Contemplations Redux, or Dinner and a Doll House

Sean “Dinners” Cartridge liked to think he was one hard
dude, and so this shouldn’t have been a problem. He had a checkered past, filled
with crime sprees and gang warfare, so a little offense such as this shouldn’t
have shaken him. Maybe it was the night, the way the rain was slanted sideways
because of the wind and the thunder was felt through his bones. Maybe it was
the cuts on his face and the bruises he’d received from some guy who called
himself Rickshaw and carried around a baseball bat. Maybe it was the fact that
he hadn’t had a cigarette in well over sixty hours.

Whatever the reason, his hand couldn’t stop shaking and his
breath was coming out in quick gasps, the fresh wounds on his face bleeding
right through their bandages. His eyes were roving around the complex, nervous,
on edge, and the thing he was contemplating was out of the question in any
other given situation sans the one he was in.

The ugly weight strapped to his hip in the form of a pistol
almost made him want to throw up, but he kept his cool, held on to his dignity
by shreds, and tried the tough guy act. His eyes were trained on the fifth
floor window, which was slightly open, the light coming through it the only
spot of brilliance in the dark night.

Kidnapping. Holy god, he was going to kidnap someone.

It was the only solution he could find to keep them from
chasing him. Having a hostage as big as her
would be able to at least fend them off. And though he doubted he could do much
in the way of threats and being aggressive, he could probably manage one skinny
teenager, right?

He stepped out from under the tree and his eyes scanned the
manor, looking for places to climb. A tree led right under her window – perfect
for sneaking out, if the brat was so inclined – but other than that it was a
maze of hallways and impossible navigation. He couldn’t carry a teenager through a window and down the branches, that’s for
damn sure. So really, his only options were to escape through the front door or
chuck her off of the roof.

He made sure that his gun was tucked securely in his jeans
and that his bomber jacket covered it from view. He adjusted his baseball cap,
tucked his hands in his pockets, felt the handle of the switchblade he carried
on him. He took a long, shuddering breath.

He opted to walk through the front door, a brief clash of
lightning filling the night sky. The hosts were having some sort of party, one
of those ballgown and curtsy things that someone like him wouldn’t be caught
dead going to. His hands were in his pockets, muddy boots making stains on the
concrete as he approached the big oak doors, stopping in front of one of the
muscle-headed surfer dudes that served as security.

The big boy looked down at him, opening his mouth. Dinners
replaced the space between the man’s teeth with his pistol.

“Move aside,” Dinners growled,

The man complied, turning to face the wall. Dinners got him
on both knees and slammed the gun into the back of his head, pushing him into a
shrub nearby. He hit the man a few more times with the barrel before tucking
the gun back in its hiding spot in his belt. His palm rested on the large oak
doors, and he took a deep breath, willing his body to slow down and his
adrenaline not to spike. He willed his hands to stop shaking and his mind to
stop racing and his entire world to stop spinning for once so he could stay
alive a little longer.

That goddamn case, he thought. It all comes back to the
goddamn suitcase.

Jacqueline Walters sighed through her teeth as she curtsied with a smile before the two strangers. The Duncans, was it? So many names were thrown about this evening it was hard to keep up with who was who, which company did what, and who was having an affair with who to get whoever's fortune. Why did it matter anyway? Didn't her father own nearly every company under the golden sun? All except the Mather's Industry, but that would be as good as gone by night's end. Her father had his ways of getting what he wanted, though Jacqueline herself didn't know the details of it. It hardly mattered; her dresses were pleated, her hair was always shinning, and the gardening outside her window was always so beautiful. Almost beautiful enough to climb out a fifth story window just to look at them. As she was whisked away by her father yet again to meet another pair of whosits, Jacqueline daydreamed of her last adventure out into the courtyard.

