[Promethean] Widow's Weeds

Widow is my Promethean.  She was originally a pre-gen that I have taken on board and am trying to make something of.  She was created in the Middle East, and lives to study conflict, instigating it where there's none to study.  Her current projects are the drug and gang wars in Slough (who's going to tell if Slough becomes a bit more of a wasteland by the presence of a Promethean?).  This scene is a bit of back history; she deals with the middle men in the drugs chain, stirring up discontent and mistrust, and waits to see how things pan out.  Her main transmutations are Deception, which means she can change her appearance and ensure that she leaves no forensic trace, etc.  In this scene I try to portray her ways of intimidation.  She's a Galatean, which means she's supernaturally beautiful to start, and has striking looks (2) on top of that.  Galateans get obscene bonuses to social rolls based on their appearance.  I want to suggest that too much perfection is terrifying, especially when back with other transmutations.  I would like to know if this comes across.

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Widow’s Weeds

 

She’d been waiting.  She grabbed him as he came out of the shower, tied his arms swiftly at the wrist and above the elbow, and threw him on his own bed.  “Get under the duvet,” she said, her voice not muffled by the balaclava. “I’m not interested in what you’ve got on show.”  He obeyed, still not quite believing that this was happening to Bernie Golding, least of all in his own home.  He shuffled a bit towards the headboard.

The voice from the balaclava sounded amused.  “It’s not there,” she said.  “Why the fuck would I leave you with guns?”  It was true.  She had cased the place thoroughly.  Not only had she removed his guns, but she had removed his personal emergency stash of drugs.  Behind the light switches; in a fake pipe under the sink; hanging in waterproof bags from the drain in the tub—Widow had found and taken it all.

Slough was fertile ground for the Art of War, and more so for Widow, the instigator of the bunch.  Gangs, drug wars—you name it, it was there, and she now had a hand in it.  She even pulled off a few heists herself, with hired help and a couple of members of her throng who were more combat oriented than she was, and relieved the drug barons of a hundred thousand or so, which she had buried somewhere in Hertfordshire.  She didn’t exactly need to remember where.  It wasn’t near her lair, and it was where it could do damage if it were found.  That was the important bit.

Bernie found his voice.  “Who are you? What do you want?”

Widow pulled off her balaclava, golden hair tumbling in the darkness.  She’d changed it, of course, just as she made her skin darker, more tanned, and her eyes brown, not blue—not that it mattered in the darkness.  She knew she didn’t have to worry about any forensic evidence.  Not that Bernie would call the cops in any case.  “Hello, police?  Yes, there’s been a b&e, and all my guns and drugs have been stolen.”  Not bloody likely.

She smiled, knowing her beauty was evident even in the shadow, hearing Bernie gasp.  “I’m a friend, Bernie.”

“Friends don’t—“ he began.

“Tie each other up at two in the morning after a deal with Francis Beltano?” she offered, and smiled a perfect smile.  “I didn’t think you’d meet me in a coffee house.”  Still smiling, she walked toward the bed, looming over him. He shrank from her, and blanched.

“How do you—“ he gasped.

“Oh, Bernie.  I know so very, very much about you.  About what you do.  How you do it.  For whom.” She paused, and then leaned in, her smile suddenly seeming to have extra teeth; her perfection terrible to behold.  “With whom.”

He whimpered a bit.

“I’m so glad I’ve got your attention,” purred Widow.  “Listen.  You’re losing ground in Slough, aren’t you?  Sales dropping—you’re having to resort to the prostitute market instead of the executive market you’re used to.  All that extra illegality, for uncertain returns.  And that’s making Mr. Beltano anxious.  That’s what you met about.”

His eyes grew wide.

“I have a proposition.  I’d so hate for you to lose this lovely house.  You’ve put a lot of work into it, haven’t you, Bernie?  You care about it.  You have a hefty mortgage. 

In three days’ time your--shall we say opposition?—have a delivery.”  She named a time and place.  “I think monopolies are dreadfully dull, and I think you should tell Mr. Beltano that if he gets his men to the waypoint, which will be less guarded,” and she named another place and time, “you’ll be able to snatch that delivery for yourself.  I can’t vouch for the quality, but I hear it’s intended for your old market.”

“How do we get them back?” he enquired, roped in despite his fear.

Widow sounded disappointed.  “I can’t plan your entire campaign for you, Bernie.  It’s a substantial shipment, and will put your opposition back onto at least level footing, if you market it well.  I’m sure you and Frank—I’m sorry, Mr. Beltano—will have some good ideas.  I can stop by from time to time,” and she moved her head into a shaft of light, the moonlight turning her perfect blonde hair almost white and turning the bones of her face into a classical Greek statue.

Bernie nodded before he thought, fascinated.

“I’m glad that’s settled.  Here’s a dossier with the info on it,” and she threw a folder down on the bed.  “You’ll want to study the lay of the land at the waypoint.

“I will be very, very disappointed if you blow this, Bernie.  I’ll be watching.”  The statement, thrown into the air apparently lightly, seemed to terrify Bernie, whose eyes stared at Widow as if he were mesmerised by a cobra’s stare.

“I’ll take off the elbow restraints.  If you work at the others you’ll be out by dawn.  I really don’t advise trying to follow me, even if you can get dressed.”  She seemed in the darkness to grow claws, and sheared the restraints as if they were paper.  At their touch on his skin, Bernie actually started crying.  She smiled with teeth that were just a bit more pointed than they should be.  “And I don’t advise trying to work against me.  I’m not alone.”

She pulled the balaclava back over her features and started to walk out the door.  She stopped.  “By the way, your wife’s not at a conference.  She’s having an affair with,” and she named a mid-ranked dealer on the “other side”.  Once again she smiled her too-perfect smile.  “The pictures are on the kitchen table.  I suggest you do something with them before she finds them.”

“How do you—“ he gasped.

“Know?”  Widow kept smiling, remembering a similar scene a few months ago, when she had convinced Del Smith that admitting her as his cousin was the safest thing to do.  “He’s a relation.  I’m telling you coz he’s also a shit.

“Good night, Bernie.”

She vanished into the night, reverting her colouring to her own and walking off into the darkness, wondering how many months she would work with this side before she turned to the other one again.