ashes to ashes, dust to dust

[oxfxrdprince-blog]

              He’s dressed to the nines, but the night isn’t nearly as exciting as it should be. How many times, after all, has he been placed in this same role? Make him a depraved beggar, a street peddler; clothe him in rags and let him eat stale bread: even a day of poverty would be more stimulating than a constant lifetime of rotating riches. 

             This entire bloody mess – Hale didn’t sign up for this shit when he pledged himself to the Society. Of course, he’s in no immediate danger of being found out, but god knows what dear Uncle Victor might give up if he was compromised. Regardless. At this rate, he’s missed more days of school than he’s attended: and when it comes to Hale Rothschild, look-alike geniuses don’t quite cut it for attendance. A degree doesn’t really matter, of course. There were always backdoors to take, officials to bribe, summa cum laudes to net. But really, what the fuck was this whole fiasco? He’d come for the fun of it, and now he was part of a globally wanted crime organization. 

         Still, he’s known this life for too long to relinquish. What’s another day, another night? Strangely, he’s here today as precisely his own identity: there’s no better disguise than that which you are born with. There’s a key with his name attached to it, Rothschild – there’s his golden Porche in the casino garage, his white bowties hung neatly up in the East-wing penthouse. He only had to be himself, and nothing could be said against him. It’s the proletariat who needs to hide behind masks: all those low-status pickpockets and scrappy burglers who had risen out of obscurity, their name worth less than a penny in these halls.

      Even so, he introduces himself to strangers as Clement Duval, young business magnate, here for a weekend of debauchery and bet-placing. Obviously, this means that he speaks impeccable French, has a generally snobbish air to his boyish beauty; and eyes women like a dog eyes a steak. In fact, he’s cornered one now, near the massive windows of the ninth floor, which overlook the city in all its splendor. He’s fishing, or maybe he’s just having fun. Nonetheless, there’s a general note of flirtation to his greeting — 

                                              “C'est une vue jolie, n'est-ce pas?” 

[whiskeybishop]

Monaco is like a breath of air after being locked in a sweltering room. A break from the tension of planning, of countless debates about things already out of their control - a blessing, Whiskey thinks, something finally to do. Every blessing has a caveat, she knows, and this is no different. The Grand Prix, the ultimate race, the epitome of the things she holds dear - to be here, now, on the brink of the spectacle, and yet to be so far away... She wants to be here to race, not to mingle, not to stand looking pretty in a glittering dress, sheer enough that she feels powerful with every head she turns but still too foreign on her body. Black tie is not her preferred style, but she'll take the slinky fabric and slip it on like a second skin when she is called to. She'll do her part when she is told to, even when every fiber of her being is screaming otherwise.

The edges of the parties are where she likes to hover, just close enough to be part of it all but far enough away that she can disengage just slightly, stay hardened under the soft guise she is presenting. If a light Texas drawl turns any heads, well - she can be gone in an instant, a gossamer shadow of a steel whole, like a flare spot from a too-bright flash that stays in your vision long after the light itself is gone. She'd secluded herself to the windows, taking in the street below, the city streching out before her. She wanted to conquer it, feel the pulse beneath her wheels, tear up the beautiful streets in cherry-red glory. It would have to wait. Like for everything she wanted, she would have to wait.

There are footsteps behind her, a reflection in the window beside her own. She recognized him in an instant - who else would find the woman in the corner, another victim in his quest to seduce the world? It was surprising, almost, that he didn't seem to recognize her, especially when she appeared to be the only one capable of insulting him. She doesn't understand the words entirely, but there is enough French in her to pick up the tone of what he's saying, to hear the lilt in the words that is beyond just the call of the language. "да," she replies softly, clinging to one last moment of her fantasy. "красивая." She turns to him then, head cocked, a thin smile on her lips. "What do you want, Hale?"

[whiskeybishop]

@gin-bishop

Whiskey was humming, both in the literal and figurative sense of the word - not an unusual feeling, the thrum of blood and adrenaline through her veins, but the tune she was carrying, well. That was something that’d been stuck in her head since their flight to London, something Gin had forced her to listen to while they were trapped in an enclosed space, and something that she desperately, utterly wanted to get rid of - and so she hummed. She could carry a tune, perhaps, not in a pretty way but at least on key, not that it mattered in any way as she loitered outside the Victorian, grinding her cigarette butt into the pavement. Gin wanted her to quit smoking (hell, Whiskey wanted herself to quit smoking), but she’d been jittering all week after sitting in these meetings, and it calmed her nerves.

Gin had said something about taking a day off this morning when they’d left for yet another round of meetings, and Whiskey had jumped on it. The plan was loose at best - sit through a morning of excruciating arguments where nothing would get done and tensions would only continue to mount, every day another day closer to their possible demise. Then they’d slip out, shake off the society and set themselves loose on the city. They’d never done anything tourist-y, Gin complained, so why not just do it to get it over with and also to avoid worsening the shake in Whiskey’s hands and the ever-growing urge to cut ties and run? (Though Gin didn’t know these reasons, the ones Whiskey kept so close to her chest - because the more they talked, the more the masterminds kept deliberating and digging themselves into deeper and deeper of a hole, the more she felt trapped by something that had promised to never ensnare her - the more the felt like Annabelle, and that was something she never wanted to return to.)

She popped a piece of gum into her mouth as she waited, hoping to cut at least some of the smoke smell from her breath. She knew Gin would know, knew she’d probably get a sideways glance if nothing else, but chewing also helped ease some of the tension in her jaw. The past few days had been shit on her body and mind alike, but she pushed that thought out of her mind. She could take care of herself when this was all over. The door behind her opened, and Whiskey turned to her sister as she stepped out of it. “What kept you so long?” 

