Post by Eden Morgan on Oct 24, 2014 14:04:35 GMT -5
Los Angeles
“See you then.”
Eden Morgan places her phone back down on her desk, looking over at Zane Scott triumphantly.
“Told you he'd bite,” she gloats, Zane grunting and giving a small shrug.
“Of course he bit, he'd be a fool not to at least find out what you'll say, and the man's no fool. His actions will make you question that and they'll lull you into a false sense of security, but never forget that one simple fact,” he finishes, dragging a nail along the wooden arm of the chair he reclines in. Eden focuses him with a reproachful stare.
“Do you really think I'm going into this blind, Zane? I know what he is. He knows what I am. No one is fooling anyone here. And it won't be a wasted trip as I have other business in Chicago as well. Now where the hell is that folder?” Eden pulls open drawer after drawer in her desk, rifling through each one unsuccessfully before getting to her feet and crossing the office to a filing cabinet, having to lean up in order to see into the top drawer regardless of the stiletto heels adorning her feet. Behind her, the office door opens and closes, Killian entering. He and Zane exchange a brief greeting, Eden not even bothering to turn around as she continues her perusal of the contents of the cabinet. Bending slightly at the waist, she draws open the next to the last drawer, going through it as she hears footsteps approaching behind her.
“Don't. You dare,” her voice comes out as a slithering threat, even and cold, stopping Killian in his tracks with his hand drawn back behind her. Eden straightens and glares at him, Killian giving a stunning smile as he lowers his hand.
“Apologies, sweetheart. Of course I had no idea it was you there, thought it might be one of the secretaries or--”
“Stow it, Killian. Kindly recall where you are what the realities of all of this is. Don't let some poorly-done, smut-filled DMW contribution get you... twisted,” she reaches out and pats his cheek, the gesture nowhere near as gentle as it seems. Killian continues to grin, unashamed as Eden's gaze drifts lower. A perfectly winged jet black eyebrow arches.
“What are you doing with that?” she reaches out to take it from him, Killian drawing the folder away.
“I'm doing you a favor. I recognize your displeasure at the continued interference from the DMW, even after you were so kind as to show them how it might not be in their best interest.”
Eden crosses her arms.
“Yeah, and I plan to make several copies of that tape and send it to various law enforcement agencies around the country. What's your point?”
Killian grins, his pearly whites flashing as he hands the folder over to Eden.
“My point is, allow me the pleasure of handling this for you. Why toss out such collateral over what could simply be a misunderstanding on their part?”
Eden harrumphs, turning away from him to glance at Zane who simply shrugs again. She turns back to Killian.
“What did you have in mind?”
Killian's smile grows even wider in response.
Several moments later, Eden emerges from her office, doing a double-take as she notices a line of young women stretching as far as the eye can see down the hall and turning out of sight around a corner, some in business attire, others in clothing leaving little to the imagination, all of various races and ethnicities. She narrows her eyes and squints. Body paint?
Eden shakes her head as she marches over to the door the line starts in front of, noting the perfect shine of 'Vain' Alan Wallace's nameplate before her. She tries the doorknob, finding it locked and then pounds the side of her fist against the door. The woman at the front of the line scoffs loudly and smacks her gum, jutting one hip out and planting a fist on it.
“Ummm who do you think YOU are? You can't just cut in line!”
Eden pauses with her fist raised, several gasps moving down the line as it is apparent that many of the women know exactly who she is. She turns to the obviously irritated one before her, all smiles.
“You're absolutely right. How rude of me. And you are?” Eden's smile never falters as her attention is caught by Killian's manservant, Nottingham, going along the line and handing out cards to several of the women waiting. He stands back and surveys the group before stepping forward and handing out a card here and there, obviously being picky with his choices. Eden rolls her eyes, catching the end of the woman's almost nasally speech.
“-- I've been here for three hours, but that's okay, that's okay, cause you let Alan Wallace get a glimpse of this--” she runs her overly-long bright orange nails over her daringly-short pale blue miniskirt with a grin on her heavily made up face, “and he'll send these other bitches packing. All's I need is just some... alone time,” she giggles and then pops a bubble with the gum in her mouth. Unable to retain the smile any longer, Eden just stares at her for a moment before turning to the aide behind her who is furiously writing up nametags for each woman in line. She plucks the marker from her hand, the aide looking up in surprise and then her face blanching as Eden takes the blank nametags from her as well. She scrawls something across one of the blank ones, pulling it from its backing as the woman before her continues to prattle on about how she would make Alan the best secretary, ad nauseum. Eden hands the pen and other tags back to the aide who quickly scurries away, turning again to the woman before her. Eden nods politely before slapping the nametag over the woman's mouth and holding it there for a moment, eyes before her enlarging.
“Don't even think about removing that. Have a nice day,” she finishes as she saunters away, the woman staring at her with incredulity in her expression and a nametag with the words “Double bag it” emblazoned across her lips.
Eden shakes her head, muttering to herself as the line goes on and on, stopping in her tracks as she hears her name being called.
“Miss Morgan! Miss Morgan!” she turns to find her assistant, Brandon, rushing toward her, an excited and victorious look on his face as he approaches her.
“Yes?” she inquires politely, Brandon positively giddy with his news.
“I have someone you should meet, Miss Morgan, that is, if you have time. I know how busy your schedule is--”
“Of course you do. You make it for me,” she says with an amused smoothness, Brandon flushing.
“Yes ma'am, that's true, and it's an honor to make your schedule for you--”
“Save it, Brandon. Who is this I should meet?” she asks bluntly, her assistant bursting forth with the information.
“He's the president of your fan club, Miss Morgan. He knows everything about you!”
“Uh huh. Not creepy at all. So it's not Travis Pierce with a fake mustache or something?” Eden crosses her arms, looking at Brandon dubiously. He shakes his head emphatically.
“No ma'am, Mr. Pierce was treasurer from what I understand. If you'll come this way--?” he starts to lead the way, Eden following behind him, an amused look on her face.
“Pierce? Treasurer of my fan club? Oh now that's just delicious,” she chuckles richly as they make their way through several hallways, finally arriving in an open area. Eden's eyes narrow as she studies a large man stuffed into one of the guest chairs they have available, taking in his suit which has the appearance of one bought and then put aside for funerals or weddings. His dark brown hair is closely cropped to his head, big hands drumming on his thick legs as he waits nervously. Brandon ushers her before him, the larger man's eyes lighting up in adoration.
“Miss Morgan, this is Carl, the president of your fan club. Carl--” Brandon starts out only to be cut off by Carl as he gets to his feet, towering well over the heads of both Eden and her assistant before dropping to his knees before her. Eden raises an eyebrow and looks over at Brandon who simply grins.
