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The sleek black limosuine rolled down the snow encrusted streets filled with the latest model BMW's, Porsches and countless diplomatic limosuines. The area reeked of wealth and power, not the fresh bright smell of the nouveau riche. No, not anywhere near. The closely packed brownstone townhouses, with their small, but elegantly landscaped front yards were old. As old and as corrupt as the wealth and power which the quiet neighbourhood emanated. No wild dance parties were held in these homes, the corporate moving and shaking was of a much subtler and more deliciously corrupt kind, very reminscent of the old French courts in the Renaissance period. The car pulled to a halt in front of one of these homes. And the suited driver hopped out, quickly trotted around the vehicle, and opened the door at the far rear of the limosuine which faced the driveway. A black velvety shoe emerged from the dimly lit interior, followed by a slender ankle, a sleekly muscled, yet quite pale calf, then a knee.. and the progression continued until Amarantha stepped from her chariot. She rolled her shoulders and gave a peculiar shiver, causing the silken black gown to drop around her body in a perfect fit. The lower hem of the dress brushed just above her ankles, quite close fitting, and the silky fabric was slit to just above her knee, showing just the right amount of firmly shaped thigh as she nodded tightly to the driver and stepped away from the car. The dress fitted her perfectly, obviously tailor made to her uniquely feminine yet athletic frame. The material gathered around her neck, cutting down into a diving front, yet not too low, since to expose too much milky white flesh would be tasteless. Her shoulderblades and back were exposed, yet the dress rode high enough upon her skin to cover the tattoed circlet of thorns any EWA viewer would know was there. Her dark auburn curls were gathered in a carefully crafted mess atop her head, several ringlets hanging around her face, and accenting her cheeks, and the smooth slope of her neck. She wore little makeup, if any, just a light gloss upon her lips, and the barest touch of mascara to highlight her dark lashes. She moved with her customary grace along the bricked path towards the impressive brownstone townhouse. Apparently a chameleon, Amarantha barely resembled the blood spattered woman who'd emerged from a disreputable rave only the night before. One would be hard pushed to relate her to the powerful force that managed to defeat Hexane in the ring, or the vixen who casually tossed insults so vitrolic they would make the stoutest man falter. No, there was only one thing that remained unchanged, and that was the flashing emerald eyes, holding a tinge of contempt, and a definite challenge in their depths. Taking in a deep, steadying breath, she fixed a faint smile upon her features, and with a blink, erased the intensity of emotion from her eyes, leaving a faint touch of boredom resting in its place. She stopped before the doorman, speaking in a soft, modulated voice. "Ashley, Ashley Laurent." He nodded, and ticked the small folder in his hands, before opening the door for her. She smiled lightly, and lifting her chin, stepped gracefully through the doors, surveying the gathering.

The room stank of power. Like cigar smoke, the kind of thing that hangs in a room for days after its occupants have left. Powerful men and women float around the room like electrons, bouncing from one atom to another when excited, except that the electricity in this room is a particularly Washingtonian current... power. Political power. Power of influence. Power of money. Power in its most subtle, and most naked forms. And at the center of this maelstrom, surrounded by senators, businessmen, lawyers, lobbyists, writers, etc... Hoyakillah. He was wearing a tuxedo, like the other men in the room. Simple, black jacket, tie, white shirt, black tuxedo pants and shoes. In his left hand was a gin and tonic, in a perfectly cut crystal glass. He used the other hand to motion to the clique surrounding him. He was talking about one of his typical pursuits... arbitrage... international politics... gossip on the Hilltop... the latest word from the Hill... no matter. What caught her was his eyes. They... sparked. Moving from one person to the next in a display of energy which she had seen so many times and yet so few times at the same time. And then, the eyes fixed on her.

Only for a moment.

Then he continued with his conversation. Amarantha felt a slight shiver, as she went up to the bar. "Shiraz. Australian," she said. The red wine was given to her in a glass whose curves reflected the light glimmering off the chandelier in the ceiling. She sipped, and walked through the party. Small talk with many of these sort... people with whom she had never had such interaction before. A new sort of experience, so to speak. Yet, it was Shakespeare who'd spoken of only five tales in the world, and in her relatively short life, Amarantha had lived through most of those. Her eyes drifted over the assembled groups of people, each of their words carefully calculated, designed to have the greatest effect, and she smiled, slowly. For the money, and the power, they were no different. Albeit a little more sophisticated, both in their desires and their machinations, but nonetheless, their goals were the same.Dancing between each other, the violence here wasn't overt and physical, it was an electric undercurrent, surging continually as they maneuvered for position and power - be it political or social. Amarantha accepted the cordial handshakes, and almost European air-kisses upon her cheeks as she weaved slowly through the crowds. Her comments were smooth, urbane and witty, and her motions were unhurried. She was well aware that Hoya wanted her to become acclimitised to this kind of scene, and she was also well aware, that if things were going to go her way..in the long run.. she would have to be able to adapt to situations as much as this. Yet despite herself, she found the atmosphere to her liking. Money and its trappings had always made her feel uncomfortable, perhaps because of her upbringing, her past - perhaps because of something else. However, the money was a symbol, like sex, or drugs, or violence. It could be usurped and manipulated - and apparently, in this capitalist society, to get ahead - it was a must. Her gaze drifted to Hoyakillah, and their eyes met - the air between them almost seemed to crackle momentarily with intensity. Polished actors both, they continued the conversations they were involved in - but the connection had been made, and at this moment at least, it would not be undone by the mundane nature, however necessary, of this evening. They shared another glance, and wordlessly disengaged from their seperate vultures, moving towards the staircase.

