Put It All On Black

Link to article: Put It All On Black.



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The Carters bring Dorian to Vegas.
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[[include :scp-wiki:info:start]]
Info about the article
**Content warning:** This article contains graphic suicide, gambling addiction, and substance use.
[[include :scp-wiki:info:end]]

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+ January 3, 2021

Never in his life did he think he would spend his twenty-first birthday on an all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas. Plenty of young men would have killed for that chance.

What a thought. . .

As Dorian landed, he could imagine how breathtaking the Strip must have appeared at night. However, he arrived in the middle of the afternoon, and those bright lights were muted amid the sand and concrete.

He could appreciate what the city stood for. The careless disregard for inhibition, the performance of it all. It seemed every billboard paraded addiction and carnal pleasure with some law and insurance advertisements sprinkled in. The neon frenzy of activity reminded him of home in a way London’s buttoned-up manners couldn’t hold a torch to.

Maybe he could have enjoyed himself in a place like this. He might've spent the evening chatting up bartenders and showgirls, tipping them well and giving at least the latter the appreciation of a kindred spirit. Vegas always welcomed new money and pretty words.

But despite the calendar date, Dorian Sloan had come to Las Vegas for business, nothing else.

By 8pm, he was on the casino floor of the Bellagio hotel. Golden light and luxury glittered around him, sprawling up to high ceilings. The warmth could barely combat the obnoxiously vibrant screens of the slot machines. He heard murmuring, accompanied by the soft slaps and shuffling of cards. A scan of the room confirmed a rumor he'd heard—there were no clocks or windows in sight.

Before anything else, Dorian flashed his ID to the tuxedoed staff at the front to prove that, as of today, he was allowed to gamble without supervision or interruption. They looked at his fresh license, then at his Armani attire, before graciously sending him into the casino with happy birthday wishes.

He got the same look when he went to trade his one-hundred thousand in cash for chips, though the teller was better at concealing her amusement. No doubt, this hotel has seen countless boys just like him cough up their allowances. But as Dorian stepped onto the smooth paisley carpet, he intended to make money, not burn it.

He spotted the man of the hour at the roulette table. As Dorian approached, he saw his target’s face sour with a loss.

A shock of worry went through him that Bernard Morris might quit before he reached him, but of course, that wasn’t how gambling addictions worked.

Dorian took advantage of the short break and found a spot at the table to the man’s right. He was in his forties, though he wore those years hard. His hairline crept back, and his eyes—narrowed in concentration—sunk into his face, ringed by discoloration.

“Forty bands on black,” Dorian said casually, pushing his chips forward, then flashing Morris a smile. [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Match me on red. That way, one of us has to win.”[[/span]]

“I like the way you think, stranger,” Morris replied, and with no hesitation, made his bet.

God had blessed Dorian with a silver tongue, and the devil herself [http://https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-wolf-at-the-door had seen fit to hire him for it.] Watching Morris gamble, however, he doubted any anomalous persuasion was needed to make him keep playing.

The ball spun, then landed on red. Dorian bit the inside of his cheek, even as he reminded himself that he wasn’t betting with his own money.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“You’re on a roll. You’ve got to go again.”[[/span]] He urged in a velvety voice. [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Might as well double it—see what happens.”[[/span]] Even as Dorian declined to repeat his bet, Morris stacked one hundred sixty thousand dollars in chips on the table.

Dorian wondered what it meant for him that over the past year, he'd come to see this as a small sum.

The man blanched at the loss, almost surprisingly. Panic struck his face like a deer the moment it realizes the car wasn't going to stop. Before Dorian could get a word in—which was not an easy feat—he’d gone all in, moving chips with furious, decisive movements.

Lady Luck slighted him once more. The neon light bounced off his glassy, bewildered eyes.

How could the bastard possibly be shocked? Dorian was certain that even if he'd grown up with enough funds to spare on blind trust for the odds, he'd still find roulette abhorrently stupid. How could anyone come to Vegas and think they could beat the house?

“Holy shit, my wife’s gonna kill me,” Morris said, bringing a hand up to his forehead.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Oh? Why?”[[/span]] He inquired. Morris shook his head, but Dorian leaned forward with a smile. [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“C’mon, tell me.”[[/span]]

“Because that was my daughter’s tuition," he admitted, trembling.

Any scraps of pity and hesitation dissolved instantly.

Dorian thought of the little sister he'd be moving into Columbia in a few months' time. For years, he'd pained over how to pay for her education, only to be saved the trouble by his generous employer and her full-ride offer. Meanwhile, here was an executive actively whittling away his progeny's future with each bad bet.

His smile and eyes a bit colder now, Dorian clapped Morris’ shoulder.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“It’s gonna be okay, man.”[[/span]]

“I can go take out more—” He started toward an ATM, but Dorian gently held onto him.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Shh, don’t worry about that now,”[[/span]] Dorian said. [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Just follow me, why dontcha?”[[/span]] Supplemented by a small beckoning motion of his hand, Dorian had Morris trailing on his heels out of the casino in a devastated trance.

“Where are we going?” Each of Morris' steps seemed to catch a fall, and Dorian half-wondered if he'd been drinking, or if he was simply weighed down by the consequences of his actions.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Oh, just upstairs.”[[/span]] Dorian said, subtly glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention to their exit. All clear.

“Your room?” Morris asked, some skepticism slipping into his voice.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“No, you’re not really my type, sorry. But that’s okay. We’re still gonna spend the evening together. You seem like you could use a friend right now. Right this way. I promise, you’ll feel a lot better soon.”[[/span]]

They stepped into the elevator, wooden doors closing them in. The rest of the walls were panelled with mirrors, reflecting this damning exchange back at Dorian in his periphery. For this reason, among others, he appreciated the high-speed design.

“Bernard Morris, right?" Dorian asked. The last thing he needed was to show up with the wrong guy.

“Yes,” he paled, blinking as if waking up, if only for a moment. “How did you—”

The elevator dinged softly, the small box with the floor number lighting up:

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[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“You know, when I first heard your name, I thought it sounded familiar,"[[/span]] he said. [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]"You were in London last month, weren’t you? And while you were, you made some people upset. You do a lot of that, don’t you? Your wife, your brothers, your father, your bosses—” [[/span]]

“Did Carter send you?” Morris’ voice quivered like a scared child, almost failing him.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Oh, sweetheart, what makes you think you get to ask me questions?”[[/span]] Dorian purred. [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Now, quit interrupting me. What did you think was going to happen?”[[/span]]
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[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Here's how this works: you're not going to speak, sure as hell not going to scream, and above all, you're not going to move unless I tell you specifically. Do we understand each other? Nod if yes." [[/span]]

Morris nodded mechanically as tears welled up along the bottom of his sky-blue eyes.

//"Please,"// he mouthed. //"I'll pay."//

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]"Oh, please, we both know you can't afford me."[[/span]] Dorian said. [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]] "But that you offered doesn't shock me. You couldn't even afford that oil painting you won at my auction in London last month. I remember—it was this beautiful Veskoti, and yet, you threw a fit when the house told you that you couldn't return it. Don’t you know that Sotheby’s doesn’t do refunds?" [[/span]]

Dorian watched a shudder go through Morris as he realized he recognized the voice from the show. He closed his eyes, a silent string of words falling from his lips. A prayer? A curse? An accusation? Dorian didn't care to speculate.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]"We thought it was odd behavior, of course—why wouldn't an oil exec be able to afford a painting? So we checked your books, and what do we find, if not good, old-fashioned embezzlement? What nerve, to cry about how you can’t afford what we’ve charged you, just to come here and blow at least five times that. That wasn’t your money to throw onto the pyre, you know."[[/span]]

The Carters made it clear to Dorian that they couldn't have cared less about Morris' behavior or proclivities. Actively chipping away at their bottom line, however, was inexcusable.

