MC&D hunts down a new silver-tongued employee.
February 1st, 2020
Dr. Rossi had been fighting a migraine all morning, keeping the light in his office just bright enough to decipher the endless stack of work on his desk. Fewer containment procedures these days, but still a never-ending to-do list of incident reports, mission briefs, and task delegation.
A knock at the door made his ears ring, but he still welcomed in the person from the other side. As the entryway cracked open, the fluorescent lights of Site-90 glared in from the hall.
"Working in the dark?" Dr. Cole asked.
"Migraine—close the door, please." Rossi stopped whittling away at his paperwork for a moment.
"Sorry to hear that."
Rossi waved his hand dismissively. "What's going on?"
“I need a few agents for a pick-up in Manhattan," Cole said. "Shouldn't be anything a few plainclothes can't handle."
“Alright. How urgent are we talking?”
Cole shrugged. “There’s a kid selling penny stocks over at Mack Advisors like they’re hotcakes."
“I take it this isn’t some regular Jordan Belfort, or else you would have let the SEC deal with it?”
“Kid's had the job a week and has a ninety-five percent client success rate. Those lucky five percent are just the ones who hung up fast enough," Cole explained. "Not long calls either. He's hopping on the phone, rattling off how great of an option he's got for them, then telling them in no uncertain terms they should buy it. By that point, everyone bites. He's got the routine under a minute."
"A minute? Christ," Rossi said in surprise, picking up his coffee and finishing the stale remains in one long gulp. "Did you screen for memetic hazards?"
"Sure did," Cole replied. "His voice lit them up."
Rossi considered this information.
"Do people remember the purchase?"
"Yes, but they can't put a finger on why they bought it. Some were a bit peeved at throwing away money like that, but it wasn't like there was anything faulty with the stocks. Just a guy on the other end of the line with more charm than I'd guess he knows what to do with."
“Alright,” Rossi brought his hand to his face to rub his eyes. “Send over his file. I’ll get you a few guys. Let’s just make sure they’re properly medicated beforehand.”
“Works for me.”
February 3rd, 2020
Dorian Sloan was wearing one of his two good suits. He’d made the purchase just this weekend with the cash scraped from this new job. Thank god, too, as it finally gave his sister time to mend a rip in the other jacket's elbow.
It was a Monday morning, marking exactly a week since he’d managed to talk his way into a stockbroker role. Ground floor stuff, but he was already milking the commission for whatever he could.
He was accustomed to waking up early, a habit he shared with his mother and most of his sisters. Saoirse was poring over school books, eyes squinted and brows furrowed in the low light. He had a year to figure out how he was going to put her through college—hopefully, the financial aid offices would be generous.
Their mother, still in pajamas, split a pot of drip coffee between three cups. Her commute was shorter, and her shift didn’t start until ten. The three of them did not speak aside from murmured good mornings. Dorian would have more than enough talking to do today.
Two more girls, Aisling and Daphne, plodded into the room. The former looked at the empty coffee pot and groaned, rubbing her eyes.
"You guys couldn't have put on another when you finished?"
"Sorry, dear," his mother said, glancing over the top of her cup.
Dorian muttered a similar apology as he spared a guilty look at her calloused hands, fingertips pricked by needles and burned in places from steamers.
A workaholic like the rest of them, Aisling had been over the moon to land an apprenticeship with a local tailor last year. However, it had so far proved to be less training and more labor, organization, and intensive needlework than expected, all of which would have been tolerable if her supposed mentor was not weeks behind on paying her.
The baby of their family was Daphne, just shy of fifteen. Clever enough to be aware of their situation, but not nearly so cold or jaded as the rest of them. God, how Dorian longed to let her stay that way.
Only their eldest sister woke up past sunrise. Fiona’s agency kept her hungry, and her hunger kept her constantly irritable and tired. Modeling was a ruthless industry, more so in New York than anywhere, and at twenty-one, she was already worrying to death about being aged out. Their mother would make sure to wake her up before she left for the pharmacy.
Four incomes for six mouths to feed wasn’t too bad of a ratio, but for years, that had been far from the case. The winters before he’d been old enough to work had been the coldest of his life. City life was expensive, especially for the broke. It seemed every break or win was kneecapped by another expense, another interest payment, another emergency. The thought of tax season coming up made him vaguely, existentially ill.
A little better every day, Dorian promised himself. He was the first to finish his coffee. He put the empty cup in the sink before kissing his mother’s head, her hair as black as his own save for the shocks of silver, of which there seemed to be more every day.
“Ok, I'm off," Dorian said. "Don’t worry about dinner—I’ll pick up something on the way back,” and he would say he’d already eaten, and everyone would believe him, save for Fiona. He grabbed his umbrella and briefcase.
The morning was bleak, grey, and bitterly cold. He ignored the way it nipped through his thin coat and into his bones as he trekked to the subway station. No surprise the heating bill had been so damn high last month.
Once underground, he nonchalantly jumped the turnstile and boarded his usual car from Brooklyn into Manhattan’s Financial District. He looped an arm around one of the grimy silver poles and, for the next thirty or so minutes, went back and forth between people-watching and scrolling on his phone. The ride was a sleepy one, and he’d just started to succumb to the heaviness of his eyelids before the train stopped, spitting him out on Wall Street.
He still had about a block and a half to walk, but at least he’d given himself plenty of time. Nothing of note happened until he turned left down his usual shortcut.
“Hey, sir!” Dorian didn’t acknowledge the call was for his attention specifically until a man tapped his arm. “Sir, I’m lost—”
Dorian shrugged him off again a bit more forcefully. No one looking for directions would follow him down an almost-empty sidestreet.
"Forget about it. Go mug a tourist," he said as he kept walking, not letting the man out of his sight for a few steps. When the stranger gave no ground, Dorian continued to spin a buzz of low and fast words that should have given the man no choice but to turn and leave.
One hand tightened around his umbrella while the other slipped an old straight razor into his palm. Nothing the man did was as unsettling to Dorian as what he did not.
Why isn't this working?
A large form emerged from the shadows, blocking the better part of the alley from the other direction. The second man must have been twice Dorian's size.
"Ey, gentlemen, c'mon, gimme a break." Dorian smiled tensely, forcing familiarity and persuasion into his voice. "What the hell is this? I've got places to be. Show me a badge, or step out of my way and bother someone else."
They didn't listen to him, but they did listen to the next voice that spoke.
"Ahem, gentlemen," came a posh female voice. "Could you pardon me? I was in the middle of a task, and I rarely appreciate interruptions."
The woman, wherever she had come from, stood in the shadows behind the larger agent, dwarfing him. The men exchanged glances, terrified. Dorian couldn't blame them. Her eyes, like two frozen-over lakes, locked onto him.
Oh, fuck this. Taking advantage of of the distraction, Dorian raced past the slighter man. He tried to catch him by the back of his collar, but he spun around and sliced at his arm with a razor, forcing him to let go.
Blood sprayed, and his hand felt grossly warm.
He broke loose, briefcase and umbrella discarded on the concrete. Then, he was running for his life.
His head was spinning with all possibilities, each more outrageous than the last.
Who? The FBI? The SEC? And what was the woman's deal? Why him?
Bigger problems right now. Keep running.
But where should he go? To work? Back to the subway? No, the worst thing he could be was predictable.
