Maximantics Corp.

[Deleted]

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[atrb=style, background-color: #1A1A1A; border-radius: 35px;] YOU ONLY GOT ONE LIFE TO LEAD SO DON'T TAKE FOR GRANTED THE LITTLE THINGS One could easily say: Feliciano Vargas had good timing. Cockblock all the men, swoon all the ladies... okay, not good timing. Especially when it came to accidentally thwarting his brother's advances towards anyone. But he was usually blissfully unaware of how... lovely his timing could be. Very unaware. So unaware, it was suffocating and probably frustrated people he was interviewing. Most of the time, it was good to just simply disregard it... after all, with the influence Feliciano has on the Crown Royale Gazette and the indirect influence he had with other media, it was best not to cross him. He's never been crossed, and it's not really known how he'd react if he were crossed. Not that he was the kind of person that was crossable. ""It's quite a soiree Mr. Bondevik threw, don't you think? I hope you've enjoyed your evening," Mihai said. That was what those stiff-suited men usually said. The ladies too. But at least they had some lady charm. Men usually didn't bother with the charm and got with the serious. Which wasn't fun. But hey, Michael Collins was known for being quite smooth to the tongue. Interviewing with him would be much better than interviewing with "The Excalibur", Arthur Kirkland. Arthur was a good interview, but... well, he seemed like he didn't have enough fiery passion? Dunno. Feliciano just simply wanted to be amused by interviews. It helped with remembering what exactly people are saying. And that would mean not having to take reporters notes. "Sì, sì, good evening~ Grazi, the time is appreciated, and I hope you're enjoying the alcohol. The women here are quite wonderful, though I'm not sure how the men sum up," the Italian said. Well it was true. The women were young, but most of the men were... middle-aged? Old? That wasn't fun. They were all stiff-collared and Feliciano couldn't be the floaty kind of guy he puts himself out to be. He has to be in boring reporter mode when he's conversing with them, even if a bit of the suave Italian sometimes sneaks into the conversation. Plus, they didn't come with simply scandelous or interesting stories. Mr. Collins here might, just look at that lovely bella. Feliciano was here for stories and fights, not for... let's discuss microeconomics and the stocks. "I'm sure you also know there's also been an assassination threat on Mr. Bondevik," Michael said, "and that I'm here to make sure that they can't follow through." Feliciano was blissfully unaware of that. Well, nah, he wasn't. He just chose not to show his knowledge. Often, he would have to risk seeing assassination attempts at events like these. It was true: All soirees and big time events were subject to security issues. And given Michael's apparent career, he was going to have to do security stuff... but Feliciano wasn't going to come out of this soiree emptyhanded, and a few questions shouldn't hurt. But of course, the Italian sense of time was simply too relaxed for most contexts. He commenced into reporter mode, turning the pages of his notepad and clicking his slick gel-pen, black and sharp. Time to get some abstract squalor into this thing to write a proper article. He already took note of the young lady that Michael was talking to, which might help with some contexts (and noting down to get her number some other time), noting down Michael's attitude a bit (like isn't chatting up the ladies distracting?)... well then, done with that psychological part. "And I'm expecting another quick check-in by my team in roughly twenty minutes." Michael added. Well then, that was a bit strange to have government security here. This was a private company, after all. Though assassination attempts did have some paranoid richies going about with security, Maximantics was known for its good security systems and top-of-the-line equipment, so having the Counter-Terrorism Initiative here was weird. But ah, this wasn't Feliciano's place to question. Just get the interview done and chat up some more ladies. Maybe the red-head would want to hear of the time that he... well, it's hard to explain, but it started the rumor that his blood smells like cologne. "I'll be happy to answer your questions if you can finish in that amount of time." Michael then said. Time constraints? What is it with people and time, time, time? Feliciano was used to time crunches, given that interviews had to be short and swift, but why couldn't people just stop and feel a bit more relaxed from time to time? Of course, this was disregarding that Michael probably had a lot on his back here. "Ah, sure, sure! As usual, anything you say may be written down, though as a fair journalist, I'll write how I think it's supposed to be interpreted, blah blah blah, you get the usual. I'm not here to talk economics, since this is the Maximantics soiree, I could do that some other time at your office, of course~ How's the soiree for you? Did you come with anyone, perhaps a pretty bella you were chatting up, hmmm~?" Feliciano said. Oh goodness, this is when he has way too much fun with his job, more than he really should. And it was the journalist's right to pry into personal lives. made by kiwii at btn & ote!

[Deleted]

Arthur hadn’t seen it coming. He had been too close to Lukas to get out of the way, let alone shift his head out of the line of fire. Hell, he hadn’t even had time to discern what was happening.

The other man twisted, and Arthur turned slightly to see what exactly he’d been doing—and suddenly something hit the side of his face, right above the eye, and the glass shattered. He jerked his head in surprise. Liquid got all over him—he couldn’t smell anything, but considering all there was at the refreshments table was alcohol, he could assume it was vodka. It drenched his face, hair, and his suit, around his neck and shoulders. The dark fabric turned a darker shade of black.

The rest of the glass fell to the floor and Arthur watched Lukas storm off in a huff and a final exclamation about his father, and how Arthur didn’t know what he’d been through. Sure, Arthur didn’t, but he knew it couldn’t be worse than what others less fortunate had (in fact, he knew that for certain, because there was always someone worse off, always someone with nothing to look forward to in life).

The area slightly below his hairline on the right side started to sting and he touched his forehead. He drew his hand away. Red stained his fingers.

Huh. Well, that would be a problem—not a big problem, considering it was a shallow cut, but forehead wounds bled more than a cut had any right to. He knew someone would be cross with him for that (namely Michael). He frowned. This was turning out to be quite the night. He wondered what else he could expect.

Arthur wondered where the conversation had turned. He got heated easily when it came to conversations and when something that he disagreed with was brought up. He’d thought that perhaps he could talk some sense into Lukas, who seemed to insist on hating the world for the rest of the evening. He just hadn’t quite expected Lukas to throw a glass of vodka at him. In fact, that had been the last thing Arthur would have expected out of Lukas, who was so level headed and, Arthur reasoned, mature enough to handle the truth when it was told to him (but he supposed the truth was too harsh, or maybe Lukas was just so caught up in his own life he hadn’t bothered to look at others).

Well, he’d been wrong, and he got a face-full of alcohol and glass because of it. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.

Ludwig appeared with a towel and Arthur was immediately grateful for the presence of his coworker. It was better than being gawked at by outside parties who’d happened to witness the event. He knew it would be the talk of the evening and he wasn’t excited about it.

He accepted the towel and wiped his face off with it. There would be nothing he could do to dry his suit—he’d just have to wait it out and hope for the best. Maybe he could use this as an excuse to leave early, but he had said to Mr. Bondevik that he’d stay for the speech, so it looked like he was stuck.

"Are you alright? What on earth was all of that about?"

“Got into an argument,” Arthur said simply, holding the towel to the cut. He was glad he didn’t bleed easily or surely there would be more blood. He lowered his voice so only Ludwig could hear. “From what I can tell, the kid’s a social wreck. I feel a bit sorry for him.”

Arthur wasn't even angry, which was a surprise. Had it been anyone else, Arthur would have probably lost it. Yet, something stopped him from being angry. Perhaps he was still too surprised to react properly.

