I Am Jack's Smirking Revenge (Marcus)

[JENNA GRAY]

Clothez be hurr

Twenty four hours ago, Jenna would have found the very idea of her presence in an establishment such as this an absolutely ludicrous one. She moved through the steamy chamber, wrinkling her nose as she squeezed between bodies that reeked of sweat and alcohol, squinting as if to shield her eyes from the stinging onslaught of whatever the air around her was laden with. The baleful glare with which she often treated club employees was disseminated throughout the crowd as she pressed against grimy skin, shutting out as best she could the whistles and cackling mutilations of her name that echoed across the dark and slimy-looking walls.

Jenna Gray did not belong here. She felt like a stalagmite, jutting out from an otherwise even floor. Jenna Gray was made for cameras, for twinkling stars aligned along catwalks, for microphones and seething seas of paparazzi, for complimentary champagne and limousines and marble bathtubs and witty banter on private rooftop gardens augmented by wine glasses and caviar-topped crackers. Jenna was meant for the spotlight, whether or not she was content with that fact. And these primal underground swells, the dank armpits of humanity, were a foreign nation to her.

”I’m looking for Marcus Borgia.” She tried to hide the nervousness from her voice as she called out, wandering aimlessly through the pulsing crowd, trying to stay as far from the inner ring as she possibly could. The most powerful and effective drug in the world couldn’t possibly be enough of an impetus to send Jenna Gray within visual range of that brutal, primitive circle. This was a fight club, but Jenna was certainly, and without a doubt not here to fight.

”Marcus Borgia? I need to see Marcus Borgia.” Her voice rose slightly in irritation. He had to be here somewhere, right? He had to be. Jenna had been in this club for almost an hour already: under no circumstances was she leaving without finding what she’d come for. ”Marcus Borgia?”

I should leave. The thought thudded through her head like a second pulse. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to leave. This night could be the most important night of her life, the night when she finally embraced her true identity, the night when the Jay within her would shrivel up and die, the night when she would finally step into the world with her own name, her own identity. A name and an identity that she could be proud of, that her true self wouldn’t hiss and spit at the very mention of.

And if tonight were a success?

Well, Jenna Gray, not Jay, was going to win heart of the woman she loved.

[MARCUS BORGIA]

To Marcus, an 'establishment such as this' was no different than any other place on the planet. All human gathering places were, to some extent, some way for the mortals to spread their own worst qualities about, especially if there was alcohol present in some form. Nearly all of the seven 'deadly' sins, as his critics would like to call them made some appearance or other in these places, and sometimes moreso in the so-called 'high-society' locales than in the seedy hang-outs. Marcus had personally seen all seven in all of their interesting, hedonistic glory in the palaces and royal courts of old, and galas at the top of modern society. The people in dark little pubs tended to be more genuinely friendly and giving, so Jenna's concerns about being here in the Alleyway would have been absolutely laughable to him, and he'd love to hear about them.

Along the same lines as her feeling that she didn't belong there, she didn't look like she belonged there, and Marcus would have had to be metaphysically blind to miss her presence. He had a table all his own that was always his now (he'd taken it from an underworld big shot without much trouble), and he was seated there watching the crowd with a martini glass sitting a few inches from where his hand rested on the table. He touched it every so often, mostly for for something to reassure those who might see him that he had a reason for being there, and to keep the cocktail waitresses who were so taken with him in that pleasant state of mind where they simply thought he was a charming, attractive young man; sometimes, it was the little things that set people on edge.

For someone like Marcus, it wasn't any difficulty to catch his name somewhere in the crowd, and truly, it wasn't just because he could hear her shouting or speaking to others. That feeling that people talked about, where your ears were supposed to ring when people were talking about you? Well, Marcus' ears didn't ring, but there was that feeling to make him clue into her presence, and then he simply monitored her progress through the crowd, gently prodding at her subconscious to send her in his direction. It was better if she thought she found him on her own rather than through his influence, especially if she was interested in his brand of help. He didn't want to scare her off, and there was that whole 'free will' thing that was so delightful.

When she broke from the crowd closer to his table, he smiled, very obviously watching her, and then lifted his glass to her. Only when she was closer did he gesture for her to sit, making his interest known. "Marcus Borgia, at your service, miss. How can I help you?"

His voice had a way of carrying, even in the noise around them, without him having to shout. It was a good trick to have, but still subtle enough that it didn't seem too unusual. It was just part of who he was, that deep, rich voice and that knowing look in his eyes, like he knew her problems, but was just waiting for her to air them into the open for dissection.

[JENNA GRAY]

Jenna had been wading her way through this marsh of sticky bodies for such a long time that she could physically feel the muck beginning to weigh down on her muscles. More and more it sucked at her limbs, threatening to pull her down, down…

Right. And where was down, in this imbecilic metaphor? Hell? What else could possibly be located beneath these bowels of the city? Would it ever be possible for one to simply…

Jesus Christ. This place was clearly driving Jenna mad. Perhaps it was time to leave; she’d need at least thirty minutes to return to her apartment, and by the time her stylist arrived to assemble the night’s wardrobe and her publicist debriefed her on the various positions and personalities who would be attending the night’s event, she’d be lucky if she saw any of the first hour of the Masquerade Ball.

It was probably all fantasy and fairytale anyways, she thought to herself, as she began to weave her way towards where she hoped the exit was located. How juvenile, how delusional had she been, to think that a man existed with a potion that could make her happy, make her feel beautiful, rid her of Jay, of this ambivalence that ravaged her mind and body constantly? How naïve, the thought that a simple magic draught, one of Harry Potter’s little concoctions, could take the suffering from her life. Jenna felt disillusioned. Of course it didn’t exist, she reprimanded herself, keeping her eyes glued to the ground as she once again navigated the turbulent sea of brutes. Never again would she fasten such time and energy on a single, vain hope. Never again—

"Marcus Borgia, at your service, miss. How can I help you?"

Jenna jumped slightly at the low, but surprisingly rich, substantive voice but recovered quickly, glancing downward to see a professional-looking young man seated at small table. She quickly molded her expression from one of shock to one of eloquent acknowledgement, nodding politely and pulling out the chair to take a gentle seat. ”Ah. Good afternoon, Mr. Borgia. Jenna Gray.” She extended a firm hand to shake. ”I’m here to inquire about…”

Jenna paused, scanning the immediate area to ensure that it was devoid of eavesdroppers and such, before leaning in and speaking in a low and conspiratorial voice. She had no concept of whether or not Mr. Borgia’s fellow denizens of the Alleyway were in the know as far as this drug was concerned, but assumed the situation better safe than sorry. ”I’m here to inquire about Pride.” She spoke the word sharply with an air of importance, like the name of a person rather than simply a noun. ”What can you tell me about it?”

She hoped that this product was legitimate, that this man would shove her disbelief to the floor and stomp on it until it disintegrated. Because if anyone could make the business worth his while, it was Jenna Gray.