ONE
“Well this is ironic,” thought Cindy, sprinting past the CrossFit gym. Well, in fairness, only ironic to the degree she could spare the thought. Most of her focus was on the remaining two of the three black-clad assassins in pursuit and her one remaining shoe for self-defense.
It had _seemed_ like one of her simpler missions: disguise, infiltrate the gala, seduce the Prince, extraction before midnight. Hell, if she had known the Prince was so ...good on the dance floor...she might have tried this on her own as her weekend leisure.
At least she had the hair sample. What was the rationale? “Somethingsomething biometric encryption yada yada CRISPR etc.” Honestly, she had to start paying better attention to missions briefs. Now she was down one driver, one transport, and one half of a gorgeous pair of Valentinos.
In fairness, the first goon was down one working instep, so it had been a good trade. Now she just needed to take out the other two, retrieve her shoe and catch the Yellow Line to her cubicle farm cover job.
But when she saw Blue later tonight, the GDMTHR handler was going to get an EAR FULL.
TWO
Mike Zutt exited the gym into the early morning chill. Except this was D.C. in July, and the “chill” was more of a pre-humidity. Not exactly hot, but enough not-chill to keep a sheen of sweat going, with the promise of the full, swampy miasma by afternoon.
The shoe caught his eye immediately, the color a dramatic contrast to the acres of surrounding concrete. He knew crap-all about shoes, but this seemed distinct from the more common early morning detritus. It looked barely worn, aside from some scuff around the heel.
The neighborhood wasn’t exactly known as an entertainment destination. Well, okay, yeah, if you _expand your definition _ a bit, then sure, it was a happenin’ place. But even given the occasional excesses that spilled into this street, the shoe just didn’t belong.
If anything, it belonged far less than the small trail of blood leading away. That barely registered in Mike’s brain. “No,” he thought as he picked it up, “someone will be missing this.” He zipped it into his gym bag, giving himself a solid Boy Scout point. “Happy to help.”
THREE
“The men are ready, Your Highness.”
Moreau’s unaccented tenor held no inflection, no hint of what was to follow shortly. He had learned it was best to provide the Prince with no emotional points of leverage. Memories of that “lesson” returned with each morning’s first step.
“Proceed.” Even with its customary parsimony, The Prince’s voice held an emotional resonance. With a depth of tone that belied his slender build, the word managed to hold both promise and peril. The owner of that voice could be a powerful patron or a deadly menace. Many in the Capitol were learning that firsthand. Often in the same night.
Moreau opened the door to the minimally furnished room, making way for The Prince to enter. He idly wondered when was the last time His Highness’ hand had touched a door handle that wasn’t the inside of a bedroom. Inside sat the three guards. They of course stood immediately. Or as immediately as could be managed, given their injuries.
“The woman escaped.” Moreau knew his role in this situation. He’d lead the interrogation up to the point (if it occurred) where The Prince spoke. The sooner that happened, generally the worse the outcome, for all involved. Moreau had no desire for the failure of the team to splash onto him. Metaphorically… or otherwise. This was not a quest for truth; it was a hunt for blame. ”Explain.”
“She was...not normal, Excellency,” the group’s Primaire spoke. He had struggled visibly to stand, and even now could be seen to have most of his weight on his left foot. “She was stronger, faster, and more skilled at fighting than anticipated.”
Moreau let that hang in the air for several seconds. The silence extended in a way that was not intended to be comfortable. His message, that this was an insufficient excuse, having been conveyed, Moreau timed his next words precisely. Just as the man was about to elaborate, “His Highness pays you…quite well…to be strong, fast, and skilled at fighting.”
The Primaire opened his mouth to explain. Truth be told, the woman was clearly a well-trained fighter. The kick to his leg had been delivered almost immediately as he had grabbed for her. The Secondaire and Tertiaire had given chase, but all they had to show for it had been more broken bones. Once the Secondaire had gone down, there had been little hope that the Tertiaire by himself could have taken her. Breaking off pursuit had been tactically sound.