[u-jin]

Thunder || Magnus & Open

[whiskeybishop]

leeheir:

Magnus nodded when she spoke but he didn’t respond again. She was right to an extent. They should just let the Cappechi’s figure it out themselves, it was their leader who had no control over his hotheadedness that got everyone into this mess in the first place, but at the same time, could he really be trusted to cover this up by himself? He obviously doesn’t have the intelligence or control to protect the society or else they wouldn’t be in this situation. If the Cappechi’s weren’t so heavily connected to every other working piece of this monstrous machine, he would tell them to go fuck themselves and sort it out on their own. That unfortunately wasn’t the case, and they couldn’t be trusted to cover everyone’s asses, especially not over their own, but, of course, he refused to say this aloud. Useless drama was the last thing he or anyone else needed at the moment, and besides, he was sure she was thinking the same thing without so much as a word from his lips. She seemed like an intelligent person.

Magnus found a chuckle making it’s way from his throat at her comment about the ‘opulent bullshit’ more commonly known as the Victorian. “I don’t believe I could have said it better myself.” He said rather honestly with a hint of a crooked smile. He had always preferred cheap and local to expensive and world-renowned. The liquor was stronger and the people were much more.. lets go with the word ‘honest’, shall we?

“I know a place I have a feeling you’d enjoy. Within walking distance, total shit hole, but the service is wonderful in the way that they don’t try to make small talk.” He said, feet turning and starting in the direction of the bar. He couldn’t help but wonder what it could actually be like in that head of hers. She was here in the conversation but it seemed that she was mentally in a completely different space entirely. He couldn’t tell if it was something he said or if perhaps she was just always that way, but if he recalled correctly, the past couples time he met her she had seemed more present. Maybe he hadn’t been paying enough attention? It seemed unlikely, but he also tried to take into account that everyone was in a weird head space today. She could easily just be one of the majority. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can get away from this building quick enough. I can’t tell if I’ve been in twelve rooms or only one, they all look the same.” He mused thoughtfully.

"It sounds perfect." She noted the slight quirk of his lips, the low laugh at her words. She knew very little about him, but the Lee heir's desertion and blazing return was still the talk of whicspers around the society. He must be used to opulence, she thought, but what intrigued her was his readiness to escape it. Already this short exchange was more intriguing than the entire day had been.

She followed him as he walked, her paces measured, always just the slightest bit too far from him. It was habit - easier to get away quickly, easier to keep a buffer if another outside force came in. Easier to look as though they weren't together."I think I've only ever been in two of them, and one of the main lobby. Though I honestly can't be sure," she replied, a slight smile spreading across her lips at his tone. "It's a good business measure, I guess - it sucks you in and makes you uncertain you can ever leave it." She paused for a moment, musing. "It must be terrible working there, for that same reason, I guess."

[cvilliers]

Charles was glad to be home. Glad to be back where he had a steady hand on every marble that rolled across his palm. Security had tightened in America and then right across Europe as utterance of mafia movements sent authorities into a spin – partly because everyone knew that it wasn’t just the bloody mafia at the centre of this bizarre and violent incident, no there was someone else, something else, an entity that nobody could quite put their finger on – the masterminds were quite set on keeping all fingers far from their chests. 

Charles should have brought his Daggers back to home base as Francis advised but… business was business, there was stock to be sold and debt to be collected. So as Charles attended the many whispered meetings and kept a steady eye on Lorenzo (who he was sure would attempt to take the reins any day now) – the Daggers continued to wreak solicited havoc in London’s gutters. 

Lorenzo’s uptight outburst back in France had been questionable at best, but as the news broke, his actions seemed quite clear to Charles. The Capecchis were not to be trusted, and Charles would have been prepared to talk Francis into breaking all ties had his own interests not been so tightly aligned with the Italian crew. 

“I say we cut the shit and lay out what we know here.” Charles interrupted Victor who was bumbling something about covering their tracks to a meeting full of people that had been ‘covering their tracks’ their entire god damn lives. Who even let him into the room? The distracted whisperings that were being exchanged during Victor’s ramblings fell silent as Charles took command of the discussion. 

“The Italian’s cannot be trusted.” There was an uproar of disagreement and Charles stood, slamming his fist on the table and then looking around the room with a fire in his eyes that said he’d murder every single one of them right then and there if he had the chance. “Error cannot be taken lightly. Now as far as I see it, the Beauregards and the Capecchis need to take a back seat while we clean this shit up. Security is tight everywhere right now, which is why I say we need another Heist. Another three. Three different locations around the world. We give enough distraction, throw them off the scent, how can one group of people possibly be in three places at once?” He raised his voice as people began to chatter beneath him.”There are other crews out there looking to sweep in from underneath us. We show them we can’t be beat, and we show the world that nothing and no one is safe. We can sit back and let them crawl over our battle lines, or we can attack. They know Italy, they know France, but they don’t know the rest of us, who we are or what we can do. I say we show them - because they’ll be so fucking blinded by it that they’ll forget who they were looking for to begin with.”

[whiskeybishop]

Whiskey's urge to hit something was overwhelming. She wasn't made for protocol, for planning; she was a creature of instinct, molded by situation. There was nothing to be done; there was everything to be done. She itched to move, to run, to get the fuck away from the ramblings of a scattered crew, from coverups and fear. She wasn't afraid, no. She was furious.

She hadn't spoken for fear of an outburst of all her frustrations - what good were her thoughts to them? She was just a driver, some small piece in the puzzle; her thoughts were not worth their time. Lorenzo Capecchi already believed she was a fool, but her words had come true, hadn't they? The irony was almost palpable.

She was contemplating her escape when Charles Villiers spoke. All her thoughts focused - here was a man with thoughts like hers, she knew, someone who was bound to be just as disgusted as she was. A small noise of approval came unbidden from the back of her throat at his words - it was lost in the swell of noise around her, but she sat up straighter at the slam of his fist, the fire in his eyes. Here was logic, here was sense. A plan, something tangible; ambitious, maybe, but what was a thief without ambition, especially when trying to save his own skin?