He went first, nodding and smiling urbanely to those he knew, and those he didn't, and Amarantha followed not far behind. She walked up the stairs, knowing what to expect, yet not knowing what to expect. The carpeted stairs creaked slightly... the house was over two hundred years old, after all. Oddly enough, none of the guests gave a second thought to this strange woman, a newcomer to their social circles, escaping the party to some secret meeting upstairs. She climbed the stairs, and found herself at the beginning of a hallway. All the doors were closed, except for the one at the very end of the hall, which was slightly ajar. On a whim, she headed for it. Her strides brought her quickly to the door, which she lightly pushed open. Hoya was in there. He immediately put a finger to her lips, and turned back to what he was doing. From his jacket pocket, he retrieved some sort of probe, which he waved around the room. Next, he walked to the telephone, unplugging it. He drew the curtains, darkening the room until he switched on two lamps... but, for some reason, he checked under the lamps first. That done, he walked over to the Bang and Olufsen against the wall. Pressed a button, and a piano track started playing out of the speakers... "Here Comes the Flood" by Peter Gabriel. "Any particular significance for the song?" she asked "No," he replied. "Just needed something to kill any bugs in the room."

Amarantha arched a brow, a faint smirk upon her lips, "My, aren't we paranoid tonight?"

Hoyakillah "No more than usual, my dear. Now, shall we get down to business?"

Amarantha stepped closer to him, then swerved away, strolling around the room, trailing her slender fingers over the furniture, her voice even and flat, "Things are coming to a head more rapidly than expected. It seems the gods of booking wish to precipitate a climax to this.. " her voice dripped a momentary contempt, though who its directed at is hard to say, "feud."

"Do you really think we're here to discuss booking, woman?" His voice drips sarcasm, ready to spill onto the floor in a great cascade. "This is more than just booking. Although you needn't worry about that. We shall take care of that without problem." He paused, staring hard at her, "This is about the two of us."

Her laughter is quite sudden, its rippling overtones echoing within the notes of the music. She turns back to him, the smile upon her lips not reaching her eyes, "My precious Hoya - they're all related - surely even you know that. But please.. before anger, although.." She purses her lips, looking him up and down speculatively, before licking her lips suggestively, "although it makes you sexy, before that anger overwhelms you beyond coherency - perhaps you should illuminate me as to what your particular problem is..." Her pause is quite meaningful, "This evening..."

"Problem? Where do I start?" He starts pacing the room in his manner, as she sits back in a high-backed leather armchair, serenely viewing the spectacle. "Obviously, there are some command and control issues with my return to the Faction. I simply hope that Hexane is capable of being a deputy now. Not that I don't trust him. But we'll have to see."

"That's not why you're calling me up here, though, is it?" She asks, though she's already well aware it isn't.

"Of course not. Like I said, this is about you and me. But contrary to what you said, booking has nothing to do with it. Control has everything to do with it." Her response is quiet, surprisingly not remotely mocking, and she arches a slender brow at him, her emerald gaze locking with his green eyes, "You don't have it." "Don't I? " He responds, holding her gaze.

He continues to pace in the room, but comes behind the high-backed chair where she sits. Reaching over, he lightly massages her trapezius muscles. Leans over... a kiss on the back of her neck. "Don't I? Amarantha leans back into his touch, her eyes half-closed a smile of pleasure curving her full lips, she returns softly,

"If you did, you wouldn't even have to ask that question now would you."

It is a simple statement of fact, not remotely posed as a question. Gauging her reaction, he moves from behind to in front of her. Grabbing an ottoman and pulling it in front of her chair, he sits down, eyes locked on hers.

"Mais c'est un tres bon question. Un vrai question, ma chere, chere Ash. Il est possible que je n'ai aucun controle. Mais, je sais que tu ne peux pas te controler non plus. J'ai raison, non?"

A faint flush of colour rises in her cheeks, but she leans back, crossing her legs at the knees, exposing a hefty amount of her pale legs. A soft chuckle pulls from between her parted lips, " I see you're not beyond using all of the tricks in your repetoire. I get the drift.. but.. " She arches a brow once more, resting a hand upon her knee. His gaze holds hers, and he repeats, this time in English, "But it's a very good question. A true question, my dear, dear Ash. It's possible... possible... that I don't have control here. But, I know that you can't control yourself either. Right?"