[Mihai Chimet]

Mihai raised an eyebrow in slight amusement as the journalist carried on. Here was someone who seemed to take his job a little less seriously than the others; at least enough to toss in a few casual 'blah blah blahs' as part of his monologue. Mihai didn't bother pointing out that he and his department had very little to do with the economic aspect of the government (and thus, he had really no desire to discuss the topic) aside from siphoning off a good deal of its funds. But he suspected that even if he had tried, he would be able to get very few words in edgewise, what with the rapid-fire speed at which the journalist shot out his questions.

The questions themselves were nothing Mihai had never heard before--they were typical of gossip columnists (though Mihai could give him props for being a good deal more direct than some others), and he had been interviewed by enough of them in the course of his career. It seemed that anyone involved in domestic security was the prime target for reporters hoping to dig up a dirty scandal or two--not that Mihai quite minded. He couldn't be happier to see some of his colleagues put in their place by public opinion, but unfortunately he himself had many skeletons to bury, and so it had devolved into some half-played game of watching his own back.

But that was just a necessity, and he hadn't had enough trouble to complain.

"The evening's been quite pleasant," he said, answering the journalist's first question. He knew there would be readers sprawled over these papers tomorrow, hoping for someone to make a slip and say something disparaging about Maximantics--and after enough drinks, it was likely that someone would. But as it was for him, the awareness of that possibility drove the lies and empty flattery through his lips all the more easily.

"Everything is very well-organized, as should be expected from Mr. Bondevik. High-quality--excellent food, drinks," a pause, "guests. Though I must admit I've had quite enough of business talk for one night." He flashed his interviewer a smile and a shrug, all at once sheepish and slightly insolent. "I'll confess that economics was never my strong point--perhaps it was the only class I consistently failed."

He'd discovered in his earlier days, that there was a format to these things. A formulae to keep yourself well-liked by the public, and respected but not disdained by your superiors. Talk like you knew the scene, flatter them, throw in a self-deprecating joke so that they don't feel frightened, and makes them think of you as approachable. Make yourself likable, up-to-par, but not threatening.

It was, apparently, a memo that Arthur Kirkland never got.

He'd barely finished his words before he heard a collective gasp ring out around the room, and the woman the next table over uttered a hushed "oh my god." The astonishment of the soiree didn't propel Mihai into action as it (perhaps) should have. Instead, he was concerned but unhurried, even calm, as he followed the eyes of the party-goers to the cause of confusion, even as the more conscientious guests turned their gaze away. Maybe the atmosphere was infectious--the silence that fell across the room, the awkward shuffling, a few coughs and tentative attempts to resume conversation before the try-hards decided it wasn't worth it. Like a ball distanced by a layer of glass.

However, Mihai's half-mesmerized composure was quickly lost when he sighted the source of the disturbance, to be replaced by an emotion more commonly known as "losing one's shit."

In fact, he had to bite back that particular curse when he sighted Arthur standing at the refreshments table, stunned with a red cut blossoming above his eye, and Lukas Bondevik storming indignantly away from the scene.

Mihai's first thought, as he watched the scene, went along the lines of "fuck." His second thought went more along the lines of "fuck--the Home Office is going to have my ass." His third was wondering or not he could save some face and arrest the elder Bondevik son on charges of assault.

But even as he grit his teeth and started in Arthur's direction himself (journalist forgotten, and all the better at that), he could see a rush of Maximantics' own employees heading out the door the perpetrator had gone through. He choked back his own pride with difficulty and veered towards the refreshments table. Alarmed exclamations came through his earpiece as he walked, but a quick order issued into his microphone sent his team back into their positions with a few protests and requests to know what had happened.

Ludwig Beilschmidt had reached Kirkland before he did. He wasn't all that familiar with the man, aside from having seen him around government buildings--after all, they'd never talked, aside from some polite and purely perfunctory greetings. Yet, Mihai considered himself apt enough at gauging characters, and a quick guess based off the slicked hair and stern (if concerned) expression spelt out the portrait of a serious and hardworking member of the beauraucracy. At the least, the Romanian could silently appreciate that Ludwig had brought a towel with him, which Arthur was pressing to his cut. Aside from gossip columnists, he'd also met a fair number of people who spoke a lot but did little to help anyone, be it out of sheer stupidity or selective indifference.

A few paces from the pair, he hesitated. He'd cleared away most of the curious onlookers who pressed to know what they could do to help (as an excuse to approach one of the most well-known men in the UK), but he had little idea what to do himself. He knew all the protocols in the case of, for example, an attempt at a mass-shooting, but he was unsure what specific code of conduct should be implemented in the case of a glass-flinging by a child throwing a temper tantrum. After a brief moment of reflection, he supposed the best course of action would be to get Arthur out of the main room.

Approaching the pair once again, he directed a nod at Ludwig in appreciation before his eyes fixated on Arthur. "Are you all right?" he asked.

He was making out a great deal calmer than he was. His main concern was finding out how Arthur was faring--and hopefully not too badly, 'lest Mihai be swept up in a maelstrom of insinuatingly insulting headlines to be printed at the top of every newspaper available in the UK. At least Arthur wasn't the type to be throwing the blame around, or making theatrics out of the situation. Otherwise, Mihai was rather certain the bolded text would run something like this: "PM HOPEFUL INJURED BY FLYING GLASS - MAXIMANTICS HEIR ARRESTED AND HOME OFFICE THROWN INTO DISARRAY," followed a week later by, "THE DISMANTLING OF ALL WINDOWS IN GOVERNMENT BUILDINGS BEGUN WITH PARLIAMENTARY DECLARATION OF GLASS TO BE UNSAFE."

Though all sarcasm aside, the sudden onset of violence was disconcerting. He'd expected a menace, maybe from an outside force, but not from the heir of Maximantics himself. A part of him questioned whether that had been deliberate, an attempt at a distraction (a distraction that had worked quite well, mind you), but the thought was kept as no more than a niggling possibility. Lukas currently wasn't his responsibility, and Mihai doubted he'd be allowed to maneuver much against Maximantics anyway. At the very least, he could only snidely hope that daddy dearest would reduce Lukas' allowance or whatever rich kids were in want of (which was, quite likely, nothing at all).

He waved one of the remaining Maximantics' guards over. "Could you open up a spare room for us?" he asked. "With a sink, preferably."

He could see the desire to protest rise, but a quick glance at Arthur's bloody towel made the guard reconsider. Moments like these were the ones when Mihai would rather drop the diplomatic façade, and just tell them that the head of the goddamn Labor Party was bleeding from a head wound issued by none other than Lukas Bondevik himself, so open up a spare fucking room or god help you.

Fortunately, such drastic measures were not required. Seeming to think better of denying the head of CI the small request of a spare room, the guard finally swallowed and gestured. "Yeah, of course. Just come with me."

[Deleted]

Something had to be said for the British tradition of the stiff upper lip, Ludwig decided. It was the only possible way to explain how Arthur had hardly flinched after taking a glass to the head. Not only that, the glass had hit him hard enough to shatter, and had left a sizable cut on his forehead. Yet despite the recent head trauma and the blood currently running down his face, Arthur didn't seem fazed in the least. Ludwig frowned, concerned, as the Brit toweled the alcohol off himself.

"Got into an argument."

I can see that much, Ludwig thought to himself. Half the party could agree to seeing that. And while he was desperately curious to hear the details, the health of his friend was the first concern on his mind. Ludwig scanned the area for another free towel; Arthur's suit had gotten drenched with whatever thankfully clear drink Lukas had tossed at him. Unable to see anyone coming to help out immediately, and seeing as how Arthur was dealing with the cut on his head, he crouched down and started picking the larger shards of glass carefully off the floor.

