Blue Raspberry 6, Rocky Road 27, CCM 21
Title: The Wrong Kind of Drafted
Story Continuity: Fair Game ( Battle For the Sun/ The Lethean Glamour AU)
Flavors: Blue Raspberry 6: the latest trend, Rocky Road 27: bridge, Chocolate Chip Mint 21: modest
Toppings/Extra: Chopped Nuts, Malt (Prompts From a Hat: 18. After such knowledge, what forgiveness? : Jaida : Tell me, where is evil bred, in the heart or in the head?), Cherry (historical fiction)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The year is 1933, and Cyprian's floristry, once the most requested in the Midwest, is failing horribly. Then along comes a blonde bombshell with a silver tongue and a Colt .45, and life gets a lot worse.
A/N: Name changes below the cut, since there weren't a lot of Jaidas, Corvos, and Kristens in 1933 Chicago.
Name changes:
The "hired" help:
Cyprian Corvo - Cyprian Corn, born Corno; he changed his name due to prejudices against Italian-Americans.
Cygnelius Corvo - Cygnus Corn, born Corno. See above for the why.
Valentio Melman - Valentino Archibaldi; is registered as Valentine Archibald, but asks others to call him Valentino Archibaldi.
The Melman crime syndicate:
Lysandro Melman - Lysander "the German" Melman.
Holly Asher - Holly Melman, nee Asher. The disillusioned wife of Lysander and mother to his brats, Arthur Rudolfus (12) and Greta Joanne (8).
Mashiro Yuuki - Mashiro Yuki.
Jaida Lenore Ames - Jane Lenore Ames, goes by Lenore.
Capricia Viordi - Carrie Verdi.
Ragnar Merridan - name kept. Currently on trial for tax evasion.
The innocents:
Heathcliff "Cliff" Knight - name kept.
Kristen Morrow - Christine Corn, nee Morrow. Married Cyprian with the mutual understanding that there would be no sex.
Sorensen Carter Knox - Sorensen Astor Knox. The son of an Astor heiress and a respectable but unnotable accountant, Sorensen died on the Titanic.
* * *
The moment Cyprian saw her, he had to bite his tongue to keep from asking how long she'd studied the Raymond Chandler Handbook For Femme Fatales. With long, shapely legs, she walked with the kind of swagger found most often in the kind of men who carried a large gun or three combined with the blatant intent of Mae West, proclaiming quite boldly that here was a woman who would fuck you up.
The gun was a bit much, in consideration.
"Can I help you, then, miss?" Cyprian said blandly. "And may I add that while I don't generally advocate anything that doesn't sit well with the Feds, you could probably do with some reefer, because you're looking a little tense. It's not a good look for you."
"You slay me, pretty boy," the woman said, her eyes narrowing. "Any more and I might have to return the favor. You make wrong move or if you make a peep I don't like the sound of, I'll take you for a ride you'll never forget, and that's a promise. I'm putting the gun down, but you better remember I'm quicker than you."
"I don't have much in the way of money," Cyprian said. "This is just a floristry."
The floristry had not always been just a floristry, but the best and most shopped at in the Midwest; recently, however, there had been some unpleasantness with Cyprian's bank. Cyprian's bank was run by a nicely rotund gentleman by the name of Hank Isley. Hank was presently enjoying the latest trend of closing down his bank and taking everything in its vaults, and was improving on that trend by using that money to retire to a beautiful Welsh countryside village in Swansea. There was nothing that marked a great man better than taking advantage of what opportunity and times afforded you, Hank reasoned, and if it made a few people uncomfortable for a while, well, Hank was happy he had the presence of mind to not be them. This left Cyprian without much in the way of the folding kind of green, on the other hand, but Hank would be hard-pressed to find a reason to care.
"I'm not here for your money," the blonde said. "I can tell you don't have the kind I'd be interested in. I'd be surprised if you have even one Lincoln that wasn't fake. Let me guess: you found that suit while diving dumpsters."
"This suit was my father's," Cyprian said, unconsciously smoothing his jacket out. The woman snorted. "Not a chance, Corno. That thing's so out of style it probably comes from your grandfather's daddy's closet."
"It's Corn these days," Cyprian said.
"Hiding your I-talian heritage is kind of pointless when no one's buying, anyway," The blonde said, and perched herself on the counter, leaning close to Cyprian. "Close up shop, honey. You're coming with me. And don't you bother protesting at me. I've been watching your shop, I've seen that no one ever comes here to get anything better than a daisy."
Cyprian's stare became a little stonier. "Were you male, I could ask if that was your pistol in your pocket or if you got unduly excited at the thought of daisies. This is probably the only time I've wished a pretty woman was male."
It was not what Cyprian had planned to say, and he wished deeply he hadn't said it the second it came from his mouth. The problem with being a social recluse running a shop no one visited was that his mouth now seemed to consider his brain a senile old lump completely unworthy of consideration.