“Miss Morgan, it is such an honor, nay a privilege to finally meet you in person. Can I-- can I touch your hand? Is that allowed?” he says from his kneeling position, keeping his eyes downcast as he does his best not to look at her and hold his hand out timidly, his voice hopeful. Unable to keep the surprise from her face at his deep and yet somehow nasally voice, Eden holds out her hand, Carl snatching at it as if it were a lifeline.
“Oh, thank you! You just don't even understand what this means to me--”
“Carl,” Eden begins as she attempts to extricate her hand from his vise-like grip without much success, “why don't you get off your knees and we could sit and have a chat. How's that sound?” she asks, Carl looking up at her with pure adoration as he quickly scrambles up and folds himself back into the chair. Eden glances at Brandon who shrugs in amusement as she seats herself in one of the chairs as well, not bothering to lean back.
“Carl... how big are you? Just an approximation,” she says, folding her hands together and studying the man before her. Carl looks at her in disbelief, shocked that she could want to learn about him. He starts to stutter and stammer before finally, real words erupt from his mouth.
“Uh, well you see, uh... it's been a while and this is just a ballpark figure, but uh I think I'm 6'9, around 350 lbs, you know, depending on how much water I drink or whether I'm bloaty that day. We all have our good days and bad days. Except for you, of course, you only have good days. Beautiful, fantastic days,” he finishes, staring at her. Eden clears her throat.
“Thank you, Carl. I have another question for you, if you don't mind.”
“You can ask me questions all day long, Miss Morgan. All night too, if that's what you want,” he rushes out reverently, his expression suddenly changing to one of horror. “Oh God, I didn't mean it like that, I would never think that a goddess such as yourself would ever stoop to--”
Eden cuts him short, watching him carefully. “How do you feel about violence, Carl?”
Carl ceases his apologies, staring at Eden in surprise.
“I'm a Buddhist.”
“Seriously?” both of Eden's eyebrows arch at this and she shakes her head, trying to keep her amusement in. “I'm fairly sure we can work around that,” she turns to Brandon who immediately snaps to attention. “Send him around to Zane. See what he thinks of him,” she rises from her chair, patting Carl on the hand as she does so, Carl snatching at her hand and placing it to his forehead reverently. Eden draws her hand away, glancing at the watch on her wrist. Seeing her look, Brandon speaks up.
“The penthouse is prepared for you, Miss Morgan, as ever.”
Eden nods, distracted as she walks away, Carl calling behind her.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Morgan. It was everything I ever hoped for--”
“Come on, Carl. We're going to see Zane. You know Zane Scott, right?”
Carl nods emphatically as he gets to his feet, the two of them walking in the opposite direction of Eden.
“Why am I going to see Zane?”
“Because he'll be the one to approve you as Miss Morgan's head of security,” Brandon responds blandly, having to stop for a moment as Carl does dance after dance of celebration and then drops down to pray thankfully.
Chicago, The next day
“You're late, Shangri-La,” Robert Ooley grouses as he opens the door to his office to admit Eden Morgan.
“Do you really want to go into this again, OOO-LEE,” she responds sweetly, deliberately mispronouncing his name. Not waiting for him to respond, Eden reaches to the side, placing a hand on a muscled forearm in a well-tailored suit beside her. “Stay outside the door, Carl, I'll be out soon.” Carl glares at Robert Ooley in warning as Eden enters the room, noting Dexter Vines at the desk.
“What the hell was that, Shangri-La? More tricks?” Ooley demands as Eden starts to remove her coat and gloves, seating herself easily before his desk.
“I don't know what you mean, OOO-LEE, Carl is simply for my security. Dangerous, unscrupulous times we live in and all. Hello there, Mr. Vines. Nice to see you again,” Eden smiles warmly, Dexter watching her for a moment before nodding his head at her. She turns back to Ooley. “So you said the Benefactor would like to hear my proposal? Where is he?” she asks, coming straight to the point. Ooley scowls at her.
“No one said you'd get to meet him yet, Shangri-La. We have a conference call set up. You can pitch whatever horse shit it is you're selling to him then,” he finishes disgustedly, dropping down into his office chair. Eden grins at him, enjoying his displeasure at the turn of events.
“Then by all means. Let's get this underway.”
Dexter leans forward, pressing a button on the desktop phone before them, speaking clearly into the speaker.
“She's here.”
Eden listens raptly as a voice issues forth from the phone, definitely masculine, but without any identifying accent or features.
“Speak.”
Eden clears her throat, crossing one leg over the other. “It's a pleasure to speak with you, even in such a way as this. As I'm sure you've been informed, I have a proposal to make, one that could benefit both of us and the companies we represent considerably. The Piercing Media Network, now under new management, was squandered in the past. I seek to push it forward to new heights, heights that it has never attained and never would have had it remained in the hands of Travis Pierce. As you know, we're a media corporation. You, and this company of UGWC, are in the entertainment business. Your brand has grown by leaps and bounds in the past year through the efforts of your roster, including myself, but your target audience is limited. The internet is cutting edge and fantastic, but what if in addition to your web shows, there was also a corporation, dedicated to bringing the UGWC universe to the television set? I propose a joining of the two companies, UGWC and PMN. It's a match that should have been made long ago, one that provides another avenue for viewing our weekly shows and PPV's as well as possibly providing members of the roster with their own shows. In anticipation, I've reached out to Donovan Hastings for his own show already. If we play our cards correctly, this could become bigger and far more efficient than what that other company tried to attempt.”
Silence reigns in the room for several long minutes before the voice again issues forth from the speaker.
“Continue. I'm listening.”
The smile grows on Eden's face grows widely.
“No definitive answer, but he seemed receptive to the idea. We'll simply have to wait for a response,” Eden speaks into her phone, Zane sounding in her ear.
“Carl's working out well. We're on our way now-- yeah, how'd that go? Nevermind, I'll call him and find out myself. I'll call you back when we're on our way back to LA.” Eden hangs up, going through her address book as she watches Carl jerk back and forth in the car, watching out the windows on either side in his constant search for trouble. Eden sighs as she finds the number she is seeking, pressing 'call', Killian answering on the second ring.
“Miss me, sweetheart?”
Eden rolls her eyes, studying her perfectly-manicured nails.
“Paint me a pretty picture, Killian.”
Killian chuckles as his deep voice begins to regale her with his adventures. “It all went well. Mixxxie's has been shut down for several horrendous health code violations, the place is positively crawling with suits, I have no doubt they'll find more.”
“Is that all?” Eden asks, her voice disappointed.
“Not at all, m'dear. A certain gentleman by the name of Lucky, he appears to be the manager, was taken away in handcuffs, along with several of the ladies of ill-repute working there on charges of prostitution. Our friend Chaos, who was also in the building, has been ordered to stay in the city pending further investigation.”
