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i wrote a spy!au.
I've been working on a few things as a break from TEF revisions every once in awhile. It's nice! Here's one of them!
Title: Best Beware the Sting
Chapter: 1
Characters/Pairing: Bubbles/Princess, Ppg/RrB (one-sided?)
Rating: R/M for violence, language, and excessive sexual innuendo (thanks, Butch)
Disclaimer: If I owned the Powerpuff Girls that summary for the live action CW series would never have made it to print.
Summary: Two teams of three try to 1) at best, beat each other up; 2) at worst, kill each other; 3) at least, work together. Spy/Assassin!AU.
Notes: This is completely and wholly inspired by racketballs’ (IG) PpG as spies/RrB as assassins AU and is completely and wholly for racketballs. To know rb is a gift that keeps on giving, and this is my attempt to give a little back. The fandom is beyond lucky to have you 💗💙💚 Un-beta'd.
Best Beware the Sting
-sbj
“I’ve got eyes on the target.”
“Ugh.” Buttercup’s voice crackled on the line, and Blossom grimaced as she paced the mezzanine overlooking the bustling casino floor, pretending to be engrossed in her phone.
“Do not groan in this headpiece, please.”
“Don’t say it like we’re in a movie,” Buttercup said. “Can’t you say it like, ‘I see him,’ or something normal? Where is this whole spy-acting bit coming from?”
“Which target?” Bubbles asked.
“How is it ‘spy-acting’ when we are actual spies?” Blossom grumbled, careful to keep her voice low.
“That’s shit spies in movies say. ‘Eyes on the target’ is the same damn thing as ‘I see him’ but takes more effort and also makes you sound stupid.”
“There’re three targets,” Bubbles went on. “You should be more specific.”
“At the bar,” Blossom elaborated. “Black hair, green eyes.”
“That’s over by you, Buttercup,” Bubbles said. “Around the cashier’s cage.”
“Heading over. How can you see his eyes from up there?” Buttercup asked.
“Did you get the dossier?” Blossom asked.
“Of course I got the dossier.”
Blossom arched an eyebrow as Buttercup entered her line of sight on the lower floor, wrestling a little with the resortwear Bubbles had picked out for her. “Did you read the dossier?”
She watched as Buttercup threw her head back and groaned.
“That’s that sound of someone who skimmed the dossier,” Bubbles said. “Girls, what do you think Princess would prefer? A handbag or a scarf?”
“Who cares?” Buttercup said.
“Handbag,” Blossom said. “Bubbles, you aren’t supposed to be shopping on the job.”
“I’m right outside the stores, I can’t help myself.”
“Wrong way, Buttercup,” Blossom said. “Keep going.”
“This isn’t the bar?”
“There’s two; you’re at the smaller one. The big one is up ahead, past the cage and the high-limit slots.”
“Doesn’t your girlfriend have enough bags, Bubbles?” Buttercup grumbled.
“According to her, ‘Never.’ Ooh, this one’s nice.”
“Bubbles, what’s the Mayor’s status?”
“Quit doing that bit.”
“I’m not doing a bit,” Blossom snapped. “‘Status’ is normal human talk.”
“Yes, ‘normal human talk’ is a very natural thing to say,” Buttercup said.
“The Mayor is still in the clear. He’s heading over to the craps pit now. No sign of the blond or the redhead yet.”
The target laughed, loud enough for Blossom to hear from her vantage point. “That laugh was him, Buttercup.”
“Seriously? That douche-y noise?”
“Flap your skirt a bit when you go by,” Bubbles said. “He’s got a thing for leg.”
“Is that why you put me in this God damned thing? Was that in the dossier?”
“It wasn’t.” Blossom looked down at her own outfit, also Bubbles-selected. Another flowy, split skirt number.
“No, that was in his Tinder profile.”
“Are you fucking—this dipshit kills people for a living and he’s on Tinder?”
“Buttercup, shut up,” Blossom said. “You’re about to enter his field of vision.”
Buttercup went silent. Blossom watched as her dark-haired sister threw back her shoulders and flicked her hand in the folds of her skirt. It kicked up, perfectly timed as she drifted past their target, and right on cue he glanced over, the stub of his cigar rolling from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Got ‘im,” Blossom whispered, watching as he dropped his cigar on an ashtray and downed the rest of his drink before taking off after Buttercup. “Buttercup, go dark.”
“Ugh, stop with the bit,” Buttercup griped, and then she reached up to adjust an earring and her line went silent.
“Are either of these other two assassins stupid enough to have online dating profiles?” Blossom asked Bubbles.
“Nope. The blond one’s online, though. I snagged some photos from his timeline.”
“Were they of any use?”
“Maybe. I made friends with the casino club bouncers last night and asked them to keep an eye out for the blond because I’m staging an intervention.”
“Well done.” Blossom sighed and leaned on the mezzanine rail. “That just leaves one.”
“Try zero. The redhead’s just popped up and has eyes on the Mayor.”
Blossom dropped her phone in her purse and made a beeline down the stairs, heading for the craps tables, far west of where Buttercup had snared her prey. “On my way.”
“You should go back and change. The outfits were for Buttercup’s guy. Now that she’s got him you should get something on with more places to hide a few weapons.”
“How armed is this guy? Can you tell?”
