powerhungry | SALTBURNT

Hey "boss", could I make an appointment to see you?

I wasn't really myself before. I wanted to apologize.

[ this is not a lie

she is normally much worse than "amelia" ever could be <3 ]

[

]

You may find me during business hours at the Hex Club.

Cool, thanks.

[ she'll make herself known at the club for a little bit, then. chat up some of his minions, have herself a drink. and eventually, bring herself up to his office. dressed no longer in maid's garments, but a black linen blouse left open and tucked into high-waisted pants. sleek lines, practical footgear. she knocks before she enters, fingers dragging shadows in fistfuls in her wake to snuff out light and sound behind her — a void of a woman, who kicks the door shut behind her and picks at her nails. idle, lazy. ]

Fake me's bullshit at you: it's not what I wanted to establish between us.

[ As before, there's a smoke balanced in his right hand — a cigar, this time, the scent of it thick in the air, as much a veil as the carefully ambivalent expression he wears. He doesn't look up until she's well into the office, taking another drag of his cigar and breathing out both a stream of smoke and an answer: ]

Lucky me.

[ Not quite friendly but not a stop to the conversation, either — which is generous, in his view, considering how her previous period of employment played out. Granted, that's exactly what makes this visit strange. Most others, he thinks, would let sleeping dogs lie — let what happened be forgotten and move on, especially with someone who'd been a complete stranger before. (And if the shadows around her seem too dark— he knows better than to dismiss it as a trick of the light.) ]

And what is it you were hoping for?

Don't mind if I do.

[ From the drape of her dark shirt, she reaches down toward the waistline of her pants with two fingers — spreading the folds indulgently on her quest to draw out a slender, silver case. The curl of smoke in the room makes her own mouth water, and though the cigarillos are notably smaller than his own choice, they smell of powerful clove and spice and are clearly rolled with skill. Care. ( She has no lighter, and her eyes briefly alight on the tip of his cigar. Calculating. )

She returns the case, and holds her own near his door. There's no need to prowl with this one, and her posture is clearly relaxed. casual. ]

Honestly? I want your ambivalence. Except now, I have to bargain for it.

Edited 2025-07-16 14:26 (UTC)

[ Were he a man easily given to laughter, that preface — honestly — would get a laugh out of him. It's less that he thinks her a liar than that he knows her to be able to manipulate the truth, to talk circles around it if it'll get her closer to what she wants.

But — she's here to attempt some sort of clean slate. In the pause that drags out as she produces her own cigarillo, he allows himself a similar exercise, thinking around the shape of her in his office, around what it means that she's here at all when she could just as easily have left well enough alone. The conclusion he comes to, as he nods her closer, gaze falling to her unlit smoke: there's no harm in indulging the exercise. ]

My ambivalence, then.

[ The words leave his mouth in a curl of smoke. ]

In exchange for—?

[ When she moves, it's in silence. Walking across his floor to the desk ( an insignificant defense — ), where she extends her arm and the cigarillo at the tips of her fingers toward him. Toward the only source of heat she can find in the room that would serve to get her what she wants. She stands like a statue, one hand sliding onto the edge of his desk to balance her as she lean in. ]

I just want to continue to enjoy my time here.

[ The shadows in the room beat, soft like a heart fluttering. ]

Your ambivalence towards me is part of maintaining my pleasures.

[ An insignificant defense, if it can be called a defense at all, but better than a pretense. All visible protection — or an attempt at it — would do is suggest further weakness. (And when he's already died once before, and death here is impermanent, there's no real consequence he fears except—)

He holds his cigar out just far enough that Mia will have to lean in to light hers, his expression — a warning, ticking down bit by bit, offered as a courtesy — shifting back into the cold impassiveness he'd offered her that night by the stables as she once again doesn't quite answer the question he's posed.

Plainly: ] I asked you what's in it for me.

That is what's in it for you.

[ There's a deep ambivalence within her, suggesting that she's come to him as a courtesy, rather than a requirement of her existence; the same way he let her in as a courtesy. It's the playfulness of a predator that knows it's an apex monster, but isn't positioning itself above others. She's trash like every other living soul, the only difference is that she hasn't a scrap of shame ( or fear ) to exploit. Hence, she has no problem bridging the gap between the two of them to light her cigarillo off of his cigar, unworried about the way it elongates her body and puts all the most vulnerable planes on display. The same way she had in the stables before him.