Eden smiles softly. “Well done, Killian. And I suppose Chaos knows who to thank for his recent brush with professional bad luck?”
Killian chuckles. “I would indeed say he does, judging from the verbal vitriol that was hurled in my direction.”
“Perfect. Thanks for the update,” she responds distractedly as the vehicle pulls up to a set of wrought-iron gates, guards standing at attention. The driver's window rolls down, her driver speaking quietly with one of the guards. The guard speaks into a headset, pausing for a moment before waving them through, the gates opening for their admittance. Eden smiles to herself as the black vehicle, the PMN logo emblazoned on the doors, makes its way up the smooth driveway to the impressive home sprawled at the end of it. As the car comes to a stop, Eden watches as a member of the security team steps forward to take the handle of the door. She speaks softly to Carl.
“Remember. You don't make a move or touch anyone unless I give the okay. And keep your eyes and ears open,” she smiles brilliantly as the door opens, stepping out, leaving Carl to digest her hastily given orders.
Eden looks around her in appreciation at the obvious wealth and taste gone into the construction of the home, Carl close behind her as the members of security usher her into a garden room, surrounded by windows, one white couch and a table the only furniture in the room. As Carl moves in behind her, one of the security team puts an arm up.
“I'm sorry, only Miss Morgan and Mr. Monroe allowed beyond this point.”
Carl looks to his employer and then back to the smaller security guard, his eyes narrowing. Eden opens her mouth to speak up, when her attention is directed away as Remi Monroe enters the room.
“Look'e, look'e here, and here ah t'ought someone was ah pullin' dis ol' boy's leg wit da prank phone callin. Eden Morgan in mah house,” he grins, holding his arms wide for a hug, crossed-out glasses in place. A movement behind him reveals Zam, Remi's bodyguard, inching forward.
“Now Remi, how is that fair that you get your bodyguard and I can't have mine?” Eden pouts at him, batting her lashes. Remi's grin never fades as he lowers his arms.
“Wha, chu have concerns regardin' Zam? Lemme show yous how Remi Monroe treat his guests,” he snaps his fingers, Zam squeezing his fists tightly at his sides as he moves forward, Remi speaking to him but never taking his eyes from Eden.
“How 'bout yous take Miss Morgan's big man back dere an show him a good time, yeah?”
Zam nods and moves off in the direction of Carl, speaking swiftly to him. Carl looks over his shoulder at Eden who gives a brief nod, a concerned look on his face as he allows Zam to lead him off. With another hand gesture, the team of security leaves their presence, leaving Remi and Eden alone in the glass room.
“Now den, ma'am. What it is chu wanted ta discuss wit the Creole Curse, hmm? I admit to a certain powahful curiosity as to what tha might be,” he says as he takes a seat on the the white couch, patting the spot beside him for Eden. One corner of Eden's mouth turns up slightly as she takes a seat on the table before him instead. Remi watches her behind his glasses, Eden immediately disliking them as they make it impossible to read his eyes, which of course, was exactly what he intended.
“I'd like to propose a temporary truce, exceedingly temporary, mind you.”
“An how we gon' do dat when we in a match together. For da title, no less,” Remi asks somewhat lazily, reclining easily against the back of the couch, sprawling himself out before her. Eden raises an eyebrow.
“Don't play coy, Remi. It's so not you. You know very well what I mean. That match should have been only between the two of us. You had something intimate in mind, did you not? And then Jet Somers had to go and interject himself, ruin your plans. He stole your spotlight, Remi. And why? Because he can't handle the fact that while he was manipulating others, he was being manipulated right underneath his nose. It hardly seems fair.”
“An yet, dats da cards we was dealt, Miss Morgan. You. Me. Jet. All in a ring togethuh come Monday. An a whole lotta hate between you and him. Why should I get involved?”
Eden leans forward, crooking her finger at Remi who leans forward as well. As she speaks softly, her lips brush his ear, leaving behind faint traces of red lipstick.
“But you're already involved, Remi. I know you see that. You could... sit back and wait for Jet and I to destroy one another, you come in and pick up the pieces. But aren't you tired of sitting back and waiting? Of being labeled as someone who only wins based on duplicitous acts and opportunism?”
Remi pulls away from her, his eyes narrowing behind his shades as Eden smiles innocently, continuing.
“All I'm offering is this temporary truce, in an effort to make the match you wanted in the first place: you and I incapacitate Jet, remove him from the match together so that he is no longer a concern... and then we can focus on each other. Just you. And me. Of course, the truce would be over and events could then take their course,” she sits back, a smile curling her lips as she watches him. Remi sits in silence for a moment, the grin on his face growing as he considers her words.
“I'm ah. I'm a-thinkin' we might could do some business, Miss Morgan.”
Eden reaches out, taking his hand in a handshake, rubbing her thumb lightly across the sensitive flesh of his palm.
“Please. Call me Eden,” she responds softly, the scene fading out as she and Remi continue their wordgames.
You, you’re everything I want
And I, I’m everything you need
This night is cutting into me
You tie me down, you watch me bleed
And we risk everything tonight
Los Angeles, approaching sunset
Eden approaches her office, her expression weary as she unfastens the buttons on her suit jacket. The man at the desk outside her office calls to her without looking up from his paperwork.
“Pleasant flight back from Chicago, Miss Morgan?”
Eden nods, silent as she considers the events of the day. Brandon finally looks up.
“I hope things went according to your wishes?” he inquires politely, Eden giving a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes over to him.
“Yes Brandon, thank you. Is the penthouse ready for me?”
Brandon nods, realization suddenly hitting him as Eden opens the door to her office.
“Miss Morgan, there's someone waiting for you in there! I apologize ma'am, I completely forgot--”
Eden stares into her office, her expression gone chilling, lines of strain showing. She holds up a hand to Brandon, refusing to remove her stare from the man standing before her.
“It's fine,” she says, her response clipped as she enters the room, closing the door on herself and Jason Ingalls.
I, I am the misery you crave
And you, you are my faithful enemy
This hunger seems to feed on me
A sacred sin, a dying breed
And we risk everything
Several minutes later
The door to Eden's office opens, Jason Ingalls leaving hurriedly, cheeks flushed, tension radiating from every muscle of him. Brandon watches as he goes, curiosity evident in his stare until the creak of the door opening sends him to his feet in a rush.
“I'm ready, Miss Morgan,” he says hurriedly, eager to make up for his obvious misstep earlier. Eden says nothing, the two of them walking down the hallway to the bank of elevators, Eden pressing the “up”button and waiting. Once the elevator arrives, she steps inside, Brandon following suit, a black duffel bag in hand. Eden quickly swipes a card kept inside her jacket pocket and then enters in a series of numbers, the elevator shooting off to its destination.