"America." She spoke almost involuntarily, caught up in the passionate swell of Charles' voice. She felt heads swivel towards her, eyes burning into her soul - who was she to speak in this meeting of masterminds? She raised her voice, hard as steel. "It has to be America. It's where they'll least expect. They may have strengthened security, started looking more closely than before, but all that means is that they'll be absolutely blindsided by anything we accomplish. It's a distraction for the government and a warning to other crews. It shows we have the upper hand, that we are not afraid - not of the government, not of them, and certainly not of our own mistakes."

[u-jin]

Thunder || Magnus & Open

[whiskeybishop]

leeheir:

Magnus had been vaguely aware that someone was following him. He felt it, like a chill up his spine, but it hadn’t gotten to the point where he felt it needed to be investigated. However, the voice was a surprise as it was one he surely hadn’t expected, and he found himself wishing he had turned to the presence sooner. With his interest piqued, he finally turned to face the voice that had responded to his notation. Whiskey Bishop. The girl was fire, dangerous and sweltering. Smoking, not necessarily in the cheesy way of saying ‘hot’ but instead more similarly to the way a forest catches fire. The thick gray smoke billowing and covering the once blue sky with a veil of darkness. Oh yes, she was one of the people he was curious to know more about, because if there’s one thing he could tell just by looking at a face, it’s whether or not someone has a secret.

He smiled and huffed a bit of a laugh at her comment, his hands finding their way to his pockets. “I can’t help but agree.” He started, head cocking to the side a bit. “All the ideas are either suicidal or redundant.” He didn’t so much as glance back at her before he spoke again. “In other words,” He said, his tone still rather stoic but with a bit of a cheeky smirk pulling at his lips, “We’re surrounded by dumb asses.” He was still seemingly put together but his completely collected and professional disposition was cracking a bit, his generally somewhat childish nature seeping through. He normally would’ve upheld the facade in the presence of those he knows less of in the society but he could tell she was one of the few who could take a fucking joke. That, and it had been a more than exhausting day and he was, admittedly, bored out of his mind and he had been wanting an excuse to talk shit on the Villiers (even if he would never exclusively admit he was talking about the Villiers) all day now and this was a perfect opportunity. 

“Everyone wants either too much action or none at all. The first one is meant as a scare tactic and the other, well..” He didn’t finish the sentence but it wasn’t hard to guess what he was going to say. Doing nothing is bred from fear, doing too much is bred from over confidence and a deeply ingrained superiority complex. That being said, he much preferred ‘too much’ to ‘nothing at all.’ Naturally, Magnus would’ve weighed in on the conversation more and offered solutions but he had been gone for five years and he didn’t really see it his place. While, yes, his brain had certainly found itself coming up with more than a few ideas that may or may not work, he still kept his mouth shut, mostly because he knew someone would interject with a comment on his leave, and he very much didn’t intend to have that conversation in a room of people when he still had yet to even properly discuss it with those under his families loyalty. 

“You’re sick of it too, then?” He finally asked, glancing at his watch. “Do you want to go get a drink or two? I’d say five is more than late enough for it.”

Her lips turned up in a hint of a smile at his words, the joke taking some of the tension out of her. It was refreshing to find someone who felt the same way as her - it seemed like every group was pushing for something that was, ultimately, an absolute shit plan that would end them all in jail. She nodded as he kept talking, stepping closer towards him from where she had been hovering. Magnus Lee was an enigma to her, nature hinted at briefly by Aleks or Peregrine in bursts of passionate speech. They’d met before, once or twice; Whiskey, a newfound member of a scattered group of Magnus’s own creation. From what she could tell, he was a stable mind. She wondered what he thought of her.

“It’s all cowardice. All the plans, all the actions that got us into this mess in the first place. That’s the problem with this bunch - too reactionary.” She scowled slightly, remembering the press of metal against her forehead. She was rash, sometimes, but this - this was something else entirely. “It’s just one huge fucking mess, and I don’t want any part in it. We should’ve just let one batch take the fall like they were meant to, not sweep the rest of us all into it.”

He checked his watch, she looked back up at the clouds. The roiling mass looked like it was bound to split open at any moment, and while she appreciated the finer points of standing in the rain, she didn’t want to slink back into the meeting dripping like a wet dog. “A drink sounds wonderful.”

This was the type of moment that led others to stiff drinks, cigarettes, something to take the edge off the tangible anxiety of their situation, but Whiskey wanted none of it. She’d indulge Magnus this time - get a soda or something if pressed - but she was itching for something much more nebulous, much less tangible than the prospect of being raging drunk. She wanted to get her hands on something - her car, maybe, or simply the freedom it gave. She could outrun the law on her own, but with the rest of the Society behind her? She was trapped.

“I don’t know much of this area, so you ought to lead the way,” she said, refocusing on Magnus. She wondered if he could sense the urge to run on her, if he felt the same. “The divey-er the better. I’m fucking sick of opulent bullshit.”

[u-jin]

Thunder || Magnus & Open

His phone had been blowing up all day. E-mails, text messages, phone calls. Meetings were being set and panic was flowing freely throughout the society. It was a wide spread feeling of fear he didn’t quite recall having experienced before, at least, not quite to this caliber. Despite the empty rooms they sat in, they all whispered, as if someone was listening in, and he supposed that at this point, that wasn’t a completely ridiculous idea. 

Magnus couldn’t stand the inside walls of the meeting room any longer, it was stifling, so he went for a walk. His black coat was tight to his body and his eyes glanced towards the sky where dark clouds waited above the city, threatening the bad weather to come. The air was thick, even in the outdoors and he could feel the humidity crackling the empty space.

Some would consider it symbolic. He just considered it inconvenient.