“How armed does he have to be? He’s an assassin. Might as well grab all the help we can get.”
***
“Buy you a drink?”
Buttercup glanced over as their first target of the night leaned on the stool next to her at her chosen blackjack table.
“In a casino? Where the drinks are free? Nice try, man,” she said, tapping the table for the dealer to give her another card. “How many idiot college girls does that work on?”
His green eyes glittered when he crooked his mouth. “Only the ones that haven’t gambled before.” He made eye contact with a server taking cocktail orders a few tables down and raised his hand. “Let me guess.” He swept his gaze up and down, and Buttercup withheld a growl. She was going to throttle Bubbles later. “Girls’ night out. Or weekend? Maybe a bachelorette party?”
“Maybe I just like wearing dresses.” She did not.
He turned his attention to the server. “Bring me a Newcastle. And she’ll have—what are you into? Vodka?”
Buttercup tapped the table for another card and scoffed. “Why would I order water at a bar? I’ll take a beer.”
He laughed that same obnoxious laugh that had made her bristle earlier. “Vodka’ll fuck you up more than the beer will.”
“I said what I said.”
“Two Newkie browns, then.”
“Bring that to me direct and I’ll open it myself, thanks,” Buttercup said to the server.
“Thank you, Gina,” he sang as the server walked off.
“You been drinking here so long that you know her name already?”
“House wins,” the dealer said. “Sir, you’ll have to place a bet if you’re gonna sit here.”
“She’s wearing a nametag,” he said, and tossed a few chips into the betting circle. “Wish you were wearing one. What should I call you?”
“Guess,” Buttercup said, placing her bet.
His grin widened, baring teeth. “I don’t have to guess.”
“Guess.”
He leaned both elbows on the table and licked his lips, glancing down briefly at his cards. “Hmm. A. B? C.”
“Are you fuckin’ serious?”
“D,” he continued, beckoning to the dealer for another card. “E.”
“E. Just call me E.”
“Works for me. Hi, E. E, you don’t strike me as a dress kinda gal.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The way you talk. You don’t sound like a woman who wears dresses.”
“And what, pray tell, does a woman who wears dresses sound like?”
A wicked grin lit up his face. “Honestly? Mostly like a lot of moaning and gasping in my ear.”
“Oh, my God,” Buttercup said, laughing in disbelief. She was gonna murder this guy!
We’re supposed to bring them in alive, Blossom’s voice echoed in her head.
“I’m Butch,” he said.
“Didn’t ask.”
“I forgive you.”
“Generous.” Another shit hand, damn. At least she could expense the loss. “Well, Butch,” she said, her expression flat, her voice flatter, “what does a woman who doesn’t wear dresses sound like?”
Butch met her subdued glare with those ever-sparkling green eyes as the dealer swept his chips away.
“Oh, E,” he purred. “I would love to find out.”
***
It felt better when Blossom re-emerged on the constrained chaos of the casino floor in her standard work outfit. Far easier to conceal a couple of pistols and her extensive cutlery in high-waisted trousers and a boxy blazer. Plus a pair of boots she could easily run ten miles in.
“Better get over here. The Mayor’s moved on to roulette,” Bubbles said. “As has our assassin.”
Blossom wove through the crowd, her senses assaulted by the incessant trill of spinning slots and flickering lights. “Probably going to shut this off. I can barely hear you here.”
“See ‘im yet?”
“Not yet.” Blossom had just hit the first row of craps tables.
“Look for the red cap.”
“Are you joking?” Blossom spotted the cap within seconds. Easy mark. “Stupid move when you’re in the business of killing people and trying to be discreet about it.”
“Oh, it gets better. He’s wearing that on top of a full-on tailored black suit. Two-button, single breasted, notched lapel—”
“The cap was detail enough, Bubbles.”
“It’s not as bad a look as it sounds, that’s all I’m saying. Red tie, too. Slim.”
“Any word on the blond yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve got my eye out.” The shops were at the north entrance of the casino, also near the elevators that would take patrons to the hotel. The club where Bubbles’ new bouncer friends worked was on the south end, next to the main entrance.
Good coverage, Blossom thought, making a mental note to tell her sister so later. Red Cap was a stone’s throw away on her left. Her gaze darted to the Mayor, a few tables to her right. The minuscule top-hatted man screeched in delight as his number hit, and his table whooped with him, making it even more impossible to hear things.
“Talk later,” she said to Bubbles, and switched off her line. She needed to concentrate, anyway.
An opening materialized next to her target and she instantly slipped into the space.
“Alright,” she said cheerily, drawing her target’s attention for the briefest of moments and feeling the weight of all that metal on her person. “Time to lose some money.”
***
“I think I’ve lost enough,” Butch said, swaying a bit as he stood. Gina swooped in with his most recent cocktail order and retrieved his empty beer bottle—his third. Buttercup had just wrapped up her second. “If I’m gonna lose any more I’d rather be drinking it. Gina, you angel.” He fumbled through his bills, muttered, “Fuck it,” and threw a twenty on her tray before turning back to Buttercup. “Come with?”
Buttercup was actually up by a modest amount—sixty-something, maybe? She hadn’t been counting too closely. But she withdrew, causing Butch to light up.
“Oh, so I am charming you.”