"From what I can tell, the kid's a social wreck. I feel a bit sorry for him."

Ludwig glanced back up at his coworker, momentarily taken aback. The kid had just broken a glass across Arthur's forehead and Arthur felt sorry for him? Maybe the injury had concussed the poor man. Standing up slowly, Ludwig frowned at Arthur, and was on the verge of holding up fingers and asking him to count them. But he hesitated for a moment, and thought about that again.

"A social wreck?" he repeated, setting the fragments of glass he'd managed to pick up onto a nearby table. Perhaps he should be more sympathetic. He himself had been raised to be a bit of an outcast, and while he'd never lost his temper badly enough to throw a glass at anyone, Ludwig couldn't deny that overwhelmingly social situations like this one had been extremely stressful for him at first. He'd felt trapped, surrounded by people he didn't know and couldn't trust, people who refused to see further than the use Ludwig had for them, and beyond that, didn't seem to care for him at all. Perhaps Lukas Bondevik had felt the same way.

"That's a shame," Ludwig murmured, surveying the still-gossiping crowd with narrowed eyes. "If he's supposed to inherit this company, you'd think he'd be a little more well-adjusted." After a moment, however, the blond man sighed, "He got that out of his system, at least, but he didn't have to aim at you." Taking a closer look at Arthur's forehead, Ludwig surveyed the cut. It was a sizable gash, but not too deep -- just very bloody.

"Maybe you can convince younger voters that you're Harry Potter now," he suggested dryly. "On the bright side, I don't think you'll need stitches." Out of the corner of his eye, Ludwig spotted an approaching figure, and was about to turn and warn the person off before he recognized him. He didn't know much about Michael Collins aside from the initiative he ran, but the other seemed to have official business on his mind. He returned the nod that Michael greeted him with, and allowed the other to take over worrying about Arthur.

"Could you open up a spare room for us? With a sink, preferably."

"See if you can't find a vacuum too," Ludwig added. "There's still glass all over the floor. Arthur," he turned to his coworker, "do you think you've got this? Or would you like me to find you a first aid kit or something?" The party had ceased to be of any interest to him, and the ambiance of the night had officially been destroyed: what was supposed to be a happy gathering to celebrate the success of Maximantics and the still unknown speech had turned anxious and tense. Ludwig would stick around to ensure Arthur got taken care of and to listen to the speech, but that would be it. He had happier places to be.

[Deleted]

CHECK MATE

Well, that sure escalated quickly.

It was supposed to a simple soiree, a night for the rich and famous to mingle in faux diplomacy. Laughter of forced interest and conversations that were as dull as the British weather, all were naught but a mere mask over their true intentions. The men searched for beauties to fashion their arm like accessories and the women quested for walking wallet with passable good looks. Glamour, gossip and groupies – welcome to the high society of London.

However, Clara was certain that nothing quite like this had ever happened in these sorts of gatherings. Refreshments hurled at the potential Prime Minister of the United Kingdom? My, oh my, won’t the press have some kind of writer’s orgasm at this lovely piece of news. Perhaps Clara should listen to Ludwig’s advice more often to ‘stop locking yourself in that room with that computer and go out to socialise before you forget how to speak, young lady’. (It was upon his order that she came to this soiree tonight, just for reference.)

A soft chuckle passed unsuppressed across Clara’s lips. She was a good distance away from the epicentre of the disaster – oh, she was so witty tonight – but Clara had a good view of the show, as well as the aftermath. Like a ripple, the murmuring started to crease outwards, muted whispering but dangerous talks all the same. As much as she mildly enjoyed Arthur’s state of misfortune, it wouldn’t bode well for anyone in the government in the long run. She’d sworn and signed her loyalty to the British government from years ago, and if words were true and Arthur was to be the next face of the politics, then Clara better start learning how that agreement would extend to her new superior.

Her strides took her around the room and towards that little group; Arthur Kirkland, Michael Collins and Ludwig Beilschmidt – superior, colleague and friend, having a delightful conversation while one was potentially bleeding to death. (She exaggerates, but point noted.)

(On another note completely unrelated, why are all these men so tall? Clara was already wearing a 10cm stilettos and still significantly shorter than all of them.)

“Maybe you can convince younger voters you’re Harry Potter now. On the bright side, I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

“Or perhaps you could sell to the press that you had earned that scar after a victorious tussle with the entire French army. All by yourself. I’m sure that the British public would be pleased.” Clara hummed lightly, breaking into the special circle. “Good evening to all of you. That was quite a show though, I have to admit. I should really get out more.”

Glancing at the wound on Arthur’s forehead, she quietly seconded Ludwig’s judgement. “Are you feeling faint from the blood loss? Do you need to see the doctor or do you think you can hold on?” The tension in the room was mounting and an obvious strain was beginning to show on some of their faces.

“Smile, boys,” She advised softly with one of her own. “The people are still watching. We still have a show to run, no?” It was all about appearances in politics. You’re not allowed to be human, you’re not allowed to be phased. To be involved in politics was to shoulder the unrealistic burdens of society – and society demands that you must always be godly.

"Could you open up a spare room for us? With a sink, preferably."

For now a room away from the crowd would be fitting. The damage was done and Arthur’s continued presence in his current state would help none. All they could do now was to think up a good excuse for this – ‘excuse’ because really, who would ever believe the government’s word a hundred percent?

“Stop your fussing, really. Mister Kirkland is a sturdy man, he’ll survive,” She tried to ease the tension with a little joke. Gosh, you could almost cut for yourself a slice of the current atmosphere and have some tea and crumpets with it. Clara was sure it would taste like jam and scandals. “Would you all like me to try and erase any photographic evidence of this accident? It’s what I do best.”

It was going to be over-time tonight, wasn’t it? She really doesn't get paid quite enough for this.

TAGS: The other government officials.
WORDS: 725
NOTES: Open mouth, insert foot.

coded by DESTINY of BTN

[Deleted]

There were times when she enjoyed privileges as a member of the highly-acclaimed Bondevik family. Such as getting easy invitations for the soiree and being able to please coworkers with invitations and new technological advances, getting a bit of the profits from the Maximantics stock, easily getting herself into those technological expos (those were pretty interesting), and being able to flaunt the name whenever necessary (she won't admit she does that).

However, most of the time, the words "Bondevik" and "Maximantics" were bothersome, bothersome words. Especially when your cousin is acting like an immature little brat and had thrown a glass at the (somewhat bratty in his own ways) acclaimed Arthur William Kirkland. Arthur, being an important man, was not simply the kind of man that you would enjoy having on your enemy list, nor the kind of man that you should really consider throwing a glass at. He was annoying, yes, but she had that habit of borrowing his card, adding to her debt to him. You don't simply throw a glass at Arthur. He has important people backing him up. Countless government officials (including herself, technically), the Q of MI6, even connections to the singer Cerys Lewis-Kirkland. Important people aren't to be bothered like that. At the moment, though, Lukas had more important people backing him up in the business world.

Stupid fetter... this will be a bother...

The thoughts of having to explain things later, to try to clear things up with the press (oh great, Feliciano Vargas is here, that will be hard to fight unless she were to use feminine charm), and to most of all slap Lukas for being such an idiot.