She lingers there, matching his gaze without flinching. ]

— I've got a skillset. Some of it's useless, unless adjusted for the audience. [ Murder's useless, but it also means she can psychologically prey on someone forever, and by the red gleam in the center of her dark, dead eyes, that is way more desirable to her. Hurting people thrills her, but she sees the sense in not making enemies of the house. At least, all of the household. ]

Part of it's unique substances you can't get from the Balfours or the Library. Custom-tailored.

Edited 2025-07-25 23:04 (UTC)

[ It is, strangely enough, the second time he'd been approached with such an offer. He trusts both the same paltry amount — enough to consider taking advantage of them if not enough to believe there's no way he'll ever find himself on the other end of the metaphorical (and, more likely than not, literal) knife.

But his interest is something, a gleam in his eye that mirrors hers. ]

And that's all it'd take for you to offer them to me? That I don't interfere?

[ Then, knowing full well he's already shown some of his hand in asking this last, but curious what she'll have to say regardless: ]

What makes you think I'd be interested?

Yes.

[ She wants him to ignore her existence; if someone comes to him with a grievance or word or praise about her, Mia wants Silco to not care at all. Apart from the service she can provide, which was practical and untethered to emotion, she wants him to ignore her as best as he can. That suits her. ]

You're trapped in a house full of rich, arrogant cunts — hosts and guests alike. I figured your anger at their collective holier-than-thou bullshit will one day outweigh your desire to serve them glittery mai-tais.

[ She hovers there, smelling like clove and smoke as her eyes wander his face. Like him, she is mutilated beyond what anyone could hide without extensive make-up; her face scarred and burned; when she smiles, it tugs at the unmistakable brand upon one half of her. A slave-mark, a sign of inferiority, of lowness. Her features marred, less desirable. ]

[ For his part, Silco doesn't try to hide the way his gaze tracks over Mia's features in turn, over the topography that hints, in just the right light and with the right expression, at a history of pain. It compels him as much as the straightforwardness of her offer, the immediate damning of the other guests as impotent or at the least useless. Anyone can say the words, after all — the scarring suggests the actual principles (or experience) to back them up.

(And if she's all talk, this works just as well. Best that she isn't affiliated with the club — not his responsibility, not his charge to hold responsible for whatever else she gets up to.)

The line of his attention breaks. He looks back down at his cigar, takes another drag, and leans back in his seat, resetting the distance between them. Through the smoke: ]

You have a deal.

[ The little pot of hypnotic lip paint she had won from the competition earlier in the year had sparked the idea. The usefulness of it against a powerful man had encouraged it, and the opportunity presented by Silco and the Hex Club had cinched her decision.

He agrees, and she begins to straighten from her slouch on the other side of his desk. Her cigarillo sits in the corner if her crooked mouth, the fingers of her hand fishing around the open part of her shirt, slipping low into the waistband of her pants to draw out a small ampule of eggplant-toned smoke. She sets it on the table, and slides it to him. The response to his agreement. ]

This is Gloam, it's new.

[ Newly made? Newly designed? ]

It's a vapor that induces euphoria, and touch sensitivity. The catch is that it'll suppress memory formation and judgment for two to three hours, so do with it as you please.

[ She won't dictate what that is, she just wants to give him a taste of what she'll be doing for him. ]

[ The more he sees of her, the more clearly the shape of danger defines itself within the silhouette of her frame. He thinks of Singed, crippled by love. And he thinks of what he would be without it — his scruples scraped away by singular focus and set free by— not malice, exactly, but enjoyment.

Silco's brow pinches as he looks down at the little capsule, the whole of him otherwise held still. Euphoria is one thing. To addle the mind is another. Finally, deliberately, he reaches out, picking the glass up and raising it to his eye level to inspect the purple smoke that forms in whorls within. ]

Quite the clever concoction, [ he says, suddenly keenly aware that she could have used it on him from the moment she walked into the room. ]

I'll take it as a token of goodwill, then, unless you expect something in return.

[ Placing her handcrafted, illicit substance is the proof of how infinitely dangerous she is. Resourceful and eager to be overlooked, so that she can continue to do what she wants, when she wants and to the degree she wants. As he takes the vial between his fingers, the centers of her irises seem to bleed red for a moment — as if some beast is inhaling, scenting the air.

It subsides readily, and she exhales smoke into the air loosely. Clove-scented and sharp, she stands straight and attentive. ( She absolutely could have used it on him, is the point. The only thing that held her from doing that was a goal she had in mind; without a goal, or structured environment, she'll be bored and indulgent. ) ]

Take it however you like, boss.

[ She purrs, mouth curling a little. ]

There's plenty more to come.

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