Things that go BOOM in the hotel at night.

[Louis Capet]

An angry horn sounded as the yellow taxicab swerved violently out of the way to avoid a man on a bicycle. Strings of curses could be heard coming from inside the vehicle, where a stout man sat at the wheel, shaking his fist angrily. The biker turned back round, ready to start an argument, and, sure enough, the driver wound down his window and allowed one to take place. After a few moments of heated discussion and one final filthy word being exchanged, the journey resumed, although it was only thirty seconds away from its destination.

The cabbie turned his chubby, unshaven head and apologised to his passengers, one beautiful brunette and one tall, dark-haired man, with remorse. The male passenger, one Mortimer Sauvage, laughed at the little fiasco and shook his head with amusement.

“No need to apologise,” he said with a devious smile, “You can just reduce our bill by fifty per cent.”

The taxi driver chuckled as he pulled up onto the sidewalk outside the sickeningly grand Four Stars Hotel and turned round to his passengers, holding out a calloused hand expectantly, eagerly awaiting the fare he was about to be paid.

Mort smiled courteously and reached into one of his many pockets, drawing a few surprisingly crisp bills that he firmly placed in the man’s outstretched palm. The cabbie gave a nod and counted them at a glance before swivelling back round to face Mort.

“Hey, buddy, I think you miscounted here,” he said with slight annoyance, looking up at Mort and waiting impatiently for the missing money. Mort’s expression suddenly became as serious and dark as the dead of night and he stared the cabbie straight back in the eye with a piercing stare.

“No. I was serious. Fifty per cent off for the inconvenience you caused us. A lady,” he said, with a slight glance towards Darla, “Should not have to suffer bad taxi driving.”

The man opened his mouth to complain again, but upon seeing Mort’s glare that seemed to have the capability of killing a cat at fifty yards, decided to keep his words to himself. He gave Mort a filthy look, thinking of some way to combat this without getting too heavily involved with the man.

“You, you...I...I won’t ever let you ride this vehicle again. And...and I’ll tell the other cabbies not to pick you up,” he said in a feebly threatening manner. Mort grinned, but refused to make eye contact with the man.

“Great,” he said earnestly before climbing out of the car and going round the side to open up Darla’s door. He held a hand out and raised one eyebrow.

“Madam?” he said in a theatrically posh voice, nodding his head towards the location of the Seraphim’s storehouse, home to several rooms worth of illegal goods belonging to Mr. Sauvage and location of the explosive device Darla was keen to utilise.

[pj]

Darla sat in an uncharacteristic silence throughout the duration of the entire cab ride. It was quite unpleasant, even leaving aside the slimy cabbie and his almost pathetic demeanor. Darla wanted to roll her eyes and gag as though she were an annoyed schoolgirl. Keeping herself under control, Darla heard Mort speak next to her.

"You can just reduce our bill by fifty per cent."

Darla smirked and felt herself beginning to like this mysterious man. She had to admit that he had guts; and she liked that in a person. She looked back at the cabbie with sparkling innocence in her eyes and nodded coyly. She didn't add words to her actions, fearing that something offensive would spill from her salacious lips. Word vomit, that's the popular term. To avoid this phenomena, Darla simply kept her lips sealed.

Finally, the ride was over. And with restless anticipation, Darla was eager to leave this damned cab and go see some bombs. However, just as she was practically jumping from her seat, the cabbie turned back towards them, demanding more money. Unable to restrain herself from some form of sarcasm, Darla rolled her eyes. Would they ever make it to the hotel? Darla scowled and remained seated.

Hearing Mort's last remark, Darla nodded furiously in agreement. Yes, of course. A lady such as herself should not have to suffer bad taxi driving. Darla almost scoffed; but again, she refrained. The cabbie stuttered angrily, spluttering out vain threats. Darla let Mort exit the car for a moment before she addressed the cabbie herself.

"Do anything of the sort, and I'll shave your skin off with an exacto-knife layer by layer until you're nothing but bones," she said with a coy smile and followed Mort out of the cab without stopping to see the man's reaction. She only hoped it was utter fear.