“Wouldn’t exactly call it that,” she said, pocketing her chips, and Butch pointed vaguely with his non-drink wielding hand as they made for the bar.
“See. You put them in your pocket, not your purse.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means my theory is right. You’re not into girly things.”
“Plenty of girls prefer pockets, Einstein.”
“It’s a miracle that dress even has pockets on it.”
Buttercup laughed. “Don’t disagree.” She touched his elbow, then grasped his sleeve and tugged. “Bar’s this way.”
“Oh, you’re sweet,” he drawled. “Do you smoke, E?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame.” He leered at her, an expression she now recognized as the precursor to a comment that would make her want to punch his face in. “All that empty space between your lips is a crime.”
“Jesus, Butch,” she groaned, resisting the urge to—surprise, surprise—punch his face in. “How do you still have all your teeth? How have you not been beaten up by every single woman you’ve ever met?”
“Oh, honey, now you’re just threatening me with a good time,” he said, laughing as he leaned in close. She rolled her eyes as they pulled up against the bar.
“Sit down, dummy.” She pulled out a stool for him and made him sit. If he was drunk enough to barely stand now, bringing him in was going to be a piece of cake. Just a few more and he’d be comatose. Comatose counted as alive, didn’t it?
“I wanna drink whiskey with you,” he said. “Shots. You look like a shots kinda lady. Where’s the drinks guy here?”
“Why don’t you finish the drink you got there first, friend?” she said, and Butch looked at the old fashioned in his hand as if it had only now materialized and he hadn’t been threatening to spill it their entire trek over to the bar.
“Where the fuck did this come from?”
“Gina,” Buttercup said, and put in their order with the bartender.
“Gina’s an angel,” he said, and drank.
***
“You’re bad at this.”
Blossom turned her face up to her guy, letting her eyes go wide as she faked a cringe. “Is it that bad?”
“You’ve been playing for ten minutes and you’re already down five hundred.” His gaze flicked across her face before returning to the table. “And I don’t think you really have it to lose.”
She made a huffy face and turned her head, making sure the Mayor hadn’t moved. Still there. “Maybe I’m secretly a millionaire.”
“What a twist that would be.”
Blossom liked that this guy was a jerk. When they were jerks it made the job easier. “What am I doing wrong?”
He tilted his head and watched as the dealer raked his chips away. “Playing in the first place.”
“So are you,” she said, throwing in a little shoulder bump against him. He barely budged. “What’s the difference?”
“Not much difference,” he admitted. “’Cept I’m losing less than you.”
“Then what’s your strategy? Do you have a system? Like how blackjack uses card counting or something?”
He looked at her. She caught his eyes darting to the side, in the Mayor’s direction. But his hands were on the edge of the table, nowhere near his jacket or pockets.
Not yet.
“Nah. There’s this saying. ‘The only thing casinos love more than roulette players are roulette players who use a system.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean, smart guy?”
He placed his chips in the betting area—a split bet on 27 and 30, a straight bet on 7, and a outside bet on red. She watched as he slipped the rest of his chips into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
“It means you’re fucked, either way.”
***
“What is it with guys and whiskey?” Buttercup said. She lifted her glass, where the casino lights equalized to a warm, inviting amber.
“Throw it back. You tell me.” Butch clinked his tiny shot glass against hers and downed it, his gaze on her all the while. Still glittering green.
“I always thought you were supposed to let it sit in the mouth for awhile,” she said, sipping it and doing just that.
“What do you want in your mouth?” he asked, perking up, and she rolled her eyes and swallowed. The alcohol burned a little on the way down. Not that she hated it.
Butch was on the verge of passing out, and while she had been prepared for a bit of a fight, hell, an easy win was still a win.
She slammed the rest of her whiskey and thunked the shot glass upside down on the bar. She hadn’t been out for drinks in a minute, and if work was gonna foot the bill, then sure. She’d drink until this fucker was on the floor.
“Another shot!” she yelled, holding her hand up.
“Fuck yeah!” Butch whooped, and high-fived her.
***
Bubbles hummed to herself as she tucked Princess’ souvenir—a scarf, since she didn’t have room for a handbag—into the inner pocket of her purse. She could see Blossom putting on the ditzy girl act for Brick, which he seemed largely immune to, but on the plus side, it was pulling his focus.
Something knocked against the glass of the storefront window behind her and she glanced over. She was standing in front of a luxury candy store, and a single hard-shelled candy rolled around on the inner sill before wobbling off onto the floor. She looked up and saw—
Well, that’s odd.
The blond—Boomer, she remembered, partly from his dossier but mostly from his social media—was perusing a middle display of boxed candy sets, the sort that Princess sent as corporate gifts when she felt like phoning it in. Guess that was three assassins accounted for.
He looked up, caught her eye, and waved. Every hair on her body was suddenly standing on end, and she did a quick visual sweep of the area, same as she’d been every five minutes for the past hour plus. But nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nobody appeared to be lurking surreptitiously behind corners, waiting to jump her.
Boomer was coming to the front of the store. She undid the clasp on her purse.
“Hey.” He popped around the corner, blazer open, no weapon in sight.
“Hello,” she said cautiously—not, Oh no, does he know I’m a spy, cautious, more like, Why is this random man talking to me, a lone woman, cautious.