The Penthouse. Formerly the apartments of one Travis Pierce. Eden checks her watch. Cartwright should be delivering his letter anytime. Perfect.
The elevator dings, but the doors remain closed. Eden punches in yet another code, swiping the card again before they finally open, she and Brandon stepping off. Without a word, he places the bag down on the floor at her feet, getting swiftly back onto the elevator and using his own card swipe and code to close the doors behind him, leaving Eden alone in the expansive apartment.
The rooms were lavishly furnished, the same furnishings used by their previous owner, the view breathtaking as Eden watches the sun set over LA from the floor-to-ceiling windows encompassing two entire walls. She stands before the windows, looking out, her arms clasped tightly around herself as the silence echoes around her. She closes her eyes slowly, shrouding herself in darkness, and inhales deeply, the crisp clean air Travis had insisted be pumped into these rooms almost sharp as it fills her lungs. Her eyes suddenly open, the sun gone over the horizon now, as Eden stoops to lift the black bag, placing it on a marble countertop. She removes her suit jacket, folding it neatly beside the bag before unzipping it and drawing out a small picture frame. She studies the contents of the picture, devouring it hungrily with eyes gone distant before placing it reverently on a shelf, its lone occupant.
They can never know just what we've done.
“They still don't understand,” she whispers to herself, still staring at the picture, but not really seeing it. “I made a promise to you, and I'll deliver on it. I'll destroy them all, every last one. Everyone who knew, everyone who was a part of what happened, every one of them who signed off without considering the consequences and repercussions of their actions. I'll be those consequences and repercussions.”
They can never know just what we've done.
Her pale gaze haunted, face drawn, she looks away from the picture, eyes lighting on various items in the apartment, none of them hers.
“I want them to feel the unending pain, the searing burn, the frigid cold, and then that blank nothing. I want them... to feel it all as one by one they realize they could have prevented their own downfall. Just a little more care. A little more precision. A little less left up to chance. Travis Pierce was first. He'll make it all possible, just as he made it all possible and more believable to begin with. A weak, pathetic excuse of a man, full of lies, secrets, and his own mysterious moral code,” she mutters to herself as she turns back to the black bag, reaching into it and drawing out a baseball bat. The wood appears a paradox, shiny over the majority of the bat, indicating its newness, with sections of the wood chipped or broken, gashes taken out of it in areas. Turning without warning, she brings the bat crashing down through the fully-set glass dining table behind her, sending the fine china and crystal crashing to the floor now littered by shards of glass. Eden swings the bat again, taking out a lamp, sparks of electricity flying as the bulb is extinguished, Eden moving through the apartment as she destroys item after item, her heels crunching in the glass.
They will never know all the blood we've shed,
The scarlet cross we bear until the bitter end,
They can never know just what we've done.
“Jet Somers,” she rasps, her hair come loose from its tight holding and swirling around her. She touches the back of her wrist to the corner of her mouth, the stinging there alerting her to the fact that some of the glass had sprayed back onto her. A spot of blood shows against her pale skin as she pulls her hand away, continuing on. She runs her tongue along the cut at the corner of her mouth, her taste buds assailed by the thick copper taste of fresh pennies.
Nothing good will come of this
“He wants to know how long,” she laughs at her own words, a crazed light dancing in her eyes as she lines up her next target, smashing through it. “But from the moment I saw you... in all your glory... wrenched apart like an angel... I knew. I knew then, then when I knew little else, that I would destroy them all. And in his destruction I would take the most pleasure.”
I'm screaming out with my last aching breath.
I'll be yours until my dying day.
But I can never see you...
Eden returns to the black bag, drawing a thick book out of it. She hefts it in her hands, studying the pages, a mocking laugh bubbling past her lips.
“Lies. All lies. An empire of lies and illusions, all come crumbling down. Down, down, down,” she singsongs to herself as she turns the book, ripping at the pages, pulling them halfway away from the spine before tossing it onto the counter. She draws out a box of matches, placing them on top of the mangled book before turning her attention to the rest of the apartment until nothing is left standing or intact. The pristine furniture from before lies in tatters, partly smashed, sharp slices made through each piece's leather. Holes decorate the walls of the penthouse where her baseball bat had smashed through, curtains practically shredded, glass, crystal, and china littering the floor. Lights blink on and off as electricity pulses through them, Eden stepping through the carnage, leaving little bloody handprints on the wall, the shards of glass she had used to slice through the furniture cutting through the flesh of her hands like butter. She doesn't notice, eyes distant as she drops the shard in hand, reaching out to pick up the box of matches. She stares down at the book on the marble countertop, drawing a match out and striking it, the smell of sulphur swift and fleeting. She purses her lips, blowing gently and watching the flame sway as it slowly descends down the wood, reaching for her fingertips.
We. We knew how this would end.
And we knew we'd die before we lived.
“Reach for me, Jet. Try to understand why what happened, happened. Go through your sad, meaningless initiation rights. And realize that... in the end... the chaos that you were so obsessed with controlling and using for your own gains... slipped right through your fingers and turned on you,” at the last second, just as the warmth began to eat at her fingertips, she drops the match onto the pages of the book before her. She stares down as the flame flickers and then gently, as if asking permission, takes hold of one page, the edges curling, and then another, another. The flame that had once so delicately taken the first page soon rages, snatching page after page in its greedy quest for fulfillment. Eden watches for long moments, finally drawing away as the elevator doors open, Brandon stepping in with a fire extinguisher in hand, his face carefully blank. Eden picks up her jacket, approaching the elevator and climbing on.
But I'll never let you go.
“See that it's ready for me again tomorrow, Brandon,” she says as she fastens her suit jacket, smoothing her hair back into place and leaving lines of gleaming red against her ebony tresses.
I'll never let you go.
“Yes ma'am,” Brandon says softly, waiting until the elevator doors close before extinguishing the fire. He breathes a sigh as he looks over at the lone remaining picture on the bare shelf, the only item not severely damaged or broken in the entire place. Staring back at him is a picture of a woman much different from the one he now knows, her face contorted in annoyance, though her happiness is apparent as a blonde man in a white t-shirt and tattered jeans slings his arm around her shoulder and plants a kiss on the side of her head, still eyeballing the camera, his blue eyes laughing. Reverently, he takes the picture down, placing it carefully back in the black bag, where the two in the picture will wait for the destruction of the next evening.
They will never know all the blood we shed
The scarlet cross we bear until the bitter end
And they, they can never know just what we’ve done
I will never let you go
They can never know just what we’ve done
I will never let you go
And the next.