Setting a foot out of the cab, Darla took Mort's extended hand. "You're too kind, good sir," she said with a flutter of her eyelashes, and her hand placed in mock seduction over her mouth. With a shrewd smile, Darla's eyes followed Mort's nod and her eyes gleamed greedily. Pulling herself out of the cab using Mort's hand as leverage, heels clicked on the sidewalk and she stood triumphantly. Basil Dixon, your end is near.

[Louis Capet]

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Mort set off into the hotel, swinging open the glass doors with such grandeur that one would think he owned the entire place, rather than just the few rooms. He took a moment to admire the red-carpeted foyer but, upon realising that there was nothing new to witness, spun round and headed straight towards the reception desk, smiling courteously at the young receptionist and giving her a polite, yet somewhat mocking, nod.

“Hello, ehm, Mary-Anne,” he said, reading the gold nametag she had fastened to her blouse, “Could you possibly tell the manager that Mr. Sauvage is here?”

The receptionist gave him a dubious look and typed something into her computer. Mort craned his neck over to try to catch a peek at what she was writing, but his efforts were cut short when she fiercely turned the monitor round and out of his sight, darkly muttering something about confidentiality. Mort stood impatiently for a few minutes, tapping his fingers on the desk in a manner that clearly said, “Come on, while we’re young.”

“Well, Mr. Sauvage,” said the receptionist after a good few minutes, “You don’t seem to have an appointment of any kind with the manager...”

Mort silenced her pointless ramblings with a wave of his hand, and shook his head before pressing his fingers against his forehead and inhaling deeply and sharply.

“Just tell him I’m here,” said Mort flatly. “Trust me. I’m welcome here.”

The receptionist gave him a curious look and reluctantly stepped away from the counter, picking up a ridiculously ornate phone and dialling a number into it. She walked out of earshot, clearly not wanting Mort eavesdropping, and returned a few moments later, giving Mort a suspicious and distrustful gaze and placing the phone back down. She then turned round and opened one of the small mahogany drawers that stood behind her, drawing out three shiny keys that had the numbers “215”, “216” and “217” engraved into them respectively. Mort stretched out his palm expectantly, giving the receptionist a wry smile as she placed the keys into his hands.

“He says go right up,” she said solemnly and warily, narrowing her eyes at him. Mort simply raised his eyebrows back at her. For all the dodgy deals that went on behind the closed doors and all the lies that were soaked into the carpets of the Four Stars Hotel, you’d think she had no reason to be any more suspicious of Mort than any other guests in the place.

“Thank you, Mary-Anne,” said Mort, reading her nametag once more to remind himself, before turning his back to the desk and focussing his attention on Darla, whom he was aware he had been neglecting for the past few minutes.

“The treasure is in room 215,” he said imperiously, holding up the key so it glinted under the light, the small leather tag reading “215” dangling down precariously. It looked like every other key in the hotel-yet on this particular day it was a very special key indeed.

[pj]

Darla followed Mort up the steps and into the hotel lobby, her breaths quickened as she struggled to keep up with his long strides. A slender hand clutching her skirt, she blew a wisp of chestnut hair out of her face and scowled. He was walking so damn fast... It wasn't that she was out of shape or anything like that, but the heels she wore on her feet were beginning to give her blisters, and she was beginning to develop a noticeable limp. Huffing, she clicked her way in front of the receptionist's desk, and glared at Mort's back. However, he had the instruments of death that she required, so she kept angry comments to herself.

Sprawling her arms across the desk exhaustedly, her head slumping on the desk, and her newly mussed hair fell around her like a brown halo. Hearing Mary-Anne's voice give Mort the go-ahead, she propped her head up with a weary arm. It seemed as though the moment she arrived, she had to walk some more- fantastic.

Grabbing Mort's arm after his statement indicating the treasure's location, Darla looked at him with drained eyes and pleaded darkly, "Please tell me we're taking the bloody elevator." She swore if she had to walk up a single stair more, there would be hell to pay.

[Louis Capet]

Mort gave Darla a dubious look, rolling his dark eyes up to the ceiling and shaking his head, releasing a long sigh like a tyre being let down slowly. His sigh lasted for precisely five seconds, according to his count.