He took the hint and kept his distance. “Hi, sorry. I know this is gonna sound weird, but were you, uh, looking for me?”
She blinked and looked around, working in another sweep. Still nothing. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure—”
“Oh, well, the bouncer at the club was like, ‘Hey, your friend’s looking for you,’ and I was like, ‘Oh my God, what friend?’ and he was all, “She’s worried about you,’ and I thought, ‘Oh no, there must be some mistake,’ and then he showed me your picture—”
Shoot, Bubbles thought, taking a step back, and Boomer held up his hands.
“I’m not creepy! Or not trying to be! But just, I saw your picture, and I was like, ‘Oh, that is my friend, I’ll just go talk to her and clear this up,’ but internally I was like, Oh, she seems nice, I’ll just go explain—”
All three of them are on the floor now, Bubbles thought. Now at least they knew where they all were, or she did, and she could still see the Mayor, so—
“You know, I’m just such a doofus, I’m going about this all wrong.” Boomer shook out his hands and smiled, his expression bright and cheery. “Hi! I’m Boomer. I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”
He extended his hand, and Bubbles eyed it for a long moment before acquiescing.
“Hi, Boomer. I’m Tara.” She took his hand and squeezed a hello. “And I think you’re right. Sorry about that.”
He smiled and released her hand, his fingers trailing along hers as he pulled back. “That’s okay. Your friends are lucky to have someone like you looking out for them. I guess that’s probably pretty fitting for a casino, huh?”
Among the myriad of accessories in her purse, both potentially lethal and non, she had a stun gun. That would be quickest. But not on the floor. She should ask him if he wanted to go for a walk. Maybe to another casino, away from the Mayor. There was a shuttle every fifteen minutes—
“Can I say a thing? Don’t take it the wrong way. You don’t really look like a Tara.”
The gears in Bubbles’ head ground to a sudden halt. She kept her face and tone neutral. “Oh, really?”
“Well, maybe if I tilt my head and squint, it works.”
Blaring alarms had displaced the gears. One hand slipped into her purse, closing around her telescopic baton.
“But I think Bubbles suits you much better.”
***
“You do have a system,” Blossom said after watching him for a few rounds. “You always bet on red.”
He snorted. “That counts as a system? I just like the color.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” she said, gently flicking the brim of his cap. She watched as annoyance flashed across his eyes and couldn’t help but feel a little smug.
He stood back, rubbing two chips together. “You know, it’s funny you should gravitate to roulette.” His gaze darted over her shoulder, and she mentally tensed. Perhaps the Mayor was passing behind her as they spoke.
Her doe-eyed blink was practiced, perfectly timed. She glanced back at their table, her eyes pulling to the side opposite him for a brief second. Sure enough, there went the Mayor.
“Why’s that?” she asked, turning back and tucking her chin so she could pout at him from under her long eyelashes.
He looked back at her and quirked a corner of his mouth before once again going stoic. “It’s a showy game. And you’re dressed like that.”
She knocked back the bristle that started at the base of her neck and feigned further confusion. “Huh?”
“People play roulette because they think it’s glamorous and sexy,” he said, turning a bit and never breaking eye contact. She shifted between him and the Mayor, bracing herself. “They saw it in a movie, maybe James Bond or something, and it looks fun and exciting to play.”
He hadn’t removed his hand from the inside of his jacket yet. Blossom pretended to settle back, her hands going into her pockets.
“But you’re not here to have fun,” he said.
“Maybe this is fun for me,” she said, her voice flat.
“Please.” He hadn’t broken eye contact since the Mayor had moved, hadn’t glanced up or away to see where he was going, hadn’t—
Because it’s not the Mayor he’s after.
“You’re here to get a job done,” he said, his gaze drilling into her as the realization slowly dawned. “What a coincidence. So am I.”
***
I’m not gonna be able to keep this up, Buttercup thought, turning her shot glass upside down and sliding it next to the rest. A neat little parade of empty glasses.
She had been hoping to drink him under the table. But this fucker, drunk as he was, was not going down. She was gonna have to drag him in a darkened hallway and punch him to finish off what the alcohol had started before calling it a night.
“Hey.” Butch’s hand appeared in front of her nose and attempted to snap a couple of times. “Earth to, to, to E. What’s got you so distracted?”
She looked at him and smirked. “I was just thinking of pulling you into a dark, quiet corner—”
“Mmm, I like where this is going.”
“And knocking you unconscious,” she said. She looked around. In fact, no reason she couldn’t do it now. They were the only two just drinking; everyone else was at the tables or the slots. The bartender was conversing with a couple of servers at the other end. She could go for a throat stab as long as she was careful. It’d be quick.
“Oh, E, you’re so much fucking fun,” Butch said, swaying on his barstool. His hand slid across the bar towards hers, and though every instinct in Buttercup screamed to pull away, she held her ground. Her gaze darted to his throat and she braced her hand, readying it to taper to a point on a collision course for his neck.
Just a little closer and I can—
“I’m really bummed out that I’m gonna have to kill you,” he whispered, just as gunshots rang out from the direction of the casino floor.
-end ch. 1-
Hope everyone has a safe, lovely holiday ♥
AO3 | FFNet | AskFM | Ko-Fi (currently closed)
Title: Best Beware the Sting
Chapter: 1
Characters/Pairing: Bubbles/Princess, Ppg/RrB (one-sided?)