We knew how this... would end.
“See you then.”
Eden Morgan places her phone back down on her desk, looking over at Zane Scott triumphantly.
“Told you he'd bite,” she gloats, Zane grunting and giving a small shrug.
“Of course he bit, he'd be a fool not to at least find out what you'll say, and the man's no fool. His actions will make you question that and they'll lull you into a false sense of security, but never forget that one simple fact,” he finishes, dragging a nail along the wooden arm of the chair he reclines in. Eden focuses him with a reproachful stare.
“Do you really think I'm going into this blind, Zane? I know what he is. He knows what I am. No one is fooling anyone here. And it won't be a wasted trip as I have other business in Chicago as well. Now where the hell is that folder?” Eden pulls open drawer after drawer in her desk, rifling through each one unsuccessfully before getting to her feet and crossing the office to a filing cabinet, having to lean up in order to see into the top drawer regardless of the stiletto heels adorning her feet. Behind her, the office door opens and closes, Killian entering. He and Zane exchange a brief greeting, Eden not even bothering to turn around as she continues her perusal of the contents of the cabinet. Bending slightly at the waist, she draws open the next to the last drawer, going through it as she hears footsteps approaching behind her.
“Don't. You dare,” her voice comes out as a slithering threat, even and cold, stopping Killian in his tracks with his hand drawn back behind her. Eden straightens and glares at him, Killian giving a stunning smile as he lowers his hand.
“Apologies, sweetheart. Of course I had no idea it was you there, thought it might be one of the secretaries or--”
“Stow it, Killian. Kindly recall where you are what the realities of all of this is. Don't let some poorly-done, smut-filled DMW contribution get you... twisted,” she reaches out and pats his cheek, the gesture nowhere near as gentle as it seems. Killian continues to grin, unashamed as Eden's gaze drifts lower. A perfectly winged jet black eyebrow arches.
“What are you doing with that?” she reaches out to take it from him, Killian drawing the folder away.
“I'm doing you a favor. I recognize your displeasure at the continued interference from the DMW, even after you were so kind as to show them how it might not be in their best interest.”
Eden crosses her arms.
“Yeah, and I plan to make several copies of that tape and send it to various law enforcement agencies around the country. What's your point?”
Killian grins, his pearly whites flashing as he hands the folder over to Eden.
“My point is, allow me the pleasure of handling this for you. Why toss out such collateral over what could simply be a misunderstanding on their part?”
Eden harrumphs, turning away from him to glance at Zane who simply shrugs again. She turns back to Killian.
“What did you have in mind?”
Killian's smile grows even wider in response.
Several moments later, Eden emerges from her office, doing a double-take as she notices a line of young women stretching as far as the eye can see down the hall and turning out of sight around a corner, some in business attire, others in clothing leaving little to the imagination, all of various races and ethnicities. She narrows her eyes and squints. Body paint?
Eden shakes her head as she marches over to the door the line starts in front of, noting the perfect shine of 'Vain' Alan Wallace's nameplate before her. She tries the doorknob, finding it locked and then pounds the side of her fist against the door. The woman at the front of the line scoffs loudly and smacks her gum, jutting one hip out and planting a fist on it.
“Ummm who do you think YOU are? You can't just cut in line!”
Eden pauses with her fist raised, several gasps moving down the line as it is apparent that many of the women know exactly who she is. She turns to the obviously irritated one before her, all smiles.
“You're absolutely right. How rude of me. And you are?” Eden's smile never falters as her attention is caught by Killian's manservant, Nottingham, going along the line and handing out cards to several of the women waiting. He stands back and surveys the group before stepping forward and handing out a card here and there, obviously being picky with his choices. Eden rolls her eyes, catching the end of the woman's almost nasally speech.
“-- I've been here for three hours, but that's okay, that's okay, cause you let Alan Wallace get a glimpse of this--” she runs her overly-long bright orange nails over her daringly-short pale blue miniskirt with a grin on her heavily made up face, “and he'll send these other bitches packing. All's I need is just some... alone time,” she giggles and then pops a bubble with the gum in her mouth. Unable to retain the smile any longer, Eden just stares at her for a moment before turning to the aide behind her who is furiously writing up nametags for each woman in line. She plucks the marker from her hand, the aide looking up in surprise and then her face blanching as Eden takes the blank nametags from her as well. She scrawls something across one of the blank ones, pulling it from its backing as the woman before her continues to prattle on about how she would make Alan the best secretary, ad nauseum. Eden hands the pen and other tags back to the aide who quickly scurries away, turning again to the woman before her. Eden nods politely before slapping the nametag over the woman's mouth and holding it there for a moment, eyes before her enlarging.
“Don't even think about removing that. Have a nice day,” she finishes as she saunters away, the woman staring at her with incredulity in her expression and a nametag with the words “Double bag it” emblazoned across her lips.
Eden shakes her head, muttering to herself as the line goes on and on, stopping in her tracks as she hears her name being called.
“Miss Morgan! Miss Morgan!” she turns to find her assistant, Brandon, rushing toward her, an excited and victorious look on his face as he approaches her.
“Yes?” she inquires politely, Brandon positively giddy with his news.
“I have someone you should meet, Miss Morgan, that is, if you have time. I know how busy your schedule is--”
“Of course you do. You make it for me,” she says with an amused smoothness, Brandon flushing.
“Yes ma'am, that's true, and it's an honor to make your schedule for you--”
“Save it, Brandon. Who is this I should meet?” she asks bluntly, her assistant bursting forth with the information.
“He's the president of your fan club, Miss Morgan. He knows everything about you!”
“Uh huh. Not creepy at all. So it's not Travis Pierce with a fake mustache or something?” Eden crosses her arms, looking at Brandon dubiously. He shakes his head emphatically.
“No ma'am, Mr. Pierce was treasurer from what I understand. If you'll come this way--?” he starts to lead the way, Eden following behind him, an amused look on her face.
“Pierce? Treasurer of my fan club? Oh now that's just delicious,” she chuckles richly as they make their way through several hallways, finally arriving in an open area. Eden's eyes narrow as she studies a large man stuffed into one of the guest chairs they have available, taking in his suit which has the appearance of one bought and then put aside for funerals or weddings. His dark brown hair is closely cropped to his head, big hands drumming on his thick legs as he waits nervously. Brandon ushers her before him, the larger man's eyes lighting up in adoration.
“Miss Morgan, this is Carl, the president of your fan club. Carl--” Brandon starts out only to be cut off by Carl as he gets to his feet, towering well over the heads of both Eden and her assistant before dropping to his knees before her. Eden raises an eyebrow and looks over at Brandon who simply grins.