"Psh, I bet you say that to all the girls who point long, hard guns at your empty little head," the blonde said with a smirk, pulling herself closer to him and resting her pistol against his temple. "Don't mess with the fabulous, Mr. C. We don't take well to being led on. Now come along, we don't want to keep the boss man waiting."
Chicago in May was not typically like being shoved into an oven - that was what July and the rest of summer was like - but on this day, a wildfire would get fed up with the heat. The blonde woman looked back at Cyprian from a few paces away. "The car's this way," she said, jerking her head towards Michigan Avenue Bridge. "I parked it in a garage about a mile away, because nothing makes for a happier, more accessible city than parking with a price tag. What the hell were you people thinking?"
"Something along the lines of money is good, I'm sure," Said Cyprian. "The same philosophy that guides every principle of Chicago life. Welcome to our fair city, miss. Please don't kill me."
"Don't give me a reason to and we'll see," the woman said. "All right, let's get the basics out of the way. My name's Jane Lenore Ames, and I go by Lenore. Heard of me?"
"Should I have?"
"Yeah, and that's the beauty of working for my boss; we're all ghosts. You've heard of Capone because he's a showman. He's Cary Grant, some kid who stumbled his fool way on the big screen and will stick around until the next big pretty boy comes along. Us, we're legendary, we're myth. We're the bogeyman. Years from now, they'll be telling the same stories about Capone, because he'll be dead or incarcerated, but us - there'll always be new stories about us. And you're going to be one of them, queenie boy."
Cyprian almost stopped walking, but instead just walked a little faster to walk next to the woman - Lenore. "I love my wife," he said. Lenore snorted, her face etched into a perfect picture of disbelief. "Yeah, okay. I bet you told that to your man, too, didn't you? I got pictures, and these pictures have come a long ways. They made it when lots of people didn't. You remember Sorensen, don't you, Corno?"
"He was hard to miss," Cyprian said. "The Astors made themselves known."
"Only it wasn't his family you were fucking," Lenore said. "Through some truly twisted anonymous sources, we've got pictures of you and Sorensen Astor Knox making the most awkwardly shot kind of whoopee I've ever seen, but we've got all the evidence we'd need to shame his family and your little wifey." She smiled as she said, "I guess you could even call it hard evidence. That combined with the fact you've been married, what, five years? And you've got no children. The mood never strike you or what? You'd be lucky if you weren't strung up by the balls the first day we'd air this out to the media. Some plebian ginzo despoiling an Astor? Even if you lived, you'd never work again."
"What do I need to do to get rid of those photos?" Cyprian said. Lenore smiled, and said, "Oh, nothing we wouldn't do ourselves."
"That doesn't really narrow it down, does it?" Cyprian said. "Just tell me I won't have to kill my wife or anyone who has a union of asylum escapees who would take a morbid interest in revenging any of their own who happen to get snuffed."
"So your only limit is your wife and sociopaths? Does that mean you'd kill your own mama? You bad boy!" Lenore said. "Look, it's not that big a deal. All you have to do is steal something from the upcoming World's Fair. We're not even asking you to steal any Lilliputian midgets. We wouldn't ask our worst enemies to do that. Those fuckers kick hard."
"The World's Fair," Cyprian said. "You want me a steal something from the World's Fair."
"It's great to know you've got passable hearing," Lenore said. "You'll need it to hear security coming. Homo or no, I don't think you'd like to be made some butch ax murderer's bitch in prison, do you?"
"If I start a war because Germany gets their liederhosen in a knot because I stole their prized zeppelin, when they inevitably catch me, I'm blaming you and your boss man," Cyprian said. Lenore smiled. "You do that, Mr. Corno, and a tribunal? Your wife's shame and hate? Accusations of your debauching an Astor being the cause of the Titanic's sinking and the baby Jesus's tears? They'll be the least of your problems."
"Yes," Cyprian said. "Wives and tribunes are known for their mercy and willingness to see both sides of the story. Wait, sorry, I'm thinking of a tribune. How can you make getting shocked to death seem like the least of my worries?"
"The kind of evil you'd deal with on a war tribunal would be what fear lurks in the hearts of scruffy old men - you'd get some basic human goodness coloring that, because they're the Good Guys, God-fearing citizen types. Sure, you'd die, but you wouldn't want to die. The kind of evil you'd get from me? There's not a thing in this world you'd want to live for. My kind of evil is born in the chamber of my Colt and the blade of my cutlass," Lenore said, and Cyprian bit his tongue against asking how long she'd practiced that speech, being many things, but among them not cursed with near catatonic levels of stupid.
"There is no God," Cyprian muttered.
"Of course there is," Lenore said cheerfully, pulling Cyprian close. "You're just assuming he doesn't hate you."