Rating: R/M for violence, language, and excessive sexual innuendo (thanks, Butch)
Disclaimer: If I owned the Powerpuff Girls that summary for the live action CW series would never have made it to print.
Summary: Two teams of three try to 1) at best, beat each other up; 2) at worst, kill each other; 3) at least, work together. Spy/Assassin!AU.
Notes: This is completely and wholly inspired by racketballs’ (IG) PpG as spies/RrB as assassins AU and is completely and wholly for racketballs. To know rb is a gift that keeps on giving, and this is my attempt to give a little back. The fandom is beyond lucky to have you 💗💙💚 Un-beta'd.
Best Beware the Sting
-sbj
“I’ve got eyes on the target.”
“Ugh.” Buttercup’s voice crackled on the line, and Blossom grimaced as she paced the mezzanine overlooking the bustling casino floor, pretending to be engrossed in her phone.
“Do not groan in this headpiece, please.”
“Don’t say it like we’re in a movie,” Buttercup said. “Can’t you say it like, ‘I see him,’ or something normal? Where is this whole spy-acting bit coming from?”
“Which target?” Bubbles asked.
“How is it ‘spy-acting’ when we are actual spies?” Blossom grumbled, careful to keep her voice low.
“That’s shit spies in movies say. ‘Eyes on the target’ is the same damn thing as ‘I see him’ but takes more effort and also makes you sound stupid.”
“There’re three targets,” Bubbles went on. “You should be more specific.”
“At the bar,” Blossom elaborated. “Black hair, green eyes.”
“That’s over by you, Buttercup,” Bubbles said. “Around the cashier’s cage.”
“Heading over. How can you see his eyes from up there?” Buttercup asked.
“Did you get the dossier?” Blossom asked.
“Of course I got the dossier.”
Blossom arched an eyebrow as Buttercup entered her line of sight on the lower floor, wrestling a little with the resortwear Bubbles had picked out for her. “Did you read the dossier?”
She watched as Buttercup threw her head back and groaned.
“That’s that sound of someone who skimmed the dossier,” Bubbles said. “Girls, what do you think Princess would prefer? A handbag or a scarf?”
“Who cares?” Buttercup said.
“Handbag,” Blossom said. “Bubbles, you aren’t supposed to be shopping on the job.”
“I’m right outside the stores, I can’t help myself.”
“Wrong way, Buttercup,” Blossom said. “Keep going.”
“This isn’t the bar?”
“There’s two; you’re at the smaller one. The big one is up ahead, past the cage and the high-limit slots.”
“Doesn’t your girlfriend have enough bags, Bubbles?” Buttercup grumbled.
“According to her, ‘Never.’ Ooh, this one’s nice.”
“Bubbles, what’s the Mayor’s status?”
“Quit doing that bit.”
“I’m not doing a bit,” Blossom snapped. “‘Status’ is normal human talk.”
“Yes, ‘normal human talk’ is a very natural thing to say,” Buttercup said.
“The Mayor is still in the clear. He’s heading over to the craps pit now. No sign of the blond or the redhead yet.”
The target laughed, loud enough for Blossom to hear from her vantage point. “That laugh was him, Buttercup.”
“Seriously? That douche-y noise?”
“Flap your skirt a bit when you go by,” Bubbles said. “He’s got a thing for leg.”
“Is that why you put me in this God damned thing? Was that in the dossier?”
“It wasn’t.” Blossom looked down at her own outfit, also Bubbles-selected. Another flowy, split skirt number.
“No, that was in his Tinder profile.”
“Are you fucking—this dipshit kills people for a living and he’s on Tinder?”
“Buttercup, shut up,” Blossom said. “You’re about to enter his field of vision.”
Buttercup went silent. Blossom watched as her dark-haired sister threw back her shoulders and flicked her hand in the folds of her skirt. It kicked up, perfectly timed as she drifted past their target, and right on cue he glanced over, the stub of his cigar rolling from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Got ‘im,” Blossom whispered, watching as he dropped his cigar on an ashtray and downed the rest of his drink before taking off after Buttercup. “Buttercup, go dark.”
“Ugh, stop with the bit,” Buttercup griped, and then she reached up to adjust an earring and her line went silent.
“Are either of these other two assassins stupid enough to have online dating profiles?” Blossom asked Bubbles.
“Nope. The blond one’s online, though. I snagged some photos from his timeline.”
“Were they of any use?”
“Maybe. I made friends with the casino club bouncers last night and asked them to keep an eye out for the blond because I’m staging an intervention.”
“Well done.” Blossom sighed and leaned on the mezzanine rail. “That just leaves one.”
“Try zero. The redhead’s just popped up and has eyes on the Mayor.”
Blossom dropped her phone in her purse and made a beeline down the stairs, heading for the craps tables, far west of where Buttercup had snared her prey. “On my way.”
“You should go back and change. The outfits were for Buttercup’s guy. Now that she’s got him you should get something on with more places to hide a few weapons.”
“How armed is this guy? Can you tell?”
“How armed does he have to be? He’s an assassin. Might as well grab all the help we can get.”
***
“Buy you a drink?”