"Jacqueline, I want you to meet Louie Lombardi. He's a big important man to Daddy, so you might want to remember his name for when you're in charge someday." The phrase and the small chuckle on repeat would be stuck in her head just like when she put peanut butter on the roof of Ginger's mouth. Giggling at the memory, Jacqueline fell into a graceful half bow once again, not saying a word. Just like she was told. Smile, curtsy, nod, and hush. Smile, curtsy, nod, and hush. For nearly nineteen years this was her mantra. Whether she wanted to or not, it was what she did. Nevermind that she would rather be up in her room with a ball of string and her fluffy cat, or better yet out in the garden, no. Her job was to sit and be pretty, like a collectible doll, never to be played with, but to remain sitting on a shelf and complimented on how priceless it is. The man called Louie gave her what seemed to be a genuine smile. "Oh, Tony, isn't she just precious? She's so pretty, a jewel just like her mama."

Jacqueline raised a dark eyebrow at this comment; it was the first she had heard of her real mother in years. Not that she didn't love Fiona, but it was hard to forget the woman who gave you life and taught you how to walk. And where else did she acquire her dark, chocolate brown eyes and deep umber curls? Though of course there existed traits that were inherited by her father -- her pronounced chin and winning smile -- the majority of her features were pure Cynthia. The paleness of her skin was not due to fairness, but by her father's orders that she stay indoors as much as possible. For what, she did not know and did not question, but she hardly followed the order anyway. Every night Jacqueline would climb out her window just to get a bit of fresh air, and another flower to press into her book to draw during the day. She had gotten the idea from an old book of her mother's in the drawing room... It was hard to believe this man even knew her mother... How did he know her? Lost in this question and memories of her late mother, Jacqueline failed to see the scorching stare at this man by her father, and she was led away once again without haste, nor any time to ask a question, were she given the option to do so.

Her father pat her of the shoulder, a signal of dismissal, before walking briskly to talk to another man that was currently talking to Lombardi and leaving Jacqueline by the stairway. "That will be all the introductions for tonight. Daddy has business to attend to, Sweet. Go and enjoy the festivities." He said this as he departed, without a glance to his heir. Not that she expected it; she didn't even know what color eyes her father had.

"Yes Daddy." Yes Daddy, no Daddy, whatever you say Daddy, do you even remember that my birthday is within a few days Daddy? Again Jacqueline sighed, stuck in the tracks of her father's shoes once again. Where's the adventure? Where's the excitement? She looked down and smoothed her little green dress. The banter and music was a distant hum in the background as she looked about, not really seeing what was around her. It really was all very picturesque... Like an old photograph you'd find years later and smile upon, remembering the night. However, for so many bright dresses and elegant light fixtures, the evening sure was dull...

A quick shove, a murmured excuse me, and a glance in the opposite direction was all it took for Dinners to get into the party. Men in smoking jackets, laughing about things that weren't funny. Ladies in fine gowns and lots of frilly lace that couldn't be comfortable. Children, prim and proper, propped up in seats who were expected to say the right things to the right people without ever living as a child really should. Tacky suits, fake smiles, an air of cigar smoke and false jovialty...

He hated fancy parties.

He slipped by mostly amiss in the party, save for one incident when a man in a dark suit approached him to ask for extra napkins.

"I'm the garbage boy, sir. But I'm sure one of the catering staff would be happy to assist you."

"Hmm. Of course. Off you go then, lad." The burly man sauntered away, and Dinners quietly circled the party, his eyes towards the mahogany lined staircase.

It was then that he saw her.

She had to be the one who would help him out of his predicament. His pretty little hostage, his bargaining chip, was looking slightly bored but every bit as sophisticated as everyone else in this room. It unnerved him slightly that she was his age, could even pass for one of the college kids he'd seen in New York before he had moved here. One of the untouchable godess' who giggled and tittered and avoided his ruined face like he had the plague.

The switchblade was in his palm, and he bent his head slightly, watching her. There was the slightest moment where his pupils met hers, right before a heavy palm landed on his shoulder and yanked him backwards.

"I don't remember you being on the list, boy." A voice snarled in his ear. Another man stood in front of him, blocking the party guest's view of him.

"W-well, tha's because I ain't much of no writer, suh." Dinners sputtered, putting on a fake accent and affecting a tone of confusion and bewilderment.