“Miss Morgan, it is such an honor, nay a privilege to finally meet you in person. Can I-- can I touch your hand? Is that allowed?” he says from his kneeling position, keeping his eyes downcast as he does his best not to look at her and hold his hand out timidly, his voice hopeful. Unable to keep the surprise from her face at his deep and yet somehow nasally voice, Eden holds out her hand, Carl snatching at it as if it were a lifeline.
“Oh, thank you! You just don't even understand what this means to me--”
“Carl,” Eden begins as she attempts to extricate her hand from his vise-like grip without much success, “why don't you get off your knees and we could sit and have a chat. How's that sound?” she asks, Carl looking up at her with pure adoration as he quickly scrambles up and folds himself back into the chair. Eden glances at Brandon who shrugs in amusement as she seats herself in one of the chairs as well, not bothering to lean back.
“Carl... how big are you? Just an approximation,” she says, folding her hands together and studying the man before her. Carl looks at her in disbelief, shocked that she could want to learn about him. He starts to stutter and stammer before finally, real words erupt from his mouth.
“Uh, well you see, uh... it's been a while and this is just a ballpark figure, but uh I think I'm 6'9, around 350 lbs, you know, depending on how much water I drink or whether I'm bloaty that day. We all have our good days and bad days. Except for you, of course, you only have good days. Beautiful, fantastic days,” he finishes, staring at her. Eden clears her throat.
“Thank you, Carl. I have another question for you, if you don't mind.”
“You can ask me questions all day long, Miss Morgan. All night too, if that's what you want,” he rushes out reverently, his expression suddenly changing to one of horror. “Oh God, I didn't mean it like that, I would never think that a goddess such as yourself would ever stoop to--”
Eden cuts him short, watching him carefully. “How do you feel about violence, Carl?”
Carl ceases his apologies, staring at Eden in surprise.
“I'm a Buddhist.”
“Seriously?” both of Eden's eyebrows arch at this and she shakes her head, trying to keep her amusement in. “I'm fairly sure we can work around that,” she turns to Brandon who immediately snaps to attention. “Send him around to Zane. See what he thinks of him,” she rises from her chair, patting Carl on the hand as she does so, Carl snatching at her hand and placing it to his forehead reverently. Eden draws her hand away, glancing at the watch on her wrist. Seeing her look, Brandon speaks up.
“The penthouse is prepared for you, Miss Morgan, as ever.”
Eden nods, distracted as she walks away, Carl calling behind her.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Morgan. It was everything I ever hoped for--”
“Come on, Carl. We're going to see Zane. You know Zane Scott, right?”
Carl nods emphatically as he gets to his feet, the two of them walking in the opposite direction of Eden.
“Why am I going to see Zane?”
“Because he'll be the one to approve you as Miss Morgan's head of security,” Brandon responds blandly, having to stop for a moment as Carl does dance after dance of celebration and then drops down to pray thankfully.
Chicago, The next day
“You're late, Shangri-La,” Robert Ooley grouses as he opens the door to his office to admit Eden Morgan.
“Do you really want to go into this again, OOO-LEE,” she responds sweetly, deliberately mispronouncing his name. Not waiting for him to respond, Eden reaches to the side, placing a hand on a muscled forearm in a well-tailored suit beside her. “Stay outside the door, Carl, I'll be out soon.” Carl glares at Robert Ooley in warning as Eden enters the room, noting Dexter Vines at the desk.
“What the hell was that, Shangri-La? More tricks?” Ooley demands as Eden starts to remove her coat and gloves, seating herself easily before his desk.
“I don't know what you mean, OOO-LEE, Carl is simply for my security. Dangerous, unscrupulous times we live in and all. Hello there, Mr. Vines. Nice to see you again,” Eden smiles warmly, Dexter watching her for a moment before nodding his head at her. She turns back to Ooley. “So you said the Benefactor would like to hear my proposal? Where is he?” she asks, coming straight to the point. Ooley scowls at her.
“No one said you'd get to meet him yet, Shangri-La. We have a conference call set up. You can pitch whatever horse shit it is you're selling to him then,” he finishes disgustedly, dropping down into his office chair. Eden grins at him, enjoying his displeasure at the turn of events.
“Then by all means. Let's get this underway.”
Dexter leans forward, pressing a button on the desktop phone before them, speaking clearly into the speaker.
“She's here.”
Eden listens raptly as a voice issues forth from the phone, definitely masculine, but without any identifying accent or features.
“Speak.”
Eden clears her throat, crossing one leg over the other. “It's a pleasure to speak with you, even in such a way as this. As I'm sure you've been informed, I have a proposal to make, one that could benefit both of us and the companies we represent considerably. The Piercing Media Network, now under new management, was squandered in the past. I seek to push it forward to new heights, heights that it has never attained and never would have had it remained in the hands of Travis Pierce. As you know, we're a media corporation. You, and this company of UGWC, are in the entertainment business. Your brand has grown by leaps and bounds in the past year through the efforts of your roster, including myself, but your target audience is limited. The internet is cutting edge and fantastic, but what if in addition to your web shows, there was also a corporation, dedicated to bringing the UGWC universe to the television set? I propose a joining of the two companies, UGWC and PMN. It's a match that should have been made long ago, one that provides another avenue for viewing our weekly shows and PPV's as well as possibly providing members of the roster with their own shows. In anticipation, I've reached out to Donovan Hastings for his own show already. If we play our cards correctly, this could become bigger and far more efficient than what that other company tried to attempt.”
Silence reigns in the room for several long minutes before the voice again issues forth from the speaker.
“Continue. I'm listening.”
The smile grows on Eden's face grows widely.
“No definitive answer, but he seemed receptive to the idea. We'll simply have to wait for a response,” Eden speaks into her phone, Zane sounding in her ear.
“Carl's working out well. We're on our way now-- yeah, how'd that go? Nevermind, I'll call him and find out myself. I'll call you back when we're on our way back to LA.” Eden hangs up, going through her address book as she watches Carl jerk back and forth in the car, watching out the windows on either side in his constant search for trouble. Eden sighs as she finds the number she is seeking, pressing 'call', Killian answering on the second ring.
“Miss me, sweetheart?”
Eden rolls her eyes, studying her perfectly-manicured nails.
“Paint me a pretty picture, Killian.”
Killian chuckles as his deep voice begins to regale her with his adventures. “It all went well. Mixxxie's has been shut down for several horrendous health code violations, the place is positively crawling with suits, I have no doubt they'll find more.”
“Is that all?” Eden asks, her voice disappointed.
“Not at all, m'dear. A certain gentleman by the name of Lucky, he appears to be the manager, was taken away in handcuffs, along with several of the ladies of ill-repute working there on charges of prostitution. Our friend Chaos, who was also in the building, has been ordered to stay in the city pending further investigation.”