“Alright then,” he said at last, “I suppose there’s no real harm in taking the elevator. Although I don’t tend to make a habit of it. Being an active soul, I find myself either walking everywhere or-”

He caught himself in mid-sentence and immediately began a loud, theatrical and very unconvincing coughing fit that caused one or two people to turn round in order to find out what the brouhaha was all about. Mort finished clearing his throat and turned around to Darla, patting himself on the chest and nodding his head solemnly.

“Sorry,” he said in a deadpan tone, “Slight tickle in my throat.”

He strode towards the elevator, his feet tapping against the polished floor, and pressed the button once. To his pleasant surprise, the large metal doors opened almost instantaneously and gave a lovely pinging sound that really made the elevator complete-well, in Mort’s eyes anyway.

“Would you look at that!” said Mort, clearly inexperienced with using elevators, “The doors opened right away! No need to wait around for some old man to finish getting to floor umpteen.”

With one final laugh of joy, he stepped into the small, mirrored room, keeping his finger on the button to keep the door open for Darla. Part of him was sorely tempted to allow the lift to take him up the floors and leave Darla to walk up the stairs she seemed to loathe so much, but his morals won over this want.

[pj]

After an irritatingly extended sigh and a look, Darla's new criminal partner gave in, seemingly begrudgingly, to her request. "Thank you ever so much," Darla mumbled in reply, trying not to make her tone too bitter. I must be nice, I must be nice, I must play nice today...

During the midst of Mort's amusing and bewildering coughing fit, Darla wretched forward, catching her own throat in pain. One could only imagine what hotel visitors in the lobby must be thinking by this point. Doubled over and nearly choking, Darla's fiery dark eyes flashed from an ominous stormy color to a color that belonged to the woman named Daphne. For a second, an innocent, pained look overcame the woman's pretty face and a single 'help' was uttered before Darla regained consciousness, slapped herself in the face, and rose, then shaking Daphne out of her system. She's getting stronger. The goddamned woman is getting fledgeling stronger. Scowling, Darla dusted her skirt off, and followed Mort to the elevator.

"Yes, they do," Darla replied curtly, clicking her heels into the elevator behind Mort, nodding gratitude for his holding the door open for her. Chivalry may be on life support, but at least it's not completely dead, she thought, laughing inwardly at her own stupid joke. Noticing the mirrors, the precious Daphne encounter came to her mind. Fuck. Keeping her back to the mirror as much as she could, she lifted a hand and covered her face so as not to see her own reflection. As vain as she was, another Daphne incident would not be a pleasurable experience, especially seeing as the last one probably caused a few hotelgoers to question her sanity. If Mort made any exciting discoveries about her alter-ego, it most likely wouldn't end well...

[Louis Capet]

Standing straight as an iron pole with his hands clenched tightly behind his back, one would think Mort was preparing to attend an important conference with a top investor rather than retrieving an old weapon from his less-than-grand storage room. But the general classiness of the Four Stars Hotel was having an effect on Mort, causing him to feel formal and business-like, which he rather enjoyed.

Seeing Darla holding a hand up to her face, Mort gave her a sideways look, creasing his brow into a puzzled frown. She seemed to be avoiding something or attempting not to look at something. Perhaps she had a phobia of some sort? Yes, that had to be it. Claustrophobia. That had to be the answer to this odd behaviour. And yet, as Mort repeated this theory in his head, something didn’t seem quite right. He had only known Darla for about an hour and there could well have been many secrets and quirks that he had yet to discover. Bearing this in mind, he attempted to strike up a conversation with her.

“So, Darla,” he said, leaning towards her ever-so-slightly, “I just realised that I know little about you. Which could be seen as a problem, since I’m about to give you a very dangerous B-O-M-B to blow up a very important M-A-N.”

He paused there for a moment, wondering why the hell he had bothered to spell out “man” when there was clearly nothing secretive about the word.

“Yeah, so, as I was saying, my knowledge of you is limited. Although I’m happy to let you keep most of yourself to yourself, I must be sure that there’s nothing about you that could...hinder our business. Is there anything I should know about you before we continue with this operation?” he said slyly, glancing at her through narrowed eyes.