If those people had wanted to rob or kill him, things would have played out differently. The whole thing felt too coordinated, the timing too perfect. There was no way they'd stop searching.
Damn it all. At least if this happened in Brooklyn, he could disappear among familiar streets and friendly households. But who would take him in or hide him in South Manhattan?
Blood on his hands and running for his life, he was already getting alarmed looks from pedestrians as he raced past.
Could he make it to Central Park? Maybe. It gave him the best chance of getting away.
A quick reorientation assured him he was at least running in the right direction, but he knew he could only keep up this hard pace until he lost his adrenaline.
The weather was getting worse. Nevertheless, a cab was out of the question.
As he bolted across a street, a BMV nearly plowed him over. The driver punched the horn, but this morning was not the one to start caring about jaywalking.
When he saw a Starbucks at the corner, he darted inside, avoiding any eye contact and holding his right hand—which he was painfully aware was tacky with blood—close to his body beneath his coat.
He rushed straight into the bathroom, relieved to find it open. Maybe the barista would complain about his not paying, but that was the least of his concerns.
Once he’d locked himself in the single stall, he put his back against the door. He tried and failed to catch his breath, gasps turning quickly to dry heaves. These had not stopped by the time he slumped toward the sink, scrubbing soap and hot water over his shaking hands for close to two minutes.
At last, he had to grapple with the dried crimson still on his cuff. Mechanically, he opened the faucet to cold and attempted to rinse it out under cold water, figuring the least he could do was try to keep it from setting. He couldn't bear to see this shirt ruined if he could help it.
His teeth were chattering now, and if he was crying, he couldn’t tell.
What to do? Oh fuck, what on earth to do? He’d lost his phone. Even if he hadn’t, he wasn’t sure it would be safe to call his family.
What if they’d tapped it? Worse, what if they'd gone after his mother and sisters as well? He had no way to tell the difference between paranoia and pragmatism.
His body still wouldn't breathe how it was supposed to.
He wanted to stay in this bathroom forever, surrounded by decor that was trying too hard to be Art Deco, clutching a white porcelain sink and training his eyes on the tiny tiles of the floor.
But alas, there came a knock.
It sobered him as the shock of cold water would to a drunk man. He tried to force himself back into his body, which was not pleasant at the moment, given the wet cold of his clothes wrapping his burning lungs and muscles.
“One moment,” he said, trying to sound calm. Maybe it really was just someone who needed to use the bathroom—
“Mr. Sloan,”
It's over.
The voice from the other side of the door was low, British, and female. The same one from the alley. Alarm and dread hit Dorian so swiftly that they may as well have been one of those cars back at the intersection.
Nowhere to go now.
Goddamnit, why me? Aren't there worse people out there than me?
“Please verify that I have the right man in there.” Dorian pressed his back against the door, digging his heels into the tiles.
“Verify who the fuck’s asking,” he snapped.
“Someone who thinks your potential ought not to be wasted in confinement. I can assure you I am not your enemy,” the stranger hissed. “That is all I am willing to divulge through the door of a Starbucks bathroom.” She said this with an air of outright contempt, likely for the setting itself.
Adrenaline gave way to acceptance. He was cornered, and if he tried to wait her out, she might just get fed up and break in. That seemed more inconsiderate on his part than anything. Why waste both their time?
With a completely grim expression, Dorian's trembling hand unlocked and opened the door.
He didn’t expect to have to look up so much at her. He glanced around, waiting for the trick to play out, for those men in black to spring out and apprehend him.
This did not manifest. Instead, the woman’s eyes—icy blue and snakelike with vertical needles where one would expect pupils—looked almost pitying for a flash of a moment before that cold sternness returned.
“Who are you?” he asked hoarsely, almost pleading.
“Iris Darke.” This made him pause, but he wasn’t sure why. He had no recollection of the name, and yet, he felt he should have. “If you would wish to leave here without my protection, I will not impede you.” She leaned down and whispered directly to him, her words smelling of tobacco: “But that choice resigns you to a lifetime of incarceration. You will not be afforded due process, representation from a solicitor, or visitation from loved ones."
"Well,” he replied, mouth feeling as though it were full of sand, “that doesn’t sound ideal.”
“So you have an ounce of sense. That’s excellent news. Now, come along—first, would you like anything for the road?”
Dorian was skeptical of this generosity, but then again, it was probably in her best interest to put him at ease and warm him up if she intended to have a productive conversation with him. He figured this was a cheap and easy solution.
“If you’re paying,” Dorian told her bluntly, wondering just how much that suit of hers had cost her. Would have to be custom for her build, he thought, and clearly professionally tailored.
“Certainly."
“Just a hot coffee.”
“Anything to eat?” He shook his head, and Iris tilted hers.
"Are you certain? I am not of low means."
Dorian's eyes went to the menu, and then to the glass display before he felt his stomach turn.
"An egg and cheese sandwich, please," he told her after a moment. Iris nodded, then went up to the counter. As she ordered, she laid a hundred-dollar bill in front of the register.
“Move me up in the queue, and I’ll allow you to keep the change.”
A few minutes later, Iris shielded them both with her umbrella as they walked out of the shop and into a waiting Cadillac. He pretended not to notice the stranger staring expressionlessly at them from across the street.
Dorian slid into the cushioned back row beside Iris, separated from the driver by an opaque screen. The first thing Iris did was light herself a cigar, hitting Dorian with the potent but not unpleasant smell of spices and woodsmoke in tight quarters.
He held his coffee in both hands and felt some life trickling back into him with each warm sip.
“So, what’s the deal?” he asked at last, placing his drink in the cupholder before gingerly unwrapping the brown paper around his sandwich. “You with the mob or something?”
Iris made a quick noise of bemusement.
“Or something.”
“And the guys after me? Not cops, surely.”
“No. If they were proper law enforcement, they’d obey my command,” she said ominously. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she said briskly—“I’m certain you must have a plethora of questions, but we can enlighten you on matters beyond normalcy in due course. One step at a time, Mr. Sloan."
“Okay, fair,” he said, side-barring his confusion and exasperation for the time being.
Dorian took another bite of his sandwich, taking great care not to get crumbs in the car. It wasn't very good, especially not for the price and hype.
“Good. Now, you dropped a briefcase while running. Anything of importance?”
“Umm, my laptop, my wallet, some work papers,” he closed his eyes, recalling the inventory.
“Social security card?”
“What? No. Who carries those around?”
“Good. The devices are replaceable, your cards can be canceled, and whatever your employer considers sensitive is not my concern.”
"I lost my phone, too,” he said tentatively. Calmly, Iris picked a briefcase up off the floorboard and unclasped it in her lap, proceeding to pass him a caseless black smartphone.
“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you’re not usually this trepidated,” she said evenly. “In either case, best to overcome it soon. You ought to be treating today as a job interview.”
“Of course,” he said, mouth dry. He realized with a pang that for that to be possible, there was one thing he’d need to be sure of. “Ms. Darke?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know if my family is alright?” There was no change in her expression, but she watched him carefully for a moment that felt too long before replying.
“Your family is all accounted for. No harm will come to them,” she assured. “Actually, it’s better if you go ahead and let them know now that you’ll be out of town. Do so quickly, if you would—we’re almost at our first destination.”
His elder sister’s number was the first one to come to mind. Fiona was the most heartless human being he’d ever met, and he adored her for it. If anyone would understand, it would have to her. He punched in the digits solemnly. It rang three times before her voice came through.
