sienamystic - fic - The Deconstruction of Miss. Sophie Devereaux
Title: The Deconstruction of Miss. Sophie Devereaux
Author: mizzy2k
Giftee:sienamystic
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Sophie, Tara, Sophie/Nate
Word Count: 3400
Spoilers: Only for season 1 and maybe 2.
Warnings: Possible identity triggers.
Disclaimer: Leverage doesn't belong to me.
Summary: Do you have any idea how hard it is, to wait for someone?
Notes: Based on the prompt: "Who is Sophie, really?"
(Some formatting below, so may appear differently if you apply your style to friends/communities.)
Thank you to ella_bee for the beta and check, andmidnighthour and telaryn for checking my funky coding.
Mimi DeBurgh is quiet, subtle and only breaks out in her celebratory dance of success when she knows she's safe behind closed doors.
The heels Eduardo Rosen bought for her are higher than Mimi normally wears, but they also cost a lot of money, and Mimi likes money. That's one of her defining characteristics. Mimi likes a lot of things to do with the letter m. Men. Money. Margaritas in Miami. Museums in Moscow.
Male millionaire marks.
Mimi's been on this Grift for seven months. She's the Mistress of a long con. A Master of the game. She's also malleable and meek-and as of this afternoon, mega-rich.
The briefcase bounces against her bare leg, the maroon dress she's wearing cut to mid-thigh. Mimi's men like legs and elegance. It's been a long, long seven months, but the pay-out makes it all worthwhile.
Mimi tips a wink to a passing guest of the hotel she's staying in, and continues swaying slowly in the ridiculously high heels. Mimi's not super confident on heels, but being saved by men is not her idea of a bad time, if the rescuer in question has a large wallet he won't notice being lightened a little. She likes to think conveniently tumbling like that serves both parties-she gets money to compensate for the bruises, and they get to feel like a worshipped hero for the day.
There's no one around at the moment, though, so Mimi doesn't want to fall. The heels sink into the carpet, so she keeps her movements measured.
And there it is-room 412. Not quite the most sophisticated suite in the hotel, but Mimi's learned never to quibble with free. She slides her keycard in the door, sweeps the room automatically, bolts the door behind her and opens up the briefcase on the bed.
And she smiles and smiles at the large amount of cash inside.
Her mark won't even notice it's gone for at least four days. There's plenty of time to make a decent getaway, so she has time for a drink before she goes.
And time for her celebration dance.
Mimi's kind of a dork, after all.
After her rendition of the Snoopy-dance-on-acid is complete, Mimi smoothes down her hair and looks at the door contemplatively. See, there's the crux of the whole thing-Mimi was created for one job and for one job only. There is another job on the instant horizon, and Mimi just will not do for it and Mimi is tired.
Mimi wants to be retired.
She sinks down onto the end of the bed. Mimi on her own is a mellow creature. But mostly, Mimi is one thing.
All of her aliases can be boiled down into one thing. One word. And that's how she can switch out of them so easily. That word is like a password. Speak that word and the whole personality slips off, ready for her to wear the next one.
And Mimi, if you boil her down to her bones, is pretty much just one thing:
A mouse.
She says the word, clear in her mind, and Mimi slips away from her, like an old friend slipping out the door. Her mind feels terrifyingly empty for a second, but it's easier to calm down when she runs through a whole list of women she could become in a second, just by saying their name.
That's not what she needs, though.
She needs a personality that will be perfect for the job coming up in Prague. An art show. A museum. She'll play at being the representative for a very wealthy inventor, and then the Degas will be hers.
She needs to create a personality that slots into the situation like the missing piece of a jigsaw. And for that, she needs a name.
Most Grifters, when they come up with a pseudonym for their latest identity, don't put too much thought into it.
Tara tells her often, long and loud, that her preferred name is divined from the top 100 name list-from, of course, a year that she could believably get away with as her birth year.
That year has been getting later with every passing year.
She, however, is not most Grifters.
Her name has to have meaning. Her name has to reflect her character.
Take Annie Kroy. Annie's straight-forward. Not afraid to use a (Annie get your) gun. Meaning favour. Annie deals in favours, in looking the other way. Kroy, similarly, matches Annie's character. Untraceable lineage, a jumbled history, no one famous owning up to it-but a name lurking under the surface regardless. Like a shark.
Annie Kroy is a perfect name, and Annie Kroy is violent and perfect.