[pj]

Darla kept her hand up over her face, blowing away strands of brown hair that fell into her face. She nodded behind her hand to Mort's babblings, and prayed to God that the elevator ride would be over already. Realizing that he might expect an answer, Darla inhaled sharply and muttered a curse under her breath.

"Oh, yes of course," she said, her hand still covering her face and her eyes looking down- the only region of the small space that wasn't covered in mirror. "Well. As you know.. My name is Darla, I like Frank Sinatra and my mother was killed on my twelfth birthday," she said bluntly, keeping her face hidden, and waiting for the blessed ding that would tell them they'd arrived at their destination. "I doubt that there's anything that you should know of." Aside from the fact that I'm only half a person- a person who, once she finds out what I've done will most likely become very angry. A heavy sigh came from Darla's lips as she thought about Daphne. If the other woman was to come out suddenly, as she almost did in the lobby, that would probably prove quite detrimental to the plan... Darla's new mission was to keep her as suppressed as humanly possible.

[Louis Capet]

“Really?” said Mort with a vague interest, glancing slightly at Darla. “Well, it seems we share something in common. My mother was also killed on my birthday, quite literally.”

It wasn’t often Mort shared this information about his family’s twisted history. But since Darla had given him a little look into her past, it seemed only right that Mort did the same. Of course, he had no intention of telling her that he had beheaded his father and incinerated his lackeys, but a little bit of priceless knowledge never hurt anybody.

He watched the small screen that indicated what level they were on, waiting for the important number that would signify they had reached their destination. But the journey seemed to be taking forever and the numbers seemed to increase ever so slowly, almost as if time itself was moving at a similar pace to the rate at which treacle flows. Mort’s previous excitement about being in an elevator had been drained and replaced with boredom. With a sigh, he turned round to face the mirror and inspected his reflection inquisitively, checking that everything was still the same. And indeed, it was-pale skin, unruly hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones and shapely eyebrows-the psychopath in the mirror was a perfect copy of Mort.

His eyes shifted lazily to the other side of the mirror, where he and Darla were reflected from the side, and then to the right, where the back of Darla’s head could be seen in the surface. She still seemed to be hiding her face from something, but Mort had no idea what could possibly be threatening in the elevator.

[pj]

"What a tragically fantastic coincidence," Darla replied emotionlessly, keeping her face behind her hand. She could practically feel Daphne getting stronger and just itching to come out and take over. Darla had a slight feeling that it was because she had occupied Daphne's conscious for so long; after all, before when she took over it was only for small increments of time. But now- Darla had a concrete plan. She didn't like being trapped in the control freak's mind- it was utterly intolerable. And having sat there for 79.5% of their shared life, Darla had grown to build up some intensely bitter feelings towards the people that Daphne interacted with. A bit towards Daphne of course, for not killing them upon sight (the damned do-gooders), but mostly just those around her.

From the corner of her eye, Darla watched Mort preen himself in the mirror and rolled her eyes. How typical. Although- she was a bit hypocritical for saying that seeing as she felt an urge to check her own reflection. Darla Blake- the same old Daphne with none of the virtues and all of the sins. Including vanity. A smirk crossed her lips at that. She was quite vain...

Finally, and after far too long, the elevator dinged indicating that they'd reached their destination, and Darla's heart nearly leaped from her chest. The doors lingered for a moment before opening- as if they'd known that Darla needed to get out of the sodding elevator. The second the metallic doors opened, Darla dashed out in the least ladylike manner to just be rid of the mirrored walls.

Thank GOD that's over, she thought, wiping beads of nervous sweat that had collected at her hairline. Making a disgusted face at the discovery of head sweat, she ran a hand through her otherwise perfectly silky brown locks and shook her hair slightly. Standing outside of the elevator, and just out of view from the mirrors she folded her arms across her chest and waited for Mort to tell her where to go.

