Strut.

While Ross and Li were meeting, discussing Miss Alexis Flight, Reagan was elsewhere. Not in the studio, preparing another one of her hit designs. Not in her and Ross’s apartment. No, she was standing before a desk in one of the tallest buildings in New York City, arguing with the secretary there.

Today, Reagan's hair is a deep chocolate brown.

The woman refuses to let her enter, to go any farther into the vast building. "You don't have an appointment," she says.

"Yes, I do!" Reagan exclaims. "I keep telling you that!" She getting exasperated; you can tell from the murderous look in her eye, but she's trying to be nice. Trying to play it cool. Trying not to make this woman too suspicious. It's just that she's being awfully difficult. She's still arguing, even though Reagan keeps telling her what she needs. She's just not giving in.

"Look," Reagan says, whipping off her sunglasses.

Just for the record, today’s sky is overcast.

"Look. I don't want to give you any trouble, all right? I just need to get in that goddamn elevator, okay? That's it. Nothing else. Maybe it would be better if you just sat here and pretended I never came by."

"Ma’am, I'm afraid if you do that I'll have to call—"

"Do you know who I am?!" Reagan is speaking loudly. She was never the soft, dangerous type, preferring instead to use those shrill vocals liberally. "Do you have any idea why I’m here? What I could do to you if you don't let me upstairs?"

The woman's hand is inching towards the phone, and Reagan sees this. She says, "Don't. Touch it."

"Ma’am, I'm sorry, but I feel that you may be threatening me, and I am going to have to call security."

"You aren't going to call anyone, old woman." Reagan stands up straighter and shakes back her hair. "I am Reagan Cester. And I need to get upstairs."

The woman's face instantly lights up with a fearful recognition. "Oh, my Lord! Are you really? But you—you have no place in a business like this, you're just—"

"A designer?" Reagan laughs coldly. "You'd be surprised at what else I can do." With that, she takes off towards the doors of the elevator. She hears the woman's shouts behind her, but before a security guard can act the doors have already closed. They wouldn't have been a problem, anyways.

There is no one in the elevator with Reagan, and she quickly reaches down her collar to retrieve a key from her bra. She places it in the keyhole to the top floor, twists it, feels the lock click into place. The elevator begins moving. It will go straight up, with no stops, because as long as the key is turned in the lock, the elevator presumes she is Charles Force.

The key came into Reagan’s possession by way of a quick but dirty job; getting a former mistress of Charles’s to raid the penthouse, lest she be exposed. Not very interesting, though the woman shed many tears. Those were purely melodramatic. The job wasn't fun, but it had to be done, and it had achieved two things: the first, obviously being to grant Reagan's access to Charles’s office; and the second, to make sure Alexis couldn't get up there. Ever. Charles kept his key on his person at all times, while Alexis’s lay nearly forgotten in the house. The only other person with access was Charles’s assistant, Robert, who files for most of the day and is unimportant, or so Charles tells him.

When Reagan emerges from behind the elevator doors, Robert gives a shout, clearly startled. What a stupid man, Reagan thinks. He is, for the most part. Charles tells him that, too.

Robert is a big man, with an Italian last name. He looks ill fit for this job, and Charles seems to think so too, for he underpays him and treats him like dirt off the bottom of his shoe. Given, he treats the majority of his employees like that, but Robert is a special case.

"Shut up," Reagan tells him, striding straight past the desk and through the double doors into the next office. She hears Robert scrambling for a phone behind her, and knows she has to act fast.

The door clicks shut, and the great chair behind the big mahogany desk turns. "Charles," Reagan simpers, "a pleasure as always." Her voice is sweet and pleasant, but from Charles’s face you would think it was akin to a murderous beast's snarl. His look of horror was even worse than Robert's. "Would you please stop your impertinent secretary from calling the police on me? That would be quite an inconvenience."

Charles gapes at her for a moment, then ducks out from behind his desk, giving her a wide berth as he moves around her back into the first room.

