powerhungry | SALTBURNT

[ 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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