“Would you all like me to try and erase any photographic evidence of this accident? It’s what I do best.”

"I think that would be good, and trying to talk to Feliciano... I'll go have a word with my cousin, he's being as moody as usual." she said, searching the room for Lukas.

Really now, he could be as moody a girl on her period, if not moodier... a spoiled child. They both grew up in similar conditions, with busy parents and nice houses, but really now, the attitude wasn't helpful. Then again, her father was still pretty strict and put her in that girls' school. Maybe that's what Lukas needed. To man up and go to a girls' school.

She spotted him try to storm off through a door. She paced in that governmently no-nonsense manner and finally reached him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Lukas, stop being an idiot and man up. You know better than to do that."

That felt just a tad bit weird... oh dear Odin, what was she going to do if he had a rebuttal, what was she going to do if he was able to prove his point. He often was able to, oh dear goodness. Sometimes it felt as if he were the older one here when she was around him. He was physically taller, yes, but his presence... Well then, might as well try. He already screwed up a nice evening for himself.

MADE BY MINNIE OF BACK TO NEVERLAND

[Deleted]

Lukas made his way towards the door, still fairly angry at the blond he threw a glass at. He was upset, yes, but even more so at his anger than at the Brit. How could he lose his temper like that, especially in front of so many people?

Ah, well, Arthur did deserve it, insulting him like that. Really, so what if his thoughts were "foolish"? He could at least change the subject entirely, not scold him as if he were merely a child. No, he already got enough of that from his father.

The thought of the old man just fed fuel to the fire. The guy just had to drag him here in the first place. And no doubt the two would get in an argument, the other acting as if Lukas went to the event on his own free will. As if, the man practically forced him to go.

"It''ll be enjoyable", "You'll meet new people and make allies", "It's good for your reputation" are all things he'd say. Well, that clearly wasn't the case tonight. If all else the opposite of that happened.

"Tch, as if a simple apology would work. I threw a damn glass at his head..." he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from going any further. Damn, just when he was so close...

"Lukas, stop being an idiot and man up. You know better than to do that."

Oh great, it was her. Why did Johanna have to stick her nose into this? Well, probably because he threw a glass at her co-worker's melon. Apparently that alone makes it remotely any of her business. The last thing he wanted was someone trying to scold him. He turned around to face her, taking her hand off him.

"You don't think I know that?! For all I know I can get arrested for assault or something! Besides, the jerk was asking for it! He treated me as if I was a foolish child! So what if he doesn't agree with whatever opinions I have about my life?! They're called opinions for a reason! Opinions change! He didn't have to talk to me as if I was inferior for thinking what I do!" he glared. Oh, he was not in the mood for any of this. Not at all.

"If only I threw that glass at the ground and not at him, but too late to change things now! It happened, not anything I can really do about it now! Besides, I don't see how this concerns you. You may be my cousin, you may be his co-worker, and you may be older than me, but you have no right to scold me like I'm an ignorant child," he went on, his anger slowly returning. His father surely wouldn't be pleased, but he didn't want to hear whatever Johanna had to say if his father would say it later on.

"I know I made a mistake, and I don't need someone to tell me what I already know. I don't need someone to come over to me and try to make me feel even more guilty than I already am. And I especially don't need that person to be you of all people," he finished, his hands clenching into fists. He was done with this conversation, he just wanted to leave and go home. To have some peace of quiet away from everyone. Though, unfortunately, he doubted that would happen.

[Deleted]

Arthur sighed and glanced at the staring crowd. God, how many reporters were lurking in its midst? Probably more than he could count. "Well, he aimed at me anyway, so what's done is done," he said, and pressed the towel to his cut again. At least the bleeding was slowing. His face still felt sticky and he could smell the alcohol now that it was on him.

"Maybe you can convince younger voters that you're Harry Potter now. On the bright side, I don't think you'll need stitches."

Arthur chuckled at Ludwig's joke. Okay, he had to admit, that did make the situation a lot more funny. The other knew Arthur loved books, and considering Harry Potter was more or less a part of Britain's culture, it was the perfect thing to say. It lightened the atmosphere and Arthur remembered how much he appreciated his coworker's sense of humor when it actually appeared.

"Well, that's a nice thought, but I don't think it'll scar. Too thin to see, just bleeds a lot. Cuts on the forehead tend to do that."

Then Michael and Clara were there, and Johanna mentioned something about going to look for Lukas.

Oh, now everyone was showing up. It would be dandy, Arthur supposed, if he liked being the center of attention (which he didn't, and he forever wondered why the hell he decided it would be a good idea to become the center of attention of the entire goddamn country). He was a grown man and as much as he appreciated the fact that people "cared" so much about his safety, a small cut to the head wasn't going to kill him.

Arthur nodded at the question of whether he was alright. Michael was quick to ask someone to open up a spare room with a sink, which Arthur appreciated (he was, after all, drenched in vodka).

"Are you feeling faint from the blood loss? Do you need to see the doctor or do you think you can hold on?" Clara asked.

"What? Oh, come on, this is just a little cut, it's not like I'm not going to die—"

Then she switched to: "Stop your fussing, really. Mister Kirkland is a sturdy man, he’ll survive."

Arthur rolled his eyes irritably. Christ, people were quick to change their opinions and completely contradict whatever they'd said before. He wondered if Clara would notice her little slip, but guessed that it didn't matter. He gestured for Clara to join them to the room they would be in.

They followed the guard Michael had secured and ended up in a room far too fancy for any one person. In fact, the moment Arthur stepped into that room, with its prestine tiles and its elegant accessories, he felt uncomfortable. It was almost as if he was undeserving of even stepping inside and found himself feeling apprehensive. It was too flowery, too expensive. Arthur wondered how anyone would be able to feel comfortable in a room like this with the atmosphere of a forbidden garden. He wondered how someone could live like that, so clean, so fanciful. Arthur wouldn't even consider that living. It was more like confining oneself to a life where everything looked perfect yet you were unfullfilled.

Once there were inside the room and left to their own devices, Arthur answered Clara's question on the photographs.

"Whatever happens with the photographs doesn't matter to me. It's not going to stop the story from getting out, Clara. But thank you for offering," he said.

Arthur didn’t move for a few moments, staring at the far end of the room. Now that he was out of the public eye, he could feel the tension in his shoulders. He could feel the stress mounting from the encounter with Lukas, the worries that wormed their way to the front of his mind. If Lukas held what he said against him, regardless of whether or not he could undermine Arthur with his money, there were still other ways to get rid of him.

Murder just being one of the many.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. He was high-strung and uncomfortable—he shouldn’t have come. He knew he’d fuck up. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He did not belong here.

This was not where he was supposed to be, among the rich and the powerful, the people that he constantly read about in the news when he was little, the people he’d looked at with distaste for the stupid things they did with their money. He didn’t belong in front of the press, didn’t enjoy being judged for every single one of his decisions, even the smallest ones, like where he went to eat. Where he belonged was out of the big city in a small town where everyone knew each other, and he could go riding every day and not worry about what was to come the next day; he could sit at home in front of the computer and write nonstop, write whatever he wanted; he’d join all the showjumping contests he could; he wouldn’t have to be so cautious around his siblings because they would rarely be around, and he wouldn’t have to worry about something happening to Peter because the entire neighborhood would be keeping an eye out for the children.

Did I make the wrong choice? he wondered as he bent over the sink to inspect the cut in the mirror. Why was he here when there were so many others more suited to this job than he? Why had he made this decision?