Cyprian was not reassured.
Story Continuity: Fair Game ( Battle For the Sun/ The Lethean Glamour AU)
Flavors: Blue Raspberry 6: the latest trend, Rocky Road 27: bridge, Chocolate Chip Mint 21: modest
Toppings/Extra: Chopped Nuts, Malt (Prompts From a Hat: 18. After such knowledge, what forgiveness? : Jaida : Tell me, where is evil bred, in the heart or in the head?), Cherry (historical fiction)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The year is 1933, and Cyprian's floristry, once the most requested in the Midwest, is failing horribly. Then along comes a blonde bombshell with a silver tongue and a Colt .45, and life gets a lot worse.
A/N: Name changes below the cut, since there weren't a lot of Jaidas, Corvos, and Kristens in 1933 Chicago.
Name changes:
The "hired" help:
Cyprian Corvo - Cyprian Corn, born Corno; he changed his name due to prejudices against Italian-Americans.
Cygnelius Corvo - Cygnus Corn, born Corno. See above for the why.
Valentio Melman - Valentino Archibaldi; is registered as Valentine Archibald, but asks others to call him Valentino Archibaldi.
The Melman crime syndicate:
Lysandro Melman - Lysander "the German" Melman.
Holly Asher - Holly Melman, nee Asher. The disillusioned wife of Lysander and mother to his brats, Arthur Rudolfus (12) and Greta Joanne (8).
Mashiro Yuuki - Mashiro Yuki.
Jaida Lenore Ames - Jane Lenore Ames, goes by Lenore.
Capricia Viordi - Carrie Verdi.
Ragnar Merridan - name kept. Currently on trial for tax evasion.
The innocents:
Heathcliff "Cliff" Knight - name kept.
Kristen Morrow - Christine Corn, nee Morrow. Married Cyprian with the mutual understanding that there would be no sex.
Sorensen Carter Knox - Sorensen Astor Knox. The son of an Astor heiress and a respectable but unnotable accountant, Sorensen died on the Titanic.
* * *
The moment Cyprian saw her, he had to bite his tongue to keep from asking how long she'd studied the Raymond Chandler Handbook For Femme Fatales. With long, shapely legs, she walked with the kind of swagger found most often in the kind of men who carried a large gun or three combined with the blatant intent of Mae West, proclaiming quite boldly that here was a woman who would fuck you up.
The gun was a bit much, in consideration.
"Can I help you, then, miss?" Cyprian said blandly. "And may I add that while I don't generally advocate anything that doesn't sit well with the Feds, you could probably do with some reefer, because you're looking a little tense. It's not a good look for you."
"You slay me, pretty boy," the woman said, her eyes narrowing. "Any more and I might have to return the favor. You make wrong move or if you make a peep I don't like the sound of, I'll take you for a ride you'll never forget, and that's a promise. I'm putting the gun down, but you better remember I'm quicker than you."
"I don't have much in the way of money," Cyprian said. "This is just a floristry."
The floristry had not always been just a floristry, but the best and most shopped at in the Midwest; recently, however, there had been some unpleasantness with Cyprian's bank. Cyprian's bank was run by a nicely rotund gentleman by the name of Hank Isley. Hank was presently enjoying the latest trend of closing down his bank and taking everything in its vaults, and was improving on that trend by using that money to retire to a beautiful Welsh countryside village in Swansea. There was nothing that marked a great man better than taking advantage of what opportunity and times afforded you, Hank reasoned, and if it made a few people uncomfortable for a while, well, Hank was happy he had the presence of mind to not be them. This left Cyprian without much in the way of the folding kind of green, on the other hand, but Hank would be hard-pressed to find a reason to care.
"I'm not here for your money," the blonde said. "I can tell you don't have the kind I'd be interested in. I'd be surprised if you have even one Lincoln that wasn't fake. Let me guess: you found that suit while diving dumpsters."
"This suit was my father's," Cyprian said, unconsciously smoothing his jacket out. The woman snorted. "Not a chance, Corno. That thing's so out of style it probably comes from your grandfather's daddy's closet."
"It's Corn these days," Cyprian said.
"Hiding your I-talian heritage is kind of pointless when no one's buying, anyway," The blonde said, and perched herself on the counter, leaning close to Cyprian. "Close up shop, honey. You're coming with me. And don't you bother protesting at me. I've been watching your shop, I've seen that no one ever comes here to get anything better than a daisy."
Cyprian's stare became a little stonier. "Were you male, I could ask if that was your pistol in your pocket or if you got unduly excited at the thought of daisies. This is probably the only time I've wished a pretty woman was male."
It was not what Cyprian had planned to say, and he wished deeply he hadn't said it the second it came from his mouth. The problem with being a social recluse running a shop no one visited was that his mouth now seemed to consider his brain a senile old lump completely unworthy of consideration.
