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Jun 24, 2017

Monkey Business

my OCs Operative Zero and Monkey in a vaguely superhero universe.

“May I have this dance?”

Helen pulled herself away from a mental assessment of the ballroom, filing the number of exits and blind spots away in the back of her mind. She turned slowly, allowing a smile to form just as slowly. Simply snapping into a cheerful expression would seem as genuine as a twenty dollar bill with Washington's face on it. So instead she made a subtle show of someone being called out of a thoughtful silence, shifting her untouched drink to one hand so she could push back a few strands of hair. Slightly flustered, but not embarrassed. A touch of humanity, a small flaw to keep her from seeming aloof.

“Thank you,” she said, smile still only halfway complete, “I prefer not to dance.”

“Oh, really?” the man said with a sigh, “I suppose that you have zero interest in dancing?”

Helen's incomplete smile dropped away. For a moment she let the intricate facade of charming socialite drop and diverted all her energy to assessing the man—the possible threat—standing in front of her.

He was tall. That made Helen immediately dislike him since she had to lean her head back to look up at his face and ruin her poised posture. The man stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back, hand tipped to one side while he waited for her to answer. A curl at the corner of his lips and a spark in his eyes indicated his emphasis on the word zero had not been a coincidence.

That much confirmed, Helen made a brief note of other details. He was tall, slim, relaxed, had a head of thick but completely white hair even though he couldn't have been more than forty, his dark face sketched only with faint laugh lines. Clothing was stylish and tailored, otherwise unexceptional. He stood at ease. Light. There was the air of a dancer or athlete about him.

“Yes,” Helen murmured, bringing her drink to her lips to hide the abrupt changes in her expressions, “you might say that. Mr. . . .?”

“Kyle,” the man said with an easy grin, “Kyle Lucian. Bored millionaire and collector of antiquities and odd things.”

“Oh, yes,” Helen said, offering her hand “you're opening an exhibit of some of your treasures.”

“Of African and African American history,” Lucian said, looking like he was laughing at some private joke, “and you are Miss Helen Pickerton, the beauty of high society.”

Helen felt that losing a little of her smile after that remark was only natural. Even when she had been a fresh girl of twenty she had never been a great beauty. At thirty-eight she might have been called, at a stretch, handsome. People said she had 'good bone structure'. Perhaps her skull was exceptional. No one would ever compliment the scars she had from breaking her left upper arm in three places, or the metal plate in her ankle. Only a skillful and scrupulous application of makeup kept the scars on her face hidden.

Now this Kyle Lucian was throwing false praise at her, as if a woman needed to be constantly validated by some random's man appraisal of her physical appearance.

“Hardly, Mr. Lucian--”

“Call me Kyle,” Lucian said, still holding Helen's hand. He had shaken it and then retained it, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles in an overly familiar way. And he still looked like he was laughing at her.

“Call me Miss Pickerton,” Helen replied, removing her hand, “CEO of Keyhole Enterprises and nothing near a beauty.”

“You're too modest, Helen--”

“If you insist on complimenting me, Mr. Lucian, please try to infuse them with some truth.”

“Well, then I shall praise your skillful rebuilding of your company after it crashed under your brother's care. It has become an operation head and shoulders above all others. Innovative, cutting-edge, caring. Your patents for improved motorcycle helmets have probably saved hundreds of lives.”

Operation.

Helmet.

Laughing, still laughing. Who was he to be playing and hinting with such significance? He knew, he must know and he was toying with her. Playing with her. If she was dressed for work, helmet and all, she would have been able to knock him down and drag him away for questioning. He was a leak, and her agreement with the authorities let her investigate leaks in her operation. She could also call one of her team to take him in, but then it would all be associated with her, Helen Pickerton, and perhaps confirm things he only had suspicions of.

“That's better,” Helen said, “those are things I'm actually proud of.”

“Aren't you proud of your makeup job, too?” Lucian leaned forward to look at her face.

Helen restrained herself from flinching. He couldn't see the scars. There was no way he could see the scars . . .

Her breath stopped when he tapped her chin with a well-manicured finger.

Right on the scar she had gotten when the chin guard of her helmet had cracked and the criminal she had been pursuing punched the jagged edge right into her face. Her comm had been smashed and after she had subdued and cuffed the criminal she had been too dizzy to mount her bike. It had been lucky that--

“C'mon,” Lucian grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward the dance floor, “let's dance!”

“Wait!”