“Who’s this?” All in one breath, practically all as one word, Dorian told her:
“Fia, it’s me. Tell the girls I’m not going to be home for a little bit. I need you not to worry about me.”
“The hell?! Dorian—”
“Please, I just need you to do this for me. None of you need to worry. I’m fine. I’m sorry about this. Get back to work.” He wanted to add that he’d be back soon, but as he had no idea if that was true, he hung up on the spot, suppressing the guilt over his harshness.
Well, at least he was efficient.
“Who was that?" Iris asked.
"My older sister," he noted the slight, curious perk in her mannerisms. "Do you have siblings?"
"I do not," Iris said. "What are they like?"
"Mm…" he stared at his sandwich, then out the window. "Stressful," he mused after a moment.
"Do you not like them?"
"What?" Shocked, he looked back at Iris. "I love them to death." Or else I wouldn't stress over them.
For a moment, she looked deeply confused, which just made him chuckle as he wrapped up the rest of his sandwich for later, as was his habit.
"What is the tally of your siblings, then?" she asked.
"Four sisters. I'm older than three, younger than Fiona. A man's gotta talk fast if he's to get a word in." Dorian was almost certain Iris had this information, which meant she was asking either to create familiarity between them or to satisfy the perverse curiosity of an only child. In either case, he did not want to speak of his family with her, so he changed the topic. "Where are we going?”
“The Waldorf Astoria," Iris replied evenly, her mannerisms returning to that impeccable neutrality.
Dorian had trouble determining how much of this poshness was an air, or if that was just her nature. Or maybe she was just British. That thought swayed him toward the latter option.
“Oh,” he said pleasantly, “beautiful lobby. One of my favorites in the city.”
“Oh?" her eyes widened in mild surprise. "You mean to tell me you’re a frequent patron?”
“Frequent’s a strong word, but I was there last week," he said with a shrug.
“Doing what?”
“Getting this job.” He then gave a small, sardonic laugh as he looked out the tinted window again. “For all the good it did me.”
“You’re not too attached to it, are you?”
Dorian glanced back at her. “What, the hotel?”
“Your job,” said Iris, glancing at her watch. Dorian didn't want to risk being indiscreet about trying to tell the model from the other side of her.
“Not in the slightest,” he said as the renowned establishment came into view. “Not for something better.”
The car dropped them off at the front door. The driver and valet hashed out parking, but that was no longer his concern.
"Do you want any of this?" He asked, holding up what was left of his breakfast. He didn't want to stuff it in his suit pocket as he usually might, but he didn't want to leave it in the car, either.
"No. Did you not finish it?" Iris tilted her head.
"Sorry. I'm very grateful, just not very hungry."
"Nothing to apologize for," she said, a bit bewildered. "There's a garbage bin at the front. Please, don't agonize over it. You will not starve in my patronage."
Though he kept his coffee, he tossed the sandwich into the waste bin and followed Iris into the Waldorf.
The lobby was a spectacle of gold and crystal, a dazzling chandelier bathing the foyer in enchanting light. Paintings and plants and walls of quartz surrounded them. The rich greenery in particular carried them into the Winter Garden, that lovely and elegant private bar, the ceilings stretched up twenty feet above them. Marvelous as it was, Dorian felt almost at ease. These were levels of wealth and extravagance he could get his head around, at least.
Before anyone said anything, Dorian had noticed the only man at the bar. He was outfitted in a stylishly tailored suit of a glossy black accented by yellow gold. His hair, a similar shade, hung in straight curtains past his ears.
“Chrysophilius,” Iris said, prompting the man to turn.
He seemed to have already prepared an amicable introduction, though this faltered as he saw Dorian. His smile shifted to something closer to a gawk, and his brown eyes widened as he did a once-over of him.
“Jesus Christ, did you pull him out of the fucking gutter?”
Dorian tried not to cringe, painfully aware that his presentation was not as polished as he would have preferred it to be.
“Your etiquette and grace, per usual, are enviable,” she replied with venomous sarcasm, hands crossed neatly atop her umbrella’s handle.
"Sorry, it's just—" he continued to glance between Iris and Dorian, bewildered. "I thought you were just picking him up from the office."
"Such was my intention," she replied tersely. "Instead, he was about five minutes off from being forced into an armoire when I reached him. Furthermore on that point, I’m not certain we weren’t followed. This is a conversation we should continue upstairs.”
“Agreed,” said Chrysophilius, “Either of you want a drink?”
Iris declined, as did Dorian. Chrysophilius glanced at the coffee in his hand.
"Well, she already fed you. That's good." Iris opened her mouth, but he was already donning that charming air again, extending a hand to Dorian. “Where are my manners? The full name is Chrysophilius Marshall.”
“Chrysophilius,” Dorian repeated to make sure he remembered the pronunciation, “Dorian Sloan, pleasure to meet you.” As they shook hands, all he could think of was the blood that had been up to his wrist less than an hour ago. He wondered if Chrysophilius noticed the tint of red in his dress shirt’s cuff.
“And where’s that suit of yours from, Dorian?” he asked as the three began to walk toward the lift. He didn’t answer at first, which only further amused Chrysophilius. “C’mon, I won’t make fun of you.”
“Men’s Wearhouse,” he said honestly.
“Mm… And no watch?” Dorian smiled back—not because he much felt like it, but because Chrysophilius was smiling at him, and he did not terribly enjoy being mocked. “Not even a fake?”
“A bare wrist could mean you’re quiet,” Dorian reasoned, “but a fraud is just a fraud.” Chrysophilius laughed and said somewhat approvingly—
“Very good. Devil’s in the details and all that,” said Chrysophilius. “Speaking of—Sloan—is that Irish?”
“It is."
“You Catholic?”
“Raised that way,” he answered carefully.
“Yeah, get over that,” Chrysophilius told him flippantly as the elevator door slid open. "We're going to need you to get cool with some magic and demons pretty quickly if you're going to last around here."
"I… Okay." Just roll with the punches, Sloan. "Got it, boss."
Iris snorted quietly at the exchange before walking out of the lift, leading them down the hall and into the 47th-story suite. She’d reached into her coat and opened her cigar case before the men were even through the door.
Dorian resisted the urge to marvel. He'd been in the hotel, but never in one of the rooms, and certainly never a suite. Christ, the space was easily half the size of his house.
“Dorian, would you care for a cigar?” Iris asked, spotting a crystal ashtray and reclining in the upholstered armchair beside it, reminding him of the Godfather or some Sopranos character.
“I’m fine, but thank you.”
“You ought to take the lady up on that,” Chrysophilius remarked, brows raised as if in surprise. “They're better than Lucky Strikes or whatever you're used to picking up at the gas station."
“Please, I have plenty to spare," Iris said, rolling her eyes. Dorian glanced between them before giving in.
“Well, you insist, who am I to refuse?”
“That’s the spirit, kid,” said Chrysophilius, leaning against a half-bar as Dorian took a seat on the couch adjacent to Iris. She cut and cooked the end of a second cigar in a smooth, practiced motion. It was awkward to hold at first, and he had to consciously remember to avoid bringing the smoke all the way into his lungs as he nursed the slow burn. “Do you want to guess how much that cigar costs?”
“… Not really, no,” he admitted.