Buttercup glanced over as their first target of the night leaned on the stool next to her at her chosen blackjack table.
“In a casino? Where the drinks are free? Nice try, man,” she said, tapping the table for the dealer to give her another card. “How many idiot college girls does that work on?”
His green eyes glittered when he crooked his mouth. “Only the ones that haven’t gambled before.” He made eye contact with a server taking cocktail orders a few tables down and raised his hand. “Let me guess.” He swept his gaze up and down, and Buttercup withheld a growl. She was going to throttle Bubbles later. “Girls’ night out. Or weekend? Maybe a bachelorette party?”
“Maybe I just like wearing dresses.” She did not.
He turned his attention to the server. “Bring me a Newcastle. And she’ll have—what are you into? Vodka?”
Buttercup tapped the table for another card and scoffed. “Why would I order water at a bar? I’ll take a beer.”
He laughed that same obnoxious laugh that had made her bristle earlier. “Vodka’ll fuck you up more than the beer will.”
“I said what I said.”
“Two Newkie browns, then.”
“Bring that to me direct and I’ll open it myself, thanks,” Buttercup said to the server.
“Thank you, Gina,” he sang as the server walked off.
“You been drinking here so long that you know her name already?”
“House wins,” the dealer said. “Sir, you’ll have to place a bet if you’re gonna sit here.”
“She’s wearing a nametag,” he said, and tossed a few chips into the betting circle. “Wish you were wearing one. What should I call you?”
“Guess,” Buttercup said, placing her bet.
His grin widened, baring teeth. “I don’t have to guess.”
“Guess.”
He leaned both elbows on the table and licked his lips, glancing down briefly at his cards. “Hmm. A. B? C.”
“Are you fuckin’ serious?”
“D,” he continued, beckoning to the dealer for another card. “E.”
“E. Just call me E.”
“Works for me. Hi, E. E, you don’t strike me as a dress kinda gal.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The way you talk. You don’t sound like a woman who wears dresses.”
“And what, pray tell, does a woman who wears dresses sound like?”
A wicked grin lit up his face. “Honestly? Mostly like a lot of moaning and gasping in my ear.”
“Oh, my God,” Buttercup said, laughing in disbelief. She was gonna murder this guy!
We’re supposed to bring them in alive, Blossom’s voice echoed in her head.
“I’m Butch,” he said.
“Didn’t ask.”
“I forgive you.”
“Generous.” Another shit hand, damn. At least she could expense the loss. “Well, Butch,” she said, her expression flat, her voice flatter, “what does a woman who doesn’t wear dresses sound like?”
Butch met her subdued glare with those ever-sparkling green eyes as the dealer swept his chips away.
“Oh, E,” he purred. “I would love to find out.”
***
It felt better when Blossom re-emerged on the constrained chaos of the casino floor in her standard work outfit. Far easier to conceal a couple of pistols and her extensive cutlery in high-waisted trousers and a boxy blazer. Plus a pair of boots she could easily run ten miles in.
“Better get over here. The Mayor’s moved on to roulette,” Bubbles said. “As has our assassin.”
Blossom wove through the crowd, her senses assaulted by the incessant trill of spinning slots and flickering lights. “Probably going to shut this off. I can barely hear you here.”
“See ‘im yet?”
“Not yet.” Blossom had just hit the first row of craps tables.
“Look for the red cap.”
“Are you joking?” Blossom spotted the cap within seconds. Easy mark. “Stupid move when you’re in the business of killing people and trying to be discreet about it.”
“Oh, it gets better. He’s wearing that on top of a full-on tailored black suit. Two-button, single breasted, notched lapel—”
“The cap was detail enough, Bubbles.”
“It’s not as bad a look as it sounds, that’s all I’m saying. Red tie, too. Slim.”
“Any word on the blond yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve got my eye out.” The shops were at the north entrance of the casino, also near the elevators that would take patrons to the hotel. The club where Bubbles’ new bouncer friends worked was on the south end, next to the main entrance.
Good coverage, Blossom thought, making a mental note to tell her sister so later. Red Cap was a stone’s throw away on her left. Her gaze darted to the Mayor, a few tables to her right. The minuscule top-hatted man screeched in delight as his number hit, and his table whooped with him, making it even more impossible to hear things.
“Talk later,” she said to Bubbles, and switched off her line. She needed to concentrate, anyway.
An opening materialized next to her target and she instantly slipped into the space.
“Alright,” she said cheerily, drawing her target’s attention for the briefest of moments and feeling the weight of all that metal on her person. “Time to lose some money.”
***
“I think I’ve lost enough,” Butch said, swaying a bit as he stood. Gina swooped in with his most recent cocktail order and retrieved his empty beer bottle—his third. Buttercup had just wrapped up her second. “If I’m gonna lose any more I’d rather be drinking it. Gina, you angel.” He fumbled through his bills, muttered, “Fuck it,” and threw a twenty on her tray before turning back to Buttercup. “Come with?”
Buttercup was actually up by a modest amount—sixty-something, maybe? She hadn’t been counting too closely. But she withdrew, causing Butch to light up.
“Oh, so I am charming you.”
“Wouldn’t exactly call it that,” she said, pocketing her chips, and Butch pointed vaguely with his non-drink wielding hand as they made for the bar.