Amarantha gives an almost coquettish smile, deliberately leaning forwards in the chair towards Hoyakillah. The motion causes the front of her dress to drop forwards, revealing her milky, smooth cleavage to him, and she slides her tongue slowly over her lips, her voice is low and husky, and very, very inviting as she looks at him from beneath her dusky lashes, "Are you so certain of everything William..?" she purrs his name softly, using it just as deliberately as he did hers.

In the background, the Peter Gabriel song finishes, and another replaces it... "Last Goodbye," by Jeff Buckley. Wordlessly, as she speaks his name, Hoya reaches over, and takes her hand. She stops for a moment, unsure. He lifts her out of her seat, and grabs her by the waist, and, as the song continues, they begin to dance, waltzing along the hardwood floor as the song plays. "First rule. Internalize everything." She smiles faintly, pliant within his grasp, "Everything.." Without reacting to that, he moves in, and brushes his lips across hers, as they continue dancing. They are the perfect dance partners, her head reaching to his chest, their graceful strides leading them over the polished wooden floorboards.

Amarantha follows his lead as they dance, content to let silence reign for now, content to allow Hoyakillah control of the moment. Her remark is without rancor, completely emotionless, not as though she's hiding some feeling, but more honestly, that it is a vague curiousity about human nature that urges her to ask the question. The softness of her voice belies the implied crudity of the query, "Does it provoke rancor to know that he's fucking her right now ?" "Rancor? No. Pity? Perhaps. They're weak. We both know it. You see, I made one big mistake earlier. I targeted her. I needn't do that. He's the real target... he's the one we need to bring down. But frankly, they deserve each other."

The two continue dancing, as the song changes yet again, now to "Hoping, Waiting, Longing" by Agents of Good Roots. The dance speeds up slightly, as the pair continue waltzing around the room. "I mean, let's be honest here. I could have her. Or I could have you. Is there any choice?" Her response is equally flat, as though she's subtly, or perhaps not so subtly probing his defenses,

"She's the mother of your child."

He shrugs,

"Notice how much I care."

Again, a rejoinder from her,

"It's a weakness."

Hoya shakes his head, continuing with the motions of the dance,

"For her, not for me."

The silence settles between them once more as they continue to move to the slow pull of the music, Amarantha rests her head on his shoulder leaning against him as the song finally comes to an end, the last gentle notes drifting away. Her hand releases from his, and she slides her fingers along his back, teasing them in small circles at the back of his neck, tilting her face upwards, her lips brushing ever so tentatively against his. "What's all that... you were saying... about control?" His voice is firm, yet at the same time, a bit questioning.

Right now, her camouflage is perfect. She may be giving in... or playing the game even more. Tricky's - She makes me Wanna Die , taken directly from the Replacement Killer'ssoundtrack picks up where Agents of Good Roots left off.

Amarantha leans against Hoya, her body moving gently against his, she doesn't responed to his words, her hands continuing to tenderly caress the back of his neck, her lips parted, soft and moist against his mouth. Her eyes are half-closed, the hard edge from them gone, the emerald green almost dreamy.

Hoya looks into those eyes...

hoping...

waiting...

longing...

then pushes off of her.

"Fuck," he says. "You're good." He shakes his head, "Almost had me there."

Amarantha straightens slowly, the soft look vanishing from her eyes, as though it was never there. The facility with which she changes expressions and attitudes is enough to make any man wonder what she is actually thinking at any moment in time.

"I'm better than good, I'm superb. And you know it." She breaks off, fluttering her lashes in an exaggerated fashion, pushing her bottom lip into a pout,her tone remarkably similar to Kallista's "Hold me.. protect me.. " Her voice is dripping with contempt as she finishes the sentence, "Save me oh big strong man.."

He chuckles, walking across the room. "Damn, woman." Her gaze follows him as he walks away, and she sinks into the chair he was seated in earlier. Her posture is relaxed, and she seems perfectly at ease, "Wine me, dine me, whisper sweet nothings in my ears - and I'm yours." She stops as he looks over at her a slight frown creasing his brow, his eyes showing scepticism, and then chuckling once more as she finishes, "Hardly. That's boring - and done. I'm something you've never experienced, and something you never will again."

Hoyakillah looks her over for a moment, and then turns his back, pulling a cigar from his pocket and slowly unwrapping it, his voice drifting over his shoulder, he sounds a little amused, "Oh, and why's that ?" Amarantha stands slowly and silently from the chair. She bends, removing both of her shoes, and setting them next to the chair. Then with a shrug, she slips out of the dress - it pools with a soft sound at her feet. Hearing it, Hoyakillah turns around quickly, his narrowed with suspicion, and then widening and then drinking in her now naked form. Apparently the feel of underwear beneath the dress didn't quite match, and her skin gleams in the dim lighting of the room. She slowly trails her hands over her body, her emerald gaze never leaving his darkening green eyes.

He places his cigar back in his pocket, reaching behind him to swing the door shut. Amarantha purrs softly, stepping closer to him,

"Leave it open.."

Fade to black.