No matter how long Arthur stared at his appearance in the mirror (at his too pale and too thin face, his wild hair, too dull eyes), he could not find an answer. He wet the towel with water and dabbed the blood off his face.

“On the bright side, it’s not bleeding anymore,” he said, looking at his reflection bitterly. How long had it been since he’d been content?

He turned away from the mirror and gave his best smile to the others. “You were all panicking about nothing.”

[Asunara Wisdom]

MOD - AGENT TACHIBANA

It was rather frustrating trying to locate Ivanovna, but when she did, well... it wasn't great.

Her eyes met the Slavic politician's glazed grey eyes.

"You're next," a voice said through Tachibana's earpiece, transmitting straight to Collins.

End transmission contact with Collins.

Cue explosion on floor above, the ground shaking, and pieces of the ceiling falling, disturbing the soiree.

Let's begin, shall we...

[Mihai Chimet]

Mihai pursed his lips as they were showed off to the room he had requested. He would have left the group under other circumstances (two people looking after Arthur seemed more than sufficient, after all), but with a criminal threat looming over the soirée he could hardly justify leaving three officials unattended. So it was with resignation that he followed the group down the hallway and into the grandiose room where Arthur could take care of his injury.

He fell back and allowed the others to concern themselves over Arthur, waving the guard off and checking in with the security detail he'd posted. So far, everything seemed to be orderly even though Tachibana hadn't reported back yet. He allowed her a bit more time to connect back to him first, before he would call in for her personally. He still wasn't overly concerned about the direction in which the soirée was going, but a bit of wariness could make the difference between life and death.

He looked up at the comment from Kirkland, a slight frown on his brow. He wanted to know what had gone on to lead to such an altercation in the first place, but more than that, he wanted to tell the other to be more careful. He was quite certain that Kirkland had made the cut for being the first politician to have alcohol thrown in his face—most dissenters had learned after one of the American presidents had a shoe thrown at him, and the culprit had been promptly arrested and tossed into prison. He'd decided that he wouldn't make a move against Bondevik for now; the bad press would surely damage him enough, even if Mihai had to grit his teeth for letting an event pass by that would have gotten someone less well-connected arrested on the spot.

He looked back at the Englishman rather blankly, then sighed. The other really should know better than to let his mouth run loose around those who were accustomed to hearing exactly what they wanted to hear (though he really couldn't blame him for wanting to set the record straight). There was, however, a time and place to do it, and he didn't really appreciate the weak attempt at lightening the mood. After all, anything and everything that happened to the officials at this party could very well be reflected back to his own work, preventable on his account or not.

Funny thing is, none of the occupants of the building knew the irony of his sentiments, or the fact that their nights were going to get a whole lot worse real soon.

It happened at nine on the dot. He heard the tell-tale crackle of his earpiece coming to life, and then the message came through. "You're next," the voice said simply, and Mihai had just enough time to start before the transmission was cut and an ear-splitting rumble came from overhead. The sole thought to cross his mind before the building began crumbling around them was a fed-up curse of oh shit.

If he had to place money on what was currently happening, he would be betting on a bombing (and he would, by all intents and purposes, be absolutely correct and it was, therefore, a pity that this wagering was all purely theoretical). As the foundation of the building began to crumble, Mihai was invaded by many different emotions, one of them being the sense that he was completely and utterly tired of getting involved in rich people's messes. Of course, there also came with it a concern for his own life and those of the officials he was supposed to be protecting, as well as the vow that this had better not have been the work of his own group unless they wanted a reprieve of the Breckenridge case.

He stumbled with the force of the shaking building, catching himself on one of the walls. Bracing himself against it, he knew that the security detail he'd brought with him would be waiting for his orders before they acted of their own accord. Feeling his irritation rise further (because if he needed anything it was more responsibilities), he sucked in a breath and hissed a very much pissed-off "You've got to be kidding me," before he relayed his orders. Everyone had been briefed beforehand on the possible escape routes in the case of an emergency, and he hoped that Maximantics' own guards coupled with his team would be able to evacuate most of the guests successfully. As for him, he supposed that he had his charges in the room already.

He looked up at the others, silently thankful that none of them appeared to be hurt too badly aside from a case of badly shaken nerves. It seemed they were lucky to have chosen a corner of the building not situated directly below the blasts—he couldn't say that the main ballroom would be so fortunate. But that wasn't his concern now.

"Is everyone all right?" he asked, deeming it one too many times in the past half-hour that he'd had to ask after someone's health. He swore to himself that he was going to personally find and skin whoever had set up this entire spiel; for one, because he didn't take kindly to the idea that someone had attacked someplace he was in as he had a goal to accomplish and being dead was clearly not in his best interests, and secondly, because they had duly ruined his evening and he could foresee the ruination of the following months as well, being mangled in a thicket of red tape, bureaucratic maneuvering, and newspaper headlines.

Needless to say, that was a thoroughly unenjoyable forecast of the future, and he felt completely justified in taking the attack to a personal level. If (and really, "if" could just make a U-turn out of the situation and go screw itself on a rusty fork, because Mihai was friggin' pissed, and with that sentiment came the absolute certainty that some half-assed bomb plot wasn't going to get the best of him)—when he got out of the immediate situation he was going to make sure that the culprits spent a good half of eternity rotting in prison (or more preferably, the ground).

But that was something that could be considered once they'd actually made it out of this mess. His priority, as of the present moment, was to get the people with him (and of course, himself) out of the building and to safety, hopefully very much alive and in one piece.

[Deleted]

They were three years apart, but it usually felt that he was the older one, or that he was supposed to be. It was moments like these that reminded her that she had to be the older one and that Lukas was basically the spoiled brat of the family. Not that she wasn't spoiled, but she didn't go around tossing glasses and complaining that it was the other person's fault. She expected a bit more fortitude in Lukas at an event like this. After all, there were rumors going around that he would be taking over the family business tonight. Maybe he didn't get the memo.

At a personal level, maybe Arthur really deserved to get the glass thrown at him. Maybe he was an arse. A lot of politicians were truly arses, but given that Johanna was a subordinate of him at the Labour Party (and practically everyone else) it wasn't wise to have a glass thrown at him. He was potentially the future face of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Personally, Johanna saw Arthur as a good guy. He deserved his moniker. "The Excalibur". This wasn't a bias due to her party affiliation of course, but he seemed to be a beacon of hope for the dark streets of London, which was more littered with the hopes and dreams of the lawless ones, strewn with the blood and violence. Some even say he's the "Britannia Angel with the Sword of Excalibur, bequeathed to him by the heavens, in which he will deliver us all."Of course, he isn't some savior, butt in the awful prospects of today, he seemed to be the best bet. He was a good coworker who sometimes didn't know when to shut his mouth. He could be stingy on the wallet sometimes, but he didn't mind lending out money to people (even if it was mostly Clara and herself that ended up asking for money). He was a true gentleman and supposedly chaste (actually scratch that, he is chaste). Perfect gentleman, perfect politician, but there are times when you just have to throw a glass at someone's head. But not now.