Prague needs a softer character than Annie. Prague needs to be opened, like a gift, not taken down like a headshot.
Prague needs grace (Kylie? Willow? no, she doesn't feel Australian or like she's a flower-child), and beauty (Adara? Diana? No, too many historians in the art field) and knowledge (Bina? Mida? No, maybe this character needs to be British), no... wisdom. Sonia, perhaps. Sofia? Not British enough.
Sophie. She rolls the name on her tongue, and tries the sound of it out. Her voice settles into a slightly more rounded version of her actual accent, a little more Estuary than RP. The sound of it in her embarrassingly large (Grifted, of course) hotel room wraps around her, like the soft touch of an old friend, uncertain of its welcome. Sophie.
Sophie. The third time is the charm, and she slips into the character as well as she fits the name. Sophie. She is Sophie.
Sophie needs to be at the centre. For her long con to be successful, she needs to be at the heart of things. Sophie will be the heart of the operation. She folds her hands over her chest and can feel it. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. She is that gentle, warm rhythm. She sways to the beat, rocking on her newest acquisitions. This pair of shoes make her legs look like dynamite. Does Sophie care about that?
She does. Sophie likes to be looked at, to be admired. Sophie knows all her womanly wiles. Men know she likes to use them, but they enjoy her using them. They let Sophie get away with things. That's definitely important for a Grifter. Stealing is no fun. Getting the Mark to give you what you want, with a smile on their face, that's the thrill.
A surname, then. That's what she needs. Something... with three syllables. Sophie's complicated. She has layers. Annie Kroy is straightforward, one syllable, pow.
Which three syllable surnames has she used before? Best to re-use one so she doesn't have to pay too much for ID. Ellington. No, that's too plain - Sophie's dazzling. McCready. No, too early 20th Century boarding school ma'am. Lovery? No, too close to Lovely-Sophie likes subtlety. Symth-Patel is too Indian, Duccio too Italian. She needs something British, to go with the accent.
Sophie... is used to moving. A lot. Grifters move too, but Sophie has... wandering feet. She gets bored of countries. She likes to travel. Donovan? No, van is too literal. What was that moving company she used the last time she was in London?
Devereaux's.
Sophie Devereaux.
As soon as she thinks the two names together, she knows it's right. Sophie Devereaux is a charmer, a mover and shaker. Glamorously elegant. Sinful but self-aware. Charisma and intelligence and heart.
It was a different girl that walked into the hotel room, with small coquettish steps and a Southern-charm smile. That girl is gone.
It's Sophie Devereaux who strides out of the room, like the whole world is hers for the taking.
Sophie tucks her purse under her arm, smiles winningly, and goes to see a guy about a new set of IDs for her captivating new personality.
She stops via the bar. Tara is still in the bar. She's trying to get away with 1977 as a birth year, and has been Tara for the last three jobs that she's told Sophie about.
Well, Tara told Anya, Louise and Mimi those things, but those women are gone. Sophie is who is left for now.
Tara was the 35th most popular girl's name in 1977. 40th in 1978. 38th in 1979. Still in the top 100 (dipping to 85th by 1990, although 1990 may be stretching it-Tara looks young, but not that young). Tara might try and get away with using Tara for the next decade. Maybe even longer. People always remember Gone with the Wind.
For all she knows, Tara might be her real name. Real names have no business between Grifters-Tara calls her whatever name she has at the time. Sophie could never stick with just one name. It would be-and this is a completely Sophie thought-like sticking with one pair of shoes. Dull, dull, dull.
"You think too much," Tara tells her, as Sophie slides up to the bar and hooks a stool closer with one ankle. It's a phrase Grifters use as a weapon. Tara and Sophie have always played a game of one-up.
Sophie takes a moment to send a flirty wink down to a couple of business men at the end of the bar. "Better than not thinking at all." It's not the sharpest comeback, but Tara did walk right into it. Sophie uses her openings.
Tara tilts her head, pursing her lips a little. "I see you've got your new alias sorted."
Mimi DeBurgh. Even now it feels like another woman's name, although Sophie knows she could be Mimi again with only a moment's notice. Mimi was a mouse of a girl. A lady who liked men to take care of her. Sophie Devereaux is a lion of a woman and she will enjoy taking men apart.
"Sophie is a sonata," Sophie tells her, feeling esoteric and strong. Sophie uses words precisely, with an emotional punch. Sophie's weapon is words.