“Something like two million USD, isn’t that right, Iris?” Dorian would not give him the satisfaction of his shock, even though the number sent his heart plummeting into his stomach. He merely inspected the cigar between his fingers with new appreciation.
“Sounds about right," he said.
“It’s only one point three,” Iris corrected calmly. “Now, we are not here to idly chit-chat. Chrysophilius, if you would–” she gestured toward Dorian vaguely.
“Right, right,” he said in exasperation, “Iris tells me you have some experience selling electronics.”
“That’s right.”
“Used or new?”
“Used,” he said. He knew a guy two blocks down the road who bought palettes of old parts, fixed them up, and let others sell them for him. Usually for dirt cheap, though Dorian had a habit of haggling up the price.
“Ever come across anything branded Anderson?”
“Sometimes. Just in parts, usually,” he furrowed his brow. “Weird to sell. Hardly ever did, honestly. They sort of just sat in the back because no one ever asked about them, and we weren’t sure how to price them. They were quality, sure, but there was no information out there.”
“Mm, sounds about right. See, if we were to allow everyone to get their hands on every scrap of available, cutting-edge, anomalous tech, then we'd have to charge market price," Chrysophilius said this last part in abject contempt. "Instead, we make sure that when top-of-the-line electronics see the light of the day, they're kept exclusive. Some things end up resold, but by then, it's outdated anyway."
"I see," said Dorian, "and how are you affiliated with Anderson?"
"We've got a variety of contracts with them ranging from R&D to distribution," he explained with a sweep of his hand. "Incredible stuff they've come up with with our help, truly! Are you a video game man? I take it you've never played anything with hyper-HD. Real pity. I believe there's one graphics card and a brand new VR headset on the catalog."
"Sorry, catalog?" Dorian asked.
"Oh, right, you don't know," Chrysophilius remembered. "You ever fancied yourself an auctioneer, Sloan?"
"Aye, I’ve got a fast tongue,” he shrugged, hoping to hide his confusion.
“Bet the ladies don’t mind that, huh?” Chrysophilius replied suggestively, prompting Iris’ harsh glare, encouraging him to stay on topic. "Anyway, our friends over at Anderson were glad to help orchestrate a little show. Just something to help generate excitement for next season's products. Don't worry, I'll make sure you go in there with at least some idea of what you're talking about."
“I've brought a printed briefing for you as well," Iris informed him. "For all intents and purposes, this is a trial run. Should you fall on your face, at least we have no contract with you yet, and so the embarrassment would be more manageable. Mind, I would rather be in that position at all.”
“You won’t have to worry about that.” Shaken as he was from all that had happened today, it was good for the junior partners to know his rumored confidence was intact.
“For your sake, let’s hope not.” Dorian knew a threat when he heard one. Thoughtfully, he tapped his cigar against the ashtray.
“I still don’t know who you are,” he remarked. “Is that on purpose? You said you weren’t with the mob.”
“Oh,” Chrysophilius blinked once in surprise. “God, Iris, you really didn’t tell him jack shit, did you?”
“Language—and you know how I loathe lengthy explanations. Why would I trouble myself when I have you?”
As she said this, Iris flashed Chrysophilius a broad, haughty smile. The brilliant whiteness of her teeth perturbed Dorian less than the daggers she had for fangs. He did not linger on it long, as although Chrysophilius rolled his eyes, he seemed happy to continue.
“We’re two out of three junior partners at Marshall, Carter, and Dark Limited,” he said, gesturing between himself and Iris before cracking a grin. “And our job is to be really fucking good at making money.”
“Language.”
“What? He’s a New Yorker!”
“What’s your cut from the auction?” Dorian inquired. Chrysophilius looked surprised at his being so quick to catch onto how such things operated, but Dorian couldn't fathom why. Wasn't it common sense?
“Forty percent, though it would be more if we owned the auction house. However, we’re supplying most of the clientele, along with some of the stuff I mentioned before. You’ll take ten percent commission, and that’s us starting you at the low end. This'll all happen tomorrow night in Three Portlands.”
Dorian paused.
“… All three?”
At this, Chrysophilius burst out laughing, prompting admonishment from Iris.
“I-I’m sorry,” he panted, hands on the counter. “I’m—god, I just didn’t think bringing in a stray was going to be this much fun.”
Dorian was more grateful for the cigar with every deliberate pull. It gave him something to do besides just sit there and take insults. As it happened, though, he was less upset by the words than Iris.
"Enough," she snapped. "Need you be so unnecessarily denigrating? And to someone poised to be an exceptional return on investment, at that."
"So you say," Chrysophilius replied lazily, looking past Iris at Dorian. He could feel her temper swell at the implication.
"Dorian," Iris whipped around and faced him coldly, "if we put you in front of a crowd and tell you to sell, can you deliver?"
"Of course," he said with quiet assuredness.
"No concern of performance anxiety?"
He blinked at her, stunned.
"I understand you don't want to fail," he leaned forward. "So if it's any consolation, I cannot afford to disappoint."
"Yeah, well," Chrysophilius interjected, "you can't afford much, so—"
"I am just about at my wit's end with you," said Iris, jabbing a finger in his direction. "If this were not your auction—"
"But it is my auction, Iris," Chrysophilius cut her off, "and if our new friend here chokes, it looks just as bad for me as it does for you."
"Hey, guys, please," Dorian said in an unnervingly placating manner just as Iris opened her mouth. "I won't fail, so there's no problem. It's that simple, right?"
Iris and Chrysophilius stared blankly at him, then back at each other. Though the glance was not without hostility, both seemed willing to table the argument.
"It's your head on a platter if you fuck this up," Chrysophilius told Dorian in dry amusement. "Literally."
"Sorry, what?" But he'd already moved on.
“We’re flying to London tonight,” he declared. “It’s an easy trip to Threeports from there, and also, I don’t want to deal with the possibility of someone recognizing you in Manhattan. You’ll spend tomorrow shadowing me. I want to see what you’re made of, and at the very least, we’ll need to go get you a few new suits.” He looked Dorian up and down, turning his nose up. “If we hire you, your first job is to put on ten pounds or so. I’m sure you think it’s anorexic chic or something, and maybe that works for girls, but you, my friend, just look like you can’t afford a meal.”
“Mm,” Dorian smiled plaintively, eyeing the cigar as it burned down, the ash becoming uneven. “How generous of you to offer to treat me to a decent meal, Mr. Marshall.” He barked a single laugh.
“Of course! It’s nothing to me,” he said pointedly. “Put on a few good shows, and it won't be anything to you, either. Matter of fact—” he got up and grabbed the room service menu. “How do you take your steak?”
“Medium rare,” he answered mechanically.
“Correct!” Chrysophilius said before walking over to a nightstand and dialing the kitchen number. He leaned against the bed, feet kicked out, one tapping impatiently until someone picked up the line.
Dorian was actually starting to remember his appetite at this point. He’d burned no negligible amount of calories in his getaway sprint through the FiDi. Even still, he could barely believe his ears as Chrysophilius began to rattle items off the menu.
He called for steaks, wellingtons, and every vegetable dish on the list, along with such frivolous treats as grapes, candied walnuts, and flatbread among other charcuterie items. He requested three lobster tails, then added the bisques practically as an afterthought. Then there were the French desserts, two of which Dorian had never even heard of.
The three of them could not possibly finish it all—that was the point. (As if the cigars hadn't been enough to make it clear to him the level of wealth he was dealing with.)