“See. You put them in your pocket, not your purse.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means my theory is right. You’re not into girly things.”
“Plenty of girls prefer pockets, Einstein.”
“It’s a miracle that dress even has pockets on it.”
Buttercup laughed. “Don’t disagree.” She touched his elbow, then grasped his sleeve and tugged. “Bar’s this way.”
“Oh, you’re sweet,” he drawled. “Do you smoke, E?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame.” He leered at her, an expression she now recognized as the precursor to a comment that would make her want to punch his face in. “All that empty space between your lips is a crime.”
“Jesus, Butch,” she groaned, resisting the urge to—surprise, surprise—punch his face in. “How do you still have all your teeth? How have you not been beaten up by every single woman you’ve ever met?”
“Oh, honey, now you’re just threatening me with a good time,” he said, laughing as he leaned in close. She rolled her eyes as they pulled up against the bar.
“Sit down, dummy.” She pulled out a stool for him and made him sit. If he was drunk enough to barely stand now, bringing him in was going to be a piece of cake. Just a few more and he’d be comatose. Comatose counted as alive, didn’t it?
“I wanna drink whiskey with you,” he said. “Shots. You look like a shots kinda lady. Where’s the drinks guy here?”
“Why don’t you finish the drink you got there first, friend?” she said, and Butch looked at the old fashioned in his hand as if it had only now materialized and he hadn’t been threatening to spill it their entire trek over to the bar.
“Where the fuck did this come from?”
“Gina,” Buttercup said, and put in their order with the bartender.
“Gina’s an angel,” he said, and drank.
***
“You’re bad at this.”
Blossom turned her face up to her guy, letting her eyes go wide as she faked a cringe. “Is it that bad?”
“You’ve been playing for ten minutes and you’re already down five hundred.” His gaze flicked across her face before returning to the table. “And I don’t think you really have it to lose.”
She made a huffy face and turned her head, making sure the Mayor hadn’t moved. Still there. “Maybe I’m secretly a millionaire.”
“What a twist that would be.”
Blossom liked that this guy was a jerk. When they were jerks it made the job easier. “What am I doing wrong?”
He tilted his head and watched as the dealer raked his chips away. “Playing in the first place.”
“So are you,” she said, throwing in a little shoulder bump against him. He barely budged. “What’s the difference?”
“Not much difference,” he admitted. “’Cept I’m losing less than you.”
“Then what’s your strategy? Do you have a system? Like how blackjack uses card counting or something?”
He looked at her. She caught his eyes darting to the side, in the Mayor’s direction. But his hands were on the edge of the table, nowhere near his jacket or pockets.
Not yet.
“Nah. There’s this saying. ‘The only thing casinos love more than roulette players are roulette players who use a system.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean, smart guy?”
He placed his chips in the betting area—a split bet on 27 and 30, a straight bet on 7, and a outside bet on red. She watched as he slipped the rest of his chips into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
“It means you’re fucked, either way.”
***
“What is it with guys and whiskey?” Buttercup said. She lifted her glass, where the casino lights equalized to a warm, inviting amber.
“Throw it back. You tell me.” Butch clinked his tiny shot glass against hers and downed it, his gaze on her all the while. Still glittering green.
“I always thought you were supposed to let it sit in the mouth for awhile,” she said, sipping it and doing just that.
“What do you want in your mouth?” he asked, perking up, and she rolled her eyes and swallowed. The alcohol burned a little on the way down. Not that she hated it.
Butch was on the verge of passing out, and while she had been prepared for a bit of a fight, hell, an easy win was still a win.
She slammed the rest of her whiskey and thunked the shot glass upside down on the bar. She hadn’t been out for drinks in a minute, and if work was gonna foot the bill, then sure. She’d drink until this fucker was on the floor.
“Another shot!” she yelled, holding her hand up.
“Fuck yeah!” Butch whooped, and high-fived her.
***
Bubbles hummed to herself as she tucked Princess’ souvenir—a scarf, since she didn’t have room for a handbag—into the inner pocket of her purse. She could see Blossom putting on the ditzy girl act for Brick, which he seemed largely immune to, but on the plus side, it was pulling his focus.
Something knocked against the glass of the storefront window behind her and she glanced over. She was standing in front of a luxury candy store, and a single hard-shelled candy rolled around on the inner sill before wobbling off onto the floor. She looked up and saw—
Well, that’s odd.
The blond—Boomer, she remembered, partly from his dossier but mostly from his social media—was perusing a middle display of boxed candy sets, the sort that Princess sent as corporate gifts when she felt like phoning it in. Guess that was three assassins accounted for.
He looked up, caught her eye, and waved. Every hair on her body was suddenly standing on end, and she did a quick visual sweep of the area, same as she’d been every five minutes for the past hour plus. But nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nobody appeared to be lurking surreptitiously behind corners, waiting to jump her.
Boomer was coming to the front of the store. She undid the clasp on her purse.
“Hey.” He popped around the corner, blazer open, no weapon in sight.
“Hello,” she said cautiously—not, Oh no, does he know I’m a spy, cautious, more like, Why is this random man talking to me, a lone woman, cautious.
He took the hint and kept his distance. “Hi, sorry. I know this is gonna sound weird, but were you, uh, looking for me?”
