Chapter Three

So the ratings are getting ever higher for this. Might say something about me, though I'm going to ignore what. Rated R for language, because the characters are the type to use four-letter words, and I'm not censoring them. As usual, unedited. But there's a real villain now. That makes up for it, right?

In other news - 8288k! Woo! 

Stranger was slouched in his seat, desperately trying to remember the exact line of reasoning that had brought him here. When Ladyguard (it was what she'd told him to call her, and he'd been more than unsettled enough to ignore that that sounded rather like a feminine hygiene product) had made her daft proposal, he'd actively started laughing. Then she'd glared at him, and the sneaking suspicion that she could remove some of his favorite limbs without blinking caused his laugh to peter out. She proceeded to tell him that her services were free, that she was protecting him for his own good, and that she wouldn't get in the way in the least, none of which had persuaded him. He didn't need a bodyguard, much less one that would have George leering at him every morning. But then, she'd started talking, expounding on the many virtues of having someone else watching his back, waxing lyrical on the exact rarity and value of his inheritance, hinting about the exact lengths the types of people interested in his inheritance would go to obtain it... And she'd proved very persuasive. When she finally stopped talking and looked at him expectantly, he'd opened his mouth, shut it, then asked weakly, "And you're doing this for free?"

She'd nodded, and that had been that. He'd got himself a bodyguard (Ladyguard), and he hadn't even thought to ask her why she was doing this.

Of course, things were never really that simple. She'd gone from zero to sixty then, telling him all the things he was going to have to do to remain safe. He was, of course, going to have to have his inheritance moved somewhere safe, to prevent dastardly fiends from getting at it. Did he have somewhere relatively safe to store it? (Here George had made the mistake of mentioning his penthouse suite.) Perfect, that would do nicely, at least for tonight.

Pulling out her phone, she dialed a number and spent approximately eighty seconds seemingly calling in a favor, then another twenty giving their respective addresses, and hung up to continue talking.

And Stranger was of course going to stay somewhere with security at least as high as that of his inheritance - George, darling, surely your penthouse has room for two overnight guests? Thank you, you're lovely - and they should all head over there as soon as the movers arrived, so she could make sure everything was up to her standards. Several of her associates would be arriving there after she ascertained it was acceptable, because as good as she was, she did only have to eyes and two ears, which was rather an inconvenience when a place has more than one entryway. But don't worry, George darling, they won't been in your home, they'll be around it. Ounce of prevention worth a pound of cure, you know. In any case, you'll be safer than houses there. Much safer than houses. Oh, and of course we're going to need to change your general habits and look. No need to make this any easier than it needs to be for any ne'er-do-wells out there. You'll need to dress a bit nicer, love, and maybe get rid of those sideburns. (Here was the first time he managed to catch up to her enough to protest anything. If there was one thing he wasn't doing, it was shave his sideburns.) But it's such an identifier, love. No? Fine, we'll work around it. Just know you've doomed yourself to a vist from the makeup artist instead. And habits - I know just the thing. Tonight, love, you're going to the ballet. And then the movers had shown up and everything had gone to hell.

After the chaos of getting eighteen crates of antique erotica packaged and moved to George's place (Missy the Marionette, as she was now called, was sitting on a chair George didn't particularly like, because her crate had been 'accidentally' destroyed when one of the movers tripped. Stranger would have sworn that he'd seen Ladyguard stick her foot out in front of him), arguing over what clothes Stranger could and could not bring, what he would and would not wear, and two excruciatingly long hours in a makeshift salon, where he was given a full makeover to an Upright though Eccentric Gentleman of Leisure, he'd forgotten Ladyguard's plans for the evening. Which was unfortunate, because he could have used the time under the makeup brush planning how to avoid the torture inherent in spending a night at the ballet. When she'd reminded him, waving tickets under his nose as an incentive to hurry up, words had been exchanged. Arguments had been wielded. Big, watery eyes had been, in the end, weaponized. And that was how he found himself now, at what he was regularly assured was a superb performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream, with a bodyguard whom he hadn't known about nor wanted this morning oohing and ahing beside him.