Chrysophilius kept watching to see how Dorian reacted, but frankly, everything had been so surreal up until this point that he’d have accepted just about any level of absurdity.
In that sense, maybe it was just dumb luck that he did not give away how appalling this waste all seemed. Just this morning, it would have nauseated him.
Before Chrysophilius hung up, Dorian had a flash of thought that he was being scammed, that these two were going to stick him with the bill and dash. Considering all evidence to the contrary, Dorian gave a quick, quiet laugh to himself, which was unfortunately timed just as Chrysophilius finished ordering four tins of black caviar. He finished by attaching a vintage bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon and an order for some fresh clothes to be brought up, then at last charged it all to the room without batting an eye.
“Sorry, Dorian—I’d have asked what your favorite food was, but how is a man supposed to know unless he’s tried all his options?”
“Hard to argue with that logic,” he said, closing his eyes as he felt heat brush his fingertips, prompting him to stamp the cigar out in the ashtray. Right then, what he wanted more than anything was to walk across the street and find someone on the street selling four-buck bagels.
♦♢♦♢♦
“First time on a private plane, I take it?” Chrysophilius taunted.
Dorian just gave a low whistle of astonishment, not about to admit this was his first time on any sort of plane. There’d been nowhere pressing to fly and no money to fly with, but the Sloan family might have scraped up cash for a trip if not for his mother’s absolute aversion to air travel. She’d apparently lost a cousin or something in a freak accident a few decades back, and that had only compounded with a post-9/11 paranoia that he could only grasp in the abstract.
Iris had provided a stack of files back at the hotel, which she and Chrysophilius explained was the catalog for tomorrow evening’s auction. He'd thought it rude to read them over lunch, but in the car to the airport, curiosity had swept him up in the pages, and he sat down quickly on one of the white leather couches so he could continue.
The product descriptions read like a collection of science fiction and fantasy stories: androids for housework, combat, sex, or all three; quantum computers for futures trading; mirrors that reflected every version of what you could have been; arm-length gloves that used electromagnetic pulses to synthesize muscle growth; keyboards that always had the exact word you were looking for.
“How is it,” Dorian asked as an attendant brought the three passengers tall glasses of champagne, “that this all stays underground?”
“We have friends in high places," Chrysophilius shrugged, sipping from his flute. "And enough money to make sure only the right people know about this kind of stuff."
"Beyond that," Iris added, "the hysteria if everything that exists were to become public knowledge would be irreparable. If every Athenian were Socrates, seven billion Athenians would still be a mob."
"I warned you back at the Waldorf, no?" Chrysophilius asked with a twinkle in his eyes. "Told you that you'd have to get used to gods and monsters."
Dorian held his gaze, then smiled.
"Well… so long as they're paying customers, yeah?"
February 4th, 2020
By the time they touched down in London, Dorian had started to crash. It was a fight to stay awake on the ride from the airport to Chrysophilius' residence. Only the novelty of the unfamiliar city passing by outside the tinted window kept him up.
Chrysophilius had grumbled a bit at his staying the night, but Iris had insisted. He’d been even more annoyed about lending him clothes, though Dorian still ended up sleeping in silk pajamas he guessed were worth around six months of groceries.
He'd been too drained to even comprehend the surrounding luxury. He retired as soon as was acceptable and slept like a rock. As a result, he woke up far too early the next morning, thanks to either nerves, jet lag, or both.
For a while, he just stared at the ceiling in the dark, perfectly warm in that absurdly soft and massive bed. It was like sleeping on air—hell, maybe that was exactly what it was.
For the first time in years, he had dreamt of his father. He recalled nothing of his role in the already-fading dream, just that he'd been abstractly present.
Dorian supposed he loved the man in the abstract and respectful way all kids must love late parents, but that did not change the fact that 2008 was an inconsiderate time to die. He did not realize until he was older just how much debt he’d left behind, nor the amount his mother had to take on to keep a roof over their heads.
He got out of bed, but was morbidly afraid to leave the room he’d been regulated to, lest he get lost walking around the unfamiliar condo—god, how could this be called a condo? A fucking castle, that's what it was. When Chrysophilius had said it was "bigger on the inside", he had not taken that to mean infinite.
He decided to rinse off, the cool water sending any remnants of sleep or dreaming down the drain.
The bathroom was an enticing collection of luxuries and oddities that seemed off-limits to him. He did put gel in his hair, though, and dared to use the tiniest bit of cologne from a crystal bottle with a diamond stopper. As far as dressing went, he’d been left with black slacks that fit fine, but not well and a golden fleece quarter-zip that, like the pant cuffs, was about an inch short in the sleeves.
Though he noticed each of these things, it never even occurred to him to complain about them, not when these businesspeople had been so generous. Most likely for purely Machiavellian reasons, sure, but still.
His usual loafers would have to do. With a curse, he realized the blisters on his feet and dug around until he found some Band-Aids.
Figuring it was nonsense to expect to be fetched, he walked out of the room and just sort of wandered the halls, which were cast in an enchantingly warm light.
Dorian kept his arms crossed behind his back as if he were in a museum. Impeccable floors stretched to unseeable ceilings, the space in between decorated with countless glittering novelties carved of crystal and gold along with works of art the likes of which he could still barely fathom the reality of.
In short, Chrysophilius' place made the treasure room from Raiders of the Lost Ark look like a fucking storage closet.
He ended up in a kitchen at last, where he wandered up to the fanciest espresso machine he’d ever seen in his life, and for terror of breaking it, wouldn’t even touch the appliance.
“Ah, look who’s up!” Dorian turned quickly, and to his surprise, found Chrysophilius already fully dressed and prepared for the day. “Jet lag’s a bitch, isn’t she? Listen, if you get tired before the show, we'll get you a Mountain Dew. We’re getting an early start today. Tailor, of course, is the first thing. I want my clothes back.”
So he got in the passenger seat of one of Chrysophilius’ Bugattis and went to see an artisan who ended up being more spider than man. Too many softly barbed hands shifted him this way and that to take his measurements, then proceeded to spin him into an obsidian English-cut suit. It was rather close to his size already, but he felt the strings working at once all around him to take up and let out bits as needed. Anytime Dorian tried to speak, the tailor made an incoherent series of admonishing chitters to quiet him. All the while, Chrysophilius roamed about and combed through collections of silk neckties.
“Bet you feel like a new man already,” Chrysophilius said when he turned around and saw Dorian stepping off the platform, brushing a bit of phantom webbing off his sleeve.
“You have no idea,” he said.
“No, I don’t, and thank god,” he scoffed, then asked the tailor—“Great work on him. How long for a dozen more with the same measurements?”
“Two days,” he said.
“Getting slow, old man. Any chance Iris paid in advance?”
“She only told me to expect you,” he hissed. “Said you would pay.”
“Damn,” he sighed, handing the tailor a black card.
From there, Chrysophilius must have decided it was time to put his table manners to the test. Dorian had trained up enough basic etiquette to get by in certain circles—use the forks on the table from the outside in; don’t dip the bread in the butter; offer your neighbor everything before you take it; treat ketchup as an insult to the chef.
“Isn’t this the place where Princess Diana last dined?” Dorian asked as they got out of the car.
“God rest her soul,” Chrysophilius said with what could have passed as genuine grief. “But no, that was the Ritz in Paris.”