One way or another, his bosses would always get their pound of flesh.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]"Settling your gambling debts with more gambling is foolish enough, but to think you could do so in this god-forsaken city without the Carters finding out? The bill always comes around at the end, Mr. Morris. Tonight, I’m your debt collector. It’s nothing personal."[[/span]]

He frantically shook his head, but it didn't matter.

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//17//
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[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Myself, it’s my first time in Vegas. Lovely city you’ve got here, not that you’re a native either. I’m sure natives must have even less pity for gamblers than I do. That's wise of 'em. No one beats the odds. Those who do get kicked out for playing the game too well. The house didn't gamble, and anyone who understands an inkling about profit would understand that. But people just love to play the wrong games with the wrong people and still want to be shocked when they win stupid prizes? Ridiculous.”[[/span]]

It didn’t matter what he said, just that he kept speaking. Just so long as his words continued to worm into his quarry’s ears and head. Morris stared straight ahead, body rigid.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“I mean, I told my boss just this week that if I wanted to risk my life savings on red and black, I’d rather just do it at the New York Stock Exchange. I mean, that’s the gambling capital of the world right there. Not that I don’t invest, of course, but blackjack doesn’t pay dividends, does it? Suppose it doesn’t have bubbles, either, though, so pick your poison, right?”[[/span]]
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//23//
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[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“That’s one of the reasons suicide is astonishingly common in the City. It’s practically a plague among investors. A few bad bets or a crash will ruin you. Sometimes the only way to cut your losses is to end it all before you have to live with being broke. You understand, don’t you? All too well. It helps that we’ve got all those bridges and skyscrapers everywhere. Makes killing yourself a rather scenic event.”[[/span]]
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A small sob choked out of Morris as he tried to tell Dorian he didn't want to die. None of them ever did, naturally.

Dorian reminded himself that it didn't matter to him.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“No fancy high-rises for me, though! No corner offices or framed diplomas. No class rings to do my networking for me. I was raised by the rats in the sewers of the FiDi.”[[/span]]

In recent months, Dorian had found plenty of joy in telling everyone a different version of the truth. This was closer than most.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“And when I was offered a chance to be dragged up in the world for the price of a soul and a silver tongue, how could I have refused?”[[/span]]
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//29//
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[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“But you—you seem like the kind of guy under the impression that everything in the world is yours for the taking. Are all oil brats like that, or are you just especially stupid? The inheritors of the world were determined long before we entered the scene. The more time I spend in this role, the more I realize it’s just the six of them and all the rest of us. Ants unto them in their castles in the sky.”[[/span]]

Dorian smiled and winked as if letting him in on a secret.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“That’s not to say I don’t prefer being a well-paid drone to being thrown off the side of that ivory tower.”[[/span]]
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//34//
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At the end of the day, the decision between death and wealth had never been difficult for Dorian, no matter how grisly the job could get.

Morris swayed on his feet, tears fully falling in fat droplets down ruddy cheeks.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Ah, finally! Here we are. Thank you for indulging me, Mr. Morris. You’ve been wonderful company on the long ride up, but our time together is almost at an end. Now, this door is going to open, and you’re going to follow me out, because the very least you can do after wrecking your life is be cooperative.”[[/span]]

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A string of chanted instructions like [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]//come on//[[/span]], and [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]//one step, two step, one step—//[[/span]] left him in a comfortable auction chant. He’d stopped bothering trying to estimate the speed of his words, though he knew the elevator ride could not have lasted more than a minute.

Through the unadorned concrete halls, the staff staircase, and the fire escape, they went. The keycard the Carters had given him did its job without a hitch. At last, he reached and unlocked the final maintenance door to the rooftop.

Both Carters were already up there waiting. Their only job for this part had been to ensure no one else was. Dorian ignored them both, too focused on Morris, who seemed like a zombie already.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Oh, one more thing before you go,”[[/span]] Dorian added, recalling Ruprecht’s special request with a snap of his fingers. [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Who wears velvet suits? And in the middle of the desert in August? Not that it would be less hideous any other time of the year, but then maybe it’d be practical. Take that ugly shit off.”[[/span]]

One by one, articles of clothing fell to the floor until Morris stood there shivering in his undergarments. Dorian would have done this earlier, but he hadn’t wanted to leave the clothes in the elevator, and Ruprecht seemed to delight in seeing the spectacle as it occurred.

Dorian could think of at least a hundred more economical ways to assassinate a man than this—none, apparently, matched this entertainment value.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Good boy,”[[/span]] Dorian said patronizingly. [[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“Now, the rest of it.”[[/span]]

Morris stepped out of boxers. Ruprecht started to laugh, but Robert swatted him quickly with his tail, as if worried any noise would risk ruining the spell. But Dorian knew Morris was too entrenched for that, and as fun as that last bit had been, he was ready to get this over with.

[[span style="color:#DAA520;"]]“This is a tall building. I wonder if you’ll hit terminal velocity on the way down. I hear it’s euphoric, falling like that. It’s why people decide they want to live halfway down. But not you. You want to fall. Isn’t it funny, how badly you want to? Why shouldn’t you want to die? I would want to die if I were you. So, first, you’re going to climb up there—there you go, grab the rails. Great! Just a bit further, don't be afraid of the edge—and off you go.”[[/span]]

Morris’ feet scraped across the shingles. Then his body folded forward and disappeared. He heard the low //whoosh// getting quieter until—

//Thump.//

Even in his numbness, the combination of blunt impact and shattering bones created a distinctly unpleasant sound.

After a stretch of silence, a satisfied chuckle bubbling up from Robert’s chest.

His tail swayed in content as he approached the edge, reaching up to grab the rails so he could hoist himself up and peer over the North-West side of the building. The tail's swishing sped up with the delight of seeing Morris' body on the ground.

“Dead?” Ruprecht asked.

“Very,” Robert replied, pulling back so as not to be spotted.

“Dorian, my boy, you’ve just made an old man’s week,” Ruprecht said with a laugh, clapping his shoulder so hard that his body rocked.

“Thank you, sir,” he smiled.

“I’ll have the second half of your payment wired to you by morning,” he said. “In the meantime, the least I can do is treat you to dinner. We ought to celebrate a job so well //executed//.” He seemed exceptionally proud of that pun.

“Maybe we should go back inside, then,” Dorian suggested. The wind roared in his ears up here. “I think the bar’s still serving.”

“No, that won’t do. The food here is overrated,” Ruprecht said dismissively. “Besides, it’s your first time in Las Vegas, is it not? We’ve got to make a better impression than that.” He paused, though started up again right as Robert went to give a suggestion. “Does Harlo still have those caviar tacos?”

“I’m sure,” Robert replied. “Though they’re closed by now.”

“Closed?” Ruprecht laughed. “Perfect! No other customers to worry about.” As they walked back inside, he casually rang up the owner and asked for a private dining room.

Robert leaned over to Dorian and said in a low voice: “Well, that was relatively painless, all things considered."