It wasn't exactly the most convincing narrative, he had to admit.

Although he supposed there were worse ways he could spend his evening than sitting next to an attractive woman who seemed quite happy, and didn't seem to mind his company.

And he found himself minding hers less and less as the ballet wore on.

Though, of course, he would never admit that, and still thought the idea of needing a bodyguard (Ladyguard!) absurd.

At the end of Act 1, with the storyline with which he was familiar evidently wrapped up and intermission beginning, he escaped into the lobby. Then, upon seeing the posh crowds around him, and the exact price of a drink, he escaped into the men's room (even here, it was alarmingly posh - gold accents and silver inlay posh), where he finally had the privacy and relative quiet to have a mental breakdown in peace.

He'd liked his uncle well enough while he was alive, though found him slightly off-putting - anyone who lives in a place where stuffed and mounted kills outnumber the actual residents forty to one goes a little strange. But now that he was dead, he'd become Stranger's least favorite relative with alarming ease, even beating out Aunt Rachel, who smelled of cooking sherry and thought the Westboro Baptists had the right idea, although, 'there's not enough burning, with them. Burning things is a highly overlooked method of setting people straight, and unless it comes into general use again, it'll all end in tears, mark my words.' At least with her, he'd been relatively sure she thought that faggots were bundles of wood. With Uncle Perce, he thought it was far more likely that he knew what he was getting Stranger into, and simply thought it would be funny. Stranger did not appreciate it.

But right now he was stuck with an attractive bodyguard whom he did not want and who was doing the job for inscrutable reasons of her own, a marionette designed to give nightmares and blowjobs, possible shadowy aggressors who would stop at nothing to get said marionette - although he thought those were more likely a figment of said bodyguard's imagination, honestly - and a raging need for a drink.

Really, he could put up with the rest of it if he had a drink.

Ten minutes later, during which he ran through those approximate thoughts until they were threadbare, and no closer to a solution other than, 'Then go get a drink,' he left the men's room again. To his utter lack of surprise, Ladyguard was waiting for him there. She was no longer the dervish she'd been for most of the day, nor the animated, sparkling lady who'd gotten him a few envious looks when they'd first come in. Now she was serious, which he found far more alarming than either of her other states.

"What happened?" he asked, weakly.

"The first attempt on your inheritance happened while we were in the ballet. We're getting you home, now." Her eyes were hard, her job having taken over. "We didn't think they'd try anything so soon."

"Who's they? What?" Stranger was once more confused, topsy-turvy, the slight calm he'd gained from a few private minutes banished. "Is George alright?"

"Everyone is fine," she told him tersely. "But we're leaving now." And she turned and went for the main doors, in a swirl of glittering purple evening gown. He followed her, because at this point, there was nothing else for it.

She led him back into the lobby, threading through crowds of glittering people with ease, leaving him to get through the crush as best he could, and sweeping out the front doors onto the street almost before he could see where she'd gone. When he did catch up to her, she was waiting somewhat impatiently next to a sleek looking black car that had impossibly found a parking spot directly in front of the theater. Opening the car door, he paused for a moment, then said, a touch sheepishly, "After you."

She rolled her eyes and got in, and he slid in after, feeling a bit stupid. For several minutes, an awkward silence reigned, as the unknown chauffer slid them out into traffic and along Boston's neon-lit streets. Finally, though, Stranger cleared his throat, and said, "Okay. I've been quite patient, so far. I've not actually called the cops, in spite of the fact that my life has evidently been taken over by a risque spy plot. I've been good, I haven't impeded your plans too much, but I'm on the verge of having an actual mental breakdown, here in the back of your admittedly very nice car, and I can't say that I won't puke on your kid leather."

She simply looked at him, and he tried again. "What I'm saying is, tell me what the hell is going on, or I'm sick in your car, then I walk out and cease our association."