A growl of thunder broke out around him as the the clouds seemed to grow even heavier. He stopped walking and turned, just looking out over the skyline with a small frown tugging on the corner of his mouth. It was going to start pouring any minute now and he debated finding cover. He could duck into a bar or a party perhaps, and drink and flirt until he was no longer concerned about the happenings in his community. Or maybe he could find his way into book store or coffee shop.

Maybe he would just stay out and take in the chaos.

“A storm’s coming.” Magnus noted in a quiet, thoughtful tone. He didn’t just mean the weather.

[whiskeybishop]

Whiskey hated this. Hated the politics, the angry planning when something inevitably falls out of place. It made her want to scream - the sudden recall to Russia, the scattering of the society to their separate ends of the earth, the Capecchis escaping into hiding - sweet, cool irony, she thought, strill bristling from her confrontation with Lorenzo. She was one of the few Rozanov that had been through it all, all the ups and downs of this twisted heist and shit-show of an aftermath, and so she was stuck planning, weighing in on things that meant nothing to her. It was maddening.

She slipped out when she could, reveling in the cool air despite the oppressive weight of the humidity. Rain, it screamed, but it would not bring the clean, blank start that they needed. It wasn't long before someone else slipped from the room and started their way into the streets - she followed, more out of habit than curiosity, wending her way through the shadows behind them. When they stopped, she stopped, startled by the intensity of the thunder. They spoke, which startled her more, because she hadn't realized he'd noticed her.

"You don't say," she replied, stepping out of the shadows beside him. Sarcasm was about the only thing she could muster at the moment - too much pent up energy with no outlet. "I'd rather see what Mother Nature can do than sit through more of this hackjob cover-up."

[whiskeybishop]

romanlohovary:

He doesn’t know the woman who slips out before him, but he immediately picks up from the tone of her voice, and the nature of her words, that she isn’t afraid of what he represents. Pack dynamics are something that he has only recently begun to explore, and the Heist Society, in all its width and breadth, certainly contains a vast conglomerate of personas, all who rival his closely selected few. 

For the occasion - black tie, to be argued - she certainly hasn’t adhered to the expectation. That in itself, along with the boldness of her gaze, tells him several things. One: that she considers herself, in many respects, a rebel. And two: that she will not bend to him. Nobility stuns nobility; it is in the presence of reality that it falters. 

“My apologies. It was a long drive,” he responds ambiguously, with a small curve of his lips. “Better late, than never, no?” But as their eyes meet; hers unwavering and unimpressed, they both know that in this case, those waiting inside wish that it was never. “Nonetheless.” He looks towards the chateau. “The day is still young.” 

Better late than never, no? A joke, she's sure; they both know full well how the Society feels on the matter. She's surprised, almost, by the effort at bland humor and for the way he's addressing her. They are not equals in most respects, but she has some high ground over him and he seems to recognize it. If there is not a mutual respect, at least there is somewhat of a mutual wariness - and, if she's honest, curiosity. "Indeed it is." She follows his gaze to the building with a frown. She's sure that of the two of them, she is the one who wants to enter it least.

"I hate to ruin your big entrance," she says, still looking at the building. "Unless, of course, you plan to wait for your sister. In that case, I'd be more than happy to destory whatever impressive reveal you have planned." She looks back at him, a wry smile on her face, a slight attempt to dissolve the formality between them. A probe, trying to gauge his character now that she had him face to face. "If you're not waiting - well, that's s bit tacky, isn't it? Make a big entrance and let the rest of them shuffle in during the scattered aftermath. Doesn't seem like your style."

[whiskeybishop]

lorenzocapecchi:

Her display was…pathetic. Depressing to watch, as this young girl tried so hard to stand up to him. Lorenzo barely listened to her babble on, knowing she was playing up the tough girl act, desperate to prove to everyone that could see her how strong she was, how unaffected she was. It was laughable, really. But Lorenzo was in no mood to laugh at that moment. Instead, he refused to let her move him as she leaned forward, trying to push back against his gun. Did she truly think she could stand against him and win?

And how hard she attempted to prove him weak, afraid. She only made more and more of a fool of herself. He knew then that she’d be easily toyed with, easily manipulated. He let the gun drop, stepping aside as he was sure she’d stumble forward in her attempt to push into him. His thumb switched the safety of his gun on and he tucked it quickly into the waistband of his pants. He had more important people to argue with than a nobody who finally decided to put on her big girl pants.

“Looks like you’ve got me all figured out, little one. A timid old man trying to prove my strength.” He gave her a smile; dark and predator-like. He had plans for this girl. She would learn just what made Lorenzo so formidable. “Enjoy the rest of your night playing grown up.” He moved passed her.

She could see his face return to condescension as she talked - so be it. If he believed he was so far above her, he could fall from that height when his errors finally caught up to him. His bravado, his righteous anger, it was as much a mask as any wore in the society. She had not found his weak spot, but she would, and then he would be just like the rest of them, title or not.

He removed the gun, and she refused to waver. There was undoubtably going to be a bruise radiating from the point of contact, but she'd done what she'd come to do. "Not timid, signore, just old." She matched his smile with one of her own, mimicking the darkness in his face. It was meant to scare her, she was sure, but it was an empty threat. "Predictable."

She pivoted to follow him as he walked past her, calling to him as he moved away, her words laced heavily with sarcasm as she flung his words back at him. "I pity those near you when your rashness backfires. Enjoy the rest of your night."

[whiskeybishop]

lorenzocapecchi:

Put your gun down.

How many times had Lorenzo heard that phrase? How many different tones had been used? He couldn’t quite recall. What he did remember, though, was that there was not one time that those words had any been successful in getting him to lower his gun. Instead, he met Whiskey’s eye and lifted it, jabbing the barrel against her forehead with enough force to leave a bruise. He was getting tired of nobody’s questioning him, or talking to him like they were telling him something he didn’t know. It was pathetic, and it was infuriating. They all knew who Lorenzo was, what he’d done in the past, and what he was likely to do in the future. For anyone to think they could stand up to him and get results, well, it just didn’t happen.