Reagan smiles and walks over to a mirror, straightening her low-cut top and pea coat. She gives her hair a shake, thinking the color has grown old already. She then settles into a lush armchair, the one clearly intended for Charles, in the sitting area next to his desk. She crosses her legs, sitting straight and perfectly.

Charles enters the room again, walking slowly. His eyes are cold and hard, studying Reagan. He rummages around in the liquor cabinet, and comes out with a bottle of scotch, pouring a glass.

"Would you like any, Miss Cester?" he voices, gaze only concentrating only on tipping the amber liquid into the crystal glass.

“Oh no, Mr. Flight, I couldn’t. How unprofessional!” She laughs, an innocent, simpering laugh, just like the voice she’s using, and Charles shoots her an unamused glance. She smiles as she receives it. Like Ross, she finds joy in the possibility of danger.

“So, Reagan,” Charles addresses her, sinking gratefully down into the lush couch across from Reagan’s armchair. “What brings you here on this fine day?”

“Knowledge,” Reagan answers simply, and Charles’s face pales for a moment. “I need it,” she clarifies, and his color comes back up, helped along with a swig of scotch.

“Well then,” he says, his voice becoming slightly more brisk. “What do you need to know? So badly that you feel the need to break into my office, I might add, during broad daylight!”

Reagan smiles. “Charles, dear, that’s just how I do things. If I want to see you, I want to see you.”

I think now would be a good time to mention that Charles and Reagan have met once, very briefly, before this friendly conversation. In person, that is. Reagan and Charles exist at a tier so high they are forced into each other’s vicinity; it’s like some sort of automatic bonding experience. They’re both smart enough to have called a truce; neither one wants to climb higher, wants to play the one-upping game anymore. Equilibrium, or something or the sort. Until now, I mean.

“Then let’s get to the point, shall we?” This was Charles’s not-so-subtle attempt at moving things along.

“Of course.” Reagan smiles warmly, picking up a vase from the table next to her. She spins it in her small hands, examining it from every angle. Charles visibly stiffens the moment her hands touch it.

“So, Charles… I was just wondering, are there any skeletons in your closet?”

At this, Charles laughs. It’s a huge belly laugh, coming from a man seemingly incapable of producing such a sound. Truthfully, Charles hasn’t laughed in months. This laugh doesn’t count, because it’s not about something funny. The only times Charles laughs is when he’s being sarcastic, anymore. However, it should be noted that this is the most genuine one to date.

“You think I’ll tell you that, Miss Cester? Outright tell you that?”

Reagan just smiles, replying, “Yes, sir, I do.”

There’s a small moment of peace and silence as Charles shakes his head incredulously. Then, there’s a great shattering smash.

“Whoops,” Reagan whispers, a small smile still playing around her lips.

All traces of humor, no matter how sarcastic, are erased from Charles’s face. He looks down at the wreckage; Reagan had thrown the vase against the mirror, effectively shattering them both. Glass and ceramic litter the floor, and some flying debris have cracked varies other precious works of art.

“I see,” Charles says slowly. “This is how it’s going to be.”

“When I need answers, Charles—”

“You need answers. Of course. Little Miss Princess always gets what she wants.”

Reagan leans closer to him. “Yes, you’re right, Charles. This is what happens when you have connections, see. Everything suddenly seems closer… in your reach. I guess you wouldn’t know about that.”

Charles regards her with fury. “You, Cester, have no idea what kinds of connections I have. I could—”

“And that’s exactly what I want to hear.” Reagan arches an eyebrow and sits back. “Please, Charles, do go on.”

Charles just shakes his head, pursing his lips. “I think it would be a wise move to leave now, Miss Cester. I could call security, or the police, or… worse.” Charles is trying to be threatening, but he’s not doing a very good job of it.

Reagan laughs. “God, Charles, that’s the best you can do? The reason I’m here is to find out what worse is! And now you’re going to bring them straight to me!” Her tinkling laugh rings out again. The sound is elegant, but somehow slightly off. A little too high-pitched, a little too out of control. “Go ahead, Charles! Go right ahead!”

Her eyes are sparkling with absolute joy, and Charles begins to realize what kind of a person he has on his hands. Regan clearly isn’t leaving until she gets answers, that’s for sure.

