Righteous and the Wicked, Season 1: Episode 1

[Jeth Riddle]

Livingstone Estate: Ballroom

Everything about the Livingstone's ballroom felt ostensibly fake. Jeth knew the basics of the power struggle on Highgate, and the circumstances that made a meeting such as this brim with insincerities from both parties, but this sense of falsehood went beyond the feigned politeness, superficial compliments, and thinly veiled hostilities that suffocated the room in a blanket of lies; it was also in decorum. The crystal cutlery and glass chandeliers attempted to elicit an aura of civility and sophistication that neither of the attending families could claim in their constant feuding. Supposed ETW artifacts were scattered about the room: suits of splendidly decorated armor and sculptures of long extinct animals that couldn't possibly be authentic. Even the paintings adorning the walls had a strange falseness to them; they seemed to shimmer unnaturally in time to Jeth's music as if they were holograms or projections. Only the music felt real.

Two thirds of Pensive Insect, a gig that was feeling more and more like a temporary affair, now occupied the stage, looking rather scarce in a venue that appeared as though it was designed to accommodate an entire orchestra. Behind them the wall towered above their heads and bowed outwards to create a natural acoustic amplifier, dwarfing the two musicians serenading the hall as the guests arrived. As was their appearance, so was their music; with Jeth seated behind a massive grand piano playing through a chord progression that derived its complexity from simplicity in a decidedly minimalist approach, a far cry from the blistering performance the night before, but in many ways just as technically impressive, allowing Kai to improvise on guitar to his heart's content.

While his cynicism and paranoia were still intact, dutifully questioning the motives and intentions of each arriving guest, he was feeling unusually mellow. The little things weren't getting to him, such as the perfectly clear thumb print on the left hand side of the piano deposited by the burly waiter that served his drink, a man whose bulk indicated his purpose as a server was likely a secondary one.

“Thank you, uh,” Jeth had said when the waiter left the drink on a glass coaster, squinting at the nametag pinned to the other man's massive chest, “Christ?”

“Chris T.” he monotoned.

“Christy?”

A tattooed hand suddenly jut forward, startling Jeth into nearly yelping. With his right thumb placed firmly on top of the piano, 'Christy' pulled up the cuffs of his shirt to reveal a menacing tattoo of a rotting football with a bloated, green worm engorging itself on the remains. The stitching of the football were Chinese symbols clearly revealing the man's name to be 'Christopher Tacitus'.

“Right, sorry.”

Tacitus's thumbprint, and not his decidedly un-waiterly appearance, was what had made the greater impression on Jeth, especially since it was on a piece as beautiful as the Livingstone's piano (coincidentally, it was the only thing in the ballroom he didn't accuse of being an imitation), and it would have normally driven him insane with the desire to clean it, but his restraint in musical expression seemed to be transposing itself on his state of mind. It may have also been the fact that most of the guests seemed uninterested in what was going on onstage, or that he had taken two Anafril an hour earlier, but most likely it was a combination of all three.

From his vantage point on stage, Jeth could see each guest as they arrived and were announced, some with important sounding titles preceding their names, though most of these seemed as contrived as the fawning greetings the rival family members met one another with. It was the guest of honour he was watching for, not because he'd been assigned to reconnaissance by the Shangren crew (he had not, nor would he even know what to look for if he had), but because the Livingstone estate had made a special musical request to be played specifically for her benefit. It was the reason he had a classical guitar leaning next to the piano, and the reason his attire consisted of tight black pants he couldn't have even pulled off in his twenties, both in a stylistic and literal sense, and a white shirt with ruffled sleeves and an open, vee-shaped neck he had reluctantly agreed to wear, unsure if he resembled the flamenco guitarist they wanted him to appear as or some kind of frilly pirate.

"I think this is what the dancers wear, not the musicians," he had told the portly seamstress, whose thick fingers were deceivingly agile in making an impromptu repair to his shirt.

“It's all we got honey, you better know fer sure if that's what you wanna wear, cuz it'll take a bucket of grease and my papa's horse to pull them pants back off.”

“Is she even from Palomar?”

“I don't know honey.”

No, it was not what he wanted to wear, but it was what Livingstone wanted him to wear. “What's the worst that can happen, she gets offended and Highgate becomes enveloped in civil war?” he had said with a laugh.

Well then, he thought to himself as his right hand fluttered across the keys to wind down the song, guess you'll just have to play like it's the last song you'll ever play. In the ballroom, the conclusion of the number was met with some polite applause. The guests, it appeared, had been paying more attention than he originally thought.

