(no subject)
Title: Gesture of the Jester
Author: Vekah Darkstar
Fandom: CSI: NY
Pairing/character: Mac Taylor
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: BPAL - 50: Jester
Notes/Warnings: The Mac-Taylor-shaped-Muse has decided, much like the Nefertiri-shaped-Muse, that this challenge shall be one large story in consecutive parts. / I do not own any of these characters, nor do I make any money off of them. This is for fun. Please don't sue! :(
Prompt: Jester
Huckleberry and red currant with the incisive bite of neroli.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The lounge of Kabuki Theatre was just about everything Mac had imagined it would be: wrapped in every Japanese cliché known to American man and brimming to the rafters with the usual mix of wealthy New Yorkers. Attitudes ranged from outraged primadonnas decked out in expensive clothes to bored, self-important peacocks, strutting around and dramatizing the moment for anyone that would throw so much as an ounce of attention their way. And that was just the actors.
He wasn’t even going to let himself analyze the patrons.
Don Flack stood in the sea of drama and chaos like a man fighting for his last drowning breath. He was attempting to take a statement from some woman wearing a cross between a vinyl micro-dress and a silk kimono. The woman in question gestured animatedly as she spoke, bouncing on her mile-high heels. They put her almost eye level with the Detective, her generous cleavage bouncing in time with her movements. It was the only thing about her that seemed to move, her red hair having been slicked back into a tight bun and run through with a pair of bejeweled hair sticks.
Mac couldn’t hear what was being said between Don and the witness. The clamor of the room was approaching a deafening roar. “Alright, listen up!” he shouted. Years of service in the Marines had given him one hell of a commanding shout. As predicted, the room fell silent in seconds. “I’m Detective Taylor, one of the individuals in charge of this scene. The NYPD appreciates your time and patience here tonight. I’m going to ask you all to keep it down and to move into designated groups. Over here by the bar, I want all the actors from tonight’s performance. On the opposite side of the room, I’d like everyone that has already given a statement to Detective Flack. The rest, please remain in this center area and have a seat at the tables. The only people I want to see standing are those wearing NYPD badges.”
A man pushed his way through the crowd of witnesses and actors, angling towards Mac. It could only be the manager, Mac thought, watching the man with detached indifference. He wore a suit so loudly colored that Mac had to brace himself against the visual assault to his senses. Chartreuse and a canary yellow shirt and dark green tie, made of some form of silk so that it glinted in the lights of the lounge. Not like the suit needed any light to broadcast itself. It was bright enough to stop traffic at fifty feet. He looked like a damn court jester.
“Excuse me!” The jester of old demanded, stopping his bean-pole self into Mac’s personal space.
Mac didn’t bother to step back, letting his eyes fill with enough ice that the other man took an involuntary step back before he could catch himself. “Your name,” Mac said, turning the request into a statement.
“Uh, Dyson Vicker,” he answered, and then the ire rose in Mr. Vicker’s blood again causing him to flush red and contrast so badly with his suit that Mac thought he was going to be dizzy looking at it. “And I demand to know why you have us caged in here! This is unlawful and illegal, uh, captivity!”
“I believe the phrase you are searching for is unlawful imprisonment,” Mac corrected, flipping out his notebook and recording the man’s name. “You the manager?”
“That’s right. And I demand-“
“No,” Mac cut in, pinning Vicker with another frigid stare. “You don’t demand anything at this point, Mr. Vicker. We’re conducting an investigation of one of your actors who died on stage in front of all these people. I have the authority to detain and interview each person as it pertains to that homicide. Further,” He put in loudly, interrupting Vicker’s blustering tirade before it got a chance to wind up again. “I have the power to shut this place down for as long as it takes to conduct my investigation.”
“Oh,” Vickers neared. “And that could take just how long?”
“Depends on how long you intend to waste my time, Mr. Vicker. It’s up to you.”
Vicker’s flustered face stayed beet read with his temper, though his body posture seemed to concede defeat. “I want my lawyer.”
Mac smirked. “I just bet you do.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to wear he observed a single phone on the desk by the bar. “Go ahead. I’ll note that down for you. Just as I’m noting your obvious and sincere grief over the death of one of your employees.”
That brought down some of the color in Vicker’s cheeks. “Of course I’m upset,” he snapped. “Trong was one of my most devoted employees. He truly had a gift with his performances. Naturally I’m irate about his death.”
Mac watched Vicker stroll towards the phone, back stiff as a board beneath his ugly silk suit. “Naturally,” Mac murmured beneath his breath. “But probably more concerned about what I’m going to find in this place, besides the murderer.”