"Smartass, huh? What're you doing in here, kid?"

"Y-y'see, suh. I been walkin down this road over yonder, and I saw's that y'all be havin some kind o' git together, so I says to myself, Robert, I says, these fine folks won't mind not much that you be usin them there washrooms." He leered into the security's eyes, watching the man struggle to follow his sentences.

"James, put this trash out with the rest of em." The one in front of him said, turning away as the man behind him - James, apparently - started dragging him off.

"But- but suh! I'll only be a minute-" He was cut off with a very real yelp of pain as James jerked his arm back, hard, into it's socket. Dinners only had enough time to throw a look back towards the girl - his hostage - before he was carried out a side door and into the wet, howling night.

Jacqueline continued to look about the room in dismay. So many fake faces with fake personalities... The only thing real about anyone's persona was their brand names... She made a face and looked away. So many dresses, so many suits, so many ...bomber jackets? A flash of a hat in the corner of her eye, and Jacqueline turned to see a man that was completely out of place. Why was he here? Surely her father didn't invite him... She gasped as her eyes met the man's for only a brief second before he was jerked away by James, one of the men of security. She never particularly liked James, or David, who was in his wake. The only one she was particularly fond of was Matthew, who would be just outside the door watching from outside; he saw her in a the garden a few times and never said anything. She even recalled him leaving a new flower on her window sill once when it was raining and she couldn't go outside.

"I don't remember you being on the list, boy." That greasy snarl came from James, who looked like he had just found his evening's entertainment.

"W-well, tha's because I ain't much of no writer, suh." The way he looked... sounded... Why, he wasn't more than a boy! Jacqueline's age, maybe a bit older. His face was scarred, and his hair was unruly, but he seemed to possess an air that no one else around him seemed to have... Adventure? She listened closely to the rest of the exchange until she saw that he was being shown the exit. No! Not yet. Jacqueline rushed to the doorway just as the stranger glanced back at her.

Such a look... what was it? Determination? Fear? Whatever it was, it was nothing like the quivering voice she had just heard; it had to be fake. What reason did he have to fake an accent? She rushed towards the entrance and stood to her full height -- which wasn't much, but with the light behind her and the look of her father, it could have been considered intimidating. "Let my groomer go!" Her voice was a lot more firm than she felt, and she took the arm of the stranger and lifted him to his full height. "Why else would a man dressed as this come to use our washroom? If Daddy finds out that you kicked out who he sent so that my precious feline gets proper treatment, he will sell everything you own to the urchins of the street for firewood!" With a defiant glare, she marched the man back into her house, only faltering slightly when she noticed her favorite guard motionless in the bushes. He was fine; bad things like dying in the light of a party only happen in movies.

Jacqueline only stopped once she was on the third landing of her house; any lower and her father might take away her new toy. She glanced at him curiously, but looked away quick. She was taught it was never polite to stare at a person for more than five seconds if it wasn't a stare to get what was necessary. Was this necessary? She wanted to think so. This interesting development was just what she was looking for. Besides, what could it hurt to have this man use her house for just a moment? He was probably a long way from home, as their estate was vast and far away from the next building. She chanced a look again. Just this one small little adventure, and that would be it. Her fingers already tingled with this little excitement; she had no idea life could be so fun. But what next? Maybe just a small introduction...

"The powder room is down that hall there and to the right," she gestured, raising a hand to lead the way. "I hope everything is to your liking. Afterward, wait about ten minutes and then head down the stairs. If anyone but my father asks, you were here for my cat. If my father asks..." Jacqueline managed a quick sniff before moving on, "well, he won't. And feel free to help get rid of any of the food you see. After all, it is for the guests." Here she paused. Where were her manners? Had her father and mother and teachers not taught her to not speak so freely? "By the way, the name is Jacqueline Walters. A pleasure to meet you. Have a nice night." She turned away against her will and headed up the stairs towards her bedroom. Her heart raced at what she had just done, allowing herself to talk to a stranger without her father's permission. Not only that, but she had gotten the hem of her dress wet. She was hardly into the direct rain, as she was covered by the house, but it was enough. It all felt so... devious. She smiled. What Daddy didn't know wouldn't hurt. If only she had the adventure to get the man's name.