“Charles,” she begins again, softer this time. “Charles, I already know. I’ve just come here to get confirmation.”

“Confirmation to what?” Charles asks shortly. Yes, he was going to play this game.

Reagan tilts her head to one side, her lips pinching. “Do you really want to do this with me?”

Charles just stares at her. After several seconds, she gets up abruptly. She walks over to the same cabinet Charles brought the scotch out of and takes her own bottle. She examines it for a moment, then presents it to Charles. “The most expensive you have?”

He nods stiffly.

She takes it and uncorks it with a seemingly impossible grace. She tips the almost black liquid into a wine glass, filling it to the brim. Leaves the bottle unopened on the counter, she walks back to her seat. Charles watches as she balances the glass precariously on the arm of the chair.

“You are threatening me with material goods, Miss Cester. I’m afraid all that will do is make me angry.” He meets her eyes. “I can always buy more, you see.”

“Yes, but Charles…” Her eyes meet his right back, shining with glee. “If I get my way, you won’t.”

“I won’t what.” Charles doesn’t phrase it like a question. He’s scared now; what if he’s her next target? Among the higher-ups, it’s easy-access knowledge what the Cesters do, if you know where to look. Most don’t bother; they don’t want to get tied up in that sort of thing. But Charles did bother. Call it paranoid, call it cautious, call it whatever; Charles had done his research. And he was both horrified and impressed by what he found. Reagan Cester, she never failed. Never.

At this point, Charles was mostly confident that Reagan didn’t really know his secret—not more than a vague outline, at least. She was here to get more information, straight from the target, no less. Reagan worked in detail, and she needed everything to be perfect. Even if that included tipping her victim off.

Reagan saw the look on Charles’s face. “Oh, don’t be silly, Charles. You are not next. Don’t worry about it.” Her smile is sharp and placed, and it doesn’t fool Charles for a second.

“Reagan, please don’t think me stupid. I am a lot of things, but I can assure you stupid is not one of them.”

"Of course I don't think you stupid, Charles! Look at this office! This company!" She gestures to the room around her, a smirk beginning to tug at her lips again. "And how young you are… of course you're not stupid, Charles, if you built this for yourself." She raises her eyebrows, daring him to contradict her.

This leaves Charles speechless. How could she know? He stutters aimlessly, trying to find words but failing. Reagan smiles gently.

"That's what I thought, Charles."

Charles collapses back into his seat, defeated. His hands find his temples, and he closes his eyes and rubs, hard. God, why did she have to come today, of all days? Not that today was any more or less tiring than a usual one. Just, why did she have to come at all? Couldn’t she have let him be blissful in his ignorance?

"I already know about the mafia, Charles."

Of course she does.

"They control the stock market now, don't they? And your little company, it just sits on top."

This isn't happening.

"You seem innocent, Charles, you really do. It's just, the rumor mill. I've only heard whispers, don't worry about that. No one really believes it… except for me, I guess. I think the last names throws people off. Flight, is it? Not at all Italian, hm? Was that the idea behind it?"

Yes, it was. It was. Charles speaks in measured, clipped words. "The company wasn't named after me."

"Oh. Oh, I see. How clever." Reagan indulges in a sip of wine from her glass. "You were named after the company. Who's stroke of genius was that?"

Charles reluctantly lifts his eyes. "Mine." And then, suddenly, he's gasping. "Please, Cester, you can't—you can't—Don’t turn me in. Please, don't. I'll lose everything."

All traces of joy vanish from Reagan's face. Begging is something she cannot abide. "Dear Lord, Charles, get that tone out of your voice. Are you a CEO or not? Are you a businessman? Charles, you are on top. Don't grovel with me for things you don't even understand." She speaks to him as if he is a child, not nearly ten years older than her.

"Then what do you want me to do?" he asks softly. "Just wait until everything falls around me? Don't lie to me, Reagan. Why else would you be here?"

"You're not the target, Charles, I've told you once already. You may fall along with him, but believe me, it is not you."