Of course, Kirkland probably pushed Lukas's buttons. Any mention of his father tended to fuel the fire. Johanna felt somewhat relieved that she wasn't related to their father, as it seemed that their father had caused them a great amount of grief. As a child, when she would visit due to family business, he always seemed to be cold and even disconnected from his children. He was always a standover man, the kind of man you simply could never see eye-to-eye with. Even when he was a younger man when she was the age of five, he seemed older. Always disconnected, always older. He used to be a bit more cheerful, but always seemed disconnected and older. He seemed more thrilled by her visits than his own sons. He never seemed to be proud of Lukas, which probably got to the boy. She just couldn't tell why he became such a brat. If he were being sensible here, he would just go with the flow and wait for his old man to croak, then inherit a multi-billion dollar empire. Then he could go pay for all the whores he wanted to touch up, because honestly, Johanna really couldn't see what else he would be paying for given what he's been known for doing. She won't say anything about it, of course. She'll keep her honour and just hope that Sindri comes out of this unscathed.

Oh dear Sindri. He'll always get tangled up into the dramas that his brother gets himself into, even if he really doesn't want to. It was the magic of the press. He was more of the victim in these Bondevik feuds than Johanna, even if she does complain about it sometimes. It was truly Sindri that was the victim, and Sindri was the frailer one here. But what was she going to do for him? She was only a lady.

"You don't think I know that?! For all I know I can get arrested for assault or something! Besides, the jerk was asking for it! He treated me as if I was a foolish child! So what if he doesn't agree with whatever opinions I have about my life?! They're called opinions for a reason! Opinions change! He didn't have to talk to me as if I was inferior for thinking what I do!" he rebuked at her scolding. She had to shake her head. She had to just shake her head and try to calculate what she was going to say. She wasn't in the mood for having him burn out her short fuse or get her riled up to justify herself. She wasn't in the position of doing that to her "superior".

"If you knew that, why did you throw the glass at his head, then? Too drunk off your own sorrow? You know you're not going to get arrested because of your position. Arthur can be a prick, but you are being a foolish child for doing that in public. Don't you know how bad it looks on us? Not just me, but think of Sindri. Arthur is just being Arthur, and I would prefer you don't become enemies with him," she chastised coldly. She really didn't feel like she was in the position to be lecturing him... it always felt like he was a standover man to her. Even with the age gap, he seemed like he was supposed to be the superior one. Which in most cases, he is. He didn't particularly like her lecturing, as it seemed.

"I know I made a mistake, and I don't need someone to tell me what I already know. I don't need someone to come over to me and try to make me feel even more guilty than I already am. And I especially don't need that person to be you of all people," he said, slumping his shoulders in defeat. and clenching his fists. Well then, she didn't want to be the one telling him he made the mistake. She didn't exactly feel comfortable this way either.

"It's not like I wanted to be the one telling you any of this. Get up, stop clenching your fists. We have to go make an apology before the press goes crazy and kills your reputation. It will seem better of you to facade it as something you did as a drunk," she said, clicking her tongue. Negotiating with Arthur couldn't be too bad. He appreciated apologies, usually. Even if he was just a tad bit scratched up this time around. This wasn't the first time Arthur took a hit to the face. It would be the press that would be the problem, so they had to make the apology as big of a deal as the assault, and Johanna wasn't the kind of person who liked making things big deals—

What was that. Was that a... tremor? Was that dust falling through the walls? Was that— Oh dear lord, no. There was always threats like these, bomb threats, but this couldn't be the night, oh dear, oh no... Oh dear. She could feel the rumbling below her and the crumbling above her. Fire tends to travel up, so if this were a bomb threat, it would be best to run down as fast as possible. Unless of course there are more bombs below them...

"Lukas, we are going now, we have to get back there and I n-need to find Mr. Collins, he'll know what to d-do," she said, grabbing her cousin's wrist and pulling him back into the soiree. She made no effort to mask the panic in her voice. The only thought was getting to Mr. Collins. He was supposed to be the guy with the security and... if he didn't have anything, she wouldn't know what to do.

MADE BY MINNIE OF BACK TO NEVERLAND

[Deleted]

"If you knew that, why did you throw the glass at his head, then? Too drunk off your own sorrow? You know you're not going to get arrested because of your position. Arthur can be a prick, but you are being a foolish child for doing that in public. Don't you know how bad it looks on us? Not just me, but think of Sindri. Arthur is just being Arthur, and I would prefer you don't become enemies with him."

And there she went again. Lukas just listened, waiting for her to finish with her scolding. He was paying close attention, but his eyes were scanning the room. Speaking of Sindri, where was he anyway? Probably around the edges of the occasion, no doubt... He returned his gaze to the Icelander as she continued.

What did she even think he did every day? Go off and have sex with prostitutes? Surely she was mistaken, right? Yeah, he did get around quite a bit, but it wasn't like he went with whoever he found to be attractive, and more importantly, alive (There are sick people who would rather be with a corpse. The appeal to that, he didn't know, nor did he want to know. Corpses were meant to be buried not...to be intimate with.). He chose his partners carefully, and he tended to go back with the same ones.

He crossed his arms, wondering where his father was and what he was saying. It probably had to do with what just happened, though probably trying to make it seem as if he had no part in it. Directly, he didn't. Indirectly, well, it was debatable. His boring nature was the cause of Arthur walking over to him in the first place. The incident wouldn't have happened if he knew how to keep people interested in a conversation rather than make them fall asleep.

"It's not like I wanted to be the one telling you any of this. Get up, stop clenching your fists. We have to go make an apology before the press goes crazy and kills your reputation. It will seem better of you to facade it as something you did as a drunk."

He opened his mouth to say something, only to close it. He was tired of arguing. Might as well do as his cousin suggested and hope for the best. He forced himself to relax, since being tense and upset wouldn't be what's best for his condition...

One thing for sure though was not only did he need to apologize to Arthur, but to Johanna and Sindri as well. God, Sindri... Surely he would be dragged into a heated argument between Lukas and their father...yet again. How many times have they fought that week? Well, he least he could do was make sure that the younger sibling was kept far away from the drama as he possibly good. If his efforts worked, that is.

'I'll...make it up to him somehow. H-He likes video games, right? Maybe I'll take him to a store and buy a few for him. Let him pick whichever ones he wanted. He w-would like that, right?... Or would he prefer something else? Ugh, this is more difficult than need be... I'll think of something later. Now I need to focus on how I'll even begin to apologize to that politician. I can simply say 'Oh, sorry for throwing the glass at your head. I was drunk and didn't know what I was thinking', now can I? He would think I was just making up an excuse and he would probably hate me even more... Probably I should just follow what Johanna says rather than going against it, since she does know the man better than I do.'

Then the room seemed to shake, Lukas slightly leaning against the wall for support. Drinking plus the ground moving wasn't a good mix at all. He could see dust flying around, which surely would be a problem for Sindri. The teen did have asthma, after all... Gah, could this night get any worse?

"Lukas, we are going now, we have to get back there and I n-need to find Mr. Collins, he'll know what to d-do," Johanna had said as she took his hand. Yeah, things most likely did get worse, since she did sound as if she was panicking. "Well, while we're looking for Mr. Collins, we're looking for Sindri as well," he responded, following her into the crowd. He was worried about his brother, yes. Even a bit of that was showing on his face, not being able to hold it back.

He almost wanted to ditch his cousin just to look for the teen, but he knew better. Johanna did need help, and him walking off would only make her panic more since not only would she have to find Mr. Collins, but Lukas himself. He decided to stay since it would be less stress added to the woman. The last thing she needed was more reason to be freaking out.

