Transgressions: Chapter 1
Words: 2,500 | Chapter List Header by @lokisgoodgirl ***
What fucking fresh hell is this.
The items scattered across your bed, the empty gift bag lolling idly near the crisp white pillowcase.
Nordic-blend cranberry vitamin gummies.
A protein shake.
Organic nuts selection.
Loose-leaf chamomile tea.
A fair-trade chocolate bar. 85% cocoa, with freeze-dried Scottish raspberries.
A tube of Anusol. A small tub of Vagisil. A Canesten suppository.
Hand cream.
And a diamond bracelet.
You had received many a gift bag in your time. But this one was odd to say the least. Out of context, you would guess it was from a pharmaceutical company looking to position themselves as a leader in wellbeing. Or a high-street health retailer schmoozing suppliers to gain the best deal on bulk-buy organic supplements. Perhaps a Manhattan celebrity jeweler was appealing to his clients’ discerning tastes.
But you didn’t acquire this bounty at a product launch event. It was handed to you by a Stark Industries event assistant. The wiry, dark-hired young man’s fair skin flushed pink as you walked away, realising his error. Clearly, you were not meant to see it.
“Don’t worry Matthew.” A colleague whispered as you walked away. “The business cards are late from the printer. She’ll never know.”
Their words only stoked the fire of your curiosity, and you immediately returned to your hotel room to hide the evidence. I’ll find out exactly who you belong to, you said to yourself as you rolled the delicate diamond bracelet through your fingers, frowning at the clasp. You opened the bracelet, fastening it again. The clasp was two sides of an infinity symbol.
Oddly specific.
***
“The gym, Madame?”
You jumped at the digital voice in the elevator, placing a hand over your chest.
“Yes please.”
“Call me Jarvis.”
“Yeah, I know – it’s just…. strange.”
“Yes it takes most humans some getting used to. But rest assured I am a sentient being, just as you are.”
“Okay. Thanks… Jarvis.”
You muttered under your breath. “Why does he sound English.”
You jumped at the volume of the AI’s reply. “Mr. Stark modelled my voice based on the driver of Mr. Stark’s parents, who were privately educated in London.”
“Got it.”
Christ.
A week of residing in Stark Tower, and you still hadn’t got used to the feeling of being watched by invisible eyes and the voice that sprung to life at the most inopportune moments. It was the reason Stark felt so comfortable giving you access to two-thirds of the tower, knowing his digital bodyguard would report back your whereabouts and block your access the moment you stepped out of line or dug a little too deep.
In the tower you were known by many and trusted by few. “Internal audit,” you would tell them. “For Mr. Stark.” It was enough to prevent staff from asking too many questions. It held partial truth – Stark hired you to audit the team from a Public Relations perspective. The front-liners knew the real reason for your presence. Those who lived in the top third of the tower. Romanoff. Banner. Barton. Captain Rogers. And a host of enhanced beings who you had learned to both respect and fear as you sat across from them in a lower-floor boardroom for their one-to-one with you.
All beings represent the Avengers brand. The mission brief stated coldly. And as such are an extension of the public trust built by its founder, Tony Stark.
“Assassins, legends, green monsters, I don’t care. Just make sure they don’t step out of line off-duty. At least – nothing off-brand,” Tony Stark told you during the initial interview, conducted as he welded a tear in his metal suit. “Quarter of a mill. Make it happen.” The overblown figure didn’t surprise you. Stark was notoriously difficult to work with. The price tag matched the monumental ball ache you were about to undertake.
Sweat pooled at your hairline and oozed down your brow bone in a sticky rivulet as you pieced together your angle. You were to present your recommendations on Monday morning, two days away. You knew exactly which being posed the biggest PR risk to Stark’s merry band of expendables. Ironically, it was the one person you had not yet interviewed, given his absence on a mission.
You glanced at the treadmill two machines over from you, a tall brunette running twice the pace as yourself and sweating half as much, long legs galloping effortlessly over the moving band of rubber with the power of a winning thoroughbred. The fluorescent lighting of the gym hit her wrist and glinted, drawing your eyes to her jewelry.
That fucking diamond bracelet.
The gold band glided elegantly around her wrist as she ran, revealing the unusual clasp.
You milked your cool-down, extending it for ten minutes longer than necessary. You even moved to the mats, foam-rolling for a further fifteen. Uncovering the mystery from the diamond-bracelet-wearing gazelle run the risk of becoming your new obsession, an inconvenient distracted you couldn’t afford. You had to figure it out, here and now.
She sat down on the mat beside you, stretching out her hamstring. She caught your eye and smiled.
“God I couldn’t be arsed this morning,” she confessed in a thick Mancunian accent.
