(A rare content warning and breaking of kayfabe from the author: the subject matter of pedophilia comes up, albeit without any "on screen" depiction. Part of why this installment has taken so long has been figuring out how to handle the subject matter, and it's Probably the only time it'll come up in the series, but Current Events are on my mind. I hate these fucking bastards but don't think I can flinch from what they are narratively and feel honest. onwards.)
"To new horizons, and cold futures!" the toastmaster announced. A sea of applause flooded a glass and crystal auditorium, the Thiel-Bilderberg annual symposium had commenced. The master of ceremonies, Leopold Rouchlieu, was one of dozens of gay men in tech selected to oversee the ongoings. Lee was once a young, idealistic man, but youth fades. Ideals get tarnished in the face of reality. If you ever asked him if he had bankrolled a left-wing cell with parental seed money, he would laugh it off and win you over with a quip about "angel investing."
"Well done as ever, old chap, well done!" said a graying walrus of a man. He was attached by the wrist to a young, delicate catamite. Nearly all of the attendees were, but for the occasional fag hags or necessary evils. Lee grinned a too-perfect grin. He had aged well. Rejuvenation serums were becoming more effective. This year's symposium seemed closer than ever to achieving the Thielites' goal of exiting the solar system and abandoning Earth to the flunkies left to manage the place's decline. A once-charming grove, turned into an abandoned campground. 'Tis a pity.
A crimson shadow loomed over the walrus, a too-wide smile attached to its visage. "Ah, Reina Roja!" Lee beamed, kissing the businesswoman's hand. She had on a fetching burgundy pantsuit, very late era Chelsea Clinton drag. She lifted a glass of champagne off a too-young twink's serving tray. "Hello, Lee."
"My darling, how have you been? It just hasn't been the same without you in The Company." Lee tried not to let a vein pop through his botoxed face. He's had charcoal cleanses more pleasant than this witch.
"Just... observing the proceedings. Old habits, and all. I still have an emeritus pass laying around the office, it never hurts to rub elbows with old friends. Very convincing pitch, by the way. I especially enjoyed the illustration of our "dying Earth" with the footage of neutron bombs getting dropped in the mix." She was cold enough that Lee wasn't certain if she was being sarcastic. "I really should let you go, but it's always a pleasure." The redheaded woman winked and faded into the crowd.
"For such a flashy woman," the walrus remarked, "she sure can dispell one's gaze with some small ease."
"Quite," Lee responded, his lips pursed. A thought came to mind. Not quite 'hostile takeover' dangerous, but...she was the exact sort to poach prospects from these symposiums. There were some interns he has picked up from his lessons at the university that he would just hate to let go. The silver fox saluted his drinking partners with a tumbler filled with whiskey and downed a Fifth Horseman in one go. The crystal decorations in the auditorium reflected back an infinite amount of ephibophilic businessmen. His harried brow started to leak sweat.
As Lee followed his old colleague through the laughing herd of pederasts, an old face glared daggers through the reflections. That can't be, Lee thought, I was a witness at her trial. I sold her up the river. She was supposed to either be in prison or detransition.
"Not that there was any difference between her before and after," he muttered. He remembered being in LGBT studies class as a student with another gay man, defending the real life experience that used to be required before trans women could go on hormones. He remembered laughing after class at the lone trans woman in class who was fuming with rage at the two of them for defending it. Despite everything, he laughed again. The impotence of her sense of justice was just too funny.
Gently brushing past security puppets, Lee exited the auditorium backstage, through the cavernous black scaffolding, a/v techs working the cameras and sound. He could have sworn he heard someone laughing back at him. The tech monkeys swearing that no one else had dropped by was no ease to his fear. "Fuck it," he growled, and decided to head back to his hotel room before the alcohol made him do something even more stupid.
An armed escort took him through a crowd of shrieking protestors and sleeting weather. Transluscent plastite shielding saved him from being drenched with glitter bombs and balloons of piss. The ragtag mob looked just the same as always: an organized contingent of black bloc smaller than any other group, elderly folks with signs with politics that were outdated generations ago, young folks without any infosec presence of mind that wore identifying loud clothing and buttons. Piercings, dyed hair, the works. It never changed, no matter how much they tried. It's part of why he bought in— he was tired of being on the losing side. He was tired of having to fight for his rights. If he was still able to indulge in private, then fuck it. Après-moi, le déluge.
The guard escorted him back to the tenth floor of a concrete and glass monstrosity, and Lee tipped them a pittance. He entered his room with a biometric keycard, and then...
"I'm putting you out of your misery..."
What Lee would have done, under ordinary circumstances, was flop into bed, put on some old vintage jams and some mood lighting, order some room service. The lights were on. His favorite song was already playing. Something was terrible wrong.
"I used to see beauty in people, but now I see muscle and bone..."
A beautiful armored woman was sitting on a red chaise lounge in the middle of the room. She was holding a gun old enough to have run for president in the last administration. Her striking visage was all-too familiar.
"No, it can't be!" Lee yelped as the door locked closed behind him. He turned tail and slammed himself against the entrance. No evidence he could be heard.
"I'm sorry, my friend, this is the end."
The woman rose to her full, massive height. No smiles, no frowns. No evidence that this was anything more than a chore that had to get done.
"It's a cruel, cruel world."
"I can pay you whatever you want! I can make up for testifying against you! Honest, I swear I'm good for i—"
Once, a long time ago, when Genevieve was a young boy, she had read a series of books by an old British author named Terry Pratchett. Beyond the dragons and magic and humor, there were severe moral lessons in the stories. One that stuck with her was a lengthy digression on the hope one had when they've been held captive by someone with superior firepower.
"[....] so if a man has you entirely at his mercy, then hope like hell that man is an evil man. Because the evil like power, power over people, and they want to see you in fear. They want you to know you're going to die. So they'll talk. They'll gloat. They'll watch you squirm. They'll put off the moment of murder like another man will put off a good cigar. So hope like hell your captor is an evil man. A good man will kill you with hardly a word."
Genevieve wanted to believe that was true. She wanted to believe she was still capable of good. So, bearing all that in mind, she shot her old friend once in the head without dispensing a bon mot regarding their past history, then exited out the window with a rope.