Author Games: The Absent Empress

Task Five Entries: 1-10

King

Kamikaze:

(1 part) Triple Sec

(1 part) Vodka

(1 part) Lime Juice

Three men sit at a table in an empty club. The lights are on. The music is off. It's the perfect setup for the perfect joke but King doesn't really feel like joking. Does it matter? No. A fool can get closer than a knight and as he walks across the floor towards the party, he is neither. He is both. He knows the room too well and he steps with a practiced prowess. "Gentlemen!" There is a smile on his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes. King hates this place. He hates the men who sit around the table. He hates their suits, their stern eyes, and the way they point out faces in the crowd that die by his hand as long as there's money in his apron by the end of the night. But they're connections and in a world like this, there's nowhere better to be. His stride is more like a waltz. Dancing across the floor, laying claim to every particle that touches his flesh. King is elevated, he is beyond them, yet as they turn he still feels the chill of being too low. "Long time, no see."

The first to speak is not his old boss. He's a partner. King's eyes meet his. There's no fear inside of them. "Where the hell have you been, boy?" A moment pauses, like air caught in his lungs but never expelled. Thoughts pass. What answer is the right one? Superhero work? Killing villains in Canada? Flat out wasted in an alley somewhere, bloody but breathing with no memory of whose blood he's covered in? A ridiculously long sudoku challenge?

"Good question, good question." His feet come to a stop in three steps. The first let him breathe. The second relaxes his shoulder. The third brings him to the table and with a shrug he hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. "I've been out and around. You know me. Never satisfied." Eyes flicker to the bar. A thin smile and a head jerked towards it. "Do you mind?"

No objection is posed. Another ten steps, but first a turn to the right. He's still in earshot. The man speaks again. King doesn't like the way his chin moves when he speaks. As if it's trying to dance to the tuneless warble he offers. "What do you want, King?" It should be menacing. It should be a threat. But King just smiles. Pulls himself over the bar counter and wanders around where his life used to thrive. Honey, I've eaten breakfast with people scarier than you.

Still, his tone is light. He has to play the easy one. The persuaded. The wandering mind that never stays steady and maybe that last one isn't quite a lie. "Cutting straight to the point, I see." His fingers dance over glass. Never steady. Never wrong. Just enough balance between the two. A clear bottle with an orange label. A little vodka for taste. King hums a tune he doesn't know. "I've been working for a woman. The Empress, that's what she calls herself." Lime juice grabbed from the cooler. Placed on the counter. Quick. Neat. Efficient. A cold glass is pulled from a polished shelf. Really now, what is he humming? It's catchy. It's poppin. The glass fills with ice, the ice is poured into a silver shaker. Patience is key. Then comes the liquor. One second, two, three, four, maybe five if he's feeling risky but really what does he have left to lose? "And she seems to have—how do I put this?" Glass on top of glass. His palm pressed flat. He can practically feel them seal shut. King's fingers twitch. "Disappeared, as much as someone like her can."

Shake. Shake. Ice collides with ice until he can feel it all mixing together. The grey slides along the glass so well. It creeps in through the cracks. Fifteen seconds, maybe too long. He's out of practice but fuck that, you can't be out of practice if you invent the rules. The movement pulls the muscles of his shoulders tight. The skin stretches. It aches. His smile widens to bite through the pain.

Cold eyes on his. Cold eyes that never waver. King killed his nephew once. Some sort of family dispute, he doesn't remember. He doesn't care. "You still haven't answered the question." A sigh. The shaking stops. Drinks are strained, poured. Eyes dart behind the bar, looking for fruit, but it's all been cleared away in preparation for the night. How can I have a drink with no garnish? It'll have to do. Live and learn. The moral is: always check your ingredients. Sometimes for bugs. Sometimes for mold. Sometimes for poison. And occasionally, just because you're out of fucking fruit.