She blinked and looked around, working in another sweep. Still nothing. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure—”
“Oh, well, the bouncer at the club was like, ‘Hey, your friend’s looking for you,’ and I was like, ‘Oh my God, what friend?’ and he was all, “She’s worried about you,’ and I thought, ‘Oh no, there must be some mistake,’ and then he showed me your picture—”
Shoot, Bubbles thought, taking a step back, and Boomer held up his hands.
“I’m not creepy! Or not trying to be! But just, I saw your picture, and I was like, ‘Oh, that is my friend, I’ll just go talk to her and clear this up,’ but internally I was like, Oh, she seems nice, I’ll just go explain—”
All three of them are on the floor now, Bubbles thought. Now at least they knew where they all were, or she did, and she could still see the Mayor, so—
“You know, I’m just such a doofus, I’m going about this all wrong.” Boomer shook out his hands and smiled, his expression bright and cheery. “Hi! I’m Boomer. I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”
He extended his hand, and Bubbles eyed it for a long moment before acquiescing.
“Hi, Boomer. I’m Tara.” She took his hand and squeezed a hello. “And I think you’re right. Sorry about that.”
He smiled and released her hand, his fingers trailing along hers as he pulled back. “That’s okay. Your friends are lucky to have someone like you looking out for them. I guess that’s probably pretty fitting for a casino, huh?”
Among the myriad of accessories in her purse, both potentially lethal and non, she had a stun gun. That would be quickest. But not on the floor. She should ask him if he wanted to go for a walk. Maybe to another casino, away from the Mayor. There was a shuttle every fifteen minutes—
“Can I say a thing? Don’t take it the wrong way. You don’t really look like a Tara.”
The gears in Bubbles’ head ground to a sudden halt. She kept her face and tone neutral. “Oh, really?”
“Well, maybe if I tilt my head and squint, it works.”
Blaring alarms had displaced the gears. One hand slipped into her purse, closing around her telescopic baton.
“But I think Bubbles suits you much better.”
***
“You do have a system,” Blossom said after watching him for a few rounds. “You always bet on red.”
He snorted. “That counts as a system? I just like the color.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” she said, gently flicking the brim of his cap. She watched as annoyance flashed across his eyes and couldn’t help but feel a little smug.
He stood back, rubbing two chips together. “You know, it’s funny you should gravitate to roulette.” His gaze darted over her shoulder, and she mentally tensed. Perhaps the Mayor was passing behind her as they spoke.
Her doe-eyed blink was practiced, perfectly timed. She glanced back at their table, her eyes pulling to the side opposite him for a brief second. Sure enough, there went the Mayor.
“Why’s that?” she asked, turning back and tucking her chin so she could pout at him from under her long eyelashes.
He looked back at her and quirked a corner of his mouth before once again going stoic. “It’s a showy game. And you’re dressed like that.”
She knocked back the bristle that started at the base of her neck and feigned further confusion. “Huh?”
“People play roulette because they think it’s glamorous and sexy,” he said, turning a bit and never breaking eye contact. She shifted between him and the Mayor, bracing herself. “They saw it in a movie, maybe James Bond or something, and it looks fun and exciting to play.”
He hadn’t removed his hand from the inside of his jacket yet. Blossom pretended to settle back, her hands going into her pockets.
“But you’re not here to have fun,” he said.
“Maybe this is fun for me,” she said, her voice flat.
“Please.” He hadn’t broken eye contact since the Mayor had moved, hadn’t glanced up or away to see where he was going, hadn’t—
Because it’s not the Mayor he’s after.
“You’re here to get a job done,” he said, his gaze drilling into her as the realization slowly dawned. “What a coincidence. So am I.”
***
I’m not gonna be able to keep this up, Buttercup thought, turning her shot glass upside down and sliding it next to the rest. A neat little parade of empty glasses.
She had been hoping to drink him under the table. But this fucker, drunk as he was, was not going down. She was gonna have to drag him in a darkened hallway and punch him to finish off what the alcohol had started before calling it a night.
“Hey.” Butch’s hand appeared in front of her nose and attempted to snap a couple of times. “Earth to, to, to E. What’s got you so distracted?”
She looked at him and smirked. “I was just thinking of pulling you into a dark, quiet corner—”
“Mmm, I like where this is going.”
“And knocking you unconscious,” she said. She looked around. In fact, no reason she couldn’t do it now. They were the only two just drinking; everyone else was at the tables or the slots. The bartender was conversing with a couple of servers at the other end. She could go for a throat stab as long as she was careful. It’d be quick.
“Oh, E, you’re so much fucking fun,” Butch said, swaying on his barstool. His hand slid across the bar towards hers, and though every instinct in Buttercup screamed to pull away, she held her ground. Her gaze darted to his throat and she braced her hand, readying it to taper to a point on a collision course for his neck.
Just a little closer and I can—
“I’m really bummed out that I’m gonna have to kill you,” he whispered, just as gunshots rang out from the direction of the casino floor.
-end ch. 1-
Hope everyone has a safe, lovely holiday ♥
AO3 | FFNet | AskFM | Ko-Fi (currently closed)
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This is amazing!
~ash-wolf-14
Re: This is amazing!
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Also, I'm in agreement that Racketballs is a gift to the fandom, her art is always inspiring.