“Agreed," Dorian murmured.

He felt Robert’s gaze scrutinizing him, despite a lack of expression.

"Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah," Dorian said, bringing his fingertips to his throat. "Just need a glass of water."

“Pfh— //wooder//,” Robert playfully mocked his accent.

“//Wawtur//,” Dorian replied in a mimicry of the posh British pronunciation.

"Kiya aap majhe abhi kapi kar sakte hen?[[footnote]] Urdu - Can you copy me now? [[/footnote]]" The headfirst switch into his mother tongue gave a quickness and comfort to his quiet words. It made Dorian wish he had a better reply to the retort than—

"Huh?" Oh well.

Within ten minutes, Dorian was sipping Fiji water in the backseat of a Cadillac with Robert to his left. Ruprecht sat shotgun, chatting familiarly with the driver the whole way to the restaurant. No one acknowledged the three SUVs of bodyguards that tailed them the whole way.

Dorian preferred the condition of motion to the alternative of stillness. The last thing he wanted to do right now was sit around in a hotel room.

Unfortunately, the second to last thing he wanted to do was any more speaking.

With Chrysophilius, it was easy to get him started on a topic, allowing Dorian to sit back and listen to him ramble. Robert, however, was considerably quieter. The ability to shut up and listen was respectable in a businessman, but it meant Dorian couldn’t easily get him started on a tangent about oil or occultism.

Prior to his employment, Dorian’s knowledge of the energy industry had been limited to a few stock pitches—better than his nonexistent awareness of magic at large. Still, he understood the breadth of power that came with Robert holding most of the world’s cartels on strings.

As Robert stared melancholically out the window at the night passing them by, Dorian took the cue to simply put his head to the warm glass and do the same.

“Dorian, don’t tell me Robert’s rubbing off on you,” Ruprecht said with a huff. “I can’t send you back to the Marshalls so mopey.” Robert blatantly ignored this shot, and Dorian felt an obligation to respond in this case.

“No sir," Dorian replied. "Jet lag, sorry."

“Mm.” Ruprecht seemed to take this explanation. “Well, that's understandable. Still, here I was thinking kids your age never ran out of energy! Well, you'll feel better after a proper meal."

"Yes, I'm sure that's it," he said. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank me? For what?" Ruprecht laughed, shaking his head. "I swear, I can't imagine how you've kept any manners about you, given how much time you spend with Chrysophilius—oh, I need to take this."

//Someone's found the body.// The thought seized Dorian with more abruptness than he'd been prepared for. As he listened, however, he realized it was nothing of the sort. Some real estate deal, a lawyer dragging his feet. . . Dorian couldn't hash out all the details, just that it upset Ruprecht enough that he was shouting into his phone the rest of the way to the restaurant.

"Call me back when your head finds its way out of your arse." The call ended, and he let out a heavy sigh before his voice suddenly resumed its previous jollity. "Let's go in, shall we?"

They left the car with the valet and made their way inside the closed restaurant. If the hostess was upset at having to stay late, she didn't let it show. Chances were the staff all knew they were being tipped well for their time.

She brought them to their booth—a cushioned semi-circle the color of warm caramel around a table draped in starched ivory cloth. Dorian wasn't sure how he ended up in the middle, but he cared little about the seating arrangement.

They were automatically brought waters by a waitress.

"Can I start you gentlemen off with any other drinks? Appetizers?" Her voice had a slight fry, and her dark hair was swept out of her face in twin braids.

"I'll take a daiquiri," Ruprecht said firmly. "And—Dorian, you're a caviar fan, yes?"

"For sure," he replied.

As some sort of sick joke, Dorian could have eaten the stupidly expensive black beads for every meal and not gotten sick of them. A few months ago, he’d done just that for a week after finding himself at a loss at what else to do with his commission payout from a lucrative art auction.

Funny how expensive tastes can become affordable overnight.

"We'll do one of each of your caviar bites for the table," Ruprecht told the waitress.

"Of course, wonderful choice. For you, sir?"

“Have you got hot tea with honey?” Dorian requested.

“Yes sir,” the waitress replied. “Do you have a preference? We have green, jasmine—"

“Jasmine’s perfect. Put a splash of bourbon in that, and keep them coming, please.”

Robert tried to order, but was interrupted by Ruprecht.

“Tea in Vegas,” Ruprecht mused, shaking his head. “Though I suppose it still counts as a cocktail.”

Robert sighed quietly in annoyance. He tried again, only for Ruprecht to suddenly remember something else.

"Wait! Aren't you going to ID the young man?" He said too enthusiastically, waving toward Dorian.

The waitress, a bit confused, played along. Dorian smiled indulgently, taking out his wallet and passing her a newly minted card. Her eyes lit up.

"Happy birthday!"

"Thank you," he said softly. A free dessert was in order, if he had to guess.

"I think we should sing," Ruprecht declared.

Dorian grit his teeth and patiently bore through being serenaded for about ten seconds. When it was over, Robert at last managed to send the waitress away with an order for a Tito's and soda.

"Now, Dorian," Ruprecht continued, "I'm hardly one to judge a man for his tastes, and of course, any time is tea time in London, but I maintain that that's an odd cocktail. Some New York delicacy I'm missing out on?"

Dorian shrugged with a small laugh. “More remedy than cocktail. It's for my voice. A cough drop would work about the same."

“Ah," Ruprecht replied, "So there are adverse effects." He leaned back with his hands on his stomach.

“Of course,” Dorian said, “but it’s not much of a price to pay, and a cheap fix at that.”

“Hmm. . .” Ruprecht studied him for a moment before his eyes glittered with a more morbid curiosity. “Tell me, my boy, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done with that silver tongue of yours?” The question made his skin crawl.

“Talked rich folks into buying drinks for me,” he lied, flashing a smile as he raised his water glass to Ruprecht.

He gave a hearty laugh, and Dorian hoped the joke would satisfy him for an answer. No such luck.

Ruprecht cocked his head. "What about what Percival's tasked you with?"

Dorian suddenly went very still, the smile on his lips leaving like the flame of a snuffed-out candle.

"You would sit here and ask me to spill a dead man's secrets?"

A silent beat passed before Ruprecht laughed again, as if there had been any joke made at all.

"You're impressively tight-lipped for someone we pay to run his mouth," he said, still wearing a friendly smile. "So then, what about before we hired you? It's not as if you discovered your abilities only once we started paying you for them."

Dorian knew he would not go without hearing some grizzly answer or another.

He stared contemplatively at his place settings. A hundred incidents of dubious moral standing occurred to him, but everything paled in comparison to what he’d done in the past year.

“Every day, I went to work and committed daylight robbery," he replied. "And every day, I called it sales."

“Oh, don’t get coy with me, Dorian. Secrets are no fun, you know."

The last thing Dorian wanted to do was upset Ruprecht, but that didn't mean he wanted to provide a wealth of information, either. For one, he didn't want to betray the confidence of his other bosses, but on a more selfish note, he just didn't want to hear his deeds relayed back to him in gibes and jokes moving forward.

“Dad—” Robert interjected. Dorian suddenly realized how stiff he was in his seat.

"Come now, it’s just us,” Ruprecht continued to press. “And cocktail hour is the best place for stories!"

For a split second, Dorian was thirteen again, squaring up with a brat twice his size trying to take his older sister for a ride. He heard the crack of him breaking his own nose when Dorian said he should. It overlapped with the sound of Morris' body landing at the base of the Bellagio.

