Michael has several meetings that day to start scheduling out the day of the actual Apocalypse, which is a wildly complicated thing. It lasts well into the night, so they don't see each other.
Kitten wakes up the next morning excited to greet the day. She puts on her regular old denim shorts and her slouchy black shirt, and steps into her boots. Maybe she can spend the day just continuing to explore the building, to see if there are any departments she'd like to work in. She doesn’t want to just be arm-candy if she can help it!
But before she can even get out the door, there's a swift knock. She makes a confused face and goes to open it.
Two security guards are standing there. They look very unfriendly.
"Ms. Sanchez, we've been told to escort you to the board room immediately."
Kitten shrugs. It can only be Michael summoning her, so she follows willingly.
They take her to the elevator and, to her surprise, press the down button instead of up towards Michael’s office and executive suites. She shifts her weight uncomfortably, but says nothing; these guys don't look like they're in the mood to fall victim to her charms.
Finally, the elevator opens, and she finds herself in an extravagant underground portion of the Cooperative headquarters—the Cooperative headquarters itself, which she has never seen.
The security guards continue walking, and she follows with little clicks of her boots on the marble to a set of doors. When they open and let her inside, what Kitten sees nearly makes her urinate on herself in horror.
The doors close behind her and she's frozen to the spot.
Nearly three dozen people, dressed all in black, are sitting along a giant silver table. They are wearing silver masks, all of them. There is not a single human in that room that she'd be able to recognize, and they all turn to "stare" at her... at least that's what she thinks they're doing beneath their masks.
"Step forward, Ms. Sanchez," comes a voice from somewhere in the pack of wolves waiting to feast on her flesh.
She wrings her hands and does so, her golden eyes wide, in her denim shorts and her slouchy black shirt. She feels positively naked.
The underground headquarters is in a Neo-Gothic style, looking exactly how one would expect a secret society to look. Ancient, intimidating. One silver-masked hooded figure steps out from the pack, the designated spokesperson for this event. “Ms. Sanchez, we have heard rumors.”
"R-Rumors suck," is the first thing she blurts out.
The room is silent but she gets the feeling that a few are stifling laughter. “They do indeed. Would you help us to clear a few of them?”
"I'll do what I can!" she chirps, putting her hands behind her back so they won't see her winging them.
The spokesperson folded their hands together, “Perfect. A few of us are going to step forward and ask you questions. Please answer them to the best of your ability.” Their tone is condescending. “First—what is your relationship to Michael Langdon?”
She hesitates, then remembers exactly what Michael told her to say. Kitten lifts her chin. "I am with the King."
A few turn to each other to murmur. “With? Could you elaborate on that?”
She hesitates. She'll have to be clever here. "No."
"And why not, Ms. Sanchez? Is the nature of your relationship to Mr. Langdon shameful?”
She narrows her eyes, but she's trembling anxiously. "No. It's just that..." Kitten chews the inside of her cheek. "... we're together. I can't be any clearer."
They nod, “I see. Let’s move on then.” Another steps from the crowd, as if they are going to name each one of her sins. Though they won’t be as kind as Michael.
“Before you came here, were you either a stripper, prostitute? And bear in mind, I mean: did you take money for sex either for yourself or others?”
Kitten thinks hard about the question, tries to figure out any way out of it. But every ounce of her street-smart cleverness is no where near the capacity of their brutal, (literally) evil intelligence and ruthlessness. "N-Not usually money. Favors sometimes. Goods sometimes. Alliances..." She realizes she might be digging herself a deeper hole in trying to hedge. "Yes."
“Thank you.” It’s said with the slightest hint of disgust.
The next comes forward. “How long have you been a devoted Satanist? What work have you done in his infernal name?”
Kitten hesitates again. It's obvious to them that she's trying to figure out how to deflect, but the way they're asking their questions makes it impossible. "I'm not a devoted Satanist and if I'm honest I ain't got the slightest clue what it means to be one. I believe in Michael Langdon and I know how to say Ave Satanas. I did figure out the other day that nema is just amen backwards and to be honest I think that's a little hokey but that's y'all's business."
Another. “Is your relationship to Mr. Langdon sexual in nature and have you received or been offered anything because of it?”
"Why? Does Mr. Langdon seem like he needs a prostitute?"
The retort seems to offend everyone in the room. “Answer the question, Ms. Sanchez.”
She thinks about his offer to buy her new clothes so she can fit in better around here and swallows hard, getting confused and panicked. "Y-Yes to both?"
“Is Mr. Langdon aware of your past?” The implication being: if he doesn’t know, how disgusted would he be to find out? If he does know, what possessed him to choose you?
"He reads minds," she answers dryly.
“What makes you qualified to be here?”
"Because Mr. Langdon says so."
“Why does he say so? In what way have you proven your worthiness as the rest of us had to do? Or was it your sexual relationship that sweetened the deal?”
"I didn't spend millions paying my way in like all y’all, if that's what you're asking," she snaps.
“It’s not and you’re not so stupid to think it is.”
"He... he's never really said why. You'll have to ask him that."
Another steps out. Her sins are growing as her judges step forward. “Why should you be with Michael Langdon?”