“Ah, I see," he replied.
“You’ve never been to Paris, I assume?” Dorian shook his head. “Ah, you simply have to go. I mean, the food, the wine, the women—table for Marshall, please.”
“Right this way, sir.”
The place was all wicker and white cloth. A server in a monochromatic ivory tuxedo provided mineral water in tall glass bottles, which Dorian pretended not to find unbearably bitter. Before him was a stiff menu and a separate pamphlet for the wines.
“Should I start you off with the usual drinks and appetizers, Mr. Marshall?” The waiter asked cordially.
“Actually, it’s a special occasion,” Chrysophilius nudged the extensive wine list toward Dorian with his fingertips, “and I think it would be terribly rude not to let my guest decide what we’re drinking.”
He's looking to embarrass me. Dorian swallowed laughter.
“Well, it’s earlier in the day, so maybe we should go for something with a lighter body, more aromatic, no?” He began as he quickly combed through the offerings, “Where are your Cru Beaujolais—oh, there we are. Who’s the producer of this Fleurie here?”
“That would be Jean Foillard," said the waiter.
“Have you got anything from Clos de la Roilette, by chance?” inquired Dorian.
“Mm, matter of fact, we have an unlisted twenty-sixteen bottle of his you fine gentlemen might be interested in.”
“That sounds excellent, thank you. We’ll do that. Thank you so much for your help.” The waiter promised to be right back, and Dorian just sat back in his seat, looking more smug than he ought to have.
Chrysophilius stared at him in blank-faced astonishment.
“How’d you do that?”
“Do what?” Dorian asked innocently. “You told me to order. Are you not a fan of the Crus?”
“Seriously,” Chrysophilius narrowed his eyes. “That goes beyond good bullshit.” Dorian was forced to come clean.
“I was a busboy at Dorsia from the time I was fourteen.” It had been the first job he’d ever talked his way into, and he figured he’d swing big by practically begging a manager to let him wash dishes. He was certain he only knew what it was on account of having watched American Psycho at some point in his childhood. “You wouldn’t believe the range of clients we had there. Well, actually, I’m sure you know, but—” He waved his hand in digression.
“Dorsia,” Chrysophilius repeated, “Well, bloody hell. Silver tongue licked the right boots, eh?"
Dorian flashed a smile, feeling his molars grind as he did.
"I plead a good case," he said. "And I got a better education out of it than I could have ever hoped for."
The exposure had allowed Dorian to pick up on the mannerisms and preferences of the New York elite. Beyond that, he'd overheard all sorts of things more fascinating and private than wine orders.
"Learned all the right things to say, did you?" There was a slight sneer to his words, which dropped a few decibels as he continued. "That's good. You keep saying the right things, and we'll see it pays off for you."
Looking to clear the air, Dorian said graciously—"I’m sure you’re completely capable of getting a reservation on your own, but let me know if you ever want me to make that call for you. Assistants don’t always do the trick with them.”
“Mm, I’ll keep that in mind," Chrysophilius leaned back in his chair. "Tell me this, then—why on earth would you leave Dorsia to go sell junk electronics?” He blinked in surprise.
“Who said anything about leaving? I just worked two jobs.” One to make him a salesman, the other to make him a believable socialite. Chrysophilius looked totally bewildered by this notion, and it was Dorian’s turn to laugh, feeling surprisingly at ease as their wine came to the table. “My mistake—I had multiple streams of income. Is that a more familiar concept?”
The waiter poured the tiniest bit into his glass, and he made a show of swirling it around, sniffing it, and then tasting it in a smooth motion before smiling and gesturing for him to pour the rest. Chrysophilius ordered a few options for their first course, which Dorian would have been content to just sample if not for the directive about his weight. He sent the server away with an order for calamari.
“So let me guess,” Chrysophilius said, “you kept an ear out until you could figure which of your regulars was running a stock brokerage firm. Something profitable, but not a household name that would require you to have actual schooling. Something prestigious but scrappy.”
“All correct so far,” Dorian admittedly openly.
“And then what? You just sat down at his table?”
“No, that’s gauche. I heard his daughter was coming in from town, staying at the Waldorf Astoria. I called in sick at my day job and just so happened to run into him in the lobby.”
“Clever bastard, aren’t you?” He said this was an air of subtle suspicion, but Dorian only shrugged, taking it as a compliment.
“Better clever than dead.”
♦♢♦♢♦
By seven o'clock, they'd started driving. Chrysophilius explained they'd be taking a Way, which seemed like vague directions to Dorian. Somehow, Chrysophilius' GPS still managed to warn them about traffic jams and speed traps, so really, what else mattered?
“Oh, shit, I almost forgot," said Chrysophilius. "Check the glove compartment and see if there isn't some Dramamine in there.” Dorian set the printed auction catalog on his lap and leaned forward. Digging around, he found the medication still in the package, among other things. “Good, take two.”
“Why do I need motion sickness pills?” He asked once he’d swallowed the off-white tablets.
“You’ll see,” Chrysophilius flicked a level behind the Bugatti’s steering wheel, and little bright green letters reading NON-E lit up on the dash.
“What does—” Before he could get his sentence out, Dorian’s stomach was in his throat, and also in his right arm, and his brain felt somewhere around his right hip. He made a sharp, pained gasp like he’d been punched, the sound swimming through his inner ear.
“Don’t you dare throw up in this fucking car.” Dorian screwed his eyes shut, hand over mouth. For a moment, he wasn’t sure that his stomach and throat were even shaped correctly for that. He tried to hum, as he’d heard somewhere that helped with nausea.
Then, as swiftly as it had come on, the vertigo-on-crack receded into a more regular sort of disorientation that kept him hesitant to open his eyes.
“Welcome to the Three Portlands! Don’t worry, that first switch is always the worst part.”
Cautiously, he peeled his eyes open and beheld the fantastic, impossible world spread out all around him, painted in a warped and beautiful fashion upon an inverted horizon. He had so many questions all at once that he could only get out a single, startled “What?” This exclamation, of course, was too vague to get a response that helped his comprehension of events.
“The car setting says non-Euclidian, but you know, that’s not really right,” Chrysophilius complained, “It’s perfectly Euclidian—hey, use your blinker, asshole!” Dorian shut his eyes for another few moments as Chrysophilius laid into a driver who couldn't hear him. Dorian chose not to comment on the fact that he hadn’t seen him use his own blinker even once in driving with him. “Man, ever since they legalized cars here, all the drivers have been terrible. Anyway, the geometry’s parabolic or something, but totally Euclidian. Doesn’t matter. By the time you’re inside, you’ll barely feel it.” God, he hoped that was the case. “I swear, you better not get sick,” he added warily.
“I’m not sick,” Dorian ground out, blinking hard. “I’m not sick. But god, you couldn’t have given me that Dramamine sooner?”
“Sorry man, just forgot.” Likely story.
“You got a mint or something?” Chrysophilius moved his arm off the glove compartment, and Dorian managed to find an Altoids container right as the driver made a criminally sharp and fast turn that jerked them out of the flow of traffic. It seemed Dorian’s whole body did a single large, swift flip before they stopped, and all of a sudden, he felt remarkably calibrated.
“Fuck, there’s no valet,” Chrysophilius complained as they circled the block once. In defiant annoyance, he parked the Bugatti directly beneath a sign that read in bold, scarlet letters: NO PARKING, ANY TIME. “Whatever. Fined parking is paid parking.”