“Fine, fine, I’ve got one for you,” Dorian relented to ease the tension. "Maybe you hoped for something grizzlier, but I think you'll still appreciate this. So, I used to go to a lot of open houses. Free food, and during the summers, free AC."

Ruprecht furrowed his brow. "Anyone can walk into an open house. That's why they're open."

"That's how it started," Dorian said. "But there was one summer where I just started doing all kinds of shit to see what I could get away with. I'd tell people I was a real estate agent, or that I was on lists to view properties. It's one thing to observe how wealthy people act over dinner, but I considered this practice, in a way."

"Well, I'd say it paid off," Ruprecht said in mild amusement.

"Yes, it did," Dorian agreed. "Except that I tried to go to an open house in Tribeca last month to kill time, and the agent recognized me and kicked me out at the door."

"He did?!" Ruprecht looked as angry as he was appalled, and Dorian was suddenly worried he'd just sentenced some real estate agent to death. "That's unacceptable."

"No, not really," he grinned at the memory. "The last time he saw me, I snuck out of the place with about ten croissants in my jacket."

Ruprecht gave another boisterous laugh, though it quieted as his eyes settled on his son across the table.

"Robert, it's terribly rude to be on your phone at dinner," he said playfully. Dorian could hear the tension in the quiet inhale, the noise softly mechanical as the air moved through the gas mask's filters.

"The world doesn't stop just because we're at dinner," Robert replied, his voice even despite any irritation.

"What's happened?" Ruprecht asked as their waitress unobtrusively brought their drinks.

"Just had to shut down a rig down in Texas," he answered vaguely. "Fluid backflow."

Ruprecht's eyes widened. "Sabotage?"

"Worse. Plain human error."

"Doesn't matter to the bottom line, does it?" Ruprecht said.

"No," Robert agreed. "No, it doesn't—but the demons are eager to clean this one up for free."

By the time Dorian had been thrown that particular curveball, the existence of the demonic hadn't even been remotely surprising. He actually wondered if he'd meet some more of them while here in Sin City.

"Ah, you'll get it handled," Ruprecht said in a manner that towed the line between encouraging and dismissive, lifting his drink as to Robert as he said so. "Always so efficient at handling things, this one. I mean, take today's stunt, for example."

Neither of them knew how to respond to this.

Robert muttered something like a thanks and went back to silently typing, and when the waitress brought their appetizers, Dorian was quick to swipe a caviar latke so he had at least had an excuse not to speak.

"On that," Ruprecht said, "any calls about Morris yet?"

//Thump.// Dorian heard it again. 200 pounds of meat hitting asphalt. Bones snapping like pencils.

He calmly sipped his drink as he looked to Robert.

"Nothing yet," he said. "We shouldn't hear anything for at least another hour."

Dorian's role started and ended with the execution, so the details of covering it up weren't in his purview. The Carters seemed to have plenty of practice, though; as did the casinos, if he had to guess.

"Who's that, then?" Ruprecht asked as Robert's phone rang.

"Different company. If you'll excuse me—"

Ruprecht gave a heavy, almost theatrical sigh and sipped his rum.

"Energy's a reliable industry, no doubt," he remarked. "But it's a terrible thing, to see how taxing it is on my boy's time."

"Seems like it," Dorian said. "Nasty business, O&G."

"Nasty business, eh?" Ruprecht cracked a smile. "Oh Dorian, please don't tell me you're an environmentalist."

Dorian gave a quick laugh. "No sir," he said. He'd never been much concerned with it, and saw no reason to start now. The last thing he needed another source of remorse in his life. "Perhaps...cutthroat's a better word?"

Ruprecht's grin widened. "Certainly."

Dorian was reminded of the fact that, strictly speaking, there was no reason for Ruprecht to be there. It had been Robert, not his father, who needed Morris dead to make his life easier.

Ruprecht had just wanted a good show.

He started speaking again, and Dorian found it easy to pay attention to. Ruprecht was an engaging speaker, no doubt, stringing together narratives from business jargon and unfamiliar names. He even went into a story about some escapade he'd had in the Bellagio's Fountain View Suite in his youth.

Dorian didn't even register how long Robert had been gone until Ruprecht became to speak about Morris again. He casually divulged and critiqued his proclivities, his family history, and especially his poor taste in suits and art.

At this turn in conversation, Dorian kept resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. Despite the certainty of their privacy and his bosses' station above the law, he still felt jumpy, as if the waitstaff could hear the metaphorical tell-tale heart beating beneath the floor. He'd hated that poem in school and hated it more now as it came to mind.

//Fucker burned up his daughter's tuition at a roulette table,// Dorian reminded himself, holding onto that final confession of Morris' in his mind. //Even if he'd been a saint, this is your life now. Get over yourself and enjoy your fucking caviar, you ungrateful son of a bitch.//

As Ruprecht spoke, Dorian ran his thumb over the smooth, silver handle of his knife. Eventually, a pause went on too long, and Dorian realized he was expected to reply.

"Yes. Sounds like everyone's better off now that we've let the free market's invisible hand give him a little nudge," he joked with a mouth full of sand. This, at least, earned a hearty laugh from Ruprecht.

"Exactly! So glad you get it," Ruprecht said. "Efficiency is a harder value to instill in people than you would expect."

Dorian popped a taco mechanically into his mouth just as the waitress came back around. As he hadn't even bothered to read the menu, he just copied Ruprecht's ribeye order.

Robert returned to the table wordlessly, as if he could slip back into the booth within being noticed.

"Ah, you just missed her," Ruprecht informed him. "I threw in a filet for you. Read in USA Today this week that lean beef can boost one's mood."

"Thanks," Robert said dryly.

"Well? How's it looking?" Ruprecht asked.

"Repairs should be done by morning," he answered, his tone flat.

"That's //good// news, you know," Ruprecht said, as if telling him something he didn't know. He grinned and nudged Dorian's side. "I swear, this one could find an oil reservoir the size of Texas and still sulk about it."

Dorian felt obligated to give a hollow laugh, but instantly felt worse off for it.

Robert ignored both at the table, simply turning and waving down the nearest waiter for a shrimp cocktail.

"I think, when I'm through here, I need to go up the coast to talk to some of our tech developers in California," Robert said, almost to himself.

"Ah, that works out well! I'm always needing to go pay the Valley a visit."

"Well," Robert said simply. "You do that, then. Though, come to think of it, I should actually go to Austin first."

A deathly silence swept over the table. Robert froze in place, stiff as a board. The chill was contagious, and Dorian swallowed hard.

"Do you think," Ruprecht's voice rumbled. "That I need your permission to go about my business? Do you think my plans should revolve around you?"

Robert, as if realizing what he had started, tried to salvage things. "I only meant, for the drill bits—"

"Should I walk on eggshells so as not to cross into the little bubble of influence you've endeavored to carve out for yourself?" Ruprecht steamrolled over this futile attempt. "Should I accommodate you and your feelings to make your life and business easier at the expense of my own?"

With each word, his volume grew. Dorian pushed as far back as he could into his seat.

Robert, barely whispering, tried to answer. "No—"

"//No!//" The glassware rattled as he slammed a fist down. "No, you haven't the slightest right to sit there, all smug and sad and self-absorbed, and dare to turn all that self-loathing toward me, the man who raised you. So you'll just handle this yourself, like you always do, thinking you know better than the ones who have been doing this our whole lives. And guess what, boy? It will blow up in your face like it always does."