When he saw Moreau’s eyes, the response died on his lips. Tactically sound, but strategically suicidal, it appeared.
“Have you nothing to show for your efforts? An address? A vehicle?”
The Primaire lowered his gaze. The Dewan was clearly displeased. The questions were more likely bait at this point, rather than an earnest attempt to gain intelligence. Explaining the disappearance of the vehicle and driver (the literal disappearance), would not redound to his favor. The Primaire had not risen to this position by remaining ignorant of the moods and whims of the powerful.
For his part, the Secondaire’s eyes had not deviated from the ground through the whole exchange. He merely stood and mutely cradled his right arm against his ribs. The rumors of the consequences of failure were legendary among the Prince’s staff. Those rumors had always sounded nearly fantastical, but they retained enough believability that none wished to test them firsthand.
“I...I have this, Excellency.” All eyes turned to the Tertiaire, a reaction, while predictable, for which he was nonetheless unprepared. He appeared to struggle briefly with the urge to become invisible before setting his shoulders and extending his right hand. He held out, of all things, a woman’s shoe.
The Dewan inclined his head slightly. He appeared to invite more information. To the Primaire, it was the look of a rope merchant anticipating brisk business at a shop set up next to the gallows. He said no more.
The air hung heavy. Perhaps, given the choice, Tertiaire would have retracted his statement. But the bell could not be unrung. Meanwhile, the colorful shoe refused to either disappear or explain itself.
“Your Excellency, the shoe...came off in the fight. I saw two team members already down. I...I thought...that is, I could continue to engage, but with two men taken out so quickly...and we had superior numbers, and, well, I had seen her fight. I...thought my chances poor. I broke off pursuit, secured the shoe...and I came back for my team.
There was a brief pause, during which none of his teammates availed themselves of the opportunity to behave as such.
“I...We…can still track this woman. The shoe must have her DNA. We can use that to follow her, to find her. If...if we had all gone down in the fight, she would still have escaped, and she would have recovered the shoe after we were down. We would never find her.”
Moreau was, of course, accepting none of this. The failure itself was inexcusable, but to willingly permit the woman to escape? He stared at the shoe for several seconds, making no more move to take it from the man’s hand than he would a rotting fish. “You…”
“Possibly.” Moreau was cut off. He stared in shock as the Prince reached out his right hand and took the shoe, gazing at it for several seconds. Whether he was entertaining a plan of revenge or indulging in a reverie regarding the shoe’s striking owner was unclear. “Yes,” the Prince murmured, almost to himself. “My hounds can work with this.” His gaze now returned fully to the guard, who had only thought he was uncomfortable up to this point.
The stare was magnetic. Even though the guard knew that protocol demanded he avert his eyes, they seemed held against his will. The desire to flee was written on his face, but the instincts he had honed in years of training failed to move his feet. He felt like prey under that stare. No, it went deeper. He felt searched.
After seconds that felt like they could stretch to eternity, the gaze released him. “Initiative.” A thoughtful pause, then, almost too soft to hear. “Or cowardice?” Without looking back at the man, The Prince continued “You are uninjured.” It was not a question, and Moreau noted that the guard had the sense not to point out his swollen lip and blood-caked nostrils.
It seemed a decision had been made, for when the Prince looked to Moreau, the focus had returned. “Very well. He is permitted.” Moreau managed to avoid cocking an eyebrow through force of will. The men, however, could not keep themselves from exchanging glances. “Permitted?”
“But not uninjured, no,” The Prince seemed to have resumed talking to himself. His attention back to whatever private musing had taken most of his day. That made the strike that much more shocking, a blur faster than the unprepared eyes of the men could follow. Moreau had expected as much, and even he could barely track it.
