managerial duties; it’s easy to ignore the fatigue in her muscles as she turns to back into him, to ignore her heavy breathing as she rests her head on his chest, not missing a beat. Who knows how long Pris would have stayed out there if it weren’t for Fletcher’s voice in her ear, close enough to tickle the hair that’d come untucked. Do you want to get out of here? And she knows her brain has shut off, given up it’s authority to the powers that be, the buzz in her bones. 

Instead of responding, the Virtue takes hold of Fletcher’s hand, and where he led them onto the dance floor, Priscilla leads them off. She leads with a purpose, slipping around bodies, and through the club with practiced ease. Then they’re leaving the noise and lights behind, turning a corner past security that doesn’t give them a second glance, and pushing through a door that leads to a dim corridor. It’s not until they’re stumbling out the side door, and into the darkness of early morning that Priscilla lets go of her Power to lean against the brick wall. Breathing in lungfuls of cold air, heart hammering in her chest, she laughs, a sound that get’s trapped in the little alleyway. “Fuck,” she breaths, goosebumps riddling her legs as the sweat cools. Her eyes find Fletcher in the small circle of light cast by a single bulb, and a wicked smile dances on her lips. Ears adjusting to the sudden silence miss the sound of warning bells, as Priscilla fixes him with a look. “God, I hate you. You just...” She laughs, shaking her head, “Fuck you, Fletch.” She rests her head back against the brick, hair catching on the stone. “Come here.”

[prisephone-archive]

kittym​:

Terrifying. The word causes Kitty’s mouth to split into a menace of a grin, amused laughter exhaled out into the cold November air. “I sure hope so. I was fucking fuming. Last place I wanted to sleep was a jail cell. Lost my voice from shouting in the end.” She leaves out the fact she’d cried herself to sleep and grimaces at the memory, thin bravado concealing the fragile flighty nature of a teenager who has only been getting into fights because she can’t get into university. Can’t do anything much beyond curl her fists and bare her teeth, truth be told, her teachers as insistent that she isn’t cut out for academia as they were that she’d end up somewhere like this. “So… you ever, like, I don’t know, been in prison?”

Her brow flick upwards at the glimmer of luminous orange being carried away by brackish waters, impressed but unconvinced. “Won’t they just extend the number of days you have to do this shit for?” She looks back at the blonde, a stubborn look of certainty flickering across Kitty’s features. “I’m not planning on hanging around here any longer than needed.” Not when she’s got a lot more to prove to her uncle, keen to show him that she’s more than just a young delinquent who couldn’t outrun the police quick enough. Regarding the proffered cigarette packet with a contemplative gaze, she shakes her head and turns her back to the river, leaning idly against the safety rails. “I got in a fight with some guy who was saying shit about my family. He lost two of his teeth. Needed eleven stitches.” It had been bad luck for a cop to have been drinking in the pub at the same time but she’d at least made him work for it to arrest her. She shrugs heavily with fake nonchalance, struck by the desire to impress the other woman. “I’ve done some of the things on your list but nobody’s ever caught me for them.” The brag is far from humble. “What about you? What did you do?”

Priscilla finds herself laughing along with her comrade in civil duty, their voices swallowed up by a gust of wind that leaves the woman tucking her hair back behind her ear with a gloved hand. She can remember the first time she’d spent the night in a jail cell. It was the third or fourth time Pris had been picked up by the police, this time for breaking and entering into her school’s chemistry lab to steal phosphoryl chloride, an activating ingredient of LSD. At sixteen years old she’d called her parents, but this time they refused to come thinking it would do her some good. She spent the whole night shivering on a cold metal bed, listening to the lewd remarks being thrown her way, too afraid to fall asleep. This girl’s convincing aloofness could fool anyone except someone who had been in the exact position, had put up the same crafted front. It doesn’t mean they aren’t tough, just human. Priscilla glances at the other with an amused smile, shaking her head. “No,” she answers, “the longest I’ve done is a few weeks for assault. They gave me frequent flier treatment and kept my case on the backlog, hiked my bail up... Told em’ I’d rather shit in my room than pay a cent so...” She shrugs. 

