𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕔𝕒𝕥 | 𝟲 𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗

20 | Of Mice and Men

Blake made her way down the hall and paused in the doorway at the end, not expecting to see One strapped to a chair in the middle of the room and Two and Three looking uncharacteristically helpless in the corner, both bound and gagged.

"Blake, how nice to see you," Circe hailed her arrival and smiled widely, spreading her arms to welcome her. "I'm so sorry you had to deal with those people upstairs, darling. Would you like a clean suit?"

Blake shrugged. "No. I like the look."

"Of course," Circe said, giving her a once over. Blake had left a trail of bloody boot-prints through the hall. "Do close the door. I believe you've already met my brother?"

Blake shut the door. "Yes, we've met," she said dryly, casting him a glance. His expression was agonised, his arms twisting in their bonds. Her eyes slid down to his hands; his ring and pinkie fingers on his right hand were severed at the knuckles. Circe had cauterised the stumps, presumably with the poker and blowtorch discarded on the floor, but they still looked ugly and painful.

Blake clasped her hands behind her back and stood straight, military-style. "Your plan worked perfectly," she observed.

"It did, thanks to you. You even have my brother fooled. You really are world class."

Blake bowed her head again, accepting the praise. "It wasn't hard," she admitted. "I played the victim and he trusted me instantly. Those files you leaked just cemented it."

One was aghast. He couldn't tell if she was bluffing or not, but he had a terrible fear she wasn't. "How could you?" He demanded. "I thought you were part of the team!"

Blake's eyes slid to his, but her blank expression didn't waver. It was just... Empty.

"You always did pity the weak, didn't you?" Circe said to him, running her finger along the bloody edge of her knife. "It's why you faked your death: for the good of Turgistani peoples you'd never met." The edge bit into her own finger, and she watched a bead of blood blossom before wiping it away on his sleeve. "What you don't understand, is that weak people have to exist to cater to the strong, brother."

"It doesn't have to be like that," he protested.

One flinched as she levelled the knife at him threateningly. "You cannot be rich without kicking the poor beneath you," Circe proclaimed. "You should know that. The companies using your magnets use slave labourers. Well, my magnets," she clarified, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "Thank you so much for signing over the deeds before you died."

Circe's laugh was of wild, unbridled self-satisfaction. Blake stood obediently even as Three tried to get her attention; she raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him while he indicated Circe with his eyes, as if he wanted her to take the opportunity with her back turned to kill her. Blake smirked at him and went back to standing rigidly, waiting for further orders.

"Go fuck yourself," One spat out at Circe.

Circe stopped laughing. "Oh, that's not very nice," she said. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Though, speaking of fucking, you've been doing the dirty since you've been dead. I have a nephew!" She exclaimed, with overly-exuberant happiness.

She smirked at One, watching the panic overtake him as he struggled with renewed urgency. "You- don't touch them!" He pulled one ankle free, but the range of his desperate kicks were limited to about a metre, and she was carefully out of range.

"Oh, I'd never dream of it," Circe drawled. "They're safe." She twirled the knife in her hand. "For now."

He stopped struggling. "What do you want? What do you really want from me?"