clean slate

[riding_crop]

They're both dead together. Irene beheaded, Selina presumed killed in the siege, and they're both in a beautiful little cafe in Italy, in matching precarious Louboutins.

Irene is reading an English paper, perfectly red fingernail trailing over each word.

Comments

[silvestris]

Selina sips something sweet and amber (and non-alcoholic, for now) and watches.

"Anyone we know still alive?"

The famous names are what she's after. She has no one she really cares for, anymore, back there but she still wonders about that one name.

[riding_crop]

"There have been a casualty or two. But there are more survivors."

She admits, smiling.

"Even if people don't all know which are which."

Irene still likes non-answers.

[silvestris]

Selina taps a (very shiny, vinyl) boot against the leg of the table.

"I think we need a new source of income. No one carries cash in this city."

Which means that while Selina makes a good living by interrupting nighttime assaults and robbing the perpetrators, it's also very risky and temporary because all she gets are credit cards.

[riding_crop]

"Perhaps we should go into escort work."

Irene muses, not particularly seriously, just enjoying herself.

"Or perhaps I should contact an old friend."

[silvestris]

"What kind of friend?"

Selina smirks, curious as ever about Irene's vast and tangled web.

"The kind who will ask for a cut of our pay and make us call him 'daddy'?"

[riding_crop]

"The kind with a fetish for playing saviour."

She corrects her, gently.

"Who would give up a kidney if you said 'please' in the right voice."

[silvestris]

"Oh, my favorite."

Though Selina is not nearly as adept at manipulation as Irene, and she knows it--suspects they both know it.

"Do I get to shake his hand?"