Sucking hard on her cigarette Priscilla inhales a lungful of smoke, and holds it for a moment before breathing it out her nose. “Too much paperwork,” she answers, “the fuckers are lazy and they don’t actually give a shit. Show up, do the bare minimum, and go home. They don’t want more work either. That’s the case for most people.” Replacing the crumpled, near empty pack into her back pocket, Priscilla takes one last drag of her own before putting it out and tossing the the butt into the water. “Damn... And look at you. Not a scratch... Remind me to stay on your good side. I like my teeth intact.” There was mention of that family again. “Who’s your family? Her Majesty the Queen? Fucking Gordon Brown?” In the span of their short conversation, Pris has formed a sort of kinship for the young woman with a penchant for aggression, and a seemingly undying loyalty to her family. The kind of person she’d want to get a drink with, compare stories, funny how community service served as a meet and greet for like minded individuals. 

“Me? Oh I killed a guy.” It’s said as a joke, and though technically true, it’s not why she’s here. “No I, uh,” Priscilla chuckles at the actual reason, “stole my neighbor’s cat and sold it on craigslist because it kept pissing on my doormat. So you’re basically chatting with a criminal mastermind.” 

[prisephone-archive]

victoriapinkett​:

The alcohol burns as Victoria knocks it back, grimacing as the taste it leaves behind. At least the shot is gone in one quick gulp, and she’s able to brush it aside as the burn fades, focusing in again on Priscilla’s words.

“I think that’s what I like about it,” she admits. “Not…. stuffy. But it’s controlled. It’s… numbers. Science.” Victoria looks down at the empty shot glass on the bar in front of her, shaking her head when the bottle is offered back to her. “I don’t really drink,” she says, as though it’s not antithetical to what’s sitting right in front of her. “I sound like a fucking bore, don’t I?” She searches Priscilla’s eyes, dark brown to crystal blue. “I’ve been wondering lately if I’ve ever really lived.” Her head cants to one side. “I’ve been in the dark for so long. I think I didn’t realise how much I didn’t know until it all hit me at once. Like a bullet,” she drawls, playing along with her own joke. “Do you think that’s true?”

• • • 

Priscilla watches Victoria take her shot, amused at the way her face grimaces against the taste. She has grown accustomed to the way the body revolts against the liquor, having given herself over to it’s potent powers long ago. It serves as a healthy reminder that not everyone has done the same, that they all carry different vices. 

Leaning onto the bar, the Virtue listens attentively as Victoria explains her side of things, nodding slowly. She can understand, it all comes down to control, though they choose to exert it in different ways. Where one prefers data, concrete ideas, and thought, the other finds her place controlling an environment of chaos, intoxicants, and pure emotion. Different, but similar too. “Do I think it’s true that you’re a bore?” She teases, throwing the other woman a look. “Nah... A bit straight laced maybe, but you got that hot, put together thing going for ya’.” 

“Yeah,” she finally says, answering the actual question posed with a little shrug. “No offense to our wonderful matriarch but it was goddamn stupid to keep you both in the dark like that... Though I think you knew more than you want to admit.” Priscilla holds her gaze steady. “That’s why you aren’t running away with your tail between your legs... But don’t ask me if you’ve fuckin’ lived. You tell me. Is this the life you want to live?” Maybe it’s not a fair question, but she needs to know if Victoria is someone to be trusted, someone to follow into battle. If she can truly handle this. 

[halcyonightz-deactivated2021092]

[prisephone-archive]

mitzi-zhang​:

Being told she was a genius had become second nature to Mitzi, she no longer reacted to the statement. After all, why would you react to something that was a fact? The first time she heard it was when she was four years old in reception, the headteacher had called her parents into her primary school and recommended Mitzi moved into year one right away. The second time she heard it was in year eight when her chemistry teacher offered Mitzi to sit her science GCSE’s early. It was a word said with surprise after underestimating Mitzi or in this situation it was said because Priscilla was impressed. Mitzi mirrored the other woman, taking a sip of the hot coffee and waved off the thank you as if it were nothing. “I was just doing my job. I wish I got to see Remus like that though, was it a satisfying sight?” Mitzi asked, playing the role of clueless. “I would not want to be in his position, that shit lasts for about a week.” Of course, Priscilla did not know that Mitzi had driven over to hand her cousin-in-law the antidote within the twenty-four hours. “I don’t want you to die. I quite like your company. I’ll do it again if I have to.” The sight of Priscilla laughing out her coffee causes Mitzi to burst out with a loud laugh of herself, spilling a bit of coffee onto her leg at the sudden action. “I wish I could say I’m sorry but I’m not.” she giggled, her thumb pressing down on her light blue jeans which now had a coffee stain. Mitzi nods at Priscilla’s words, it was true, Priscilla hit the nail on the head, once you submerged yourself in these waters, getting back onto a lifeboat was impossible. “Hey, if I wasn’t here we would not have met and how sad would that be?” she teased. “You’re really fucking good at what you do as well. You don’t need me telling you that but PEST would fall apart if it was not for you. Fabric and XOYO have nothing against PEST and its wonderful manager.” she raises the mug in the air towards Priscilla, making an imaginative toast towards the woman.  “Looks like we’re going to be working like crazy then.” Mitzi chuckled lightly, with everything out there in the open all Pestilence could do was rely on narcotics and make everyone in the labs work harder to create new formulas to remain competitive. She tilted her head to the side at Priscilla’s question, brows raising slightly as she considered the option. “That’s tough,” she admits, biting her lower lip for a moment. “I don’t think I would. You can buy your possessions again. Also I don’t do well with someone blackmailing me.” Mitzi looks at Priscilla, two and two adding together slowly. Surely Priscilla was not suggesting what Mitzi was thinking. “Fuck Pris…you’re not…no…” she shook her head, her eyes widening. Now this was a goldmine of information. “Did someone blackmail us?”

• • • 

Priscilla has always wondered how it feels to be someone like Mitzi, someone built to succeed in the school system, and the work force beyond it. How it feels someone who was showered with academic praise, who instructors love and other students envy... So completely opposite of her own experience that it hardly seems real, almost incomprehensible. There was a time when Pris would have given anything to be like Mitzi, to be what others deemed successful, talented, worthy... It took her awhile to see it as the fucking sham that it is, that the demonization of certain individuals and the celebration of others is only in place to further an agenda. It would have saved young Priscilla a lot of grief is she’d come to the realization earlier, if she’d understood that her ability to sit through a test isn’t tied to her self worth. But she did eventually, and that was the moment she quit putting effort into the things that didn’t serve her, didn’t make her feel whole. But to be Mitzi, to have a world at your fingertips and still pick this life, this chaos... Maybe it just meant people aren’t that different after all. 

“Oh it was fucking fantastic, Zi.” Priscilla says, laughing at the memory. “You should have seen his face.” She imitates the horrified shock, the moment of realization, before her laughter makes it impossible. “Yeah, that was good... Next time though,” and suddenly she’s deadly serious, “Next time he steps foot in my club I’ll fucking kill him. And I’ll make it hurt.” Priscilla takes another sip of her coffee, already feeling the caffeine work its magic. Mitzi’s accolades are met with an almost timid smile; she’s never been good at taking compliments, always unsure of what to do with it, and where to put it. So she shrugs it off. “Pretty fucking tragic,” she agrees, continuing to toy with her mug. “Thank you,” she says, hearing the awkwardness in her own voice. “I love it. A shit ton. And none of it would be possible without my angels, so...” And then she’s gladly changing the subject, full steam ahead, back into the comfortable topic of work. 

“Smart woman,” Priscilla responds, nodding her head, “I wouldn’t give them a fucking cent either.” The very essence of a blackmailer is that they’re untrustworthy. They’re willing to exploit a weakness for gain, undeterred by any consequences that might come their way. That’s not someone who fork over a billion pounds to. There’s a pause after Mitzi’s question, and in the silence Priscilla considers the woman across from her, a woman who has never given the Virtue a reason not to trust her, not to confide in her. “Yeah,” she finally says, standing up to grab that whiskey after all, “Mhmm. Some anonymous bullshit. Give us a billion fucking pounds or--” she makes an explosion sound, “I’m guessing they demanded the same from War and Famine as well. But who knows if they paid up, because it didn’t matter either way.” Reaching up onto her tiptoes, Priscilla pulls down the bottle. “And the worst part is we have no idea who these fuckers are. None. They’re ghosts.”