"And getting towed is valet with extra steps?”
“Not if they want to keep their jobs," said Chrysophilius. "It's not a discreet set of wheels, and I'm here often enough that no one should be stupid enough to try and move it."
Both emerged from the car, straightening out their coats and ties almost absentmindedly in sync. Dorian’s penchant for mimicry of the little things was already serving him well. Chrysophilius clicked the lock button on his keys and waltzed up to a door so flush and vantablack Dorian had to blink twice to even register it being there.
“I promise, it’s a much cooler venue on the inside,” Chrysophilius said as he tried to twist the knob.
“Password?” requested a digital voice.
“Password?” Chrysophilius asked incredulously, “The password is ‘This show doesn’t happen without us’.” An eye split open in the door where the peephole ought to be, squelching quietly as it took them in. As quickly as it had appeared, it blinked back into blackness.
“Identity verified. Apologies for the delay. Please come in.”
The door fizzled away like smoke, and waiting inside was a sleek, featureless machine dressed in inconspicuous but formal attire. It offered them some refreshments, and Dorian subsequently downed two glasses of ice water—one to get rid of any lingering sickness and the chalky aftertaste of the pill, and the second just to cool his nerves and lubricate his throat.
“I want to see the merchandise,” Chrysophilius declared. He’d made it clear that they would not be going to the reception before the event, which Dorian was grateful for. This was not something he wanted to overthink or have muddled by magic networking and whatnot. The attendant beaconed them down an elevator into what he supposed he could call a basement.
He spotted a row of twenty-four item slots, each holding a place atop a velvet conveyor belt. The pair approached the lineup, but only Chrysophilius dared to touch anything, taking a graphics card between his thumb and index finger and holding it discerningly up to the light.
Item 13, Dorian recalled before even looking at the label. Chrysophilius had seemed rather excited by its Hyper HD capabilities when he'd explained them to Dorian.
“You will not have to worry about showcasing,” the android told Dorian. “You only need to speak about them. Display and delivery will be handled on our end.” He nodded, and Chrysophilius tilted his head toward him.
“Everything goes, or you do,” he smiled as if it were friendly banter. “No pressure.”
“What’s my cap?” The smile fell slightly.
“Pardon?”
Dorian leveled his gaze.
“How much higher than the minimum bid am I allowed to go?”
“You didn’t see a maximum bid on those listings, did you?” Chrysophilius asked, almost incredulously. “The point of an auction—” Dorian firmly shook his head.
“I’m being paid commission based on what I charge these people. If you send me in with no upper limit, I might bankrupt your clientele, and I would be the only one happy with that outcome.”
“You really think you’re that good?” he asked slowly.
“Yes.” Nothing to gain from doubt in the eleventh hour.
“… Stop at double the minimum price. Quadruple if the item walks, talks, or fucks, got it?”
“Got it.”
Chrysophilius clapped him twice on the back.
“Good. Go make us some money.”
So, Dorian had done the math on the plane. Even if he sold everything for only its minimum bid, his commission would be over a million dollars. All he had to do was talk, right? Talk so fast these bitches and bastards barely knew what they were throwing their money away for at all. Already, it seemed everything inside him was moving too quickly for the world around him.
Two robotic attendants came forward. The first handed Dorian a stack of index cards with blurbs of the items in numbered order in case he forgot what he had memorized. The other fitted him with a miniscule microphone, clipping it into his pressed black collar.
He was directed toward a platform on the far side of the room, and when he stepped on, a clear acrylic capsule quickly closed around him.
The ceiling parted above him, and he was slowly moved upward. His heart insisted on trying to escape his ribcage. No going back now, not that going back had been any option at any point in the past thirty-six hours.
Then, he was in the open, cast in stage lights, surrounded in an ominous ring by only the impression of hungry buyers. He felt a wave of dizziness that he attributed to the strange geometry of this place. Far more than that, however, he found himself giddy, his anxiety suddenly indistinguishable from his chomping at the bit.
“Ladies and gentlemen—” he was stunned by the amplification of his own voice, “—and whatever else is here! I do hope you all came prepared for an excellent showing tonight. So please, get out your checkbooks if you haven’t already, eyes open, and let’s begin with the first item—” It was a mildly clumsy introduction, but an effective one. He had to stumble into a rhythm, but he stumbled fast enough the audience could have thought it a leap.
Any nerves or apprehension he had were washed away in that blinding light, and as if he’d been baptized, he felt at once entirely pure and present. That diligent cramming and practice and rapid recitals in the car did him well as he plunged the audience into the night’s first listing.
“… One-of-a-kind, exclusive piece of machinery right here, folks, nothing else like it in the world. You—” he pointed to a customer at random, “I know you want to pay four million for it. Ah, there it is! And you, right there, do I hear- thank you very much! Let’s keep it going up, people, it’s for a good cause—”
Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, all of it, but god, did it sound fantastic. Egotistical though it might have been to get drunk on the sound of one’s own voice, hearing his godawfully fast words amplified only compounded his dangerous confidence in what he was selling. The item went, and he flew right into the next, swept along by the surrealism.
“One million bid, now two, now two, will ya give me two? Two million bid, now three, now three, will ya give me three-”” He could get used to the rhythmic chant, how it felt moving through him. Perhaps he was enunciating too much, but at several hundred words a minute, it didn't matter.
He was quite nearly having fun, except for that note of raw desperation in his voice for those lucid enough to really listen. Throughout the whole auction, he sounded as though he were doing the routine with a gun to his head. In a way, perhaps he was. Even for those who had attended live auctions in the past, this was unlike anything they had seen before. One item went, then a second, then a third and fourth. He’d always wondered what he would do if handed even a fraction of this power, and now here was his answer. The bidding only stopped when the auctioneer decided it did.
“Starting bid seven million! Do I hear seven million? There we go!” He pushed the bids higher and higher with ease, playing one customer’s FOMO off their neighbor’s, then onto the next. No one seemed outraged. No one stopped him. “What about from you, sir? Any of you got lovely wives you want to get gifts for? Come on, this is a gorgeous piece of software- thank you kindly, eight million. Do I hear ten? Ten. Ten. I know I hear ten. And you! You want to pay ten and a half for this fine piece here, mm? Eleven? Eleven million for top-of-the-line? Come on, ladies and gentlemen, it’s a hot item. You all came here to empty your pockets. I know you’ve got it, so come on, you sons of bitches, work with me here! Eleven, there it is! Twelve million? Do I hear twelve? I know you’re all good for it, so you better fucking bid. Fifteen! Haha, now there’s more like it. Are you going to let them show you up? Mm? Sixteen million, god bless you. Seventeen? Seventeen from you? Come on come on, youwanttopayseventeenmillionforthis. One of you does. No? Fine, fine, Sixteen million going once, going twice—seventeen, there it is! Going, going, gone!”
He’d accidentally gone a bit over his cap with that one, but in his defense, he was barely looking at his notes. To do so would break his flow, and as his words took on a life of their own all around him, he could think of nothing worse.
At some point, as his lips blurred around the pitch of a silicon governess for busy parents who’d rather a machine rear their brats, Dorian somehow made out his boss in the audience. As though he were Caesar observing a well-favored gladiator, Chrysophilius flashed him a thumbs-up gesture.