Strangely enough, a small smile crossed the troubled musician's face, because when it came right down to the end of it, finishing with a song is exactly how he'd want to go.

[Abenette Kelker]

Abe paced nervously back and forth in her stateroom, waiting for the seamstress to finish up her dress.

She was only halfway peeved when she saw the dress picked out for her. It wasn't little girl ruffly, but it also was something a modest teenager would wear. Dress hitting right below the knee, but roomy enough to look decent but covered any curve a woman might have. It had nice spaghetti straps, but they were situated so the fabric hung too high on the chest and then there was the shrug sweater that went with it. The kicker was the little ballerina flats with it.

At least it was red.

She called the seamstress immediately, and with some tact, basically asked her to redo the dress on the spot. Shorten the dress, tighten the fit, lose the shrug and lengthen the straps. And she needed to get some better shoes. Something with a heel.

From the leftover fabric, she had a simple bag made. A purse-like piece attached to a long cord she could put over her shoulder. The purse was thin, but long. Enough the she could stash a tube of lipstick and her favorite companion, Dude. It didn't quite look exactly right, but it was hopefully passable.

It actually didn't take long to fix, so Abe got dressed. While she did, she pondered on how the groups were paired up. She understood most of them. Someone who could handle a gun paired with someone who might need a little more protecting. Reggie and Miriam, then Dade and Davina. But her "date?" It was odd. She knew how to use a gun, so that only left one possibility.

She went out into the hallway and she ran face to face with her very impatient date. She looked him over and wondered what kind of deficiency Jeremiah had that he needed a protector.

*Jeremiah GMed with permission from Charlie.

**I wasn't quite sure where to go with the whole wardrobe thing, so if anything needs changed, just drop me a PM.

[J. McKenna]

Jeremiah was pacing back and forth in front of the door to the room where Abenette was still getting outfitted by the seamstress. He really didn't understand women, not in the least. The dress she'd been supplied with had looked perfectly fine to him, but the girl had thrown a fit when she had tried it on and demanded that the seamstress come up and change the thing.

He stopped for a moment as he passed a mirror on the wall, checking that the nine millimetre was well-concealed in the shoulder holster under the dark brown suede jacket that had been waiting in the wardrobe for him. He'd wondered if it was some elaborate joke, whether they knew he'd been a Browncoat during the war or if it was just current fashion in this town.

His trousers were a shade lighter with some trimming down the leg – again a reminder of Independent uniform – and the broad belt was reminiscent of a gunbelt sans holster. Even the shoes had a vaguely militaristic look to them, clunky with a thick sole and tied with laces that belonged to boots rather than shoes. All that made it clear that he wasn't wearing a uniform was the tan vest over a beige shirt and the red bow-tie around his neck, threatening to strangle him.

It all looked pretty ridiculous, he decided and turned away from the mirror, satisfied that the heavy suede fabric effectively concealed the fact that he was armed. He checked his watch, wondering if Abenette had decided that they were going to be fashionably late and nearly trampled her when he passed the door just as she came out. “Ready then?” he asked, frowning as he looked at her dress. Didn't look any different to him and he wondered what she'd really been doing with the seamstress all this time.

[Miriam]

The last time Miriam had worn a dress, it had been blue gingham. With a white lace collar. And a petticoat. And it had been hand sewn by nuns.

The one she wore now was also the first significant article of non-black clothing she had worn in years.

At least it wasn't all bright and frilly. Well, a little frilly, a lot compared to her norm, but it didn't make her feel like she should be on a pedestal with velvet ropes around her. It wasn't all slinky and sexy, and it wasn't too revealing, which to Miriam meant it had sleeves.

The shoes certainly could have been worse, but by her standards, they were terrible. It wasn't as though she couldn't keep her balance in them. Her balance was far too good to be defeated by a pair of black patent leather Mary Janes, but one shouldn't feel like they were exercising their sense of balance on a level floor while simply walking. At least they weren't boots. If it came down to needing to run, they could be removed without minor surgery.

"So . . ." she said to Reggie, "Do you dance? Cause I've . . . never done it."



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[Reggie Barbossa]

He looked like a gorramn dreadlocked penguin in his attire, which consisted of a black long tailed dress coat, a stiff and irritating white wing-collar dress shirt, a pair of black trousers and shoes, and a red tie. The dress coat was adorned with silver cuff-links and had been tailored to conceal the shoulder holster that held his machine pistol. When Reggie and Miriam had been shown their room and were beset upon by a tailor and seamstress respectively, Reggie had been pretty adamant about keeping his shoulder holster on. Adamant being that he literally threatened to shove the tailor's measuring tape through his nose and out his pigu if he didn't make the necessary alterations.