He just couldn’t believe his dumb luck thus far.

He’d managed to pick out the guard with the weakest cranium and most trusting face, subdue him, and work his way into a mansion. He’d managed to B.S. his way through the party and towards the target, and , just when he thought he was going to get thrown out, blam! The target comes to his rescue with a decisive and impressive save. And for what, exactly? Pity for a poor, lost, little poor boy with his dirty bomber jacket and scarred face?

It was just like these rich types to be too trusting and naive to notice the knife in their back.

He shook his head slightly to rid himself of this poetic mood he’d gotten himself in, and focused on his next course of action. She was headed to the bedroom that (he assumed) had been lit from outside. There was a load of people just down the staircase, apparently the only way up or down this flight of stairs. These people were, from what he witnessed, extremely stupid.

How could he work this to his advantage?

Dinners had always been a thinker, although the actual action parts he often screwed up on. He wasn’t too smart, just charismatic and quick on the draw. He improvised well, and that made up for his less-than-stellar knowledge of guns or his affinity for hanging back when he should leap in. Guns are scary, he rationalized. That’s all anyone really cares about.

He made his decision. He would follow her, as quietly as possible, and get the gun pointed into the small of her back. Or maybe the
switchblade? Yes, the switchblade would probably be better, more threatening. She’d know who she was dealing with.

At the thought of pressing cold metal to warm flesh, his stomach turned over, an acidic feeling filling his gut. He hadn’t eaten in two days, and the beating his gut had taken had made it ornery. The promise of food was almost overwhelming.

Still, he focused on the task at hand. He would follow from a distance, see what she did. He’d improvise, for now. He was good at
that.

After a cursory check for the greasebag or the ape, he followed her, his footsteps as silent as
a trained pickpocket, his gaze as cool as a rat in the night.

And if anything defined him, it was those two things.

Quickly but gracefully climbing the staircase, Jacqueline made her way to her bedroom, making her footsteps louder then usual on the rugged hardwood flooring. What did it matter? Her adrenaline was pumping and it wasn't as if anyone would be paying attention downstairs at the party. The party... At last, she was free from the somber charade. Could tonight have possibly been more lucky? She paused at the second landing, staring out the window a moment. It was still storming, a fierce monster waiting to claim the guests as they tried to reach estates of their own. Of course, her father would welcome any to stay the night to avoid ruining their delectable attire; not out of hospitality, but to have the opportunity to show his wealth and standing. Her father told her it was always important that people knew where you were on the ladder. Do whatever it takes to get to the top. But did she even have what it took? Her father raised her right, there was no doubt in her mind, but her mother was so different in comparison, it was almost impossible to follow the advice of both at once, for her mother taught her when she was young that your position meant little. Leaning with her hand pressed firm against the cold glass, Jacqueline remembered one of the many nights she sat by her mother, and how she and her father argued as Jacqueline sat quiet.


Jacqueline shook her head and took her hand off the glass; how many times had she sat on the other side of that door, listening? She often wondered how her father and mother ever got along in the first place. And Fiona, her father last wife... She had passed away about a year ago, and he was still crushed about it. She and Cynthia were a lot alike when it came to Jacqueline. Though only her birth mother called her Jackie, Fiona too would sit and talk with her late at night, and listen to her petty dreams. Not that she shared them willingly, as she always had a distance between herself and Fiona. She looked at the glass where he had sat previously, staring at the mark left from the warmth of her hand on the condensated window. If her father saw that, he would be most unhappy; he hated for any part of the house to be out of order, and as soon as he saw a mistake in his perfection, he yelled for a maid to take care of it at once. Jacqueline removed one of her long gloves and wiped down the entire window, erasing her print entirely. She'd have hated for one of the housekeepers to get up in the middle of the night for such a small little thing.

