Chapter #5Told You So! by: imaj   "Fuck you Patterson," you screech. "We're never going to get a better shot at them than this."
He leans on his desk, lifting himself from his seat and stares at you with hooded grey eyes. Patterson would loom over you, what with his rangy basketball-player physique, but the intervening three metres of expensive walnut finish rob him of some of his presence. That leaves your boss as merely 'terrifying', or would do if you actually gave a fuck.
"You should know by now Paige. Nothing is ever what it seems," Patterson tells you in an even voice. "And this stinks of a setup."
"But..."
"No," he interrupts with a bored sounding finality. He sinks to his seat and turns contemptuously to his workstation, pointedly ignoring you.
Well that's this meeting over, you think.
You scowl at him, for what it's worth, and grab the folders on your side of the over-large desk. Patterson never looked at them anyway. He doesn't bat an eyelid as you noisily push yourself out of the chair and stalk out of his office. You pause for a moment after you slam the frosted glass door behind you.
10... 9... 8... 7... 6... This never fucking works. 54321.
"Shit-faced lying fucking weasel," you shout at the top of your voice. The counting backwards never helps, but at least it lets you build up a good head of steam for your anger. "This is what happens when you put a fucking zampo whale in charge of things." Not really true, you suppose, but fuck any fact that gets in your fucking way right now. Patterson's been full of himself since Fuck-bert.
"Is everything okay Miss Knotts," asks a soft voice nearby.
"Everything's fucking dandy," you growl, but the anger is fading fast already. Not that you could ever hold onto it for that long anyway. You gently lob the folders onto the desk the owner of the voice is sitting at. A few of the papers come loose and scatter over the nameplate at the front of the desks.
The owner of the voice sighs patiently and picks up the loose paper, placing them back in one of the folder, revealing a short prism of walnut. The words 'Lucille Vredenburg' are painted onto it gilt, below that in smaller letters reads 'Executive Assistant to Mr Patterson'
"He didn't go for it Lucy," you complain as you throw yourself into the chair opposite the pretty blonde.
No, pretty isn't the word for Lucy Vredenburg: Beautiful, gorgeous, devastating. Those are more apt. a pair of platinum bangs frame an immaculate face. A hint of cleavage peeks out from between the top buttons of her silk blouse. An expensive broach is fastened to the left lapel of her tailored skirt-suit. You can't see her perfect legs, hidden behind the desk, but you know that they will be clad in smoky grey stockings.
Your own leg itches uncontrollably, the left one just on the outer thigh. That's where you have the tat of Lucy. Why do I never get to be her?
Lucy stares into space for a few moments, her fingers dancing over the keyboard in front of her. The tell tale flicker on her glasses tells you she's reading something projected onto them. Finally she pulls the glasses of and sets them on the desk.
"He's cautious Paige," says Lucy, her tone professional. "Paranoia keeps us all alive."
You make a loud harrumphing sound and fold your arms defiantly.
Lucy smirks in a very un-Lucy like way. "I'll have a word with him later. I'm sure I can change his mind. I have a way with him," she whispers to you. Then louder she says: "I have some papers for you to sign Miss Knotts. Your office?"
You smirk back. Papers to sign? That's interesting. "Sure," you reply, standing back up. Lucy rises gracefully to her feet too, handing you back your folders. You shove them brusquely under your arm and open the door out of the office, smiling back at Lucy as you guide her out.
Lucy struggles to keep up as you hustle along the corridors of Project Diana. It can't be easy to move in those heels and that skirt. It's petty, but it gives you a small measure of satisfaction to make it awkward for her, even as another part of you wants to get Lucy alone in your office and fuck her sideways. You stop for a moment, just outside the rec room.
"Is it something important," you ask quietly. In the close confines of the corridor, the scent of Lucy's perfume is quite overpowering. Your pulse quickens and you feel a low heat start to build below your hips.
Lucy looks around, checking you are alone before answering. "We finally cleared out the kinks with the Personal Qualities device," she explains furtively. "The Moustache was ready to try P3 reintegration on a live subject."
Lucy falls silent as the rec room door opens. A muscular man with fiery hair and ruddy skin exits, the telltale whorls of the tats visible at the collar and cuffs of his shirt. "Kips," you nod at him.
"Knotts," he nods back respectfully. "Lucille," he adds, a faint smirk edging into the corners of his lips. Kipper is one of the few people at Diana that know the truth about Lucille, and the only other agent that does. He was right there at the start when it was only the three of you. Oh, Patterson and the Moustache know too. And those twats Dey and Hyde-White over at Vulcan, but they don't count.
"We'll continue in your office," sniffs Lucy, holding the door open for you.
The rec room is empty, but you pause to stare at the row of dartboards mounted on one wall. The faces of your rivals, that strange cult called the Stellae Errantes and their sister organisations are pinned to each. Your team likes to think of it as the celebrity wall, and of each face as a celebrity. You know all their names, but you prefer to use the nicknames your team has christened each with.
Jailbait and Jailbait Too catch your attention. The twins' nicknames are what passes for a joke in Muniz's fucked up little mind, but the names have stuck and that's what they are called now. You had a game planned to grab one or both of the teenagers a couple of months ago, but fucking Cupcake showed and the whole thing went sour.
You must have spoken out loud, because you hear Lucy whisper in your ear. "I'll speak to Steve," she tells you.
Then it is out of the rec room, down a corridor and to a bank of elevators. You wait wordlessly for one to arrive, then once inside you pull a small key off a lanyard around your neck and stick it in the control panel. The seemingly last century security hides one of the Moustache's tricks. The key works for no-one but you. Paranoia keeps us alive. The lift beeps three times and starts heading down. You won't be interrupted now.
You edge a glance at Lucy. Her eyes are fixed on the small display above the doors that count their way down to sub-basement. God, when she stays in character, it just makes you so, so...
The lift chimes and the doors slide open. Just a short distance now. You pick up the pace again, striding down the poky little corridors of the sub-basement with their piping and exposed breezeblock walls. The door at the end is covered in faded and peeling red paint. The same key opens it and you lead Lucy inside.
Your office is nothing like Patterson's. It's a mess for one thing - the desk is covered in piles of paperwork and other junk and you certainly don't have a drinks cabinet, but it's still more spacious and well lit than any room this far underground has any right to be. You look at the fake window that fills one wall, mischievously switching its projection to the same London rooftops that Patterson sees from his office.
The door lock clicks in place as Lucy closes it for you. She advances sultrily, that uncharacteristic smirk on her face again. Your eyes roam up and down her body, liking very much what you see. "Missed you," she says quietly, putting her arms round your neck and pulling you in for a long soft kiss.
You pull back and look into Lucy's eyes. "I need you so badly right now Will Prescott."
At Diana, nothing is ever what it seems.  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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