"Sophie sounds melodramatic as hell," Tara drawls, crossing one long leg over the other, sending a flirty smile down the length of the bar to the same pair of business men Sophie had targeted. Tara holds out her left hand under the bar, where only Sophie can see, and she starts to fold down her fingers. Four, three, two, one.
"Ladies, from the gentleman over there," the bartender croons, pushing over two glasses of grappa.
"Grappa?" Tara says, still slinging hers down with a thankful smile to their benefactors. "Seriously?"
Sophie's slower with her drink. Whiskey was Mimi's drink-Mimi was a girl trapped in a men's world, trying for a man's drink to try and show that she's doing her best to fit in with them. Grappa is not Sophie's drink. Gin and tonic might be more her style, but nothing will make Sophie happier than a nice Merlot.
Apart from maybe tea.
Is she that British?
Maybe tea that she hasn't made herself.
Yes, that's what Sophie likes best.
"So where are you headed next?" Tara asks, and this is part of the game. Shop talk. Never say where you're actually going, so that a fellow Grifter won't come in a grift your territory out from under you.
Sophie smiles coyly. "Prague."
Tara nods her head as if it's a good idea.
Prague is her next hit.
Sophie uses the truth like it's a lie.
"You?" Sophie asks, because Sophie likes every illusion of politeness and society. She's well bred. Not as polished as Charlotte. Not as coarse as Annie. Somewhere in-between.
"Perhaps Finland," Tara lies.
"The Finns like their fair ladies."
Tara smiles, brilliant and fierce. "Until the next time." She chinks her glass against Sophie's and shimmies off the stool, striding off out of the door. Sophie doesn't watch her leave. Their paths will cross again. They always do.
Of course, being the Grifter left alone at the bar means Sophie has to entertain one of the men that bought them both drinks. Sophie goes through the motions. This one is a lawyer. Rich. Crooked, but then find any man that goes up to a woman like Sophie only when she's alone that isn't crooked, and Sophie will...
...well, do something entirely out of character, probably.
Everything about her is an act. Sophie is mist and illusion, smiles and precision, careful words at the right time and heart and empathy. She's an act, so she pulls a disappearing act on the man.
He thinks she's going to powder her nose.
She's halfway to the airport before he realises she's not coming back. It'll be a good thirty seconds later that he realises his wallet isn't coming back either.
Sophie feels a tiny bit guilty about that. She does not like feeling guilty, so maybe it's time to put Sophie aside until she gets to Prague.
Sophie is the heart of things. Heart.
A moment passes. Sophie frowns. What? Sophie hasn't gone away. She freezes, just for a second, long enough that her taxi driver asks her what's wrong.
"Nothing," Sophie says, unable to breathe. Sophie's polite. Is that her key word? Is polite enough to define this new character?
No. No.
Gentle. Corrupt. Wily. Brave. Creative. Disingenuous. Unforgettable. Chameleon.
All words she's never used before. All words that should identify Sophie down to her core. But they're words that leave her as Sophie, and she hasn't been Sophie long enough to really know how Sophie deals with stress.
Calmly. (But calm does not unlock her.) Resourcefully (but she is still Sophie, through and through.) Patiently-
And she can breathe again. Slowly. Excruciatingly slow. But after a couple of minutes pass, Sophie is melting away from her, one piece at a time.
It's not perfect. It means until she finds the right word to unlock herself, to move onto the next personality, that she won't be able to change out of Sophie very swiftly at all.
She sinks back into the taxi seats and tells herself she's not worried-the long game in Prague doesn't need her to switch personalities as often as Sophie Devereaux likes to switch shoes-but that's one thing that's always been definite about her as opposed to (but not excluding) any of her alternate identities:
She was born to lie.
Sophie has melted away by the middle of the flight. She goes as herself to her usual ID contact, because he's known her since they were children. He got her into crime. Or she put the thought in his head. They were married once, but it didn't stick. Or she didn't stick.
Or there wasn't enough real about her to even make it a marriage.
She doesn't like to think about it.
He lives in a large, large house in Kent - his wife thinks it's honestly earned.
She doesn't dissuade his wife otherwise. As far as his wife is concerned, she is a cousin. They have enough facial similarities to pull off the play. Maybe that's where their flash-in-the-pan marriage even came from. Vanity. Here is your face, with so much of mine in it; I shall gaze at you and worship you - and at the same time be worshipping myself.