“No time like now!”

Helen caught up the train of her dress, wishing she had worn something other than this confining turquoise mess of glittering beads.

“I love your dress,” Lucian said, sweeping her into a ballroom dancing hold and into a waltz, showing that he was as light on his feet as he looked, “Chinese pattern, right? It suits you. I mean, I think you look best in black and white, but I'm biased.”

Helen was trying very hard not to make a scene by flipping Lucian over her shoulder and stabbing the heel of her shoe into his neck. She followed his lead in the dance, moving every bit as smoothly as him and wishing he didn't hold her . . . Well, it wasn't exactly inappropriate. It was a very respectable dancing hold and he wasn't trying to feel her up or pull her into a tight hold. He just held her so comfortably. And it almost felt comfortable to her.

“Stop playing coy,” Helen said sweetly, her expression open and friendly to anyone who was looking. No one could see her driving one dark-blue fingernail into Lucian's hand.

“You're going to draw blood,” Lucian said without losing the tempo of the music, “I really love the way your dress swirls, by the way. Must be all that practice with your cape.”

“I am going to break your finger unless you tell me who you are right now.”

“I promised I would take you dancing,” Lucian said, smiling brightly even when Helen's fingernail about to puncture his palm, “Finally, our first real date. It's not a real date if we spend all of it jumping over rooftops and punching crime in the jaw.”

Helen's hand flew up to her chin, touching her scar.

She had been about to lose consciousness, slumped over her bike with her chin split open and her head spinning, but Monkey had been there. He had come bouncing back, dragging the first man's accomplice with him, spouting wisecracks and witticisms with all his usual careful joviality. Then he had gone quiet. She didn't remember him talking after that. She didn't remember much but being dizzy and sick, just that Monkey had picked her up and she had felt safe.

A ridiculous, frivolous cat-burglar in an African style monkey mask, who hung around incessantly, wiggling into her operations, making himself useful, flirting shamelessly and not at all abashed at being rebuffed.

“Monkey,” she said, still caught in the turning of the melody.

“Operative Zero,” Monkey said with a nod of his head, as if being formally introduced. He spun Helen out and then pulled her back in, “I'm so glad I came. I never come to boring rich people parties. But then I saw a gorgeous lady with a distinctive posture and a familiar set of lips. It's really a shame your helmet only shows your mouth, because I am enthralled by your eyes.”

Helen had a lot of things to say. None of them were suitable for asking out in the open. Instead she asked, “Don't tell me I was that easy to spot.”

“Stop smiling, lovely, it's unnatural. Where’s the deadpan vigilante of the night that I know so well?”

“I'm not a vigilante. If I was then I wouldn't have been able to persuade the authorities that it wasn't worth wasting the manpower on forming a taskforce to track you down.”

“I always thought that was very sweet of you.”

“You did return the stolen items, after all.”

“My love for you put my feet back on the path of righteousness.”

“Answer my question.”

“I wasn't sure if it was you, so I threw out a few lures. You are a divine dancer. We're going dancing twice a week from now on. You just . . . move like you.”

“Like this?”

They were dancing past an open door. Helen took over leading and swung Lucian neatly through the door and out of sight of the chattering, glittering crowds. He reeled a little bit until he found the wall.

“Whew, like that!” He agreed, sliding down to sit on the floor, leaning his head to the side again to watch Helen's face, “Yes, that's much better. I've always imagined you had a little line between your eyes when you looked at me like that. And you do!”

“What are you going to do with this information?”

“What, knowing your first name? Well, it'll be nice to have something to put on the card when I send you flowers. And to know where to pick you up when I want to take you out on the town. I promise not to drop by without calling ahead. I might be flippant but I'm not rude.”

Helen would have dropped her head into her hands if she hadn't been worrying about her makeup. Instead she gathered up handfuls of her beaded skirt and crushed them under her clenched fingers.

No one was supposed to know who Operative Zero was. An information leak like this could be disastrous to her operation, to her family. People would know where to send their hate, their bombs, know who to target to bring down the organization. There were be panic. The operatives would worry that their own identities were in jeopardy. The political opposition would seize this leak and blow it out of proportion, everything would--

“Hey, now,” Monkey gently tugged the skirt out of her hands. She was almost used to that sort of thing, he did it so often. Straightening her cape, poking her shoulder to get her attention, clasping her hand in another dramatic profession of love, “You think I'm going to go tell the whole world?”

“Maybe.”