It was a miracle that he didn't seem more panicked than he actually was. Well, most of that panic was drowned out by worry and frustration. Everything just kept going down hill that evening, almost impossibly so. If he knew better, he would have thought it to be some nightmare and he would wake up in his room, the sunlight barely filtering in through his curtains. But this wasn't a dream, the small pain in his chest proved that far more effectively than any pinch could. 'Shit, it better not get worse... Please, don't get worse. Not now...[/i] he thought. He probably should have left the soiree earlier, when the building wasn't falling a part and everyone practically trampling over each other to get out.

Gah, if only he left earlier, then he wouldn't be stuck in this mess. Though, if he did, who knows what the outcome of that could have been. Yeah, he wouldn't have thrown that glass at Arthur, though either Johanna or Sindri would be looking for him despite the fact he wouldn't have been there to begin with. Well, sometimes wishes just aren't beneficial to all parties involved, even if it would be to the wisher. Ah, wishes were really complicated things. Some come true, others don't, and others are only half-granted. Were there even rules to wishes? Probably, and wishing for "unlimited wishes" is probably high on that list.

Lukas was snapped out of his thoughts at all of the screaming. It was mass hysteria, that he could tell. He wouldn't be surprised if a few people died from being stepped on, rather than anything else that was happening. It would probably end up like Black Friday in the States (Why was it called "America" anyway? It's a nation, not the whole continent. Did they have that big of an ego?), well at last like he had heard about it. The only major difference was people going in over there, and people going out now. Other than that, it probably felt the same way...if Black Friday was people running for their life, which it wasn't. It was about shopping... Now that he thought about it, the comparison made no sense whatsoever.

He sighed, his eyes scanning the crowd. Surely people seeing others freak out will only make their panicking worse. With that being said, the level of chaos will only continue to escalate, probably at a quick pace as well. Of course they won't think of calming down, since who in their right mind would? Yeah, keep panicking and making the situation worse... Ah, well, nobody's perfect, and he sure had his fair share of flaws, so he couldn't exactly complain...well, aloud, at least. Everything is better in theory as opposed to in practice, usually. For example, communism looked great on paper, but when carried out...eh, not so much. Corruptible government is never the best, now is it?

The screams just got louder, and he could practically hear everyone's racing heart. It was beginning to give him a headache, but he had other things to worry about. It was beginning to give him a headache, but he had other things to worry about. One of those things being his brother. God, let him be alright...

[Deleted]

Ludwig always felt proud when his presence could help make a situation better, and Arthur laughing at his attempt at a joke made him glad he and the other man were friends. He listened, amused, as Arthur retorted, "Well, that's a nice thought, but I don't think it'll scar. Too thin to see, just bleeds a lot. Cuts on the forehead tend to do that."

"For someone who isn't Harry Potter, you seem to know an awful lot about cuts on the forehead," he shot back just as calmly, but he continued to try and help clean up the spilled vodka and shattered glass all the same. The sudden appearance of Clara at the scene of Arthur's attack caught Ludwig a bit by surprise: he had half-expected her to ignore his invitation and spend her evening in the company of her technology. The young woman seemed positively delighted to be a part of the chaos, however, as she greeted everyone assembled before adding her own suggestions for Arthur's sake. Ludwig gave a quiet tsk and rolled his eyes at that; Clara knew better than to take potshots at the French, but he had a distinct feeling she didn't much care. Of course, she'd accused him of not having a good sense of humor before, there was that.

"That was quite a show though, I have to admit," the girl was speaking. "I should really get out more."

"I hate to disappoint," Ludwig began, then considered his words. He wanted to keep encouraging her to be more social. Letting her know that flying drinks weren't the norm wasn't a good idea. "I've never seen a glass break across someone's head before. That's a new one." Upon hearing Clara's advice to smile, he shot her a very pointed look, one eyebrow raised just a little. "If I smile, they're going to suspect something's wrong," he explained dryly. Luckily, Michael had found that promised room, and Ludwig followed Arthur and the lot away from the now unpleasant din of the party; the room, while horrifyingly ostentatious and far too large, was comfortably empty. Ludwig let out an inaudible sigh of relief.

Clara's offer to erase the photographs made Ludwig shake his head a little; if that was her level of naiveté, he'd have to drag her to more parties. Arthur explained the matter reasonably well, but he couldn't resist chiming in.

"If enough important people say the same thing, it becomes fact -- photographic evidence or not," he murmured to Clara as Arthur stalked off, looking more obviously stressed now that he'd escaped the public eye. He wondered if Arthur regretted getting in that argument with the Maximantics heir: that kind of move could cost a man in a high place dearly. Or perhaps the Brit just felt unhappy that things had escalated so badly. Ludwig felt certain that getting a drink flung at his head would have ruined his own evening; he didn't envy Arthur his position right now. But he wasn't going to leave the party without seeing this whole mess to an end. Arthur remained his friend, and at the very least, Ludwig resolved to remain nearby just in case the man needed anything.

As Arthur finished cleaning up his face and turned back to them with a rather tense smile, Ludwig dipped his head in a nod. "Shall we-"

A deafening blast ripped through the building, tearing the rest of the German's sentence from his throat. For a split second, Ludwig was eighteen, standing at attention on a military base behind a blast shield as his superior officers detonated a car bomb. The day had been dedicated to recognizing those kinds of hazards, and to show the kind of damage they could do if ignored. Even behind the shields, he had felt the shockwave, the heat--

And then he was back in Maximantics, wearing a suit and tie instead of fatigues. The building rumbled ominously around him, and motes of dust were falling from the ceiling, collecting on his jacket. As a manner of steeling himself, he dusted his shoulders off. Don't panic. The place hadn't come crashing down. A good sign. Do not be afraid. Take stock of where you are, accept it, and move forward from that point. Alright, fine, he was alive and unhurt, as were his comrades. But they would need to get out of here, and fast. The floors and walls and ceiling had yet to cease shaking.

"Is everyone all right?" Ludwig jerked his gaze in the direction of the familiar voice: Michael Collins. It was your job, he realized, anger sparking to life inside his chest. You and your team promised us this place was safe. The room they stood in hadn't been damaged, but the condition of the ballroom, where the majority of the guests had collected, remained a mystery. Ludwig couldn't tell if the shrieks he heard were those of twisting metal or those of people. The urge to snap at the other man was almost unbearable, but then the building gave another dangerous rumble, and Ludwig barely managed to stay on his feet.

"I'm fine," he answered quickly. With his shock and anger over and gone, Ludwig's steely composure had slid smoothly back into place. "Tell us what we've got to do and we'll do it," he commanded to Michael. "If you have to be somewhere, tell me what to do and I'll take it from here."

[Deleted]

Arthur had never experienced an earthquake before in his life. He’d only heard of them happening to other countries, heard of the amount of damage the big ones had done. He’d seen the government of Britain help provide relief to the victims. He’d seen footage of earthquakes, the wreckage of cities. Arthur always thought he’d end up in one at least once in his life, or not at all.

It hadn’t occurred to him that earthquakes weren’t the only things that could cause buildings to rattle and sway—had never been a prominent thought in his mind. The sound of thunder, the rumbling of metal, and the screeches of people in his ears was a cacophony he thought he’d never hear. He heard the blast first and it took him longer than it should have to register that the entire building was shaking. He stumbled back in a wide-eyed haze, pressing himself flat against the wall, bracing himself for what he could not control.

His immediate thought was a sarcastic Just what I needed.