Eden smiles softly. “Well done, Killian. And I suppose Chaos knows who to thank for his recent brush with professional bad luck?”
Killian chuckles. “I would indeed say he does, judging from the verbal vitriol that was hurled in my direction.”
“Perfect. Thanks for the update,” she responds distractedly as the vehicle pulls up to a set of wrought-iron gates, guards standing at attention. The driver's window rolls down, her driver speaking quietly with one of the guards. The guard speaks into a headset, pausing for a moment before waving them through, the gates opening for their admittance. Eden smiles to herself as the black vehicle, the PMN logo emblazoned on the doors, makes its way up the smooth driveway to the impressive home sprawled at the end of it. As the car comes to a stop, Eden watches as a member of the security team steps forward to take the handle of the door. She speaks softly to Carl.
“Remember. You don't make a move or touch anyone unless I give the okay. And keep your eyes and ears open,” she smiles brilliantly as the door opens, stepping out, leaving Carl to digest her hastily given orders.
Eden looks around her in appreciation at the obvious wealth and taste gone into the construction of the home, Carl close behind her as the members of security usher her into a garden room, surrounded by windows, one white couch and a table the only furniture in the room. As Carl moves in behind her, one of the security team puts an arm up.
“I'm sorry, only Miss Morgan and Mr. Monroe allowed beyond this point.”
Carl looks to his employer and then back to the smaller security guard, his eyes narrowing. Eden opens her mouth to speak up, when her attention is directed away as Remi Monroe enters the room.
“Look'e, look'e here, and here ah t'ought someone was ah pullin' dis ol' boy's leg wit da prank phone callin. Eden Morgan in mah house,” he grins, holding his arms wide for a hug, crossed-out glasses in place. A movement behind him reveals Zam, Remi's bodyguard, inching forward.
“Now Remi, how is that fair that you get your bodyguard and I can't have mine?” Eden pouts at him, batting her lashes. Remi's grin never fades as he lowers his arms.
“Wha, chu have concerns regardin' Zam? Lemme show yous how Remi Monroe treat his guests,” he snaps his fingers, Zam squeezing his fists tightly at his sides as he moves forward, Remi speaking to him but never taking his eyes from Eden.
“How 'bout yous take Miss Morgan's big man back dere an show him a good time, yeah?”
Zam nods and moves off in the direction of Carl, speaking swiftly to him. Carl looks over his shoulder at Eden who gives a brief nod, a concerned look on his face as he allows Zam to lead him off. With another hand gesture, the team of security leaves their presence, leaving Remi and Eden alone in the glass room.
“Now den, ma'am. What it is chu wanted ta discuss wit the Creole Curse, hmm? I admit to a certain powahful curiosity as to what tha might be,” he says as he takes a seat on the the white couch, patting the spot beside him for Eden. One corner of Eden's mouth turns up slightly as she takes a seat on the table before him instead. Remi watches her behind his glasses, Eden immediately disliking them as they make it impossible to read his eyes, which of course, was exactly what he intended.
“I'd like to propose a temporary truce, exceedingly temporary, mind you.”
“An how we gon' do dat when we in a match together. For da title, no less,” Remi asks somewhat lazily, reclining easily against the back of the couch, sprawling himself out before her. Eden raises an eyebrow.
“Don't play coy, Remi. It's so not you. You know very well what I mean. That match should have been only between the two of us. You had something intimate in mind, did you not? And then Jet Somers had to go and interject himself, ruin your plans. He stole your spotlight, Remi. And why? Because he can't handle the fact that while he was manipulating others, he was being manipulated right underneath his nose. It hardly seems fair.”
“An yet, dats da cards we was dealt, Miss Morgan. You. Me. Jet. All in a ring togethuh come Monday. An a whole lotta hate between you and him. Why should I get involved?”
Eden leans forward, crooking her finger at Remi who leans forward as well. As she speaks softly, her lips brush his ear, leaving behind faint traces of red lipstick.
“But you're already involved, Remi. I know you see that. You could... sit back and wait for Jet and I to destroy one another, you come in and pick up the pieces. But aren't you tired of sitting back and waiting? Of being labeled as someone who only wins based on duplicitous acts and opportunism?”
Remi pulls away from her, his eyes narrowing behind his shades as Eden smiles innocently, continuing.
“All I'm offering is this temporary truce, in an effort to make the match you wanted in the first place: you and I incapacitate Jet, remove him from the match together so that he is no longer a concern... and then we can focus on each other. Just you. And me. Of course, the truce would be over and events could then take their course,” she sits back, a smile curling her lips as she watches him. Remi sits in silence for a moment, the grin on his face growing as he considers her words.
“I'm ah. I'm a-thinkin' we might could do some business, Miss Morgan.”
Eden reaches out, taking his hand in a handshake, rubbing her thumb lightly across the sensitive flesh of his palm.
“Please. Call me Eden,” she responds softly, the scene fading out as she and Remi continue their wordgames.
You, you’re everything I want
And I, I’m everything you need
This night is cutting into me
You tie me down, you watch me bleed
And we risk everything tonight
Los Angeles, approaching sunset
Eden approaches her office, her expression weary as she unfastens the buttons on her suit jacket. The man at the desk outside her office calls to her without looking up from his paperwork.
“Pleasant flight back from Chicago, Miss Morgan?”
Eden nods, silent as she considers the events of the day. Brandon finally looks up.
“I hope things went according to your wishes?” he inquires politely, Eden giving a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes over to him.
“Yes Brandon, thank you. Is the penthouse ready for me?”
Brandon nods, realization suddenly hitting him as Eden opens the door to her office.
“Miss Morgan, there's someone waiting for you in there! I apologize ma'am, I completely forgot--”
Eden stares into her office, her expression gone chilling, lines of strain showing. She holds up a hand to Brandon, refusing to remove her stare from the man standing before her.
“It's fine,” she says, her response clipped as she enters the room, closing the door on herself and Jason Ingalls.
I, I am the misery you crave
And you, you are my faithful enemy
This hunger seems to feed on me
A sacred sin, a dying breed
And we risk everything
Several minutes later
The door to Eden's office opens, Jason Ingalls leaving hurriedly, cheeks flushed, tension radiating from every muscle of him. Brandon watches as he goes, curiosity evident in his stare until the creak of the door opening sends him to his feet in a rush.
“I'm ready, Miss Morgan,” he says hurriedly, eager to make up for his obvious misstep earlier. Eden says nothing, the two of them walking down the hallway to the bank of elevators, Eden pressing the “up”button and waiting. Once the elevator arrives, she steps inside, Brandon following suit, a black duffel bag in hand. Eden quickly swipes a card kept inside her jacket pocket and then enters in a series of numbers, the elevator shooting off to its destination.