And he thought Xanthe had been a fucking idiot. “You think any of the Mastermind’s own gun that can be traced back to them?” He asked, giving her a look that showed just how dumb he’d realized she was. “You think I would own a gun that could be traced back to me?” Lorenzo actually laughed; a bitter, dark sound. “If I didn’t know better, I’d have guessed you were one of Victor’s people with how stupid you’ve just made yourself look in a matter of sentences.” The gun was pushed harder into her forehead, his finger settling comfortably against the trigger.

“I know how eager you must be to prove yourself, how you probably saw this as a chance to show everyone that you can be useful. Because of that, I think I’ll let you live tonight. But before you open your mouth to speak to me again, I hope you remember where you are, who you’re speaking to, and maybe think long and hard about what you’re wanting to say before you say it.”

The sharp crack of metal against skull sent her brain reeling for a split second, but she didn't flinch. This is where she thrived, one second from destruction, adrenaline pumping through her veins. His anger, his scorn, close enough now for her to see clearly the disrespect she'd flung in his face. She grinned, sharp, voice like a blade."You think you're invincible, do you? You think that your special guns and your militias and all of your dispensable pawns can keep you safe? What makes you any different from the rest of us?"

She knew she was goading him, knew that she was c territory close to crossing a line she could never recover from. She could feel the eyes of the society trained on her, could almost taste the anxiety palpable in the air. Her grin never faltered, not even when the gun dug deeper into her skull, when his fingers came down around the trigger. She felt more alive than she had in months.

"Go ahead. Shoot me." She could almost laugh. "You think I care what you people think of me? You think I'm afraid of dying?" She scoffed. "I'm not afraid of you, Capecchi. You're just an agry man looking for someone to blame for your own fear. That's what you are. Afraid. Because you know there's shit all you can do to fix this." She leaned in, pressing the gun back towards him, angling her face closer to his, dropping her voice low. "I am not your pawn, Capecchi. You kill me, you show your fear and distrust to everyone. You start a war."

"So shoot me. Give them what they want."

[alyinsvoice-deactivated20231001]

The only reason Victor wasn’t dead at that moment was because of Francis. The Villiers patriarch stepped between Lorenzo and his almost-victim immediately, stopping what would have easily been the most b r u t a l killing the members of the Society would have ever seen. Three seconds more and Lorenzo would have shoved the shattered remains of the cellphone deep into Victor’s throat, severing everything that got in the way. Not that he would have stopped there, as next he would’ve shoved the other Mastermind to the ground and stomped his head into the marble flooring as he choked on the plastic shards in his throat.

But Francis was smart, had known what Lorenzo would have done and had intervened. Leaving the Capecchi leader boiling with a rage that would not be contained long. Immediately he’d sent each of his children home, going so far as to have Alessia dragged out as she refused to do what he’d commanded. If the call had been traced, he would not allow his kids to take the fall for Victor’s thief’s stupid mistake. His next move had been to make a few calls, and within minutes he had someone on a jet headed towards Texas. Their objective? Kill the caller, by any means necessary. If he was stupid enough to call in like he had, there was no trusting him not to keep his mouth shut. He needed to be eliminated.

Still, it didn’t feel like enough. And so Lorenzo stalked back and forth, eyeing the Beauregard Mastermind from across the room. He didn’t hide the pistol gripped tightly in his left hand, didn’t bother keeping his finger off the trigger. Too many people stood between Lorenzo and his intended target, however, and though he wasn’t too worried about who he could accidentally hit if he fired, he didn’t want to give Victor a chance to duck into safety should the bullet strike someone else. 

[whiskeybishop]

Texas. A small irony; the trigger for the beginning of her story, perhaps also the trigger for the end. There was nothing amusing about the situation, nor of the righteous anger that rippled out from the epicenter of the crime; just a biting irony for only Whiskey to enjoy.

The commotion that ensues - the shattered phone, the evacuation of Capecchi forces - is strategically the best plan. Let Victor Beauregard take the fall for his thief's faults. That would be what was right. If the entire society was to be compromised by a grab for a new type of cheese, well. The man responsible can be destroyed. The rest of them had so much more to lose.

What seemed like hours was a matter of a few minutes, and so the rest were left stewing, throwing glances like daggers towards the hunched figure of the Beuregard leader, avoiding the furious pacing of the lone Capecchi remaining. Whiskey could feel the hate radiating off the man as he prowled around the room. The gun at his side did nothing to ease the tension in the room - there was always a threat that it would be used. No one put that past him. Amidst the worried murmuring of the crowd, she approached.

"Put your gun down."

She'd never been one for hierarchies, never cared to learn her place in the world because if she had, she'd either be dead or still back in Texas. It didn't matter to her that Lorenzo Capecchi was a mastermind or that she was just some lowly footsoldier in the rankings of his mind - no, he was just an agry man searching for an outlet, and she'd dealt with many of those in her life.

"Come now, is shooting him really going to help our cause?" she asks, defiant. "You shoot, he dies, the police trace this all down to here, find the body, find the bullet in his head, trace the gun, trace the owner, find you. Wonder, why would Lorenzo Capecchi want him dead? Connect the dots between thief and thief, and now we have another mastermind implicated." She threw his own ranking back at him, contempt obvious in her matter-of-fact tone. What a state they were in, with one emasculated leader and another who couldn't keep his temper in the slightest face of trouble. "You've already done enough to throw yourself into this mess. They're quite good at tracing killers in America."