Author: Vekah Darkstar
Fandom: CSI: NY
Pairing/character: Mac Taylor
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: BPAL - 50: Jester
Notes/Warnings: The Mac-Taylor-shaped-Muse has decided, much like the Nefertiri-shaped-Muse, that this challenge shall be one large story in consecutive parts. / I do not own any of these characters, nor do I make any money off of them. This is for fun. Please don't sue! :(
Prompt: Jester
Huckleberry and red currant with the incisive bite of neroli.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The lounge of Kabuki Theatre was just about everything Mac had imagined it would be: wrapped in every Japanese cliché known to American man and brimming to the rafters with the usual mix of wealthy New Yorkers. Attitudes ranged from outraged primadonnas decked out in expensive clothes to bored, self-important peacocks, strutting around and dramatizing the moment for anyone that would throw so much as an ounce of attention their way. And that was just the actors.
He wasn’t even going to let himself analyze the patrons.
Don Flack stood in the sea of drama and chaos like a man fighting for his last drowning breath. He was attempting to take a statement from some woman wearing a cross between a vinyl micro-dress and a silk kimono. The woman in question gestured animatedly as she spoke, bouncing on her mile-high heels. They put her almost eye level with the Detective, her generous cleavage bouncing in time with her movements. It was the only thing about her that seemed to move, her red hair having been slicked back into a tight bun and run through with a pair of bejeweled hair sticks.
Mac couldn’t hear what was being said between Don and the witness. The clamor of the room was approaching a deafening roar. “Alright, listen up!” he shouted. Years of service in the Marines had given him one hell of a commanding shout. As predicted, the room fell silent in seconds. “I’m Detective Taylor, one of the individuals in charge of this scene. The NYPD appreciates your time and patience here tonight. I’m going to ask you all to keep it down and to move into designated groups. Over here by the bar, I want all the actors from tonight’s performance. On the opposite side of the room, I’d like everyone that has already given a statement to Detective Flack. The rest, please remain in this center area and have a seat at the tables. The only people I want to see standing are those wearing NYPD badges.”
A man pushed his way through the crowd of witnesses and actors, angling towards Mac. It could only be the manager, Mac thought, watching the man with detached indifference. He wore a suit so loudly colored that Mac had to brace himself against the visual assault to his senses. Chartreuse and a canary yellow shirt and dark green tie, made of some form of silk so that it glinted in the lights of the lounge. Not like the suit needed any light to broadcast itself. It was bright enough to stop traffic at fifty feet. He looked like a damn court jester.
“Excuse me!” The jester of old demanded, stopping his bean-pole self into Mac’s personal space.
Mac didn’t bother to step back, letting his eyes fill with enough ice that the other man took an involuntary step back before he could catch himself. “Your name,” Mac said, turning the request into a statement.
“Uh, Dyson Vicker,” he answered, and then the ire rose in Mr. Vicker’s blood again causing him to flush red and contrast so badly with his suit that Mac thought he was going to be dizzy looking at it. “And I demand to know why you have us caged in here! This is unlawful and illegal, uh, captivity!”
“I believe the phrase you are searching for is unlawful imprisonment,” Mac corrected, flipping out his notebook and recording the man’s name. “You the manager?”
“That’s right. And I demand-“
“No,” Mac cut in, pinning Vicker with another frigid stare. “You don’t demand anything at this point, Mr. Vicker. We’re conducting an investigation of one of your actors who died on stage in front of all these people. I have the authority to detain and interview each person as it pertains to that homicide. Further,” He put in loudly, interrupting Vicker’s blustering tirade before it got a chance to wind up again. “I have the power to shut this place down for as long as it takes to conduct my investigation.”
“Oh,” Vickers neared. “And that could take just how long?”
“Depends on how long you intend to waste my time, Mr. Vicker. It’s up to you.”
Vicker’s flustered face stayed beet read with his temper, though his body posture seemed to concede defeat. “I want my lawyer.”
Mac smirked. “I just bet you do.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to wear he observed a single phone on the desk by the bar. “Go ahead. I’ll note that down for you. Just as I’m noting your obvious and sincere grief over the death of one of your employees.”
That brought down some of the color in Vicker’s cheeks. “Of course I’m upset,” he snapped. “Trong was one of my most devoted employees. He truly had a gift with his performances. Naturally I’m irate about his death.”
Mac watched Vicker stroll towards the phone, back stiff as a board beneath his ugly silk suit. “Naturally,” Mac murmured beneath his breath. “But probably more concerned about what I’m going to find in this place, besides the murderer.”