It hurts a little, seeing him happy with someone else, so perhaps it was love-although he's said often enough, she doesn't know what love is, and he wants to be there the day it hits her.
(He isn't.)
She leaves him behind, in the dust and the sun in his boring suburb house and his boring two-dimensional wife and his life which, she thinks, she is probably supposed to want.
She is much too addicted to the rush of Grifting to ever be quick to settle down.
She gets on the plane to Prague. Seven months and then three million dollars will be hers. The painting, of course, is worth more than that, but the black market has its costs and she'll only get a certain fraction of it back-there are certain channels one has to go through in order to keep one's head, and every single one of her identities rather likes her head-but oh, what a fraction.
She doesn't travel well, so as soon her feet hit the first class section (she rarely travels anything less-what's the point of a gift of the Grift if it's not used?) she says Sophie Devereaux in her head...
...and Sophie sits down in the chair, sipping champagne.
Sophie doesn't see the end coming (buried, deep, neither does she.)
The Degas is hers. Finally. Her hands are around it. (A whisper, in the back of her mind: Sophie's, not hers. Soon.) And she looks up, and sees a man, and she instantly starts to smile, because that's what Sophie does. Lures men in, bright and shiny. He turns his eyes towards her, and her breath skips a moment, her heart misses a beat, the floor turns temporarily into a sinkhole and then back to firm reality. It's just a second, but Sophie is winded, because those eyes-
Brilliant, brilliant blue.
Throwing everything to the wind, she runs. Almost like she instantly knew he would, he gives chase. She eats the pavement like she's starving for stone, and she's cool in control; Sophie knows how to run in heels.
The man with blue eyes hugs her escape path. Far at first, then closer with each minute, like he's figuring out where she's going and cutting corners.
Sophie carved an escape path out and just from one moment, from one breathless gaze exchanged across a room, he's deciphering her. From footprints and her smile and the way she tossed her hair.
Sophie's heart thrills: this man is amazing. This man knows her, knows Sophie, just from one gaze. This man might be a murderer or a mystery or everything in-between, and Sophie doesn't know, but she wants to know. And if he's unreachable, or married, or crazy, Sophie will wait, she'll wait as long as she has to, she'll wait-
She is thrown loose from the Sophie personality just like that. Abandoned during a crazy helter-skelter chase through Prague's back streets. Stranded and gasping for air.
Of course, that might be what saves her. The man with blue eyes might have been able to predict Sophie Devereaux's movements, but he doesn't know her.
He didn't see her.
She keeps going straight where Sophie would have turned, and five minutes later, she's free and very, very rich. Of course, she pays more than she wanted to for an escape route out of Prague, but she's free. She's away from him.
Physically, but not mentally.
Mentally, he's still there. Staring at her now, not Sophie. Chasing her. Wearing her down. If that man could decipher Sophie in one glance, what will he do if he sees her, if he realises he's chasing someone new?
She's out of her mind with rage. Waiting. That's the keyword? That's the essence of Sophie Devereaux, down to the core? She's waiting for a man?
Sophie Devereaux will not, will never be defined by a man.
But unravelled by one?
Perhaps.
Sophie is gone. She is herself again, but even now Sophie lurks beneath the surface.
Watching.
Waiting.
And one day the man with blue eyes will be back. Hopefully he will remain unreachable, an asymptote with her as the zero line. He will be clouds. Sophie can run for clouds all she likes, but the more she runs, the further away they'll be.
But there was hunger in his eyes. An answering echo to Sophie's hopeful notes. So one day, one day, Sophie's waiting period may end.
Will she ever be able to shake Sophie free if the key word to Sophie's existence becomes null and void? Sophie's too good a character to dismiss forever. Sophie's the best character she's ever come up with. The idea of abandoning Sophie completely crosses her mind-but she knows instantly that she can't do it. No Grifter could resist a personality that is better than any skeleton key. Sophie is a key that can open any door. Any person. Sophie cut through Prague like a chainsaw-but a chainsaw that people would beg to be ripped apart by.
Sophie's literally the perfect personality she's been waiting her whole life to create, and Sophie might destroy her. Or she may be overreacting. She's never allowed a character out long enough to grow and change, so she doesn't know what will happen.
She can't change a thing, even if she ever figures it out-Sophie's there now. Irresistible. In her head with the rest of them. Alive.
