Danke Schoen, darling Danke Schoen. [Closed]
Who: Bela Talbot, Julian Sark, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Irene Adler.
Where: Bela Talbot's speakeasy
When: Nowish
What: Tony and Bruce find their way to Bela's speakeasy... where she's in a back room, executing a traitor.
Warnings: BLOOOOD.
Notes: Bela's 'backstory', as I forgot to include it last time (doh).
Bela Talbot, in the Master's world, was born into a wealthy family with a drug addict mother who killed herself off before the girl reached her teen years. She worked closely with her father, running their perfumery as the business slowly failed and he withdrew into himself. At age eighteen she took over completely and, with the last of her family's fortune, completely renovated the basement and turned it into a high-class escort service. Her father died when she turned twenty. At age twenty-one, she survived the Master's takeover where many of her friends and remaining family did not.
She's always been a cold customer, but his appearance made her ruthless. Revamping the business again into a perfumery fronting a speakeasy, she slashed and brutalized her way into owning a corner of the black market, acquiring the nickname Black Widow in the process for her rumored habit of courting and killing her competitors. She's unscrupulous, in most peoples' eyes, but absolutely loyal--distinguish yourself in her service and you're guaranteed her protection and the relative comfort her position provides.
Cross her, disrespect her, or harm one of her girls, and you'll likely end up a stain on her carpet or a section of skin, painted with your name and hanging as a flag in one of the city's open squares.
He begged. They all tended to, when faced with the Black Widow in a rage. He begged, chained to the wall of an unadorned room off one of the hotel suite halls. Steel, not cement; blood tended to sink into cement, and one thing Bela Talbot did was run a clean establishment.
Relatively speaking.
Bela braced both hands atop her cane. The only witness to this was Sark--Sark, and one of Bela's barmaids, hugging herself in a corner while she watched with blank, cold eyes.
"Can you give me a reason yet?"
The prisoner whimpered. She pressed the cane under his chin and tilted his head up so he had to look her in the eyes or close his own. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch that."
She brings the polished wood cracking against his collarbone, pressing down. The whimper turns into a wail.
Strips of skin hang off his arms and stomach, shaved close enough to reveal twitching muscle in some places. Blood and burns decorate his naked legs and torso. Bela speaks calmly over his mounting scream.
"I was under the impression that I made myself entirely clear. No one forces themselves on my girls. No one, no matter their standing or status."
"Okay! Okay! Please--"
She steps back, relieving pressure. Before he can thank her, she yanks her long, straight blade free of its cane sheath and opens up his throat to disgorge blood down his front and all over the floor.
"And do not say please, you hypocritical pig."
She tugged the at the cuffs of her suit, eying the arc of blood across her weapon. "Mr. Sark?"
He hands over a handkerchief without a word, following her out of the room and leading the barmaid behind him. The noise of the speakeasy proper filters in as they enter the room, Bela running her handkerchief over the end of the blade once more, just to be sure it's clean. A broad red stripe runs across the center of the cloth.
The lighting is dim as always, allowing the spotlight to focus on Irene, one hand cupped around the mic as she croons Danke Schoen into it, creamy skin standing out against shimmering red cloth, her shoulders covered in short silk cascades, her back starkly bare almost to the base of her torso. Her hair shines as bright as the dress, rich dark pincurls pooling against the curve of her neck. Pearl teardrops swing from her ears, sending off soft sparks of light with each motion, their silver box-chains matching the simple necklace she wears--two small pearls flanking a diamond. She's a vision painted in contrasts, dark colors and rich voice and shimmering presence. Untouchable goddess of the stage.
Bela stops to admire Irene a moment, a tiny curve of a smile on her mouth. Her own clothing choices are so modest by comparison--the customary black and blue three-piece suit, a tight conch bun pinned up under a bowler. The only bit of flare she possesses herself is a black opal pendant hanging from a black silk ribbon.
To each their own, as it were.
She slides the blade back into its cane sheath when Sark hands her the latter, taking in the room to see who's arrived since she left to take care of that errand.
There are newcomers. A few regulars.
And two entirely new faces.
Bela tilts her head, eying them with a hawk's curiosity. "Mr. Sark. Would so be so kind as to invite those two to share a drink at my table? I don't believe we've been acquainted."