There was a minute pause, and then she sighed. "Fine. It's not your fault you were dragged into this, nor that you don't have a bleeding clue what's going on." Although her tone definitely suggested at least the latter was, in fact, his fault. "And this is probably the least-bugged place we'll be for the next couple weeks or so, so I suppose it's for the best." She nodded once, decisive. "Any specfic questions, before I give a bit of big picture?"

"Ah..." Stranger shifted awkwardly in his seat. "What happened at George's place? Any major damage?"

"What happened was that four operatives from the group of whose existence I have not yet apprised you attempted to enter George's penthouse through illicit, illegal, and, most importantly, idiotic means. Taking the four most common routes to the four least obtrusive entries - meaning the four most obvious, to a housebreaker," she explained, seeing Stranger's confusion but construing it incorrectly. "They then attempted to get inside. Our operatives dealt with that. The intruders were disarmed and removed. By the way, if George wants to show you his katana," she said, the slightest hint of a smirk appearing on her face, "It's not necessarily a euphemism anymore.

"While the first four operatives were being dealt with, a second squad was attempting more covert means. By posing as relief for the current on-duty operatives, they attempted to gain access to the penthouse. However, during the verbal exchange of sign and counter-sign, they failed to respond correctly, and were removed after a slight struggle. Which is why George also had a prototype light-pulse gun, albeit one that has been appropriately fiddled with that it won't fire until specific vocal commands are given." Her smirk reappeared, for just a second. Then she was all seriousness. "Any other questions?"

Stranger paused. It was perhaps wrong of him, but suddenly one was overwhelming his mind. "You let George have possession of both a katana, which unless I'm wrong means a curved fucking sword, and a 'protype light-pulse gun,' which sounds like a fucking phaser? Are you out of your minds?"

"He was complaining about the possibility of blood on the carpeting, and the operatives decided that the possible danger was well-worth making him shut up," Ladyguard said, a smile hinting around the corners of her mouth. "Your friend is interesting."

Stranger shook his head, disgusted.

"In any case, the total damage suffered by his apartment building was one damaged potted plant, two people who will complain of disturbed sleep, and a door-handle was broken off. The rest in in peak condition."

"Fine," Stranger said. "That's all. Now, big picture, please?"

"Oh, that's much simpler." Ladyguard seemed almost smug. "Your inheritance is being lusted after by one Sir Roger Stomcock - no pun intended. Anything he wants so badly as to poison a ninety year old man for it is something highly dangerous. My group, the unnamed, with a lowercase U, is in charge of preventing gentlemen like him from getting their hands on anything that could help them acheive their goals. We heard about your inheriting the collection, and decided that it was time to swing into action."

Stranger did his best not to gape at her, then gave up and did so anyway. "Uncle Perce was poisoned?"

"More like anti-poisoned, too much of a good thing," she said. "A fatal dose of morphine was sent through his IV. He was very happy for a bit, then he was dead."

Stranger nodded, wordless.

"In any case, you are now subject to the attentions of my little gang of international bodyguards, spies, mercenaries, Intelligence-for-hire, and thugs. We'll keep you safer than houses and your house even more so."

"I'm doomed, aren't I?" Stranger asked, philosophically. "I'm going to end up dead in an interesting and painful way, because of that damned marionette and an uncle who thinks I'm a tough chap who can handle this sort of thing."

"Oh, we'll do our very best to prevent that," Ladyguard said, smiling like a shark. "In the game we play with Sir Roger, every death is a point for him. And we really, truly dislike giving up the least point."

The car stopped, smoothly gliding to a halt outside George's apartment building. "Come now, inside," Ladyguard said, slipping out the far door before Stranger could start suffering from misguided chivalry again. "I'm sure your friend wants to display his prowess with semi-confidential weaponry."

"God. I'm completely screwed," Stranger told the chauffer. The man simply nodded, his face as blank as any he'd seen. Stranger sighed, and followed LAdyguard inside.