[romanlohovary-blog]

He arrives in a black car. It’s a beautiful estate - charmant indeed, as the historic title suggests. In this time of the year the gardeners work tirelessly, and exiting from the vehicle once it is parked behind all the rest, Roman passes his gaze over them. They are, as is everything to do with the Beauregard name, picturesque. Sunhats and white starch shirts - as if out of a Van Gogh painting. Not a bloom is out of place, not a fountain or manicured follicle of grass mistaken. He’s arrived at the right place. 

He senses them watching him from afar. He must be the last to arrive - as should be. This is, after all, his coronation: whether they know it or not, today they are welcoming him into their alliance, and inevitably he will manifest and build up his ghostly kingdom until it too belongs to him. Iris, Leonard, Sanjay, Caleb, and Candice are split between two other cars, coming soon. This one houses only his bargaining chips. 

Footsteps approach from the east. Turning, he meets the eyes of one of Francis’ thieves. Certainly, there are crews - but in essence, they were all Francis’ thieves, weren’t they? With an obscure smile, he adopts a conversational, light tone. “You’ve come to fetch me, I presume.” 

[whiskeybishop]

If she'd been given the choice, she'd be far away from France, far from the Lohovary twins and the destruction they sow in their wake. Of course, when you find yourself at a gala on the French Riviera, scrambling to pick up the pieces of a plan gone horribly, horribly wrong, you don't have much choice. You're ushered away from the controlled chaos to yet another manor where you sit and you wait with the other pawns while the superiors whisper - because that's what you are. Pawns. And your whole world gives a little, more than you thought it could, and you find yourself watching a sleek, black car roll up the drive. Watching a lone figure emerge. Watching him watch you, though he doesn't appear to realize you're there.

"Don't flatter yourself."

Up close, he's everything she'd expected. Chiseled jawline, pristine skin, clothing cut perfectly to accentuate broad shoulders, a regal stance. She'd approached from behind, pushing off a car she'd been itching to race just a moment before. He knew they were waiting, knew that he kept them all on the edge of their seats. What he didn't know was her, and she doubted he cared to try. For however much he seemed to lord over the Society, he hadn't tried to make his way into its depths.

She knows what he sees - scuffed boots and worn jeans, no attempt to dress up, to suck up to his esteem. She looks out of place on the pristine gravel drive, let alone next to him, who fits the backdrop like he'd never been apart from it. Haughty, she looks at him, head cocked, eyebrows raised. "You're just as late as I am. Don't you know it's rude to keep people waiting?"

[whiskeybishop]

oxfxrdprince:

“Really,” he remarks conversationally, and his lips curl up as he swallows another mouthful of his drink. “Not many Americans I’ve met are willing to turn their back on their ways. Funny how patriotism is.” He’s met many Americans - politicians, businessmen, Wall Street bankers, strippers and escorts and cardmates in the casinos and luxury hotels. Whiskey, in contrast, seems so normal; so unwilling to bend to his pointed desires. He almost appreciates her frankness. Almost. Still, he is here to do a job; and he doesn’t plan on leaving this bar without convincing her. “Care to elaborate?”

I’d love to know whose arm I’ll be decorating for this nice night on the Riviera.

“Mine, if you so desire - “ Hale begins to say in response, but he’s cut off by her next words, sardonic and mocking, said in the fashion that one should only expect a woman named Whiskey to speak. He quickly recovers himself, laughs, raising one bronze eyebrow; unfazed but entertained - but in a small way offput by the prospect that attending a high profile auction on his arm is somehow less than ideal. Rejection is such a rare word in his vocabulary that when it shows itself to him, he is most always blindsided. But he keeps his head, cool and smooth as always - finishing with, “But I see that you don’t.”

“A disguise is a thief’s greatest asset, Whiskey dear,” he continues suavely, as if her rebuff was nothing, and indeed, it is nothing. The golden lights above them cast their vicinity into shadow, but if he feels the cold, he doesn’t give any indication of it. This isn’t his land, but he will make it his territory while he walks these floors. Confidence is key. Dominion soon follows. He resists the urge to look down at his watch, which glints amber in the dark. “There are a million identities to adopt. You’d be surprised at what a beautiful dress and a venue to flaunt it on can do. We might even find ourselves being friends by midnight.” His gaze sweeps to hers, this is his version of a joke, because he doubts that possibility as much as she does. 

"It's just a place I've lived. Nothing more, nothing less." It's dismissive, over-simplified, but if you tried to break through her words to find anything below you'd be left with bedrock. It's the truth, and an unpleasant one at that. America meant nothing to her beyond what it could give, and it gave her blades where most would get blessings. She owed it nothing. Funny.

She can see the beat, see the moment when her words catch him off-guard, and she thinks Oh. This is his weak point, the crack in his armor. Has anything ever been denied this golden boy, with his halo of dark hair and deep eyes? He knows how to play the game, knows how to get what he wants. If life were a game of Russian Roulette, he'd never played with anything beyond blanks. How would it feel to finally have a bullet finally loaded into the sleek silver gun called life?

She will be the bullet, the one to bring him to his knees.

She smiles, slow, leaning towards him in her seat. He wants subjugation; he will get nothing from her. "I beg to differ," she replies. "The most useful asset a thief can have is an escape. Your disguise can only go so far when they have you pinned." She resists the urge to laugh as they make eye contact again, her gaze cool. Friends. It was a joke and both of them knew it. Beyond the clash of her persona against his, he'd never see her as more than a pawn beneath him. She is sharp in the dim light, all edges, walls between she and him. She'd play his game, but would play to win. "Hale," she continues, voice low, almost conspiritorially, "I don't think you've ever had a friend like me."

[oxfxrdprince-blog]

“Certainly, sweetheart.” On the surface, he is smooth as ever, sitting in a Russian bar with a lovely woman.  But within, Hale cannot help but wonder what other things he could doing with the time it takes to debrief a stubborn American with the details of a new job - woo Evie? Buy new cuffllinks? The possibilities are endless. “But first, another drink.” He lifts two fingers casually into the air, pointedly ignorant to the irritation expressed by the bartender at the gesture. At the very least, he doesn’t botch his Russian anymore. His diplomatic language classes had never touched upon the Eastern states of Europe; curiously. Perhaps it had something to do with the hostile stares of the men at the tables behind them. 

