Plotted starter for @smokinmirrors
Duncan’s cabin is old but wears its age well, on the outside at least. It has firm foundations and is built of good wood, the kind that needs no more than the occasional fresh coat of lacquer every few years to keep it from looking too storm worn. Inside however, whilst clean, looks far more dated; rustic, Duncan would argue, but sorely in need of sprucing up. It’s not something that would normally concern the retired assassin, but with company due to call tonight; the first he’s received since relocating to Montana over a month ago, the state of the place is naturally on his mind. The local store didn’t offer much in terms of decorative options; a little tinsel left over from Christmas, a couple of crocheted blankets and pillows with pictures of dogs on them, barely complement the gingham tablecloth he was convinced into buying to ‘brighten up the place’. A tablecloth he only bought to cover up the blood stains from the bull elk he shot last week and butchered in the kitchen. Still, at least the place looks a little warmer and nothing of the animal went to waste; he now has a freezer full of meat which will see him through winter.
Lying on his bed, he attempts to make it look more used; there is no reason why Mason would want to enter his bedroom, but there remains a part of him that is paranoid she might sense he never sleeps in it. Duncan has become accustomed to sleeping in his chair, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his gun in the other - a sensible sleeping position for a man who is still being hunted across the globe as big game; not simply for the reward, but more so for the glory of the kill.
In truth, the Black Keizer is used to celebrating New Year’s on his own, such celebrations usually including nothing more than drinking whiskey until simply too tired to drink anymore. Mason’s suggestion that they see in the New Year together, had been met with surprise and while Vizla’s natural inclination had been to politely decline, his need for company prevailed, though he was insistent that they spent the evening here in his cabin, knowing that he can defend it more easily, if things happen to go awry.
He forgot to ask what she likes to drink and that is why his kitchen table is now littered with different spirits; whiskey, bourbon, vodka, gin, tequila and rum along with every kind of mixer he could find at the small store in town. Frankly it makes him look like an alcoholic, though no more so than the bin out back that is filled with empty whiskey bottles; the liquor he uses to calm his mind before bed; to stop the incessant memories that seek to stir his ever-swelling sense of guilt and regret.
Quite why he is drawn to Mason, he isn’t sure, something protective in him, he supposes, something that senses she might be as lost as he is, out here in the depths of the wilderness and, like him, might need some grounding. Most of the townsfolk Duncan’s encountered here have lived in Triple Oak all their lives, with the exception of Mason, and perhaps that is why he has found himself able to bond with her more easily. She doesn’t push him for details that would force him to weave fictions for her benefit, lies about the kind of life she might have expected him to lead before moving here. He has told her that he worked in the funeral business for most of his life, travelling internationally. That, it seems, has been enough for Mason and he is thankful for it, though he can’t help but wonder if her casual acceptance of it speaks to how little he knows about Mason herself. He has never asked her why she came here, moved out to the back of beyond and maybe she thinks that is strange, but he would much rather they work to build the kind of bond that might one day make her feel comfortable enough to tell him, rather than asking her outright. In the end he can sense that they both hold secrets and not the simple kind that are easy to gloss over or conceal, no; rather the kinds of secrets that seek to define you entirely, if you let them.
Lighting a cigarette, Vizla pours himself a large glass of Scottish single malt, from a bottle he’s been saving, before moving forward to freshly stoke the fire, finally satisfied that the atmosphere of the cabin feels cosy rather than bare and barren. As his wrist watch sounds a proximity alarm, Duncan checks his surveillance system, relived when he discovers it is only Mason traversing the icy bridge across the frozen lake that surrounds his dwelling out here in no man’s land.
Moving to the door, he opens it widely and shifts to stand on the raised porch, forced to blink snow out of his eyes, as he watches her approach.