Once that was agreed upon, Reggie had to stand still as the tailor made sure that the suit fit Reggie's body exactly. It was pure agony for the dreadlocked man as he waited for what seemed to be an eternity for the tailor to be done. When the man was finished, Reggie was directed to a mirror to see how everything fit. Reggie rewarded the man's work and efforts by giving him a not so friendly growl of approval. As the tailor left, Reggie contemplated exactly why the crew of the Shangren was doing this.


"So . . ." "Do you dance? Cause I've . . . never done it."


"Eye t'eenk dey covered eet een Smuggleen' 101." Reggie replied rather dryly. He tugged at the shirt collar and added in a much more nicer tone, "But Eye do beleeve dat Eye know some moves. Not much, but enough not to be steppeen' on your toes. Just follow me lead eend you won't geet 'urt." He turned to face her, seeing her in her outfit and commented, "You look veree prettee by de by, Meereeam. Me, Eye be looken' like a dreadlocked penquin."

[Killi Crash]

The black hover limo slid nearly through the almost park-like drive of the Livingstone estate.

Killi tugged at the ruffled silver skirt that draped past her knees and jerked at the bustiere-style bodice that somehow managed to squish her tiny breasts up into rounded half-moons, adding at least a full-cup to their appearance. The gown's cut and style were elegantly Core-world, something a Companion wouldn't be ashamed to be seen in. But this was Highgate... And she was NOT a Companion, no matter how much they pinned up the slick mass of her shoulder length hair or how many little ringlets they coiled around her cheeks and neck. Nope. In this get-up she looked like a little kid playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. Killian dared a glance at her manager, "Really? Gerry? Really?"

"You look dashing, sweetheart." Gerald Mills, the grey haired and slightly stout and extraordinarly sly Blue Sun Media production manager, tapped her finely manicured and painted fingers down from her dress, "Relax. You're crushing the taffeta."

"I'm not doing this!" Leaning forward, she rapped her knuckles against the glass seperating the driver compartment from the passengers, "YO, HAT-BOY! PULL OVER! I'M GETTING OUT!"

Apparently used to this sort of abuse, the driver didn't even glance back.

"Could you please," Gerald straightened his bow tie in the reflecting of the glass, "just try to behave yourself tonight, Killian."

"Nooooooooooooooo." She singsonged, kicking out her feet to look at the blue-strappy heels she was wearing, "Gjjjjaarreeerry, don't make me do this. There's a reason it's called a PEN-NAME! I like being anonymous. Really. I WANT to be anonymous."

"Sweetie," He crooned, "This is HIGHGATE. To the rest of the universe you'll still be anonymous. But these people like a touch of celebrity. If we're going to film the series here, they'll want to see your face, know the author, feel like their little moon is a part of the bigger picture."

Groaning, Killi threw her slim body backwards onto the seat and kicked her feet into Gerald's lap, "These shoes are gonna MURDER me! If this stupid bodice thing doesn't do it first. Come'On, Ger. Just hire one of your wee-wanky actresses to be me. No one ever needs to know..."

"The dress already fits you." Gerry, overly used to the dramatics of his charges, shook his head, briskly lifted her size four feet off of his Sihnon-silk pressed trousers and planted them firmly on the floor of the limousine, his tone turning paternal, "Tonight, you are CarriAnn Crash, best-selling author. You are going to go to this party, and you are going to dance, and flirt and converse, and make nice-nice with everyone from the waiters to the Governor. You are going to charm their socks off. As soon as we've made a suitable impression, we'll leave, I promise."

"And what's in it for me?" She pulled a compact from her purse and flipped it open, poking experimentally at the bright blue make-up that the beautician had insisted on coating her eyelids with. The glitter line across her eyelash line was a nice touch, though. If only it went all the way around her cheeks, maybe in a heart? or a star, even bett...

"Well, there's your twelve percent cut of profits on the series, for one." Gerry leaned forward in anticipation as the limo slid to a stop.

"Well." Twelve percent? That was a four percent increase from his morning's figure. Gerald winked and Killi smiled in spite of herself, " Oooooh, shiny. You win."

Moments later, she was standing with her hand lightly hooked through Gerry's elbow as the doors swung open and a tonelessly proper voice announced, "Blue Sun Representative Gerald Mills and author CarriAnn Crash."

So much for anonymous.

With a tight smile, Killian stepped, nodding, through the doorway. Her first impression, borrowed from glimpses of such events from her childhood, before her family lost their status, was of a bunch of society monkeys all dressed up. Her second impression stopped her in her tracks as her eyes, out of long habit, trailed to the raised stage to see what lame stock musicians they'd dragged in on this...