Waiting.
Do you have any idea how hard it is, to wait for someone?
Author: mizzy2k
Giftee:sienamystic
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Sophie, Tara, Sophie/Nate
Word Count: 3400
Spoilers: Only for season 1 and maybe 2.
Warnings: Possible identity triggers.
Disclaimer: Leverage doesn't belong to me.
Summary: Do you have any idea how hard it is, to wait for someone?
Notes: Based on the prompt: "Who is Sophie, really?"
(Some formatting below, so may appear differently if you apply your style to friends/communities.)
Thank you to ella_bee for the beta and check, andmidnighthour and telaryn for checking my funky coding.
Mimi DeBurgh is quiet, subtle and only breaks out in her celebratory dance of success when she knows she's safe behind closed doors.
The heels Eduardo Rosen bought for her are higher than Mimi normally wears, but they also cost a lot of money, and Mimi likes money. That's one of her defining characteristics. Mimi likes a lot of things to do with the letter m. Men. Money. Margaritas in Miami. Museums in Moscow.
Male millionaire marks.
Mimi's been on this Grift for seven months. She's the Mistress of a long con. A Master of the game. She's also malleable and meek-and as of this afternoon, mega-rich.
The briefcase bounces against her bare leg, the maroon dress she's wearing cut to mid-thigh. Mimi's men like legs and elegance. It's been a long, long seven months, but the pay-out makes it all worthwhile.
Mimi tips a wink to a passing guest of the hotel she's staying in, and continues swaying slowly in the ridiculously high heels. Mimi's not super confident on heels, but being saved by men is not her idea of a bad time, if the rescuer in question has a large wallet he won't notice being lightened a little. She likes to think conveniently tumbling like that serves both parties-she gets money to compensate for the bruises, and they get to feel like a worshipped hero for the day.
There's no one around at the moment, though, so Mimi doesn't want to fall. The heels sink into the carpet, so she keeps her movements measured.
And there it is-room 412. Not quite the most sophisticated suite in the hotel, but Mimi's learned never to quibble with free. She slides her keycard in the door, sweeps the room automatically, bolts the door behind her and opens up the briefcase on the bed.
And she smiles and smiles at the large amount of cash inside.
Her mark won't even notice it's gone for at least four days. There's plenty of time to make a decent getaway, so she has time for a drink before she goes.
And time for her celebration dance.
Mimi's kind of a dork, after all.
After her rendition of the Snoopy-dance-on-acid is complete, Mimi smoothes down her hair and looks at the door contemplatively. See, there's the crux of the whole thing-Mimi was created for one job and for one job only. There is another job on the instant horizon, and Mimi just will not do for it and Mimi is tired.
Mimi wants to be retired.
She sinks down onto the end of the bed. Mimi on her own is a mellow creature. But mostly, Mimi is one thing.
All of her aliases can be boiled down into one thing. One word. And that's how she can switch out of them so easily. That word is like a password. Speak that word and the whole personality slips off, ready for her to wear the next one.
And Mimi, if you boil her down to her bones, is pretty much just one thing:
A mouse.
She says the word, clear in her mind, and Mimi slips away from her, like an old friend slipping out the door. Her mind feels terrifyingly empty for a second, but it's easier to calm down when she runs through a whole list of women she could become in a second, just by saying their name.
That's not what she needs, though.
She needs a personality that will be perfect for the job coming up in Prague. An art show. A museum. She'll play at being the representative for a very wealthy inventor, and then the Degas will be hers.
She needs to create a personality that slots into the situation like the missing piece of a jigsaw. And for that, she needs a name.
Most Grifters, when they come up with a pseudonym for their latest identity, don't put too much thought into it.
Tara tells her often, long and loud, that her preferred name is divined from the top 100 name list-from, of course, a year that she could believably get away with as her birth year.
That year has been getting later with every passing year.
She, however, is not most Grifters.
Her name has to have meaning. Her name has to reflect her character.
Take Annie Kroy. Annie's straight-forward. Not afraid to use a (Annie get your) gun. Meaning favour. Annie deals in favours, in looking the other way. Kroy, similarly, matches Annie's character. Untraceable lineage, a jumbled history, no one famous owning up to it-but a name lurking under the surface regardless. Like a shark.
Annie Kroy is a perfect name, and Annie Kroy is violent and perfect.
Prague needs a softer character than Annie. Prague needs to be opened, like a gift, not taken down like a headshot.