Anytime Robert tried to whisper an interjection, Ruprecht made it very clear he wasn't through yet. He rose into a full outburst, his anger like some awesome force of nature. Even knowing it wasn't directed at him, Dorian was arrested by it. It was like a car crash he couldn't look away from, much less escape.

"Is this how you intend to conduct business for the rest of your life? Letting every little setback put you in blues? Does that notion not embarrass you in the slightest? Because it certainly should." Ruprecht boomed. "You are //inexpressibly// lucky to have contractors who know how to clean up spilt milk instead of just crying over it."

Dorian finished his drink, then realized no waiter in their right mind would be approaching their table anytime soon.

Though the supernova-esqe show of rage felt as though it ran on for an eternity, in truth, it could not have lasted more than five minutes. By the time Ruprecht went quiet again, all the air seemed to be sucked out of the room.

Robert said nothing.

This was going to be a long night.

[[=]]
♦♢♦♢♦
[[/=]]

Robert was not sure how he let himself end up in the same car as Ruprecht on the way to the restaurant, but he made certain it would not happen again on the way back.

He tapped Dorian's arm with the back of his hand as they walked out of the door.

"You're with me," he told him quietly.

Dorian agreed without a word, and when they were sufficiently out of earshot, he asked simply: "You okay?"

Robert tried his damnedest not to cringe.

"Perfectly fine," he said. "That's how he always is."

Dorian looked like he was searching for something to say, only for Robert's phone to ring.

He brought the device to his ear with a customary: "Carter."

"Are you sitting down?" the woman asked on the other end of the line. She was the general counsel for Cobalt Petrol Partners, one of the O&G shell companies he was involved with.

"What's happened?" Robert asked, as if he didn't already know.

"Bernard Morris just jumped off the Bellagio tonight."

"Really? That's horrible." He managed to keep the delight out of his voice, but his tail still twitched to-and-fro with satisfaction. At least something had gone right today.

A cut and dry suicide, she informed him. Sky-high debts at half of the casinos on the Strip. His brother was on the phone with his wife now, and she wasn't sure when she'd be able to get ahold of him again. The Bellagio was willing to put up a hefty sum to keep it quiet. She left out the part about him being stark naked.

As she spoke, Robert spared a glance over at Dorian.

He watched the phone call for the first two minutes, then took to staring out the window at the passing night for the rest of the drive back to the Palms Casino Resort.

//Guilt's a time-bomb, not a gunshot,// Robert thought. Then again, he wasn't certain guilt accurately described Dorian's feelings.

"Hey, I'm walking into my hotel," Robert cut off the lawyer at last, "let me call you right back."

He hung up and got out of the car. Before going in, Dorian waited for him in front of the door to ask:

"Am I off work for the night?"

"Mm? Oh, yeah, just . . . don't do anything stupid."

Dorian looked at him in bewilderment.

"Yeah, course not. I'm just going back to my room," he put his hands in his pockets. "Might grab a drink, now that I'm actually legal."

"Americans are so odd for that. . ." Robert mused.

Dorian gave a quick, hollow laugh. After a few more moments under the overhang, they continued inside. Robert expected him to go toward the bar in the lobby, but he instead went directly to the lift with him.

They rode up the elevator in silence, and only once the doors opened to the floor with their suites did Dorian murmur a quick: "Cya."

Robert returned the sentiment and went back to his room. There, he spent a solid hour on the phone with various people, his patience and energy draining with each call. When things finally calmed down, all he could do was walk over to the bed and collapse.

He was tired. More tired than he had any right to be. Hadn't everything gone right today? There was the issue in Texas, but the engineers and demons had practically already salvaged that.

//Dad's right. You'll always find something to mope about.//

Disposing of Morris had caulked a massive leak in funds. Was he really allowing the tedium of a few follow-up calls to take that away from him?

What's more, it had been infinitely more satisfying a solution than a sniper. Such thorough humiliation and punishment of someone who dared to think he could steal money from Robert and get away with it was almost gratifying enough to make up for the rest of tonight's events.

Almost.

Still, Robert enjoyed good theatre, and Dorian had delivered a delightful show.

//He won't be asleep,// Robert decided as he forced his body upright. //And you should go check on him, at least.//

He got out of bed and moved from his suite into the hallway. Stalking over to Dorian’s room, his emotions stirred together into an ugly and exhausting brew in his chest.

He rapped his knuckles on the door three times in quick succession. When Dorian didn’t answer, he used the spare key. Why wouldn’t he have one? He'd paid for the room, after all.

The suite was far from lived-in, but there were signs of life. A briefcase on the sofa, a coffee cup by the sink, a suit coat and tie slung over the back of the couch, and a newsprint of the Las Vegas Review he'd taken from the lobby, the crossword half-finished in pencil.

Robert could also hear music, and he moved through the suite trying to find the sound.

The music got louder, but was still muffled. Robert realized Dorian was outside on the balcony, sitting against the rail and staring out at the city below.

Freddie Mercury’s voice resonated melodically through the glass door: //Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me. . .//

Robert gently pushed open the door, and Dorian raised his head. A bottle of house red and a matching carton of Marlboros sat by his left hip, two crumpled white butts snuffed out into the concrete. There was also a small takeout box with a serving of marbled chocolate cake from Harlo, a fork stuck upright in the dessert.

//Haven't quite made a hardened hitman out of you yet, have we?// Robert thought bemusedly.

“Robert,” he greeted in a measured tone. “Hi. May I help you?”

“Hi. I wanted to . . .” //'Check on you? Make sure you were okay?'// Those sounded trite, sentimental. Not the sentences he wanted. “You're not jumping or anything, are you?"

Dorian gave a dismissive wave of his hand and replied sardonically. "Jump? Oh, come on, Robert—can't I just be dramatic in peace?"

“Of course," Robert granted, a bit relieved. "You’ve earned that right. You were a good sport today."

"Thanks," he said. “You’ve not come out here to judge a man for having vices in Vegas, have you?"

“Not at all,” Robert said, tail still swaying in uncertainty as he assessed the scene before him.

Dorian put on a good show, but even in the best of performances, there were cracks, and Robert knew tonight put more pressure on him than he would ever outright admit. But hell, even this reaction seemed too curated—a superficial, artistic rendition of turmoil.

Maybe he really was just celebrating his twenty-first, and Robert’s misery was seeking company where it didn’t exist. In the wake of Ruprecht's outburst over dinner, Robert was acutely aware of Chrysophilius and Iris being absent.

"Am I still off the clock for the night?" Dorian tilted his head, wondering if that was what brought Robert here.

"Yes," he confirmed, shifting his weight between his feet once. "Inshallah, we both are. If I have to speak to another lawyer tonight, I'm jumping off the balcony myself."

Dorian gave a quick, dry laugh.

"Oh, don't do that," he replied simply. "Not while there are fast cars and pretty women in the world."

This got a laugh out of Robert, and though the sound was quiet, it was real. It felt good to laugh like that.

"I'd like to add good food and music to the list," Robert contributed.

"Hear, hear," Dorian chuckled, picking up the wine bottle by its neck and toasting toward Robert with it.

"Say," Robert tilted his head. "Are you drunk yet?"

Dorian considered it, then held up a finger in pause. He swished it around to try to gauge how much was left before just tipping it back against his already-stained lips. About six seconds later, he set it down with finality, wiped his mouth, and looked back up.