[oflightfeet]

# GIRLGANG ! /  ft. @ponderosus , @prisephone and @victoriapinkett

[prisephone-archive]

aliciarowes​:

date: february 26. location: PEST nightclub opposite: @prisephone​

The red head made the decision that her work had finished the moment that they had admitted their last patron for the evening. Radio in-ear, she slipped inside with the warning for security to contact her if someone needed taking care of, indulging herself in a red lemonade from the bar. The night club manager is sighted in her peripheral vision, the image planting a seed that soon sprouts into an idea and a second drink is ordered. Alicia places it in front of her superior with a careful hand after approaching, the snakebite crafted with precision following a comment (or, rather, a caution) that it was meant for Priscilla. “It’s been one hell of a week,” she quips, when the reality was that it had been more like a hell of a year, her own way of saying you deserve it - though she was still sceptical regarding what the other ‘deserved’, it was important to play the game - while raising her own glass in a sort of toast.

“Do you think you’d need extra security next week?” Alicia opens, knowing that part of her and Mitzi being on the door together was an extra precaution for reopening night. “If not, I could take the week to reach out to some of my old contacts, though some decided to buy from Pestilence when I joined there are still some that could be… persuaded, even in light of everything.” The corner of her mouth quirks, knowing that she had entered the dichotomy of not wanting to do what she was offering but knowing it was for her own benefit - for the gang’s benefit - which, unfortunately for her went hand in hand the moment that the truce had broken, much to her resentment. “Of course, I’d need to talk logistics with you given it wouldn’t be our regular client base.” Profit margins, the amount they’d needed to sell, expectations of the interaction - something that might also need to be discussed with Fazal but that could wait. “But if you’d rather talk later it can wait.” There was something satisfying at the realisation that being one billion dollars out, it was very likely that it couldn’t, in fact, wait.

After all, there was no better way to learn how exactly Priscilla worked than to create the excuse to ask the other woman for herself. 

• • •

Priscilla doesn’t trust Alicia. It’s nothing personal against the redhead, she’s agreeable enough, hardworking, resourceful, and has even placed herself in line of fire one or two times. There no actual reason the Virtue doesn’t trust the woman, and the feeling is entirely derived from the simple fact that Alicia did not choose to be here. Oh, and that Fazal murdered her husband. Alicia, Ace, and the handful of others that find themselves among Pestilence’s ranks, or doing their dirty work by force are in Pris’ special little category of those who’s bullet still waits for them if need be.  Blackmail and death threats are handy but specific tools, and if any of the circumstances are to change they lose their ability, become useless. It’s her job to make sure the circumstances stay exactly the same. Still, she’s cordial enough, or at least as much as one can expect from Priscilla, so when Alicia presents her with her drink of choice, she smiles.

Tonight’s success, and the vodka she’d shared with Fazal has softened her some, taken most of her jagged edges and sanded them down. “A week, a year, a life...” Priscilla muses, raising her glass in kind before taking a sip of her drink. She can’t remember any real feeling of serenity, of wading through life with mundane simplicity. And she’s not complaining. Blue eyes are on the sea of people around them, observant as always, uninhibited by the strobing lights, when Alicia offers her service. Looking at her Power for the first time, Priscilla stares unabashed for the moment, her face a flat affect. Then, suddenly, she’s smiling, a look that is equal parts lethal and inviting, leaving it up to the recipient to decide how to proceed. She turns toward the other woman, offering her full attention.

“Your old contacts or your husbands?” Priscilla asks, disregarding the cruelty of her question with the casual way in which its posed. “I wonder what he’d think if he could see you now. No more gorgeous trophy wife, but an enterprising gang member... Fuck, I think he’d like that, don’t you?” That’s enough, she tells herself, taking another sip. “I think that’s a great idea,” Priscilla acknowledges, dipping a pinky in her drink, before popping it in her mouth. A pause. “How would you go about persuading them...? And making sure they get with the program.”