"Psh, I bet you say that to all the girls who point long, hard guns at your empty little head," the blonde said with a smirk, pulling herself closer to him and resting her pistol against his temple. "Don't mess with the fabulous, Mr. C. We don't take well to being led on. Now come along, we don't want to keep the boss man waiting."
Chicago in May was not typically like being shoved into an oven - that was what July and the rest of summer was like - but on this day, a wildfire would get fed up with the heat. The blonde woman looked back at Cyprian from a few paces away. "The car's this way," she said, jerking her head towards Michigan Avenue Bridge. "I parked it in a garage about a mile away, because nothing makes for a happier, more accessible city than parking with a price tag. What the hell were you people thinking?"
"Something along the lines of money is good, I'm sure," Said Cyprian. "The same philosophy that guides every principle of Chicago life. Welcome to our fair city, miss. Please don't kill me."
"Don't give me a reason to and we'll see," the woman said. "All right, let's get the basics out of the way. My name's Jane Lenore Ames, and I go by Lenore. Heard of me?"
"Should I have?"
"Yeah, and that's the beauty of working for my boss; we're all ghosts. You've heard of Capone because he's a showman. He's Cary Grant, some kid who stumbled his fool way on the big screen and will stick around until the next big pretty boy comes along. Us, we're legendary, we're myth. We're the bogeyman. Years from now, they'll be telling the same stories about Capone, because he'll be dead or incarcerated, but us - there'll always be new stories about us. And you're going to be one of them, queenie boy."
Cyprian almost stopped walking, but instead just walked a little faster to walk next to the woman - Lenore. "I love my wife," he said. Lenore snorted, her face etched into a perfect picture of disbelief. "Yeah, okay. I bet you told that to your man, too, didn't you? I got pictures, and these pictures have come a long ways. They made it when lots of people didn't. You remember Sorensen, don't you, Corno?"
"He was hard to miss," Cyprian said. "The Astors made themselves known."
"Only it wasn't his family you were fucking," Lenore said. "Through some truly twisted anonymous sources, we've got pictures of you and Sorensen Astor Knox making the most awkwardly shot kind of whoopee I've ever seen, but we've got all the evidence we'd need to shame his family and your little wifey." She smiled as she said, "I guess you could even call it hard evidence. That combined with the fact you've been married, what, five years? And you've got no children. The mood never strike you or what? You'd be lucky if you weren't strung up by the balls the first day we'd air this out to the media. Some plebian ginzo despoiling an Astor? Even if you lived, you'd never work again."
"What do I need to do to get rid of those photos?" Cyprian said. Lenore smiled, and said, "Oh, nothing we wouldn't do ourselves."
"That doesn't really narrow it down, does it?" Cyprian said. "Just tell me I won't have to kill my wife or anyone who has a union of asylum escapees who would take a morbid interest in revenging any of their own who happen to get snuffed."
"So your only limit is your wife and sociopaths? Does that mean you'd kill your own mama? You bad boy!" Lenore said. "Look, it's not that big a deal. All you have to do is steal something from the upcoming World's Fair. We're not even asking you to steal any Lilliputian midgets. We wouldn't ask our worst enemies to do that. Those fuckers kick hard."
"The World's Fair," Cyprian said. "You want me a steal something from the World's Fair."
"It's great to know you've got passable hearing," Lenore said. "You'll need it to hear security coming. Homo or no, I don't think you'd like to be made some butch ax murderer's bitch in prison, do you?"
"If I start a war because Germany gets their liederhosen in a knot because I stole their prized zeppelin, when they inevitably catch me, I'm blaming you and your boss man," Cyprian said. Lenore smiled. "You do that, Mr. Corno, and a tribunal? Your wife's shame and hate? Accusations of your debauching an Astor being the cause of the Titanic's sinking and the baby Jesus's tears? They'll be the least of your problems."
"Yes," Cyprian said. "Wives and tribunes are known for their mercy and willingness to see both sides of the story. Wait, sorry, I'm thinking of a tribune. How can you make getting shocked to death seem like the least of my worries?"
"The kind of evil you'd deal with on a war tribunal would be what fear lurks in the hearts of scruffy old men - you'd get some basic human goodness coloring that, because they're the Good Guys, God-fearing citizen types. Sure, you'd die, but you wouldn't want to die. The kind of evil you'd get from me? There's not a thing in this world you'd want to live for. My kind of evil is born in the chamber of my Colt and the blade of my cutlass," Lenore said, and Cyprian bit his tongue against asking how long she'd practiced that speech, being many things, but among them not cursed with near catatonic levels of stupid.
"There is no God," Cyprian muttered.
"Of course there is," Lenore said cheerfully, pulling Cyprian close. "You're just assuming he doesn't hate you."
Cyprian was not reassured.