Prague needs grace (Kylie? Willow? no, she doesn't feel Australian or like she's a flower-child), and beauty (Adara? Diana? No, too many historians in the art field) and knowledge (Bina? Mida? No, maybe this character needs to be British), no... wisdom. Sonia, perhaps. Sofia? Not British enough.
Sophie. She rolls the name on her tongue, and tries the sound of it out. Her voice settles into a slightly more rounded version of her actual accent, a little more Estuary than RP. The sound of it in her embarrassingly large (Grifted, of course) hotel room wraps around her, like the soft touch of an old friend, uncertain of its welcome. Sophie.
Sophie. The third time is the charm, and she slips into the character as well as she fits the name. Sophie. She is Sophie.
Sophie needs to be at the centre. For her long con to be successful, she needs to be at the heart of things. Sophie will be the heart of the operation. She folds her hands over her chest and can feel it. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. She is that gentle, warm rhythm. She sways to the beat, rocking on her newest acquisitions. This pair of shoes make her legs look like dynamite. Does Sophie care about that?
She does. Sophie likes to be looked at, to be admired. Sophie knows all her womanly wiles. Men know she likes to use them, but they enjoy her using them. They let Sophie get away with things. That's definitely important for a Grifter. Stealing is no fun. Getting the Mark to give you what you want, with a smile on their face, that's the thrill.
A surname, then. That's what she needs. Something... with three syllables. Sophie's complicated. She has layers. Annie Kroy is straightforward, one syllable, pow.
Which three syllable surnames has she used before? Best to re-use one so she doesn't have to pay too much for ID. Ellington. No, that's too plain - Sophie's dazzling. McCready. No, too early 20th Century boarding school ma'am. Lovery? No, too close to Lovely-Sophie likes subtlety. Symth-Patel is too Indian, Duccio too Italian. She needs something British, to go with the accent.
Sophie... is used to moving. A lot. Grifters move too, but Sophie has... wandering feet. She gets bored of countries. She likes to travel. Donovan? No, van is too literal. What was that moving company she used the last time she was in London?
Devereaux's.
Sophie Devereaux.
As soon as she thinks the two names together, she knows it's right. Sophie Devereaux is a charmer, a mover and shaker. Glamorously elegant. Sinful but self-aware. Charisma and intelligence and heart.
It was a different girl that walked into the hotel room, with small coquettish steps and a Southern-charm smile. That girl is gone.
It's Sophie Devereaux who strides out of the room, like the whole world is hers for the taking.
Sophie tucks her purse under her arm, smiles winningly, and goes to see a guy about a new set of IDs for her captivating new personality.
She stops via the bar. Tara is still in the bar. She's trying to get away with 1977 as a birth year, and has been Tara for the last three jobs that she's told Sophie about.
Well, Tara told Anya, Louise and Mimi those things, but those women are gone. Sophie is who is left for now.
Tara was the 35th most popular girl's name in 1977. 40th in 1978. 38th in 1979. Still in the top 100 (dipping to 85th by 1990, although 1990 may be stretching it-Tara looks young, but not that young). Tara might try and get away with using Tara for the next decade. Maybe even longer. People always remember Gone with the Wind.
For all she knows, Tara might be her real name. Real names have no business between Grifters-Tara calls her whatever name she has at the time. Sophie could never stick with just one name. It would be-and this is a completely Sophie thought-like sticking with one pair of shoes. Dull, dull, dull.
"You think too much," Tara tells her, as Sophie slides up to the bar and hooks a stool closer with one ankle. It's a phrase Grifters use as a weapon. Tara and Sophie have always played a game of one-up.
Sophie takes a moment to send a flirty wink down to a couple of business men at the end of the bar. "Better than not thinking at all." It's not the sharpest comeback, but Tara did walk right into it. Sophie uses her openings.
Tara tilts her head, pursing her lips a little. "I see you've got your new alias sorted."
Mimi DeBurgh. Even now it feels like another woman's name, although Sophie knows she could be Mimi again with only a moment's notice. Mimi was a mouse of a girl. A lady who liked men to take care of her. Sophie Devereaux is a lion of a woman and she will enjoy taking men apart.
"Sophie is a sonata," Sophie tells her, feeling esoteric and strong. Sophie uses words precisely, with an emotional punch. Sophie's weapon is words.