-----

The penthouse looked more or less intact, aside from the chaos into which it had been thrown by the arrival of the unnamed. The crates were missing - moved to a safer location, he was informed tersely - but the rest of the mess was still there. George was alternately glowering at a specific guard, a petite ginger who seemed as oblivious to him as he was irritated at her, and being entranced with his very own energy weapon and legitimate Ninja Sword. "I'd have preferred nunchucks," he confided to Stranger, "But a katana is pretty cool too. Plus, I'm pretty sure it's watered steel. And this thing," he said, holding up an honest-to-god phaser, "is fucking amazing. I can toast bread with it."

He pointed towards a plate in the kitchen, piled high with perfectly done slices of toast, golden brown and appetizing. "The only issue is that I think it makes it slightly radioactive, so I haven't tried any," he continued. "But you're welcome to have some."

Stranger looked at the toast, and imagined he could see it glowing faintly green. "No thanks," he said. "Do you have anything else to eat?"

"There's some caviar and chocolate in the fridge," George said. "And I think I've got some bagels in the freezer. Help yourself."

"Will do." He'd realized exactly how hungry he was - he hadn't really eaten anything today except the BLT someone had handed him around lunchtime, and after the bender they'd gone on the night before, he was starved.

(This goes some way, but certainly not all the way, to explaining why, when the building had to be evacuated half and hour later, one of the foodstuffs left to fend for itself was a caviar-and-chocolate bagel sandwich. Not all the way, by all means, but Stranger was hungry, and hungry people make odd sandwiches.)

Making himself something to eat, Stranger listened to the muted conversation passing between Ladyguard and a big, burly looking fellow in the living room. He couldn't make out the words, but the rhythm of the conversation was that of two colleagues who knew each other well and needed to communicate nothing but the basics for the other to know exactly what had happened. A conversation like that could contain books worth of information in a few short sentences. Stranger told himself he wasn't envious of that sort of relationship, but didn't believe it. An author didn't have much of a shot at gaining long-haul coworkers, if they didn't have a collaborator. He sometimes wondered what his life would be like if he hadn't spent a good portion of his youth holed up by himself, writing until he knew words better than he knew people. Maybe he'd have a penthouse like George's. Of course, that implied a lifestyle like George's, and he was pretty sure the champagne alone would be enough to do in his liver.

The conversation ended, and Stranger rose from his reverie. Ladyguard was looking grim. "It's time to go somewhere else," she said. "A mobile command unit. This place isn't going to be safe anymore."

George looked put-out. "What about me?" he asked, sounding as petulant as is possible for a twenty-eight year old modelesque business man. (Very petulant.)

Ladyguard rolled her eyes. "Of course you're coming. It's either that or kill you, because you know too much. And we're not giving Stomcock the point."

George didn't seem to know whether to be pleased or terrified. Stranger, knowing slightly more than he did, was thoroughly terrified on his behalf, somewhere in the back of his mind. He wondered what his chances were of getting away and hiding out somewhere where no one could find him. But Malcolm's was closed, and they knew where his apartment was, so that left him with zero options. There was nothing for it. He put down his sandwich and followed the troupe of bodyguards (What was the term for a collection of bodyguards? A terror? A brute? A thug?) out the door and down through the building, to where a huge bus awaited out front. He looked at it. "I want my life back," he said. "Is that possible?"

"Sorry, sweetheart," said the petite ginger, dragging George past him by the hand holding the phaser. "Your old life is currently on hold until this gig is finished. Deal." George handed him a bottle of twenty-year Jack Daniel's as he was hauled into the bus.

Stranger looked down at the bottle in his hands. "Fuck it," he said, opened the bottle, and climbed aboard.

------

Unseen to him, someone crosswired an alarm deep within the building, causing it to send out an alert to every emergency service in the area - there was a matural gas leak in the building. Which was why, twenty minutes later, the building was empty when the mustard gas was pumped in. The place was unihabitable for a week.