"I." , She stuttered softly to herself, "Don't. Believe.It."

Riddle!

Last she'd seen him was a dive bar back on Beaumonde! What got him off his comfy moon? And how the hell did he end up here? Leaving Gerald frantically calling after her, Killi swooshed through the early bird arrivals, the stupid princess gown forgotten as she reached the musicians. Not wanting to break his momentum, she waited until Jeth chanced to glance her way, and waved both hands in a gleeful hello.

Thank the Garden of Eden! This stupid party might not be a flaming wastoid of life's precious hours after all.

[Billy 'Castle' Castleman]

Guest Suites - Livingstone Estate

Manicured nails curled protectively into a fist, as Castle knocked loudly on the suite of Eleanor Lee. Nestled in the elbow of his other arm was a bottle of Livingstone’s 2510 Pinot Noir, while the stems of two crystal glasses laced through his fingers.

Some might take the interlude to check their appearance in one of the hall's many mirrors, but Billy’s self-confidence wouldn’t allow for such doubts. Dressed in the highest fashion allowed by Allied Law, Billy Castleman had spent an ugly daughter’s dowry on the tuxedo he now wore. Classically coordinated with a brilliant white shirt, the jet black jacket, pants, shoes and tie fit his athletic frame perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Where before his hair had been styled in his version of ‘business casual’, it was now combed straight back, as was the current style on Londinium. Not a shadow of beard stubbled his jaw nor did any errant hair or blemish mar his features.

While a hint of citrus surrounded him, his ‘air’ was most assuredly something else entirely. Castle was a creature of habit…with perfection his only compulsion.

As he waited, Billy allowed a smile to dust his lips and an impish note to enter his perfectly wielded words,
”Captain, we have some business to discuss before we peacock in the ballroom downstairs…unless of course you’d rather do something else. In which case, I’m all ears.”

[Miriam]

"You look veree prettee by de by, Meereeam. Me, Eye be looken' like a dreadlocked penquin."

"I think everyone does." said Miriam. "The penguin part, with whatever hair. I don't think that suit's changed since . . ."

He had called her very pretty.

Not just in a "Hihowareyoulookinggoodtoday" kind of meaningless way.

Not little kid pretty, like at the orphanage, where the nuns would fuss over you when they had you dressed up for special occasions, like Easter dinner, where "pretty" basically meant "clean and in nicer than usual clothes."

Not the kind of compliment to her looks she had gotten used to as an adult, the kind that basically boiled down to "I've been drinking and you're female and available." Guys like that never used the word "pretty." They used a lot of other words, and sometimes, they amazed you with how insulting they could be with a compliment.

"I . . . really, I mean . . ."

She honestly couldn't remember the last time anyone had said that about her, or said she was attractive without looking like they were mentally subtracting her outfit.

"Thanks. Really."

She stepped forward, shaking slightly in her heels.

"Your feet might be the ones in danger though." she said. "I just hope there's no trouble here tonight."

She reached down and adjusted the buckle a notch.

"Pretty things don't always make it."

[Dade Cooper]

Dade and Davina's Suite (A Tao/GrimJack joint)


While preparations and primping found fruit among the rest of the crew, The Shangren’s medic and her mechanic had instead decided to host their own party of two. In nearly equal states of undress, the healers of skin and steel danced and made merry as only those that have faced death can.

Accustomed to the confinement of space travel and poverty, the sheer size and extravagance of their new abode demanded that the pair utilize the suite for more than just preparation and slumber. The Shangren’s new job had blessed them with a moment to steal away from the machinations of Fate and duty, and the unlikely duo meant to make the absolute most of their respite.

Furniture had been haphazardly squeezed to the perimeter of the wide space and the plush carpet rolled up exposing the polished hardwood underneath. On the small fully stocked bar, a half-filled bottle of wine bore witness to the spectacle, while two of it’s fallen and empty comrades clinked as the dancers twirled. The French doors leading to the balcony were wide open, giving invitation to the cool breeze of evening, and atop an ornate chest of drawers a digital symphony player designed to resemble an ancient record player blared an equally ancient song.

His long hair slicked back and shellacked in place with a pomade he discovered in the bathroom, Dade’s clean shaven jaw chewed the lyrics along with the recording's singers, keeping tune…if not perfect time,
”Well you get down the fiddle and you get down the bow,
Kick off your shoes and throw them on the floor,
Dance in the kitchen till the mornin’ light
Louisiana Saturday night!”