The Prince’s arm swung out, hand a rigid knife’s edge, and snapped at the Tertiaire like an uncoiling whip. The point of impact was just above the guard’s left elbow. Simultaneously, a twist of the hips had allowed the Prince to follow almost immediately with a heel stomp that raked the Tertiare’s right shin. The man was so shocked he did not cry out, just shuddered with a sharp intake of breath and a reflexive half-step of retreat. Only gradually did he realize that his arm was numb and dangling loosely at his side, and his lower leg in excruciating pain.
The Prince continued speaking, as if to himself, and if Moreau was honest, he was unsure to what degree, if any, The Prince considered his servants to be anything more than extensions of his will. “That will even the odds. Fair, I should think. My service can be hard. But it is fair.”
Moreau was quite sure the Prince believed this. He gave a slight nod of deference as His Highness turned to him.
“Pour encourager les autres, I should think.”
Moreau’s practiced bow was a performance art unto itself. He appeared to briefly consider the words of His Highness, but not to the degree that he would appear questioning. His bow did not appear reflexive; but rather, was done as if he had contemplated (however briefly) the difference between his and the Prince’s station, their merits, and concluded that a bow was the correct way to express his conclusion. It must be differential without the appearance of sycophancy.
The Prince reveled in actual sycophancy, but he abhorred its appearance.
Once the Prince was shown out, Moreau turned to the men. He did not regard them directly, but instead looked through and past them as if they were dead. Knowing what was to unfold, he considered that, in a probabilistic way, this was mostly correct. Schrödinger's
Guard, he thought, and allowed himself a twitch of a smile.
“I will leave shortly,” Moreau explained to the walls. “On my exit, a colorless, odorless, deadly gas will begin to fill the room. The door will seal with a bioencrypted lock. It can be opened by any of you. You need merely hold your thumb in place for five seconds. The first guard to emerge will report to the infirmary before returning to his duty station; he will never speak of this. The second will be shot. The third...will wish he were the second.”
The door clicked shut behind Moreau. In truth, there was no gas, nor any bioencryption or bullet. The touch pad did honestly require five seconds of consistent pressure, but the rest was unnecessary window dressing. Moreau had not lied when he described the men’s primary skill sets. Strong, fast, good at fighting. And ruthless. There was no need for a bullet aimed at the second to emerge, nor anything creative for the third, because only one guard would survive to tell this tale. And Moreau’s injunction for silence notwithstanding, the survivor would eventually tell. That was the point. Pour encourager les autres, indeed.
As Moreau exited, he glanced to his side. As unsurprising as his shadow, he saw that Luixa had assumed station to the side of the door. Tall, her muscular frame obvious despite the loose-fitting robes of her station, the Prince’s Ultime had taken up watch on the exit. She, more than anything, made Moreau’s tale of bullets and poison superfluous.
Luixa’s dark eyes were unreadable, other than their disdain for the Dewan. She managed a miniscule bow that brought those eyes level with his. This somehow managed to convey both her contempt for Moreau and her dedication to the mission. Without being told, she would ensure that only one of the three guards would remain in the Prince’s service by the end of the hour. Whatever his thoughts about her attitude, Moreau was confident that he need not devote any further concern to carrying out his Prince’s order.
And so it was on to another “interview,” this time with security detail that had allowed an unverified woman to get uncomfortably close (for Moreau, anyway) to the Prince. Moreau sighed as he turned to walk down the empty corridor. He really did hate updating job descriptions and conducting hiring interviews, but it looked like these would figure prominently in his near future.
***
Author note: Fiction Friday, observed.
This is a longer installment from the Cindy saga. We will see if toggling between fiction and essay is working. Feedback is good. Praise is always preferred, but I am interested in what is and is not working.
This story has its own backstory. It started as a lark on Twitter. Twitter user REDACTED posted a question (see the photo above), and I took it as a writing prompt. From this humble beginning, the Adventures of Cindy was born. The first two chapters and a bit of the third were originally released as tweets. It…grew…from there. I hope you have fun reading it. I sure had fun writing.
Happy Friday (observed).
Cheers, y’all.
David