[Louis Capet]

Mort took a step out of the elevator, slowly and somewhat cautiously, peering nervously round the side of the doors to make sure the coast was clear. He was so busy checking for anyone who might be waiting for the right opportunity to leap forth, wrestle Mort to the ground and pry the keys from his hands that he failed to noticed the doors closing in on the back of his long coat, the tail of which happened to still be trailing inside the elevator. He was yanked down suddenly to the floor and, with a yelp of shock, he grabbed the coat and pulled it without thinking, causing an ominous ripping sound to echo through the hall.

“Ugh, my bad,” he murmured as he turned round to survey his coat, which, surprisingly, had lost no material to the evil elevator. There was, however, a noticeably large tear right down the hem, which took Mort’s menacing factor down by a notch.

“Feh, no matter. I can sew it back,” he said dismissively to Darla, even though he doubted she’d be concerned about it at all, and strode forward, down the corridor, eyes fixed on the brass numbers nailed to each of the oak doors. He counted them in his head-two hundred, two hundred and two, two hundred and four-before realising that room two hundred and fifteen was in fact on the opposite side of the corridor. With a prompt spin, he repositioned himself face to face with the said door.

“Here we are, Darla!” he cried out theatrically, waving his arm above his head for added effect. “Room 215! The room of the bo-ahem, the, er, bondage equipment.”

At that moment, a bellhop happened to be pushing a tea trolley down the corridor. He fixed Mort with a peculiar look before turning his head to Darla, raising his eyebrows and scurrying quickly away, a small, crooked smile playing upon his lips. Mort stared after the man, and if looks could kill the remains of the bellhop could have been squeezed into a small matchbox.

“Cretin,” muttered Mort darkly, thumping his forehead on the door in front of him in both anger and embarrassment. Still, he was happier with the bellhop thinking they were up to perverse activities than...well, than perverse activities.

Refusing to dwell further on the topic, Mort slipped the key into the keyhole and turned it. The lock clicked, Mort turned the knob and the door swung open, letting forth a blast of musty air that signified that no maid was ever allowed to clean this particular room.

[pj]

Standing safely out of the elevator and away from the wretched mirrors, Darla watched as Mort untangled himself from the door's vicelike grip on his jacket. Were it possible, Darla might have been amused. Too bad it wasn't possible, and she stood, stiff and stony as per her usual, unaffected. She didn't really have the time for all of this tomfoolery and was about to say so when he regained his composure and began walking towards the room.

Upon arrival in front of room 215, a devious grin spread across her lips. This was it; this was what she'd been waiting for. Ah sweet relief. To finally be rid of him once and for all...

"Excellent," Darla said, rubbing her hands together, her eyes twinkling with malintention. "What?" Darla said, suddenly confused by his bondage remark. Then seeing the bellhop go by she nodded conspicuously, "Ohhh, right, of course. The bondage equipment. Yes, mustn't leave that in the room. We'll need it for the err, party we're attending later on." As if the bellhop didn't think they were strange enough- she had to add that comment. A smile tugged at her lips. Messing with people was fun.

Darla nodded affirmatively at Mort's comment. "Mhm," she replied vaguely, her eyes soaking up the door of the hotel room greedily. Open it, open it, open it... Confronted by an uncleaned and dusty room, Darla waved away particles of stray matter from her face. "My god, man. Do you not ever clean this room?" She muttered with slight disdain. Hastily, she added, "No matter, I'm just here for the bombs." No time to clean, she reminded herself- as much as she desperately wanted to.

[Louis Capet]

Mort nodded in a placating fashion and entered the room, watching the unsettled dust on the furniture rise up as he strode past the units and shelves. Standing in the centre of the room, he bit his lower lip and stared around, trying to remember where he had left the bombs. How could he not remember such a major detail? Perhaps it was under the bed, or in one of the units, or on one of the shelves. After a few minutes of contemplating these possibilities he finally decided to actually explore the said areas, and without further ado proceeded to pull out drawers and open cupboards, causing the already quite dirty room to become just that little bit messier.

But, no-he could see nothing. Nothing but stacks of old bullet boxes with few bullets in them. Nothing but blunt knives carved with the intricate “S” that his father had adopted as the gang’s symbol, which Mort had never actually used since assuming leadership. Nothing but a small, padlocked box of some sort of recreational drug that he had been hiding for a group of thugs for over six months now.