"He's with me for the same reason anyone is with anyone. Because that's what he wants. I ain’t gonna speak for him.”
“Let’s switch gears.” Another member joins the group at the front. “Was your precious employer a drug-lord and kingpin of Miami and were you also sexually involved with him?”
She can't help but tremble in fear. Not for herself. For Michael. They'll all know how unworthy and disgusting she is and it'll reflect poorly on him for choosing her. "Yes."
“As I thought. You seem to enjoy putting yourself in the beds of men in power. Was your father also a kingpin... and were you sexually involved with him?”
Kitten wants to vomit, shaking her head, the panic setting in. "It... it wasn't like that!"
“You didn’t have sex with your father?”
Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she tries to keep the weakness out of her voice. "I did, but—"
“Your father hired many of his sons, did he not? Did you have sex with your half-brothers?”
"I... It's... I didn't... you don't understand!" She sways on her feet, her face pale as a sheet.
“I think we understand perfectly well, Ms. Sanchez,” the spokesperson says, “We understand your type.”
"And what type is that?" she asks, wishing like hell she had anything to lean on, to physically hold onto that might keep her from crumbling to the floor.
“A junkie whore,” one of them spits venomously. They’ve all gathered against her.
If she glanced behind them, she’d see a hint of golden hair suddenly appear among the sea of black.
“One last question,” Michael says, causing them all to gasp and stiffen, or back away from him entirely. The atmosphere is ominous. “Why wasn’t I invited to this party?” It’s obvious they chose a time when they thought he wasn’t going to be around for this nonsense.
"Sir," one of them says, pointing a condemning finger at her as she stands there about to be sick with humiliation. "This... I hesitate to even say woman... isn't worthy to be here, much less to be with the Antichrist."
"Do you know anything about her?” another says. “Have you even read her file?"
"Sir... if it's female company you need, there are many devoted Satanist women who would be honored by the opportunity to serve you. But resorting to a prostitute—”
Michael lifts his hand, poised in a flicking motion, his face indicating he’d have no issue killing them right then.
Everyone falls deadly silent, except for Kitten, who is sniffling pitifully.
He slowly puts his hand down and begins walking towards her, the crowd parting as if even touching him would kill them. He reaches up and cups her tearful face, his blue eyes kind and loving.
She blinks, and the tears that had been clinging to her lids finally streak down her smooth cheeks. Her golden eyes shimmer with fear and sadness. "I tried. I’m sorry."
He kisses her forehead, “You passed your tests a long time ago, my only. They’ve done nothing.” He puts his hands back behind his back, “Could you lift one of your hands for me?”
She slowly does as he asks, fingers shaking.
He turns back to the Cooperative, “Do all of you see her hand?” It’s not rhetorical.
"Yes, sir," they all quietly answer, practically in unison from behind their masks.
“Good. It is stained with the blood of hundreds of men. The difference in our ability to kill lies not in talent or ferocity—but in fractions of seconds.” He starts to prowl around them.
Kitten does not lower her hand. The Cooperative members glance at each other and then at her slight, trembling form incredulously.
“Do you require proof?” He demands, “Bring the strongest man from the Sanctuary and she will decimate him,” he stops and stares down one of the members, “Or would you like to volunteer yourself?”
None of them do, not even the young men with enough money for boxing and wrestling and fencing lessons in their free time—rich bastards—afraid that he will blow their heads up during the fight to make a point. It's not her they're afraid of. It's still him.
“I didn’t think so. But I think I’ll still make my point.” He looks at Kitten, “Choose one of them and break their wrist.”
Kitten's tearful eyes clear up and flash dangerously. "Which one of them called me a junkie whore?"
He looks over the crowd. “Amelia Harper.”
The woman begins to tremble, but walks forward anyway. “Please, Your Majesty, I was only thinking of you! You deserve someone better!”
“I defy you to name one better than her,” he says, “Kitten.”
Kitten steps over to the woman calmly. She reaches up with a speed no human eye could follow and rips off her silver mask, revealing her face, a pretty blonde wincing in shock that this whore would have the audacity—
"I'm not sorry," Kitten snarls.
She lashes out again, snatching the woman by her wrist and spinning around, twirling her at the same time. The redhead reaches back and grabs her by the back of her neck, and uses the momentum of both their bodies to flip her over her back and slam her right down onto the floor, hard enough to knock the wind out of her.
The blonde lays there, shocked and gasping, and as an afterthought, Kitten reaches out and takes the woman's hand, turning it on its side and giving her whole arm a very precise, simple flick. There's a loud crack, and Amelia wails, grabbing her wrist once Kitten tosses her arm back. The Cooperative stands there, stunned.
Michael smiles. “I have deemed her worthy because she is worthy. If you have doubts, bring them to me yourself. Don’t hide behind your masks,” he offers his hand to Kitten, stepping over Amelia’s still whimpering form.
Kitten takes his hand, looking out over the little assembly. She knows this isn't over. They'll only despise her more after this, and see her as even more of a threat; they'll spread rumors that the Antichrist is affectionate towards an incest-loving prostitute. But this first altercation is over, and it's unclear who won.
“Return to your duties, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve wasted enough time.” He leads her out of the room, back into the hallway and towards the elevator.
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