Four items later, Dorian called sold out on the last listing, and all at once, a heavy and still silence lurched him like the slam of brakes. He could hear only his breath and heartbeat, feel only the heat of those lights on his skin.
“T-Thank you very much for your generosity tonight,” he said softly into the mic, “Please see our attendant after the show to acquire your items. Have a lovely evening.”
The lights went out, and only as the floor opened again beneath him did he hear the thunderous uproar of applause in the dark. The effect was heady, and when the transport brought him back down to the lower floor, he let an android take his microphone off his collar before numbly pushing past the mechanical attendants, telling them to give him some space. Although his words had no memetic effect on them, they obeyed nonetheless, leaving so he did not have to.
Alone at last in the cool chamber, Dorian closed his eyes and put the back of his hand to his forehead. He couldn’t help laughing in between slow, heavy breaths. He swiped the heels of his hands over his eyes once, just to make sure he wasn’t crying. There was a slight burn in the back of his throat, and his mouth was tingling like he’d had too much sour candy.
By the time Chrysophilius found him standing in that dim hall, the quick bout of hysterics had passed. He stood completely quiet and serene, though still buzzing faintly all over.
“Well? How’d that feel?” Dorian returned his boss’ grin.
“Put me back in, coach.”
“Good to hear. Very good to hear.” Chrysophilius crossed his arms and stood opposite to him. “You know, you’re taking home a check for six million dollars tonight.”
“Off one night’s work…” he said in disbelief, head tipping back against the wall, sparse laughter coming back through him like small shocks. It was one thing to take in the obscene wealth that surrounded him, but entirely another to process what it meant for even this fraction of it to be completely his. A millionaire? Him? That couldn’t be right. Was this the part now where he woke up?
Part of Chrysophilius wanted to scoff at Dorian's reaction, and yet his sheer euphoria was so contagious that he couldn’t help but find it charming, or at least tolerable. After all, he had just made the company—him, specifically—a twenty-four million killing in less than half an hour.
“I think,” he said magnanimously, “we’re gonna keep you around.”
February 22, 2020
Dorian snuck back into his own house just before 9am. There was a chance it would be empty, depending on Fiona’s schedule, but at least he would not run into anyone else before her.
He got lucky. As soon as he began to walk up the stairs, his older sister must have recognized the sound of his gait, as she called his name in disbelief and flung open their bedroom door.
Her jet hair was in pin curls, and her makeup was only half done. Though he smiled at her, she could only stare in bewilderment, marvelling at what the weeks had done to her brother.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He was not usually one for apologies, but this one seemed warranted, even as he continued to smile. In that moment, his sister’s sliver of a heart made an appearance, and she let out the smallest of sobs before throwing her arms around him. He dropped the duffel bag in his right hand to catch her.
"You bastard," she said, face pressed into his shoulder, clad in a black cable-knit quarter-zip nicer than anything she'd ever seen him in. "You just disappear, and then next anyone hears from you, you’re sending us ten grand and say it's for the fucking heating bill, and then you—you—” she was shuddering for breath.
Dorian put a hand on the back of her head, careful not to knock the curls loose.
"If you're mad about the check, you're going to hate what's in the bag."
Slowly, she pulled back, looking between him and the duffel at their feet.
Dorian couldn't contain his grin. He knelt down and unzipped the sack, revealing a showstoppingly gorgeous sight: bundles of crisp hundred-dollar bills. Fiona couldn't even respond for several seconds, too transfixed by the cash.
"For under the floorboards," he said with a wink.
Her hands went over her mouth as her shock compounded. In moments, however, her sobs had turned to laughter, and immediately, Dorian was laughing alongside her.
"And this is clean?" she asked.
"Completely," he replied, reaching into the bag to dig through the green papers in search of something else. His hand emerged with a small ruby box, which he held out to her as he stood. "Here—for you."
"Dorian, this is too much," Fiona warned, though she still opened the box for inspection. A brilliant pair of diamonds earrings greeted her, light dancing enchantingly off the gems like infinite mirrors. He waved her off.
"I wanted to keep it as liquid as I could, but this is easier to transport and harder to tax. I don't know shit about jewelry, though, so if you don't like them, I kept the receipt—"
Fiona snapped the box shut and held it protectively to her chest.
"Well, of course I'm not returning them!" Her indignation made him laugh again. Despite her jubilation, his return clearly still perturbed her. “What on earth are you doing for work?”
“Private equity," he said vaguely.
“Bullshit,” she said immediately, a crease appearing between her brows. All he could do was shrug, which seemed to wound her in a way the diamonds couldn't make up for. “That’s it? You’re not giving me more than that?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
This time, she just huffed and went back into their room. She sat down at her vanity, and he took the edge of the bed. She looked hard at him before turning around to fix the blotched spots in her concealer.
“Well, whatever you’ve gotten into, I just hope you know what you’re doing,” said Fiona.
Not the slightest fucking clue, he thought. Instead of admitting that, he just said—
“Finish getting dressed, then we’re going to brunch,” he declared. She blanched just slightly.
“Dorian, I shouldn’t—"
“Oh fuck your agent,” he said before the words started falling out too fast. “Three weeks in London—I need a good meal. By the looks of you, so do you. If you're worried about burning through the money, I promise, I’ve got plenty put into savings already, and I’ve got more work lined up. What's the point of stacking extra cash if I can't treat you at all? Knowing us, we’ll still not even pay for our own drinks.”
He threw in a wink at that last bit, and though Dorian's powers of persuasion had never entirely worked on his older sister, he could tell he had her.
"Okay, okay," she smiled, holding up her hands. “Where do you have in mind?”
“Dorsia? STK? The Ritz-Carlton? Oh, I don’t give a damn, Fia, you pick the spot, but pick somewhere with good seafood, won’t you? We’ve got wine and oyster money.”
“Wine and oyster money,” she snorted.
"Lobster, caviar, whatever the fuck you want, and no strings on it this time." Not for you, anyway.
He could tell she still didn’t know how to feel about everything he was saying, but she was hard-pressed to have too negative of an outlook right now.
“We could be those people that get an outdoor table and do nothing but smoke and drink between brunch and dinner," she mused.
“Sounds awfully nice, doesn’t it?” He grinned, but she just set her gaze cooly on him.
"Have you spoken to mom?"
A bit shamefully, he shook his head. "I'll find her later. We can even invite her, if you want, I just … I wanted to tell you first."
"And the girls?" A weight dropped on his heart. He steeled himself for the crying, the questions. In turn, he prepared his apologies, his evasions.
"What I do," he said evenly, "I do for them. For all of us. You know that." She'd always done the same, taking all that burden and more onto her shoulders. For the past three weeks, he'd wanted nothing more than to come back and tell her she wouldn't have to anymore.
Fiona sighed deeply, crossing her arms and glancing around the room. She wanted a smoke, most likely, and Dorian hated the thought that it was his fault.
"I know you do," she said. "How long are you staying?"
"Just tonight, I think," he replied. "If you think it's a bad idea for me to stay here, I'll get a room, but—?"
"What?" she exclaimed, snatching up his hand in both of hers, squeezing it. "Dorian, spare me the nonsense. This is still your home."
He smiled and put his lips to the crown of her head as if he wasn't already looking at condos in the FiDi. As if she did not hold hands now soaked with blood. As if the only thing keeping them all safe was not the conditional goodwill of a few magic merchants from across the Atlantic.