“Yes,” he said with a flash of smile before licking the wine off his teeth and sitting back against the rails, still holding Robert's gaze.

"That was stupid," he remarked lightly.

"Probably," Dorian conceded. "Are you going to sit, or do you want to go inside? I'm fine with either, but you're killing my neck."

“Do you want company?” He realized he might have asked this before dropping by unannounced, but Dorian didn't seem too bothered.

“By all means,” he said pleasantly, reaching for the box of cigarettes on the ground beside him. “Doesn’t feel right to smoke alone, anyway. You’re welcome to whatever’s here, of course. . .” Not that anything he had to offer would work for Robert, and he knew as much.

“The sentiment is appreciated,” Robert said, wrapping his tail around the balcony railing for balance as he lowered himself to the floor, sitting with one knee to his chest.

Dorian went to light himself another cigarette. He had trouble sparking the lighter, but managed to catch the end of the dart on the flame on the third try.

"You know, I get it's a difference in biochemistry and all—" Dorian exhaled smoke in the other direction. "—but I feel like if you put a starfish in a pool of vodka, it should still get drunk. Or the starfish-equivalent of drunk."

Robert made an amused noise. "Pretty sure that would just kill the starfish."

"Mm, well then, on the bright side, at least you're not lethally allergic to it."

"Mm. Rather the opposite," Robert informed him. "If we had a bottle of eighty-proof right here, I could chug it for the price of a stomachache."

"Damn, on god?" Dorian raised his brows. "We could try to get you a bottle from the lobby."

Robert shook his head. "It's a better trick if you're sober, honestly."

"Mm, good. Cause I don't terribly want to get up right now," Dorian admitted, then turned his head to lean his temple against the bars. "Not that it couldn't be a very quick trip down," he mused morbidly.

Robert didn't react for a moment, but Dorian didn't seem to mind, satisfied to just stare out at the city below. It was just past midnight, which made it prime time to people-watch the degenerates on the neon-lit streets.

“Does it still bother you?" Robert broached the subject cautiously.

“What, going to dinner with you and your father?” Robert couldn’t help a dry chuckle, and though Dorian tried to smile in return, the expression was more of a grimace. After a pull of his cigarette, he answered more seriously. “I'm fine—just in my head tonight."

"If you say so," Robert shrugged. After a long pause and another drag, Dorian said—

"I stopped bothering to feel bad about it when I realized violence has inelastic demand." He tapped the ash off with his index finger. “Doesn't seem to matter to any of you that I keep raising my price for it—and so long as you're willing to pay, I'll keep taking the jobs. Simple at that."

“I think my father would take out a bloody loan just to see all his enemies die in naked and mysterious ways,” Robert said.

“A loan...” Dorian almost laughed. “Please—doesn’t he own a bank?”

“Yeah, a few.” Robert's tail swept in slow arcs back and forth across the floor. "Sorry you had to sit in on some of that."

Dorian shook his head. "Nothing to apologize for. It was worse for you, anyway."

"It's fine, really. He's just like that. But that doesn't make dealing with it is part of your job."

“No,” Dorian conceded, bitterness lacing into his tone. “But still. If you . . . can’t get the help you need, the least he could do is not make it worse.”

It startled Robert more than he liked, being read like that. However, he got the sense that the comment hadn't entirely been about him.

“What happened to your father, anyway? If I can ask."

“Casualty of the oh-eight crash,” Dorian replied casually. "Why?"

"Dunno. I'm sure we have it on file somewhere. I just have never heard you mention him."

Dorian shrugged. "Just not really worth mentioning."

"Well, a ladies' man all the way through then, ay?" Robert asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Dorian gave a wry smile and ground out his cigarette.

"Something like that."

". . . Do you think he'd be proud of you?" Robert realized as he asked it that he probably shouldn't have, though Dorian luckily seemed unaffected by the question.

"Why does it matter?" The wine had given a wistful quality to his voice. "I'm not particularly proud of him."

He said it completely casually, having no idea the sledgehammer it slammed into Robert's chest.

In that moment, he thought of Ruprecht, then of his real father. Worse, those thoughts were followed by ones of his mother, and it all seemed to spiral until he was sure he had to speak of it just to get it out.

Rather than say a word, Robert stood up.

Dorian's brow furrowed. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," Robert said. "One second—I just need to make a call."

It was not that he was averse to admitting certain facts and feelings to Dorian, but he worried if he started down that road tonight, he wouldn't be would be able to stop.

Dorian had an insidious way of getting others to feel comfortable opening up to him. Insidious was by no means synonymous with malicious, but still. It was a rare thing for someone to be both a good speaker and a listener—a dangerous thing.

Robert didn't want to regret oversharing in the morning. Believing anyone took him seriously was difficult enough, even without spilling his guts. He would feel a lot more comfortable knowing Dorian wouldn't remember anything he said.

He called downstairs and requested another bottle of the house red. The staff here knew better than to make him wait for long.

When Robert finally returned, he found Dorian had resumed his content observance of the city below. He turned around, not staring at Robert so much as right through him. Then his amber eyes landed on the bottle.

He watched patiently as Robert jabbed the ruby tip of his tail into the cork and drew it out with a careful, practiced motion.

"Cool trick," was all he said.

"Drink this," Robert said, placing the bottle before Dorian.

"Thanks," he said a bit awkwardly, taking a sip as Robert sat down again.

Robert shook his head. "No. Finish it."

Dorian gawked. "Right now? Are you mad?"

"Does it matter?"

"Robert," he said, giving a soft, exasperated laugh. "I'm already drunk."

"Already? Thought you were Irish."

Dorian looked at Robert in clear contempt, then rolled his eyes. With a heavy sigh, he started on its contents. Halfway through chugging, he set it down to catch his breath and to declare—"You're a fucking tyrant of a boss."

After another minute, Dorian set the second empty bottle next to the first. A deep flush colored his pale, olive face, his expression set in a slight grimace.

"Now—" he hiccuped. "You wanna tell me what that was about? Or are you just trying to give me alcohol poisoning for fun?"

Robert began to doubt if this was even worth it. He hesitated for a long few seconds, and despite his patience, Dorian looked at him with utter bewilderment.

"Happy birthday," Robert at last said ironically.

"Unbelievable," Dorian mumbled as he lit another cigarette, keeping his breath and even. He burned through it quick, then laid over his knees, going utterly still. Eventually, he moved to gaze back through the railing, the glittering city lights mirroring off his eyes. Robert observed all of this in complete silence over the course of fifteen minutes.

At last, Robert brought his hands up to his head. His fingers worked the complicated latches, and Dorian turned at the sound.

"Don't stare." Robert snapped the moment he felt eyes on him. With a respectful nod, Dorian averted his gaze.

Robert felt the cool night wind brush against the hole in his face. Gently, he set the mask on the ground, sighing deeply.

[*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/whos-afraid-of-a-red-starfish-en-blues "This is what Ruprecht has to be proud of."] Robert whispered. Dorian hummed quietly, peaking up quickly through his lashes before tentatively raising his head.

His amber eyes were wide and glassy, but there was no horror toward Robert's gaping visage. It was closer to wonder than anything.

"Well don't be weird about it," Robert said after a few seconds.

"Sorry," Dorian mumbled, looking at the ground again. "Just thought the colors were pretty..."

Robert flinched, the ruby edge of his tail scraping the ground, the noise quick and harsh.