"Sophie sounds melodramatic as hell," Tara drawls, crossing one long leg over the other, sending a flirty smile down the length of the bar to the same pair of business men Sophie had targeted. Tara holds out her left hand under the bar, where only Sophie can see, and she starts to fold down her fingers. Four, three, two, one.
"Ladies, from the gentleman over there," the bartender croons, pushing over two glasses of grappa.
"Grappa?" Tara says, still slinging hers down with a thankful smile to their benefactors. "Seriously?"
Sophie's slower with her drink. Whiskey was Mimi's drink-Mimi was a girl trapped in a men's world, trying for a man's drink to try and show that she's doing her best to fit in with them. Grappa is not Sophie's drink. Gin and tonic might be more her style, but nothing will make Sophie happier than a nice Merlot.
Apart from maybe tea.
Is she that British?
Maybe tea that she hasn't made herself.
Yes, that's what Sophie likes best.
"So where are you headed next?" Tara asks, and this is part of the game. Shop talk. Never say where you're actually going, so that a fellow Grifter won't come in a grift your territory out from under you.
Sophie smiles coyly. "Prague."
Tara nods her head as if it's a good idea.
Prague is her next hit.
Sophie uses the truth like it's a lie.
"You?" Sophie asks, because Sophie likes every illusion of politeness and society. She's well bred. Not as polished as Charlotte. Not as coarse as Annie. Somewhere in-between.
"Perhaps Finland," Tara lies.
"The Finns like their fair ladies."
Tara smiles, brilliant and fierce. "Until the next time." She chinks her glass against Sophie's and shimmies off the stool, striding off out of the door. Sophie doesn't watch her leave. Their paths will cross again. They always do.
Of course, being the Grifter left alone at the bar means Sophie has to entertain one of the men that bought them both drinks. Sophie goes through the motions. This one is a lawyer. Rich. Crooked, but then find any man that goes up to a woman like Sophie only when she's alone that isn't crooked, and Sophie will...
...well, do something entirely out of character, probably.
Everything about her is an act. Sophie is mist and illusion, smiles and precision, careful words at the right time and heart and empathy. She's an act, so she pulls a disappearing act on the man.
He thinks she's going to powder her nose.
She's halfway to the airport before he realises she's not coming back. It'll be a good thirty seconds later that he realises his wallet isn't coming back either.
Sophie feels a tiny bit guilty about that. She does not like feeling guilty, so maybe it's time to put Sophie aside until she gets to Prague.
Sophie is the heart of things. Heart.
A moment passes. Sophie frowns. What? Sophie hasn't gone away. She freezes, just for a second, long enough that her taxi driver asks her what's wrong.
"Nothing," Sophie says, unable to breathe. Sophie's polite. Is that her key word? Is polite enough to define this new character?
No. No.
Gentle. Corrupt. Wily. Brave. Creative. Disingenuous. Unforgettable. Chameleon.
All words she's never used before. All words that should identify Sophie down to her core. But they're words that leave her as Sophie, and she hasn't been Sophie long enough to really know how Sophie deals with stress.
Calmly. (But calm does not unlock her.) Resourcefully (but she is still Sophie, through and through.) Patiently-
And she can breathe again. Slowly. Excruciatingly slow. But after a couple of minutes pass, Sophie is melting away from her, one piece at a time.
It's not perfect. It means until she finds the right word to unlock herself, to move onto the next personality, that she won't be able to change out of Sophie very swiftly at all.
She sinks back into the taxi seats and tells herself she's not worried-the long game in Prague doesn't need her to switch personalities as often as Sophie Devereaux likes to switch shoes-but that's one thing that's always been definite about her as opposed to (but not excluding) any of her alternate identities:
She was born to lie.
Sophie has melted away by the middle of the flight. She goes as herself to her usual ID contact, because he's known her since they were children. He got her into crime. Or she put the thought in his head. They were married once, but it didn't stick. Or she didn't stick.
Or there wasn't enough real about her to even make it a marriage.
She doesn't like to think about it.
He lives in a large, large house in Kent - his wife thinks it's honestly earned.
She doesn't dissuade his wife otherwise. As far as his wife is concerned, she is a cousin. They have enough facial similarities to pull off the play. Maybe that's where their flash-in-the-pan marriage even came from. Vanity. Here is your face, with so much of mine in it; I shall gaze at you and worship you - and at the same time be worshipping myself.