“You must like it here,” he says when his glass is refilled. “Big change, isn’t it? American democracy doesn’t typically bode well in these types of settings. Unless you’ve renounced all of that for the heist.” His gaze cuts to her coyly, as if fishing for more substance on what type of person this Whiskey Bishop is. If he must go out of his way to meet a thief in Moscow, when he was meaning to be on a business trip for his father, then there must be some kind of takeaway.

“But really. What can I say?” He arches a brow. “It’s all part of the game, darling. If you want to go, we do have connections.” By we, he means himself; his extended family, the French branch of the operations. “Come on. A bit of sightseeing, a nice night on the French Riviera?” When he sees that she’s not impressed, he continues with the steady stream of well-practice conversation. “They have a fantastic home. An absolute must-see for anyone on this side of the ocean.” 

[whiskeybishop]

There was something to Hale Rothschild that Whiskey could never quite grasp the few and brief times they'd met before, but now she's beginning to think that she knows what it is. Condescension - a thin sheen over everything he does, every word that leaves his lips. The golden prince, too good for the tarnished world around him. The careless gesture, the lazy way he assumes rather than asking - it could come off as confidence, to someone less interested in what lay underneath, but Whiskey knew better.

She accepts her drink with a subtle nod to the bartender and an internal grimace, one that pulls into a frown as Hale continues to speak. "I can't say there's much American democracy in me, so I guess I took to the place rather quickly." She's not going to give him what he's looking for - an insight into her soul, perhaps, or simply some reason to firmly believe her beneath him. She sips her drink, short, to avoid talking more, tamping down the revulsion for the alohol that burns down her throat.

"If you want to go" - how quaint, for him to try to make it appear to be her choice, as if she has any say in the matter. As if his meeting her in this dim Moscow bar wasn't an indication that their paths were twined for the immediate future. "Oh, I'm sure," she replies shortly. Hale was a veritable font of information about everything she couldn't care at all for, but this was the way of their world. They were, primarily, a rich boy's club, and Hale was the perfect member. It ws nearly infuriating. "I'd love to know whose arm I'll be decorating for this nice night on the Riviera." His own words, thrown back at him in a light but biting sarcasm. Her lips pulled up into a false, saccharine smile. "Just say the word and I'm yours, darling."

[whiskeybishop]

There had been whispers around the crew for days - something about jewels, an auction, the name Calvet heavy and unfamiliar on the tongues around her. Whiskey knew nothing, and frankly, was more than content to stay knowing nothing, simply tackling the little events in Moscow and not thinking beyond that. The chatter pased in one ear and out the other, simply more beaurecratic bullshit she avoided as well as possible. It wasn't that she disliked the rest of the society - more so that she disliked the politics that came with it all. The grit of the heist suited her; the glamour of the world not as much.

The world has a funny way of working, she thinks, as she continues to be thrown headlong into every aspect of the heist she intends to avoid.

"Explain to me again exactly what this is?" It's an exasperated question; she's already given in to whatever larger plan she has been ordered to fall into. "I get the auction, the heist, whatever. I just don't get why." There's something unspoken hanging in the air - why the posing, why me. She's no good in these contexts, but here she is again. She could maintain the facade of a new identity just as well as any other, but the affluence... it brings an aura she'd never be able to recreate. "Just one more time, for clarity's sake."

[villiersevie-blog]

“Well, you know, bad habits are hard to shake off.”

Wind blows, and she doesn’t shiver. Whiskey Bishop stands in front of her, and she doesn’t shiver either, contrary reaction to what would be commonly expected. She is a safe impossible to crack, she is one with many twists and turns – and just like the beverage with the same name she carries, she is one to burn and that few appreciate.

Evie, luckily for someone that not Whiskey probably, had no notions of boundaries.

Even though the oldest Bishop seemed immune to her, Evie’s lips pulled to form that conspiratory smile that always drew people closer. She had done this with too many people, Gin Bishop included. But that woman, never seemed to fall for what she had to offer – maybe it was the life she led, maybe it was for the proximity to thieves and yet how distant she seemed to be. She caught, after all, Evie red handed – and she did not appreciate it. Evie was like a ghost, in and out, people never notice her – Evie picks pockets for fun, to drive her mind out of boredom, to come up with a perfect plan, a flawless ploy; but there she is, with the other woman’s words brittle like the cold Moscow, making her smile even though she wanted to seethe at her recklessness.

You are slipping.

She wouldn’t let her escape so easily – word spreads quickly among The Society, and Evie was the head magpie, she was the next mastermind, she wouldn’t let a slip taint her infamous reputation. She could go down, but not that easily. “You know, you’re not from here, are you?” She follows the woman, light steps, voice like velvet. “I am – I mean, I am English, God forbid the Queen ever listen to those words, but I am half Russian, if we put this into consideration –” She keeps herself in the shadows, her hands busy, easily slipping into strangers pockets and out, tossing empty wallets aside, as they cut the crowd. “You’re the foreigner here .”

[whiskeybishop]

Whiskey keeps walking, pushing through the people on the street, feet carrying her to God knows where, just some place other than here. She can feel the wake of destruction moving out behind her - the hidden aggression in Evie's tone, the continued push to stay with her despite the crowd, the relentless motion of people against them, unaware, as they cut a path through. She caught Evie off her gaurd. She was certain it would not happen again, least of all tonight - no, not when the compulsion to maintain was so strong, when a reputation (or lack of consideration for it) kept her chasing after someone who simply didn't care, just to prove a point.