Where: Bela Talbot's speakeasy
When: Nowish
What: Tony and Bruce find their way to Bela's speakeasy... where she's in a back room, executing a traitor.
Warnings: BLOOOOD.
Notes: Bela's 'backstory', as I forgot to include it last time (doh).
Bela Talbot, in the Master's world, was born into a wealthy family with a drug addict mother who killed herself off before the girl reached her teen years. She worked closely with her father, running their perfumery as the business slowly failed and he withdrew into himself. At age eighteen she took over completely and, with the last of her family's fortune, completely renovated the basement and turned it into a high-class escort service. Her father died when she turned twenty. At age twenty-one, she survived the Master's takeover where many of her friends and remaining family did not.
She's always been a cold customer, but his appearance made her ruthless. Revamping the business again into a perfumery fronting a speakeasy, she slashed and brutalized her way into owning a corner of the black market, acquiring the nickname Black Widow in the process for her rumored habit of courting and killing her competitors. She's unscrupulous, in most peoples' eyes, but absolutely loyal--distinguish yourself in her service and you're guaranteed her protection and the relative comfort her position provides.
Cross her, disrespect her, or harm one of her girls, and you'll likely end up a stain on her carpet or a section of skin, painted with your name and hanging as a flag in one of the city's open squares.
He begged. They all tended to, when faced with the Black Widow in a rage. He begged, chained to the wall of an unadorned room off one of the hotel suite halls. Steel, not cement; blood tended to sink into cement, and one thing Bela Talbot did was run a clean establishment.
Relatively speaking.
Bela braced both hands atop her cane. The only witness to this was Sark--Sark, and one of Bela's barmaids, hugging herself in a corner while she watched with blank, cold eyes.
"Can you give me a reason yet?"
The prisoner whimpered. She pressed the cane under his chin and tilted his head up so he had to look her in the eyes or close his own. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch that."
She brings the polished wood cracking against his collarbone, pressing down. The whimper turns into a wail.
Strips of skin hang off his arms and stomach, shaved close enough to reveal twitching muscle in some places. Blood and burns decorate his naked legs and torso. Bela speaks calmly over his mounting scream.
"I was under the impression that I made myself entirely clear. No one forces themselves on my girls. No one, no matter their standing or status."
"Okay! Okay! Please--"
She steps back, relieving pressure. Before he can thank her, she yanks her long, straight blade free of its cane sheath and opens up his throat to disgorge blood down his front and all over the floor.
"And do not say please, you hypocritical pig."
She tugged the at the cuffs of her suit, eying the arc of blood across her weapon. "Mr. Sark?"
He hands over a handkerchief without a word, following her out of the room and leading the barmaid behind him. The noise of the speakeasy proper filters in as they enter the room, Bela running her handkerchief over the end of the blade once more, just to be sure it's clean. A broad red stripe runs across the center of the cloth.
The lighting is dim as always, allowing the spotlight to focus on Irene, one hand cupped around the mic as she croons Danke Schoen into it, creamy skin standing out against shimmering red cloth, her shoulders covered in short silk cascades, her back starkly bare almost to the base of her torso. Her hair shines as bright as the dress, rich dark pincurls pooling against the curve of her neck. Pearl teardrops swing from her ears, sending off soft sparks of light with each motion, their silver box-chains matching the simple necklace she wears--two small pearls flanking a diamond. She's a vision painted in contrasts, dark colors and rich voice and shimmering presence. Untouchable goddess of the stage.
Bela stops to admire Irene a moment, a tiny curve of a smile on her mouth. Her own clothing choices are so modest by comparison--the customary black and blue three-piece suit, a tight conch bun pinned up under a bowler. The only bit of flare she possesses herself is a black opal pendant hanging from a black silk ribbon.
To each their own, as it were.
She slides the blade back into its cane sheath when Sark hands her the latter, taking in the room to see who's arrived since she left to take care of that errand.
There are newcomers. A few regulars.
And two entirely new faces.
Bela tilts her head, eying them with a hawk's curiosity. "Mr. Sark. Would so be so kind as to invite those two to share a drink at my table? I don't believe we've been acquainted."