The mirror next to him shattered and he covered his face with his arms. The glass missed him by mere inches. He stood there frozen for a few second, eyes wide and breathing hard. His heart hammered against his rib cage. Arthur willed himself to calm down, sucking in air in an attempt to calm his rattled nerves.

The building paused and all was still, as if taking a breath. Michael asked, “Is everyone all right?”

He blinked slowly and pried himself away from the wall, though he stayed near it in case of another blast. No one spoke. He was relieved to see everyone was unhurt and that the room was still intact (he supposed it was luck that they’d ended up in this room out of all the rooms).

He couldn’t stop the laughter from bubbling out of his throat.

“Well, there goes the rest of the evening,” he said with a weak grin, surprised at how smooth his voice came. Arthur had always wondered how he would act if he were to stare death in the face, and in a way, he figured this was close to how it would feel. He felt calm, collected—no… That would be a lie. As much as he wanted to lie to himself, he couldn’t about this. He wasn’t calm at all. He was frightened out of his mind; so frightened his hands were shaking.

Arthur thought he’d be angry at Michael. It was Michael’s job, after all, to make sure the building was safe, and, in short, he’d failed (spectacularly, at that). But no… It hadn’t been Michael’s fault. It hadn’t been his fault in any way, because Arthur knew the man was responsible and that he had done the best he could when the Bondeviks insisted that no, they didn’t need extra security, that no dangers were posed. The team had done the best with what they were given. Not that they were given much. When a powerful man insisted that everything was safe, one did not openly argue. And for a little while, Arthur had been willing to believe it.

Oh, but how wrong they had all been.

With these thoughts, he stuck his hands in his pockets (not to hide the fact they were shaking, he told himself) and glanced between Ludwig and Michael expectantly. “Well…” he began, and licked his lips. He didn’t know what to say.

He hadn’t thought he’d be frightened at death. He’d always told himself it would happen eventually, that when his time came he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it anyway, so why worry? But this—this was almost unfair.

There was no second blast. The building remained still. The only damage to the room they stood in was the shattered mirror and the crooked pictures. Arthur could hear the muffled sound of screams outside the room, high pitched and piercing. He feared what they would find when they opened the door. He wanted to cover his ears, block out the sound of people dying (because people were dying and he knew they were—only so many could survive that blast, and it was a certainty that those closest to it were lying lifeless on the ground, bloodied and broken, their last moments of life having been spent with amiable chatter, no worries about life, no worries about anything, death the last thing on their minds).

He swallowed thickly. Why couldn’t the Bondeviks have been less stubborn and let his people do a sweep? Why did they have to insist that their security was the best, that nothing would happen, that they didn’t need the government’s security to double check? God—Arthur couldn’t stand that kind of stupidity, and now look where it had gotten them. Arrogance, lack of foresight, and stupidity.

Arthur stood at a loss. He didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do now—he couldn’t contribute in this situation. So he stayed silent. There was nothing more he could do.

[Deleted]

CHECK MATE

Her smile stiffened, just a tad, upon the responses that came. (Not that anyone was looking her way.) So much for lightening the mood, she thought. The very evident display of her failure in doing so left an unpleasant, acerbic taste in her mouth.

Like an army – or perhaps, ‘a flock of sheep’ would be more apt – they followed Mister Kirkland and the guard’s (more of Mister Kirkland’s, actually) lead to a separate room, private save for current company.

"Whatever happens with the photographs doesn't matter to me. It's not going to stop the story from getting out, Clara. But thank you for offering." from Mister Kirkland was backed up by Ludwig’s "If enough important people say the same thing, it becomes fact – photographic evidence or not." without a miss of a beat. Today was just not her day, huh? Her attempt at a joke fell as flat as a shaken soufflé and her offer of assistance was about as useful as hot chocolate on a summer’s day. (Yes, Clara was a regular comestible poet.) It made her feel, well, useless. A strange, foreign feeling at that; Clara was many things, but ‘insufficient’ and ‘useless’ were not regularly words associated with her. Though she really ought not to complain; she wasn't the one who took a flute of alcohol to the face.

Schooling her expression into something passably pleasant, Clara shifted on her heels. "Well, it seems that you gentlemen have it all under control here. I really should head back to the soiree then; someone has to." With murmured partings and well-wishings, she pivoted and headed back out to the party. It was still abuzz with excitement, just as she had left it, and her reappearance did little to quell the less than discreet whispering. She thought about the best way to approach the case: adopt a fierce mien in hopes of intimidating any nosy, presumptuous matrons from asking any questions, or to answer whatever queries with a smile and a cryptic reply? The first option might lead to even poorer impressions of the government though, and heaven knew just how popular the government was, and knowing the social scene of London, these people could and would take anything Clara has to say and twist it beyond recognition. The best route to take would be to simply smile and wave, she supposed. Just smile and wave; that's what the royal family does, no?

Clara thought to seek out Johanna, recalling her friend slinking off to berate that cousin of hers on his impulsiveness, and she was just about to do that, when she caught of a glimpse of a much better target. Her lips quirked up in a smile at the familiar, towering stature of her (as he would like to call himself) 'father figure'. Fashionably late as always, he was. And with Gyro, his Rottweiler service dog in hand, Sadik appeared as eager as always at any social events. (Clara wondered if that excitement would still remain once she informs him of the recent episode.) She was fairly surprised to see him there, truth be told; he had informed her of being under the weather some hours ago and left her alone to die of boredom at the party so she hadn't been expecting his attendance.

He had his 'bad' side to her, though; the left side of him that left him blinded and deaf. A prank came unsummoned to mind, but Clara had only taken two steps towards Sadik when the world shook beneath her.

A force shook the building, stumbling legs and extracting shrieks that echoed the resounding 'boom' from somewhere above their heads. It felt like they were in the heart of an earthquake, but with the sound of thunder and the swiftness of lightning, because as quickly as it came, it left, leaving a dull aftershock and silence. (Like the quiet before a storm.)

Clara didn't know what prompted her to look up - perhaps it was instinctive, to react towards the source of the noise, or maybe to see if the ceiling was still there over their heads - but she glanced up, and she saw the chandelier swinging. Swinging, right above Sadik.

One, two, three - Clara would have never thought that her little legs could carry her so far, so quickly but they did, they did. One, two --

They didn't.

Sadik was out of the way, the momentum of the explosion and unsteady feet aided Clara in pushing him out of harm's way with a good shove, but her legs couldn't afford that last stride to safety. Her loss at the genetic lottery had finally come back to haunt her.

She heard something high-pitched and numbly registered it as shrieking. Only the soreness from her throat and the dust in her mouth clued her in that the screaming came from her. But that information did not match with what she knew, through the haze that clouded her mind, nothing connected and nothing made sense, because Clara Huang Hui Xing never screams, Clara Huang Hui Xing never cries. Surely the wetness on her cheeks couldn't be from her, surely the blindness was not tears. (Clara Huang Hui Xing does not cry.)

There was a fire on her legs and everything, everything hurt. It hurt to lift up her head, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to exist.

"H... h-help." The word was lodged like a brick in her throat, and she wasn't certain if it even came out. All her life, she'd heard that geniuses die young, and accepted that as her fate as well - but not now, not like this. She wanted to live, she really wanted to live. But will she?

And for once, Clara didn't know.

TAGS: Aaahhhhhh
WORDS: 963
NOTES: I want to live.

coded by DESTINY of BTN