I wonder if they still want it? he mused before continuing with the search.

He pulled a chair over from the vanity table and stood it by the front of the wardrobe, the doors of which had been swung wide open to reveal a few cardboard boxes labelled “Finest quality fishnet tights.” He stepped neatly onto the wooden chair and perused the top shelves of the wardrobe, pushing aside the beige linen in order to clear a path for his searching hand. A small spider scuttled forward from amongst the folds of the linen. Mort gave a small yelp and withdrew his hand sharply before darting into his pocket, pulling out a small pen knife and slamming the blunt edge of the blade right down the middle of the spider.

He turned away from the “murder scene” and cleaned his penknife with a tissue before resuming his search. Remembering that Daphne was still here, he looked up (well, since he was now standing at over seven feet, he looked down) and shrugged his shoulders.

“Yeah, I’ve no idea where I left it. Could be anywhere, really. But I’m positive it’s in this room.” He turned back to the wardrobe, making a small sound of disgust at the sight of the crushed remains of the arachnid.

“But feel free to look around for it, though, Darla. Many hands make light work,” he said indifferently, waving his hand vaguely about the room.

[/center]

[pj]

Darla followed Mort into the centre of his room and frowned slightly. How was it that he didn't know straight away where the bombs were? How was it, exactly, that he seemed so nonchalant about something so incredibly vital to her mission-their partnership? Darla folded her arms across her chest and waited for Mort to get hit by a bolt of memory lightning. She watched him climb on the vanity stool and search the top of his bureau with a raised eyebrow, her patience thinning.

Darla flinched slightly at the crunching sound of the spider's killing and shook her head with disdain. This was going to be very interesting, to say the least. Darla's eyes snapped to Mort when he spoke. "What?" she asked angrily, "You don't know where it is?" Darla's eye twitched with a simmering anger and forced herself to not fly off the handle. Stay calm, Darla, stay calm. You wouldn't want to kill this lying, good for nothing... Darla began pacing the room, willing herself to be patient. Patience is a virtue, she thought solemnly, Not that I have very many of those...

"Alright. I'll help look for it." Darla ran an exasperated hand across her forehead. "Where did you last see it? Is there anywhere..." She bit her lip anxiously and looked up at the ceiling. "Hold on," she whispered with a distracted air. Her eyes followed a watermark trailing across the ceiling. It led just above the wardrobe to a brass vent that looked as though it had been cleaned recently- the only thing in the room that had. A smile tugged at her lips and she looked back around the room, her eyes looking for something that resembled a toolbox.

"Do you have a screwdriver...?" She asked, trailing off as she upturned books and tables in search of anything that she could use to pry open that damned vent.

[Louis Capet]

Mort could hear the anger in Darla’s voice as she expressed her irritation of his apparent loss of the bomb. From within his cubbyhole between the old linen, he rolled his eyes and shook his head at her complete lack of patience. It was probably for the best that his head was obscured from Darla’s sight by the large, hollow wooden construction, as he suspected she probably would have gauged his eyeballs out to prevent him from showing such insubordination again.

But, wait. It sounded like Darla had found something. Now, that was good news, and it meant Mort could stop poking around the smelly duvets. But a screwdriver? He didn’t have a screwdriver. Taking a second to think of what would be a sufficient substitute for a screwdriver, he shifted his gaze to his right hand where he was still holding his penknife, now wiped clean of spider gore.

“Hold on,” called Mort from within the wardrobe, attempting to lift his head out of the top compartment but smacking the top of his head against the hardwood inside of the closet and causing a bang to echo through the room. Muttering a small, “Ouch!” and wincing in pain, he drew slowly out of the dangerous piece of furniture and turned to face Darla, still rubbing the back of his head and giving the wardrobe the occasional dark glare.

“Oh, la vache!” he groaned, utilising one of his favourite curses, before offering the trusty penknife to Darla.

“I’ve got this,” he said, waving the tool about slightly. “I think it may have a screwdriver in there somewhere. What did you say you needed it for again?”