You raised an eyebrow. Unexpected. Judging books by their elegant covers, and all that.
“Yeah, I hear you. Always feel better after a workout though, right?”
She frowned slightly upon hearing your northern English accent but nodded her agreement, standing to pull her ankle to her buttocks and stretch her quad. “Part of the job innit.” She shrugged.
“Modeling?”
She smiled. “Nah. That’s a former life. I do films now.” She gestured with her arm, covering her face as if defending herself with wrist armour. She laughed goofily.
“OH! Shit!! You were the stunt double in WonderWoman!”
“Yeah….”
“Trying to be professional here, but I’m fangirling out, not gonna lie.”
“That’s alright.” She shifted her footing and stretched out the opposite quad.
“That’s a nice bracelet.” You pointed at the glistening jewels.
“Oh… thanks.” She lowered her gaze slightly, looking tentative.
“I have one similar.”
“Similar… or the same?” Her eyes narrowed over the last words.
“The same.”
“From a gift bag?”
“Mmm hmm.”
She sighed out the secret she had been holding in. “God he’s an arsehole isn’t he.”
“Oh yeah. Totally.” You scoffed in mock annoyance.
“You know he’ll be there tonight. At the event.”
“What event’s that?”
You both sat down on the mats, faux stretching routine abandoned.
“Dior.”
“Is it across town?” you asked.
“No. Here in the the tower.” She shrugged. “They use the event space here, sprawling views of the city, you know how it is. Plus, The Avengers usually show up which is shit hot publicity for them.”
“I appreciate the intel, even if it makes me look a bit shit at my job!” You laughed nervously.
“What do you do?”
“Public Relations. Reputation management, mainly.”
She smiled knowingly. “Do you have a card? I mean, I know it’s 2023, but I’m old school.”
“Yeah me too. Here…” You fished into the back pocket of your iPhone holder and gave her your business particulars.
She held it at each corner and nodded as she read your info. “Tell you what. Come to the event with me tonight. I need a plus one anyway. And I’ll tell you who gave me the bracelet.”
“Oh, I already – ”
“For a PR person, you’re not a very good liar.”
“I am deeply wounded by that character assessment.” You clutched your chest mockingly. “Not all PR people are liars.”
“And not all ex-models are idiots.” She grinned.
“But… yeah. That’d be good. Tonight. Extra research for me.”
She nodded conspiratorially. “Okay. I’m on floor 31. Give me a call when you’re ready, about 7. I’ll come to you and we’ll head out together. I’m Jessie, by the way. You’re a northerner?”
“Yeah. And you’re Manc!”
“Accent’s bit of a giveaway, innit.”
“A little bit. I went to Uni in Manchester though. So it reminds me of home. What do you reckon to New York?”
“Bit of a shit hole, if I’m honest. But yeah – makes me feel at home!”
“I like how you call a spade a spade.”
“I call a wanker a wanker, too. See you tonight.”
She winked at you and strode off, looking like elegance personified and sounding like a Manchester bus driver.
***
“Jarvis?” You called out into the ceiling of your hotel room on the 33rd floor. “You can put this into .jpgs for Stark, right?”
“Yes of course, Miss.”
You offered the friendly AI your instructions and continued taking snips of the Instagram profile open on your MacBook. The one boasting over fifty-five million followers. Despite not having the chance to interview him yet, you knew exactly who he was. His Instagram content was as over the top as he was. A self-obsessed buffet of high-res images from his numerous branding deals, peppered with ‘behind the scenes’ images designed to look casual, along with gratuitous ‘training’ shots of him in leather, and videos of him in the Avengers gym deadlifting unfathomable amounts of weight.
The remainder of his content could only be described as thirst traps. Gratuitous images of his bare muscular back, white shirt slipping casually down it. Dressed in full leather armour, cuffed and muzzled, wide bedroom eyes directed at the camera as he glanced over his shoulder in mock submission. Or standing on the Stark Tower helicopter pad in tight black-and-green leathers, back to the camera, daggers drawn by his side ready to take down an invisible foe, pert leather-clad butt-cheeks on full display. Flexed, of course.
And you hadn’t even logged his TikTok content yet. Though you knew what gems would await you. Thirst traps… to music. Transitions of casual-attire-to-battle-armour featuring various members of The Avengers, particularly Natasha Romanoff who appeared to love the camera just as much he did.
You were surprised his Instagram bio didn’t say, “Celebrity. Lothario. God.”
“Loki. Laufeyson. I know exactly who you are.”
You worked late into the afternoon, using your software to summarise the sentiment of his social media mentions, and selecting mainstream media articles discussing him personally. Social media was positive among his fans - the self-proclaimed ‘Loki’s Whores’ - and neutral among the general public. Major news outlets were a little less forgiving and a little more sceptical, best characterised by a recent front-cover investigative feature by the New York Times.