"What'd you expect?" Robert hissed. A loathsome self-consciousness gnawed insistently in his chest.

"I didn't." Dorian mused plainly. It didn't sound like mockery, but Robert couldn't help the anger and shame that flared up. "I never know what to expect in this job. Stopped trying to guess. Reality's always stranger."

"Ah." Robert said, tail lashing to and fro with an aggravated mind of its own. "So you'll write this off as just another freak you have to deal with on the job. Got it."

Dorian stared at him in equal parts alarm and remorse, like Robert's shift in tone had kicked him.

"That's not what I said at all." Dorian protested, tilting his head. "I think //all// my bosses are freaks."

The blunt honesty caught Robert off guard, causing him to go still. Concern passed over Dorian's expression, and the tension broke when Robert let out a noise between a scoff and a laugh.

"Don't throw stones in a glass house." Robert replied, not even sure he meant it.

Dorian shrugged. "Mm, I guess..."
Robert sighed pensively before tilting his head back to stare up at the heavens. He wasn't upset at Dorian; he was just //upset.// Upset at Ruprecht, at himself, at the fact that the light pollution had so thoroughly washed out the stars that he couldn't even count five among the visible void.

"I just wish he didn't yell." Robert whispered. "I mean, after everything, doesn't he feel any shame at all? How can he say he loves me, yet treat me as he does?"

Dorian didn't respond at first. Robert wasn't sure he even wanted him to. He'd not have shared the thought if not for his certainty that Dorian wouldn't remember this vulnerability.

"...I won't pretend the know the deal with you and your old man just because I sat in on one dinner." Though hoarse, Dorian's voice took on a soothing affect. "I doubt anything I say will help, but if you want me to listen and let you talk about it, I'm here all night."

Dorian clumsily shuffled two cigarettes out of the carton. Robert was confused until Dorian passed it to him with a smile; not as a tool to chase a buzz, but as a universal token of camaraderie.

Why does it say about your upbringing, Robert wondered, when one of the most genuine people you know is a career charlatan?

Robert took the cigarette silently and twirling it idly through his fingers. He realized acutely how easy it would be to stay and sit here, both of them stewing in their sadness until sunrise.

Robert consumed the whole dart in one go, the unlit Marlboro disappearing into the hole of his face. Dorian betrayed his surprise by coughing briefly on his own smoke.

"Bloody hell, we //are// mopey, aren't we?" Robert mused sardonically.

Dorian's coughing turned to laughter. "Fuck. . . Granted, there are less comfortable spaces to mope in than a suite at the Palms Casino Resort."

"True, I guess," Robert conceded, turning his gaze back toward the invisible stars for a moment before perking with sudden inspiration. "What about a warehouse, though?"

Dorian looked at him in confusion. "A warehouse?"

"Misery loves distraction. I can't in good conscience bring you all the way to Vegas and not show you a better time than this. Get up, we're going to a rave."

Dorian squinted at the Movado on his wrist as Robert pulled himself back to his feet by his tail.

"It's almost one," he pointed out.

"Exactly—night's young." Robert countered as he picked up his mask.

"And I thought New York didn't sleep," Dorian grinned, the idea clearly growing on him. He killed the half-burnt cigarette, pocketed his lighter and pack, then extended a hand. "Help me up."

Robert pulled him to his feet, and after a moment, was pleasantly surprised to see he was decently steady.

"Is this the part where you take me to hell?"

Robert barked a laugh. "Yes, it is."

"Mm, might as well get acquainted," Dorian said half to himself as both of them ventured back inside.

"That's the spirit," his tail swished with a lighter mood. "Leave your wallet here. Just bring cash—just in case."

"I don't need an ID or anything?" Dorian checked.

Robert saw no arrogance in the simple truth: "Not if you're with me."

[[=]]
♦♢♦♢♦
[[/=]]

Robert gave directions to their drivers, then had him stop down the street from the venue. He saw Dorian search for their destination, but come up with only confusion. No matter—entrances to these things were usually inconspicuous.

The only thing of note on the dark street was a scantily dressed woman leaning against a wall, minding her business and smoking a long cigarette holder dangling from her dark, manicured fingers.

"Hey—what's your rate per hour?" Robert asked mildly.

"Pssh—you're an ass, Mr. Carter," she smiled, molten eyes flickering over to Dorian. "Who's your friend?"

"My employee," he replied, as much to emphasize his sphere of protection as anything else. The bouncer looked him up and down, razored teeth glinting as her lips curled up further.

"Hello gorgeous."

"Hello yourself," Dorian replied. Even with the energy drink he'd bought in the resort lobby, an exhausted monotone had zapped the vivacity from his voice. That did not make the sound the sound of it any less objectively pleasing.

The bouncer chuckled, sufficiently amused by the exchange. She moved off the wall and turned to lift a board off the door behind her.

"Right this way, gentlemen."

They went down a short, lightless hallway before opening the next door, which served mainly the role of soundproofing the event within.

Bright lights and loud music mixes hit them like a tidal wave. Dorian momentarily brought his hands to his ears. Robert couldn't blame him, angry at himself for having rushed out and forgotten protection for his hearing.

Dorian leaned in, cupping his hand next to his mouth so Robert could hear. Emphasizing each word as well as he could amidst the noise.

"Do you buy new eardrums often?"

Robert just laughed, though the sound was swallowed up in the EDM. He shook his head, tail swishing as comfortably as it could without knocking into anyone.

He leaned in to speak directly into Dorian's ear in the same manner, though luckily, the DJ commanded a lull in the music in time for his soft voice to be somewhat audible.

"Listen, if we get separated, you meet me back here at three no matter what, got it?"

Dorian took note of his surroundings, and Robert was pleased by the fact that even if he was doubtlessly intoxicated, if not still blacked out, he wasn't entirely without his wits.

"Got it," he said with an added thumbs-up.

"Have fun, just be smart." Robert told him with a wave of his hand. "Follow me, if you'd like."

Dorian, wisely, was not too keen to break from Robert's side at the start of the night. It was not a place for formal introductions, anyway, which took some pressure off both of them. Despite the noise and chaos, the rave-goers were, for the most part, surprisingly courteous.

The lights pulsed a cherry red in time with the music, and the color filtered through a thick haze of flavored smoke. Everyone danced, and no one cared if you were any good at it.

Robert's mind was never quiet. His nervous system—or the saltwater-starved network squirming through his body as substitute—never pacified.

But all of this noise drowned out most of that noise.

He wondered: was it the same sublime effect for Dorian? Robert looked to his right to try and tell, only to find he'd slipped away.

Anxiety tugged momentarily at his chest, and he glanced around the undulated crowd. He spotted Dorian standing against the wall a ways off from the source of the music. He was conversing with a woman who looked like she'd already made up her mind to eat him alive. If this even remotely bothered him, it didn't show.

Anxiety quickly gave way to bemusement. //Good for you,// he thought as the woman led Dorian out of sight by his tie. //You and your penchant for getting into things without understanding them//.

He went back to enjoying the EDM, the movement of human and not-so-human bodies around him until the devil's hour came around.

Though Robert had had his doubts, Dorian had miraculously returned to their designated rendezvous spot by the time their watches struck 3am.

Scarlet patches were wiped across his skin from his collarbone to his brow, smeared heavily across his mouth. Blood or lipstick, Robert couldn't tell. He leaned against the bar, transfixed by a fire-dancer on the stage.