The people - her people? - were suffering tonight. Neither the individuals nor their wallets mattered, but the circumstances - well, those were unacceptable. Evie had her place, and it was not here.

She scoffs at her words - You're not from here, are you? - because what could be more of a dead giveaway, the Texas drawl that still hangs on her words or the restlessness she carries between her should blades? She's not from here, not from anywhere, and she thrives on it. Evie, however - born and bred Villiers, the English elite, prep school, theiving on the side - she was firmly rooted, held a stake in something larger than herself. Too bad she wasn't in her territory.

"All things considered," she replies lazily, not stopping, not even turning to address the woman still tagging along behind her, "your heritage doesn't mean shit when you move into someone else's space." They'd nearly broken from the crowd now, Whiskey's unconcsious movement propelling them to the fastest route back to the Rozanov house, to the heart of her operations. She pushed past the last few people and into the darker alley, away from the light of the street. "We can keep this up all night, but when the sun rises, I'm the one who has a claim in this city. You're just visiting." She stops just inside the mouth of the alley, turning to face the woman behind her. "Why are you here, Evie?"

[villiersevie-blog]

It is a night that favors thieves.

Shadows dancing on dirty curbs, the moon shining behind dark clouds – rolling, lethargy clinging to its moves. The wind barely rustles, and there are no leaves on the ground to be swept by it. It’s not too cold, so it was impossible to be outside without the companion of clattering teeth, nor hot enough to invite people out – the night holds that promise of the uncertain. 

Among the shadows of the streets, only lit by occasional bar windows, she walks with hood pulled over her face, quiet steps impossible to follow. As she makes her path, ears are invaded by the occasional noise coming from a sudden open door – in which the man, after bumping into a petite girl of delicate features, would apologize and soon forget of her face in his inebriated state. He would, too, wonder where was his watch, as he tried to check the hours, or his wallet, as he tried to buy a coffee to fight the settling headache.

Evie got what she wanted, and discarded the rest. No traces, no way to get to her. She continues her aimless path, waiting for the stream of easy, drunk, targets to simply come to her and let her do her job – she is back in this city; and she doesn’t know who she can run into. Once again, she starts her ritual – runs into them, sticky fingers easily finding its way to the precious belongings; until she meets familiar eyes. 

“Hello there.”

[whiskeybishop]

"Get your hands out of my pocket."

No pleasantries, no sugarcoating - just a cold, harsh command. She was close ot her breaking point, a long night spent inside a smoky bar for information, drawing out whatever lead she could with whatever means she needed. It itched, this second skin she wore, and she had been more than happy to shrug it off as she shouldered on her coat in the doorway. Nearly free from the bullshit until she was bumped into; until she felt light hands, quick, drop into her pocket.

Of all the thieves to catch on a night like this, Evie Villiers was the last she could have expected.

The saccharine smile, the glint in her eyes - all too familiar - snapped Whiskey back headlong into all that she'd just nearly escaped. The Society, always there, even when you least want it. "Thought you'd be smarter than to try something on your fellow man," she said, ignoring Evie's greeting. "How long did you expect to go before you ran into someone like me?" Whiskey gave her a sarcastic smile, pulling away from the close position they still occupied. it was disconcerting, sharing so intimate a space with a person like that - Whiskey could see how someone could get enthralled by Evie's deep brown eyes, the cadence of her voice. She had seen it, seen it in her own sister. But Gin was much softer than Whiskey, much more capable of bending to fit someone else's will. She was too brittle. She'd snap before geting low enough to have Evie lord over her.

She took a step back, turning. She had better things to do than stand in the street and make smalltalk. "You're not in London anymore, Villiers. People don't take too kindly to pickpockets here - especially foreign ones."

[fauxregard-blog1]

It’s peculiar really that she has approached at all. Unsettling even, that she allows herself to get so close to the figure, whether her idea of who it is is wrong or not. She’s not that type, the one who will be pulled in by someone else’s gravity, will seek them out for any reason at all. And yet she’s not imagining it, her feet very clearly moving toward the front of the car. Almost grateful that the woman speaks first, when she has no idea what she’s going to do or say when she finally reaches. She’s hardly staring.. or maybe she is. Looking on in surprise that it isn’t the person she was looking for, surprise that she feels slightly deflated.  “You’re Whiskey.” it seems too much of a tell that she speaks the name at all, that she admits to knowing who this woman is. Perhaps it tells even more than that, that she was looking for Gin instead. It’s been a while since Moscow, since she saw the two of them for the first time and learned their names. Almost as long since the first time Gin spoke to her. Not quite as far as the moment she must have surrendered, trapped herself by thinking she would prefer to hear the woman talk more, by taking an interest.  Even now she’s caught in a trap, when she’s taken the steps forward, at some point along the way deciding that she cares more for the contact than for maintaining her image. A crack has formed, temporary perhaps but it’s enough that she looks to what the woman has been doing. Looks and questions, “Is there a problem you’re trying to fix?”, instead of walking away for the chink in her armour to be filled again. 

[whiskeybishop]

It's a moment before she knows this girl, this wisp of a figure in front of her. Spectral, almost, in memory and in space - half-formed conversations, the light impression of stories told by Gin on planes, over the phone, in bed at the break of dawn. Isa, her memory whispers, the Beauregard added only after the memory of a vibrant Moscow summer night clicked into place. Whiskey stopped spinning the wrench. She knew it was not her this girl had come to see.

She doesn't soften, per se; just expands, opening the space between her brain and her mouth, no longer in need of a sharp retort or instant guard. It's still a bit unsettling - the way the girl looks at her, one instant away from flight. "You're Isabel," she returns, conceding some small part of her façade to the stilted atmosphere between them. She turns back to the car when it is mentioned, back to the familar, back to her heartbeat where it thuds against the dull metal hood through the palm of her hand. "Not a problem, exactly," said with a step and a shrug, a light invitation to approach, to view. "Just modifications."