“Not a chance, sweet. We're exclusive.”

“Let me guess, I have to go out with you or you'll post my secret identity on twitter.”

“Whoa!” Monkey bounced to his feet, curving himself sideways to get on eye level with Helen, “I'm madly in love with you, not insanely obsessed! Okay, well, I am crazy about you, yes, but not in that way.”

“You did just force me to dance.”

“I just tricked you into going with the flow. What's a little hoodwinking between friends? Or lovers, for that matter?”

“You're not being very convincing.”

Nonetheless, Helen's hands were relaxing and the tension in her shoulders easing. She couldn't help it. She trusted Monkey. They'd been through too much for her not to. There he was, being himself, twisting himself around and beaming at her with a smile she had never seen before. She'd heard the sound of it in his voice, but she had never seen it.

She thought she might like it.

“Something I love about you—aside from everything—is that there might not be much expression on your face, but if I watch I can see it all anyway,” Monkey swung around on his heel, taking in the small room they were in, “Sometimes I can see you smile even when you're face is solemn. Something about how your shoulders loosen.”

“You're ridiculous. You're saying that knowing who I am doesn't change anything?”

“Of course. Now I can see your eyes. That's life-changing. They are peerless pieces of polished jade.”

“Haven't you considered that I now know who you are? I could give your name to the police and have you arrested.”

“Angel, you would never.”

Helen crossed her arms.

“. . . would probably never?”

“Can't you ever be serious?”

“Only about you.”

Helen tried to ignore the strange little jump her heart made.

“Did you steal that from a movie?”

“Probably. But can't you hear the clear ring of truth in it anyway?” Monkey refrained from grabbing her hand again, holding his out, “Oh, you fantastically beautiful, ruthless hero of the night, I've loved you ever since you kicked me through two display cases. It might have been a different story if that had been genuine African pottery instead of replicas, but let's not dwell.”

“You pushed me out a third story window.”

“And caught you! What are superhuman reflexes for if not to save your true love?”

“Yes, about that--”

“Oh, there's plenty of time to tell you my backstory later. I look forward to hearing yours, to be sure. Right now, though, we both have the night off and there is music to step to. How about a breakfast date to hash out everything and tonight we pretend we are two ordinary millionaires who have never jumped off a building and onto a moving vehicle in our lives?”

Helen was sure she should have been fighting off a headache by now.

But she wasn't.

“My ankle hurts.”

“Oh?” Monkey's eyes darted down to the hem of Helen's skirt, “I didn't step on your foot, did I? Because that would be unforgivable.”

“No, I just have a metal plate in it and these heels throw everything out of alignment.”

“Goodness, that's no good. No more dancing tonight?”

“Well . . . maybe just one,” Helen held out her hand.

Monkey took it, a delighted grin glowing on his face, “I knew I'd wear you down. But, no, no way am I allowing you to dance. You're going home and putting a hot towel on your ankle. And, if you'll allow me, I'm going to sweep you off your feet.”

“What--?”

“I'm going to pick you up and carry you lovingly like the precious treasure you are. I would just surprise you, but I don't want to be flipped over your shoulder. Again.”

Helen considered this while Monkey attentively watched her impassive face.

It had been awhile since Helen Pickerton had done anything disgraceful. She never did anything ruinous, but just something for people to talk about and make them think they knew what was behind the mask of the powerful businesswoman. Being carried out after having a little too much to drink . . . that about fit the bill.

“I am going to get another drink and then stumble over a potted plant,” Helen brushed her dress off.

“I get to heroically rescue you?”

“Only because it would cause too much attention if I rescued you.”

“Darling, you're marvelous.”

“Then we're going to my apartment and talking about all this.”

“Can I swing by my place to pick up the small volume of poetry I have written about you? I have a whole series about how the light glints off your helmet.”

“We're talking about the repercussions of you finding out my identify. That is all. Potted plant. Five minutes. Be there.”

“How big of a an interior floral decoration do you need to trip over before I get to kiss you?”

“Business, Monkey. Business.”

“You said monkey business.”

“I'm calling the police department.”

“Okay, okay. Only business, no monkey business. See you in five,” Monkey ducked his head and kissed her cheek, dancing out of the way before she could strike at him.

“Monkey!”

Monkey batted his eyes at her.

Helen left before he could see the blush coloring her cheeks.

#my ocs #my original stories #operative zero #monkey #zero and monkey #superhero universe #drabble #garbage but at least I wrote something

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