The Penthouse. Formerly the apartments of one Travis Pierce. Eden checks her watch. Cartwright should be delivering his letter anytime. Perfect.
The elevator dings, but the doors remain closed. Eden punches in yet another code, swiping the card again before they finally open, she and Brandon stepping off. Without a word, he places the bag down on the floor at her feet, getting swiftly back onto the elevator and using his own card swipe and code to close the doors behind him, leaving Eden alone in the expansive apartment.
The rooms were lavishly furnished, the same furnishings used by their previous owner, the view breathtaking as Eden watches the sun set over LA from the floor-to-ceiling windows encompassing two entire walls. She stands before the windows, looking out, her arms clasped tightly around herself as the silence echoes around her. She closes her eyes slowly, shrouding herself in darkness, and inhales deeply, the crisp clean air Travis had insisted be pumped into these rooms almost sharp as it fills her lungs. Her eyes suddenly open, the sun gone over the horizon now, as Eden stoops to lift the black bag, placing it on a marble countertop. She removes her suit jacket, folding it neatly beside the bag before unzipping it and drawing out a small picture frame. She studies the contents of the picture, devouring it hungrily with eyes gone distant before placing it reverently on a shelf, its lone occupant.
They can never know just what we've done.
“They still don't understand,” she whispers to herself, still staring at the picture, but not really seeing it. “I made a promise to you, and I'll deliver on it. I'll destroy them all, every last one. Everyone who knew, everyone who was a part of what happened, every one of them who signed off without considering the consequences and repercussions of their actions. I'll be those consequences and repercussions.”
They can never know just what we've done.
Her pale gaze haunted, face drawn, she looks away from the picture, eyes lighting on various items in the apartment, none of them hers.
“I want them to feel the unending pain, the searing burn, the frigid cold, and then that blank nothing. I want them... to feel it all as one by one they realize they could have prevented their own downfall. Just a little more care. A little more precision. A little less left up to chance. Travis Pierce was first. He'll make it all possible, just as he made it all possible and more believable to begin with. A weak, pathetic excuse of a man, full of lies, secrets, and his own mysterious moral code,” she mutters to herself as she turns back to the black bag, reaching into it and drawing out a baseball bat. The wood appears a paradox, shiny over the majority of the bat, indicating its newness, with sections of the wood chipped or broken, gashes taken out of it in areas. Turning without warning, she brings the bat crashing down through the fully-set glass dining table behind her, sending the fine china and crystal crashing to the floor now littered by shards of glass. Eden swings the bat again, taking out a lamp, sparks of electricity flying as the bulb is extinguished, Eden moving through the apartment as she destroys item after item, her heels crunching in the glass.
They will never know all the blood we've shed,
The scarlet cross we bear until the bitter end,
They can never know just what we've done.
“Jet Somers,” she rasps, her hair come loose from its tight holding and swirling around her. She touches the back of her wrist to the corner of her mouth, the stinging there alerting her to the fact that some of the glass had sprayed back onto her. A spot of blood shows against her pale skin as she pulls her hand away, continuing on. She runs her tongue along the cut at the corner of her mouth, her taste buds assailed by the thick copper taste of fresh pennies.
Nothing good will come of this
“He wants to know how long,” she laughs at her own words, a crazed light dancing in her eyes as she lines up her next target, smashing through it. “But from the moment I saw you... in all your glory... wrenched apart like an angel... I knew. I knew then, then when I knew little else, that I would destroy them all. And in his destruction I would take the most pleasure.”
I'm screaming out with my last aching breath.
I'll be yours until my dying day.
But I can never see you...
Eden returns to the black bag, drawing a thick book out of it. She hefts it in her hands, studying the pages, a mocking laugh bubbling past her lips.
“Lies. All lies. An empire of lies and illusions, all come crumbling down. Down, down, down,” she singsongs to herself as she turns the book, ripping at the pages, pulling them halfway away from the spine before tossing it onto the counter. She draws out a box of matches, placing them on top of the mangled book before turning her attention to the rest of the apartment until nothing is left standing or intact. The pristine furniture from before lies in tatters, partly smashed, sharp slices made through each piece's leather. Holes decorate the walls of the penthouse where her baseball bat had smashed through, curtains practically shredded, glass, crystal, and china littering the floor. Lights blink on and off as electricity pulses through them, Eden stepping through the carnage, leaving little bloody handprints on the wall, the shards of glass she had used to slice through the furniture cutting through the flesh of her hands like butter. She doesn't notice, eyes distant as she drops the shard in hand, reaching out to pick up the box of matches. She stares down at the book on the marble countertop, drawing a match out and striking it, the smell of sulphur swift and fleeting. She purses her lips, blowing gently and watching the flame sway as it slowly descends down the wood, reaching for her fingertips.
We. We knew how this would end.
And we knew we'd die before we lived.
“Reach for me, Jet. Try to understand why what happened, happened. Go through your sad, meaningless initiation rights. And realize that... in the end... the chaos that you were so obsessed with controlling and using for your own gains... slipped right through your fingers and turned on you,” at the last second, just as the warmth began to eat at her fingertips, she drops the match onto the pages of the book before her. She stares down as the flame flickers and then gently, as if asking permission, takes hold of one page, the edges curling, and then another, another. The flame that had once so delicately taken the first page soon rages, snatching page after page in its greedy quest for fulfillment. Eden watches for long moments, finally drawing away as the elevator doors open, Brandon stepping in with a fire extinguisher in hand, his face carefully blank. Eden picks up her jacket, approaching the elevator and climbing on.
But I'll never let you go.
“See that it's ready for me again tomorrow, Brandon,” she says as she fastens her suit jacket, smoothing her hair back into place and leaving lines of gleaming red against her ebony tresses.
I'll never let you go.
“Yes ma'am,” Brandon says softly, waiting until the elevator doors close before extinguishing the fire. He breathes a sigh as he looks over at the lone remaining picture on the bare shelf, the only item not severely damaged or broken in the entire place. Staring back at him is a picture of a woman much different from the one he now knows, her face contorted in annoyance, though her happiness is apparent as a blonde man in a white t-shirt and tattered jeans slings his arm around her shoulder and plants a kiss on the side of her head, still eyeballing the camera, his blue eyes laughing. Reverently, he takes the picture down, placing it carefully back in the black bag, where the two in the picture will wait for the destruction of the next evening.
They will never know all the blood we shed
The scarlet cross we bear until the bitter end
And they, they can never know just what we’ve done
I will never let you go
They can never know just what we’ve done
I will never let you go
And the next.
We knew how this... would end.