Abruptly, your alarm sounded and you stopped typing. You knew from experience you had a tendency to overwork and were liable to run late for the Dior party without your usual fail-safe.
Party. Who were you kidding. Like all soirees, this was a networking event. You were there to observe and gather intel to support your recommendations to Stark. As you applied your make-up, you opened YouTube and typed in his name to watch his TV advertisements for various high-end brands.
The first was for Calvin Klein underwear. He lay on a plump white bed, one that looked oddly familiar to your own, undoubtedly filmed in one of the hotel rooms here in Stark Tower. He wore only his figure-hugging black Calvins as he looked wistfully into a square blue lightbox, one that was clearly intended to represent an infinity stone that had become just as much a part of his personal brand as his slicked-back hair, despite the gem no longer existing anywhere on this planet.
The second ad was high-end fashion. Gucci. You already recognised the iconic images from the print version of the campaign, having been splashed over Times Square and on double-page spreads of every respectable glossy rag. The opening image of the advert was a zoomed-in shot of him buttoning up a shirt, deft masculine hands closing the material over the expanse of his hard chest. The next, sat on a sofa, rolling up his sleeves, legs akimbo, crotch on full display despite the thick material covering it, a moody gaze cast down the lens. The commercial continued the contrived ‘getting ready for the day scene’ narrated to the sound of his own voice, and finally ending with him sat on a chesterfield looking all-too-pleased with himself.
Finally, you watched the infamous Dior perfume ad. The one you would ordinarily expect the internet to shred to pieces given the pretentious drivel he spouted. Instead, it was met with extreme thirst from men and women alike, young and old, as Twitter had a meltdown over the God-Prince who was benevolent enough to grace the planet with his good lucks and infinite wisdom.
You watched the scenes in the ad, predictably narrated to his dulcet tones.
Your signature is more than paper and ink.
He signed an excessively thick blank white card with an extraordinarily expensive pen, of a brand he would no doubt advertise for in the future.
Your signature is your legacy.
Bizarrely, he walked through a glass-fronted lobby in the City of London, briefcase in hand, as though ready for a day at the office.
Your signature is the man you choose to become.
He was at the gym now, sat at a bench and wrapping his fists in white bandages. Evidentially, he was a boxer as well as a banker.
The memories you leave behind. The facet of you which exists when you are no longer here.
Que close-ups of picture frames with photos of imaginary memories. In the images he was a family man, married, children, the whole bit.
Your signature is your scent. Forever.
The ad ended with a close-up of a cologne bottle and his closing smug words.
Eternity. For Men.
And Gods.
“Fucking pillock.” You swiped your signature dark pink stain over your lips and heard a knock at the door. Three light taps. Jessie.
“I couldn’t wait… the suspense was fucking killing me!” she laughed as you opened the door. “Okay so my flat’s all the way in Brooklyn, but I went back and knew I had it somewhere…. Oh my god, is that what I think it is?” Jessie pointed to the gift bag contents strewn across your bed. “This is the latest one, isn’t it?? Looks like he’s uplevelled his shit!”
You put your hand up. “Jessie, you’re talking a mile-a-minute. What are you talking about?”
“The mystery gift bag owner! Ooh I wonder if you can guess…”
“Well it sounds like it’s an individual, which honestly wasn’t my first guess. I thought it was a brand.”
“He sort of is a brand.”
“Oh god. No. NO.” Eternity… the infinity symbol….
“Mmm hmmm… go on…” Jessie’s eyes widened in enthusiasm.
“He’s one of The Avengers?”
“Yep!” Her mouth popped over the last letter.
“He advertises for Dior.”
“He does…”
“So… he’s giving out gift bags at the event. Is that it?”
“Not quite.” Jessie stood, gesturing to the items across your bed. “May I?”
You shrugged. “Sure.”
She gathered the items into the bag and walked backwards, before turning towards you and animatedly opening an invisible door. She pretended to be shocked at a person outside the imaginary exit. She suddenly became him, putting on a haughty English accent. “There is a car waiting outside Madame. Any allergies? No?” She handed over the bag and scurried back to you.
“He’s moonlighting as a Butler.”
“No. That was his butler.”
“This makes no sense.”
“Which is why you have to see him in action tonight. Seeing is believing and all that. OH! And this is at the bottom of the bags.” She handed you a stark white business card with an ostentatious logo in the bottom right corner, a coiled snake with the letters LL either side of it. In the middle of the card, two simple printed words:
WITH COMPLIMENTS
Your stomach flipped, intuition screaming at you.
“Come on,” Jessie enthused. “Let’s see the panther in the wild!”
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