With a damp glove limp in her hand, Jacqueline turned and continued her way up one more floor. Adrenaline waning, her feet fell softer and her heartbeat slowed as she reached the final landing of her walk. Her mind was buzzing, however, of so many things running in circles in her head. Her mother, whose death she neither knew of nor remembered, her late stepmother, her father's clinging infatuation with her, the seemingly useless parties always happening... And of course the single most dangerous thing she had done, talking to that stranger. At this, she shuddered softly. His face was menacing, and he made her terrified just at being in the same room. How could she have let her social fiber slip?

"Ginger!" A distant tinkle of a bell told Jacqueline that her cat was in the little cat room, clawing at stuffed mice or using her box. As she reached the door to her room, she stopped at picked up the fluffy orange cat and stroked it's fur lovingly. "What's that in your mouth? Did you catch him for me?" She pulled the stuffed mouse from the animal's mouth and giggled, "Oh, how good you are! You're so smart." She rubbed her face against the cat's, who licked her nose and began to purr. "You know, if I get any cat hair on my clothes again, father won't be too happy with you," she said in a matter-of-fact way. "But you won't believe the adventure I had today! I'll have to tell you after I brush you and retie your bow." A small tingling from the cat's collar as she shook her head showed that the cat sensed that the adventure was not over, though the girl just pet her again as she stood facing the door, unaware of anything but her best friend, the pouring rain, and a wet glove now covered in forty six fine ginger hairs.

A smooth, silky voice, speaking in childlike innocence to a friend that couldn’t talk back.

A wistful sigh escaping full lips, features that graced and perfected a face.

These were the sounds that greeted Dinners, stationed just outside and to the left of her door, alternating between touching his
blade, touching his gun, and raking his hands through his hair in a quiet and mild panic about who he was and what he was doing here and how the hell was he supposed to kidnap something like that.

His baseball cap dangled from limp fingers as he stared into space, twirling it absently, the maliciousness and anger that had got him thus far having long since dissipated. And he wanted it back, almost. The rage had kept his appetite fed for so long, he didn’t know how not to be angry. Especially when innocent girls who could potentially solve all of his problems go talking to cats about adventure.

Adventure?

He had been an adventure for her? Or was she alluding to expedition earlier in the day, when the wind wasn’t howling like the ghosts of Sparta and the rain wasn’t threatening the story of Jonah’s Ark. He was overcome with curiosity for this being with her grace and voice, and the seemingly burning way she had come to his rescue and then thrived on it.

He kept himself in check, taking deep, silent breaths to compensate for the light-headedness he was feeling, gulping in the air to
relieve the pressure. Although he was curious to hear what this grand adventure was – if only to confirm or reject his feelings on the matter – he knew his window was shrinking every second he spent chickening out beside the doorway. The thought of the case and the assassins that were no doubt closing in clinched it for him.

He turned the cap backwards and removed the coloured contacts he was wearing, the blue of his eyes becoming sea-green. He shrugged off the bomber jacket, took his soaked t-shirt off, and put the bomber jacket back on, revealing a black wife-beater and a tiny gold cross. He tugged both ends of the shirt, testing it’s strength, before kicking the door open, hands open and out at his sides.

"I’m sorry to interrupt,” He said, his accent slightly Irish, his voice deep and not at all like the blubbering idiot he had pretended
to be, “but are you Jacqueline Walters?”

Jacqueline jumped as her door was thrown open by something much stronger than a nightly breeze. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but are you Jacqueline Walters?"

What was going on? She dropped her cat in surprise and froze on her feet. Her eyes met his and she felt a strange sensation for the second time that evening. Adventure? Fear? Adrenaline? Whatever it was, it was strong, and not something of which Jacqueline wanted a part of.

Sorry indeed! The very sight of the man hardly showed such. A bomber jacket and a dark shirt, all wet... and more than one nasty cut... But wait a moment... "Do I know you?" Jacqueline backed away from the doorway. It had to be the same man she had just seen. But it couldn't. It was the same man. No, it wasn't. Confusion made the girl almost dizzy as she stared intently at the stranger who was not a stranger.

<< I'm very sorry it's so short, but I can only write on immobilization and fear for so long. >>