Twirling the doctor around twice, Dade brought her bare chest back to his and smiled down at the point of contact…


“Waitin' in the front yard, sittin' on a log,” Davina sang with him, near breathless with laughter that wanted to hitch against the clumsy ebbing tide of argument and bare flesh and hands. She smiled in the eternal serenity of the moment, didn't want it to end.

It was not perfect.

Dade kept stepping on her toes and her knee was twisted wrong, and they were going to be late, but his hands were soft and strong and warm, moving up (unbidden, she thought, instinctive) to tug her wig free so he could stroke her hair, and she didn’t give a rutt.

It was balance and freedom and trust, always a little precarious until she settled herself just so, hands gripping the wingless angles of his shoulder blades, holding him caged and close. She liked it like that, suspected Dade did, too. Which didn't explain why she'd felt so very pleased when he smiled like it wouldn't matter either way, except that maybe it did.

Together they sang,
”Single shot rifle and a one-eyed dog”

Dade stopped one of his twirls early and brought Davina’s bare back against his chest.

”Yonder come my kin folk in the moonlight…Louisiana Saturday night!”

As one they continued to move both facing the room together…facing the moment together.

”Well you get down the fiddle and you get down the bow,
Kick off your shoes and throw them on the floor,”

He dropped his lips to her bare neck, singing still as he moved his kisses to her shoulder between lyrics.

”Dance in the kitchen till the mornin’ light
Louisiana Saturday night!”

His hands explored the skin of her belly and the roundness of her breasts; until his feet caught and they tumbled to the hardwood floor…a pile of bare flesh and laughter.

Though they remained on the floor for some time, they never stopped their dance, their song…or their moment.




<<Gray portion written by the absolutely amazing Tao. Who in case you didn’t know is Inspiration personified. All GMing approved. Lyrics by Alabama's version of Louisiana Saturday Night>>

[Abenette Kelker]

“Ready then?”

Abe looked at Jeremiah's expression.

"What's your problem?" she asked. "You didn't have to have your attire redone so it would fit right."

She looked down at herself.

"I shoulda had her put a slit in this thing," Abe commented then shrugged.

She turned her attention on Jeremiah.

"Are we supposed to play the part of a couple?" she asked. "Cause, unless I am wrong, it seems like we're sharing this room.

"So we need to set ground rules if'n we are," she added. "On that subject we must be quite clear. I don't want any inpropriety 'tween us."

Then she patted Dude.

"And don't worry, I'll protect you just fine."

[Reggie Barbossa]

Reggie and Miriam's Suite

"Pretty things don't always make it."


"Don't worree about eet, Meereeam." replied Reggie as he stood by her side. "Eef de sheet 'eets de fan, Eye'll make sure you're out of 'arm's way as queeck as posseeble." Reggie then gave her a smile and added, "Eend don't worree about me feet either. Dey've taken plentee a stompeen' before. Eye'm sure dey can 'andle what you can deesh out on de dance floor."


Reggie then propped his elbow for Miriam to take in her hands and asked, "Shall we?"


Reggie sure hoped that nothing bad would happen during the ball, but both his superstitious mind and his gut were telling him something else. Whatever bad voodoo might happen here, he hoped that it didn't turn out to be a total blood and gore shootout where he had to drag people back to the ship with machine pistol blazing.

[Miriam]

"Shall we?"

Good feeling . . . won't you stay with me, just a little longer . . .

Miriam stepped forward and took his arm, feeling the strength in it. It was an arm that had swung blades, thrown punches, aimed guns. An arm that had taken lives. But it was extended to her in a simple pleasant courtesy. She had seen such things before, on the cortex, in her mind's eye in stories. The gesture had just never been extended to her before.

"Yeah." she said. "Sure, let's go."

It always seems like you're leaving . . . when I need you here, just a little longer . . .

She had had a few male friends, at least as close in friendship as she ever became, as well as a few female friends she knew were half or all sly, but had never come on to her. She had never had a real date though, not like people said it was supposed to be. She had never felt like a woman, rather than a woman's body with her as an inconvenient passenger her date would as soon just dispense with to get on to the important part.

She felt like a Companion, like a queen, like a real girl.

Dear lady, there's so many things that I have come to fear . . .

She knew it wouldn't last. In the end, you always had to keep running. You couldn't stop. But at least, it could last the night.

Little voice says I'm going crazy, to see all my worlds disappear . . .

If trouble could just pass them by, if the party could just pass without incident, maybe the good feeling could stay with her long enough to see her to sleep. Long enough to keep the demons away. Even if just for one night.

"Let's dance the night away."

Good feeling . . . won't you stay with me, just a little longer . . .



Lyrics by Violent Femmes