It hurts a little, seeing him happy with someone else, so perhaps it was love-although he's said often enough, she doesn't know what love is, and he wants to be there the day it hits her.
(He isn't.)
She leaves him behind, in the dust and the sun in his boring suburb house and his boring two-dimensional wife and his life which, she thinks, she is probably supposed to want.
She is much too addicted to the rush of Grifting to ever be quick to settle down.
She gets on the plane to Prague. Seven months and then three million dollars will be hers. The painting, of course, is worth more than that, but the black market has its costs and she'll only get a certain fraction of it back-there are certain channels one has to go through in order to keep one's head, and every single one of her identities rather likes her head-but oh, what a fraction.
She doesn't travel well, so as soon her feet hit the first class section (she rarely travels anything less-what's the point of a gift of the Grift if it's not used?) she says Sophie Devereaux in her head...
...and Sophie sits down in the chair, sipping champagne.
Sophie doesn't see the end coming (buried, deep, neither does she.)
The Degas is hers. Finally. Her hands are around it. (A whisper, in the back of her mind: Sophie's, not hers. Soon.) And she looks up, and sees a man, and she instantly starts to smile, because that's what Sophie does. Lures men in, bright and shiny. He turns his eyes towards her, and her breath skips a moment, her heart misses a beat, the floor turns temporarily into a sinkhole and then back to firm reality. It's just a second, but Sophie is winded, because those eyes-
Brilliant, brilliant blue.
Throwing everything to the wind, she runs. Almost like she instantly knew he would, he gives chase. She eats the pavement like she's starving for stone, and she's cool in control; Sophie knows how to run in heels.
The man with blue eyes hugs her escape path. Far at first, then closer with each minute, like he's figuring out where she's going and cutting corners.
Sophie carved an escape path out and just from one moment, from one breathless gaze exchanged across a room, he's deciphering her. From footprints and her smile and the way she tossed her hair.
Sophie's heart thrills: this man is amazing. This man knows her, knows Sophie, just from one gaze. This man might be a murderer or a mystery or everything in-between, and Sophie doesn't know, but she wants to know. And if he's unreachable, or married, or crazy, Sophie will wait, she'll wait as long as she has to, she'll wait-
She is thrown loose from the Sophie personality just like that. Abandoned during a crazy helter-skelter chase through Prague's back streets. Stranded and gasping for air.
Of course, that might be what saves her. The man with blue eyes might have been able to predict Sophie Devereaux's movements, but he doesn't know her.
He didn't see her.
She keeps going straight where Sophie would have turned, and five minutes later, she's free and very, very rich. Of course, she pays more than she wanted to for an escape route out of Prague, but she's free. She's away from him.
Physically, but not mentally.
Mentally, he's still there. Staring at her now, not Sophie. Chasing her. Wearing her down. If that man could decipher Sophie in one glance, what will he do if he sees her, if he realises he's chasing someone new?
She's out of her mind with rage. Waiting. That's the keyword? That's the essence of Sophie Devereaux, down to the core? She's waiting for a man?
Sophie Devereaux will not, will never be defined by a man.
But unravelled by one?
Perhaps.
Sophie is gone. She is herself again, but even now Sophie lurks beneath the surface.
Watching.
Waiting.
And one day the man with blue eyes will be back. Hopefully he will remain unreachable, an asymptote with her as the zero line. He will be clouds. Sophie can run for clouds all she likes, but the more she runs, the further away they'll be.
But there was hunger in his eyes. An answering echo to Sophie's hopeful notes. So one day, one day, Sophie's waiting period may end.
Will she ever be able to shake Sophie free if the key word to Sophie's existence becomes null and void? Sophie's too good a character to dismiss forever. Sophie's the best character she's ever come up with. The idea of abandoning Sophie completely crosses her mind-but she knows instantly that she can't do it. No Grifter could resist a personality that is better than any skeleton key. Sophie is a key that can open any door. Any person. Sophie cut through Prague like a chainsaw-but a chainsaw that people would beg to be ripped apart by.
Sophie's literally the perfect personality she's been waiting her whole life to create, and Sophie might destroy her. Or she may be overreacting. She's never allowed a character out long enough to grow and change, so she doesn't know what will happen.
She can't change a thing, even if she ever figures it out-Sophie's there now. Irresistible. In her head with the rest of them. Alive.
Waiting.
Do you have any idea how hard it is, to wait for someone?