Dorian barely noticed Robert's approach, but when he did, he immediately started speaking hurriedly at him. Robert was used to his rapid cadence, and even during auctions, he could make out most of the words. But //holy shit.//

"Shush," he said after a few seconds, holding up a palm. "I didn't catch a word of that."

Dorian faltered, looked suddenly embarrassed. Robert noticed only the thinnest of gold rings around blown pupils.

"Ah. What'd you take?" Robert asked, tail twitching in amusement.

"I. . . don't . . . know," he admitted, staggering his words slowly to overcompensate.

Robert cocked his head. "Pretty girl give it to you?" He guessed teasingly.

Dorian's grin glinted in the rave lights. He was swaying on his feet, and though his gaze was fixed on Robert, it seemed hopelessly unfocused.

"No shame in that." Robert mused. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes," he answered quickly. "Too alright. Probably not so alright in the morning."

"Probably not," he chuckled. "Now, what were you saying?"

At this, Dorian went quiet, almost sullen. His gaze went back to the stage, but not to any of the dancers. After several silent seconds, Robert concluded that he'd lost his train of thought. He'd been about to laugh it off and ask something new when Dorian spoke up.

"You know, my father was a singer," he confessed. "Or so I heard growing up. Obviously, he wasn't exactly star material, cause I don't remember him ever making a real living off of it, but I—" his quickening words were cut short when the bartender slid a highball glass across the counter toward him. He stared at in confusion, like he hadn't recalled ordering it.

The admission, meanwhile, caught Robert off guard. What does one say to that? //I'm sorry?// //That's cool?// //Is that where you get it from?// Before he got a chance to work out a response, Dorian said in a brisk, dismissive manner—

"I dunno—I'm tone-deaf. Say, do you want this?" He tried to put the drink in Robert's hand. He took it just so it wouldn't drop.

". . . Do you want to stay here longer or go back to the hotel?" Robert asked.

Dorian's answer was instant: "Back. Please."

+ January 4, 2021

What was the Las Vegas tourist experience if not waking up and immediately vomiting your guts out?

Had he even really slept at all? Or had he just laid in bed and vibrated until the crash hit?

Remnants of wine and dinner came up tasting bitter in Dorian's mouth. His throat burned all the way down, and his head ached in ways he did not know it could ache.

For a while, he just knelt on the tiles, taking stock of his memories. Last night came back in disjointed and water-damaged moments. After that second bottle, it was all black, interrupted by bright flashes in slow-motion. Trying to think about any of it too hard only exacerbated the painful throbbing behind his eyes.

When he could stand again, he forced himself to take a miserably cold shower. Then, he called downstairs to the kitchen and ordered double hash browns and an electrolyte water.

He answered the door in a bathrobe and sunshades, tipping the busboy six hundred dollars in cash. He sat down and devoured his breakfast while attempting to finish the crossword puzzle he'd left out on the table. Rather than answers for any of the remaining clues, his brain provided only a film of static over his thoughts.

Walking back into the bedroom, he found his suit from the night before crumpled on the floor next to his bed. He picked it up and dug around his pockets. The loot consisted of fifty dollars, a black poker chip, someone's phone number on a cocktail napkin, and a pack of Marlboro Reds just one dart short of being empty.

//Ugh,// Dorian thought, lighting the last cigarette and tossing the carton into the bin along with the napkin. //Don't do drugs, kids.//

He turned on the TV and flipped it over to the news to let it run as background noise as he went about packing. Luckily, he'd travelled light and hadn't bothered unpacking all that much for his overnight stay, and yet the undertaking seemed impossibly arduous.

When he was done, he took a moment to sit atop his luggage and check his phone. Specifically, his bank account.

The rest of the wire had gone through. Robert had even thrown in a few shares of the relevant oil and gas shell company as gratuity.

//So, that's what a human life is worth to us, huh?//

He'd done more for less.

//Have we?//

Without doubt.

Dorian pocketed his phone, did one more pat down—cell, wallet, watch, laptop—and left the room, empty save for the cash tip he'd left on the mantle for housekeeping.

There was still a sinusoidal pulse in his temples by the time he reached the elevator, steadied by the extended handle of his garment bag. He was about to shoot his boss a text about his departure when, as luck would have it, Robert caught him getting into the lift.

"Someone's up early," he said, not bothering to hide his surprise.

"Don't talk to me," Dorian groaned, shaking his head, though making sure to crack a smile to let Robert know his irritability was not personal so much as it was the nasty effects of the comedown.

Robert gave a half-laugh. "How do you feel?"

"Like I just fell from thirty-six stories up," Dorian said dryly. "Gonna grab some Tylenol from the lobby and head out. Give my regards to Ruprecht if you see him." His words, though not slurred, seemed to weigh down his tongue.

"You sure you don't want to stay and rest a bit more first? I don't think our drivers would appreciate you throwing up in the car to the airport."

"Already out of my system. Besides, I just . . . I've got a flight to catch."

"Flight to catch?" Robert cocked his head. "You flew private—it's not leaving without you."

"Still," Dorian resolved. "Gonna head out." Robert would not try to convince him to stay any longer, thank god.

He bought some painkillers, new cigarettes, and a pack of cherry cough drops at the mini-pharmacy. No luck on finding Dramamine. In hindsight, he could have found something for his nausea if he'd looked harder, but he didn't care. He just wanted to check out of that fucking hotel.

Armed with a black drip coffee from the breakfast buffet, Dorian made it to the valet, then to the airport. He felt the caffeine hit his system, but knew he would be asleep before they were even in the air. The pilot or attendant would probably have to wake him up when they touched down in New York. Should he tell them to go to London, just so he could sleep over the Atlantic? No. Definitely back to New York.

"Good morning, Dorian," the flight attendant greeted him with a sparkling smile. Tracy was in her fifties or sixties, but he would not have guessed if not for her silver hair, braided into a neat crown around her head.

Any time he found himself on a company plane, he wondered how many secrets the carefully selected crew had been privy to. He did his best to stay friendly with them.

"Good morning, miss," he said with a poor attempt at his usual liveliness.

"What? Not your sweetheart today?" He lowered his shades for a painful moment to exaggeratingly look her up and down.

"Looking especially fine in your uniform today, sweetheart." She barked a laugh before batting him lightly on the arm.

"Scoundrel, you," she smiled knowingly as he pushed his sunglasses back over his eyes. "I trust you had a happy birthday."

"Something like that," he said, tucking his briefcase into an overhead compartment before taking a seat on the plush leather couch.

"We have champagne on board for you," she offered, then tilted her head. "And a box of chocolates."

"I think I'll pass," he said with a small smile. "Thank you, though."

"Not even a cough drop?" Lord, had he really burned his voice that much? He didn't even speak all that much compared to a regular auction, but he supposed the chain-smoking hadn't helped matters.

"I think I'm just going to sleep," Dorian admitted. "I'll take you up on the chocolates when we get to Manhattan, though."

"Of course, hun. Enjoy the flight."

She dimmed the lights in the cabin on her way to the cockpit. Dorian laid across the sofa, strapping one of the seatbelts over his waist. Setting his shades on the table, he closed his eyes and felt the plane starting to speed up on the runway.

A lot of emotions and sensations fought for his attention. Not one of them was regret.

Because no way in hell could he regret the bottom line: he was leaving forty million dollars richer than he had arrived.

[[/div]]

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