"Who, then?"

Reagan narrows her eyes. "That," she says, "is absolutely none of your business."

This time Charles smiles. "Someone personal, then?"

"Shut up." Her voice cut like a razor blade through the air, and then wine glass in her hand is shaking so hard the liquid in it is nearly sloshing onto the suede furniture and oriental carpeting.

"Please, darling, be careful with that cup, it’s crystal." Charles is enjoying himself. He's struck one of Reagan Cester's nerves. And although that's like playing with fire, it is undeniably fun to watch a woman like her squirm.

Reagan stands, and in a wave of fury dumps the glass upside down onto the center of the rug she stands on. Charles is still smiling, and that only makes her angrier. "I am the one in control here, Flight!"

"Of course you are, Princess." The small, gentle smile remains there, despite the fact that over five hundred thousand dollars worth of his stuff has now been ruined. The vase, the mirror, the wine, the rug, and, oh yes, his ego! Charles finds a sick pleasure in Reagan's anger.

"Maybe I will take you down, then." She narrows her eyes. "On purpose."

"Reagan, dear, I think that was your plan all along."

"And you're okay with that? Not scared, are you, Flight?"

"Terrified." He beams up at her, for she is standing over him, chest heaving. "But I figure I might as well enjoy it while it lasts."

Charles is proud of himself for that remark. He thinks it makes him sound wise. Worldly. He thinks it gives him the upper hand, making Reagan think he doesn’t actually care that much. Of course, he cares quite a lot. If he’s being honest, Charles is just trying to make himself feel better about the whole thing.

"Good," Reagan seethes, "Because it won't last much longer. Believe me."

"I do, darling. I do." He stands, and Reagan is so close to the couch they're practically chest-to-chest. "It's just that… I don't really understand why you do this sort of thing." He smiles at her. "You will get caught this time, dear—I'll make sure of it."

"You won't be able to make sure of anything then I'm through with you," she whispers. Charles towers over her and her stilettos. Usually she loves her smallness, that she is so small and still so big. But right now, it only makes her feel insignificant. And that's one thing Reagan has never intended to feel. To be insignificant is to be a failure, and Reagan would never settle for that. If she went down, she would go down with fire. Never without a fight.

And that's why she hates the people she plays with. They never do anything about it. They never try to climb back up. If one of them succeeded, maybe they would earn her respect. Maybe they would break the cycle, put Reagan permanently out of business. But none of them did. None of them wanted to be the failure that rose again.

Maybe Charles would be the one, then. Reagan already sort of liked him, just for making her mad. She understood the liking Ross had taken to Li, at the moment, even if she disapproved of it.

Oh, and speaking of Li.

Speaking of Li, he knew all about Charles, too. He knew all about everything, of course, but Charles specifically.

He knows what Reagan knows. And at this moment, Ross seems to be the only one that doesn’t know. Him and Alexis, I suppose.

Oh, Ross. How unfair.

Back in Charles’s office, Reagan leaves Charles to pick up the pieces of his composure before Robert can rush in and question him. Charles takes a great swig of his scotch, downing the rest of the handle, and starts on the rest of the bottle. He crosses the room and surveys the city out of the windows behind his desk. He wouldn’t be able to enjoy this view for much longer, after all, if what Reagan told him is true.

Charles is surprisingly calm about this whole thing, on surface. Perhaps because he knows his time would end eventually, perhaps because he isn’t really as power-hungry as people thought him to be. Or perhaps he’s a bit better at lying to himself than we all thought. In any case, right now Charles is calm as he waits for his building to crumble under his feet.

Five hours later, Charles is still calm, but the bottle of scotch is empty.



So, speaking of Li.

Yes, let’s put the pieces together. Let’s revist that browser on Li’s computer, still there, even in the dark. Li is afraid if he closes it, he’ll loose it. He’s afraid if he looses it, he’ll think he imagined it. Li is also torn, though, because he’s afraid that the mafia will come bashing down the door, and see the video, and then, well. That will be the end of him, won’t it?

Li’s a pretty paranoid person, I think. Just in my opinion. He’s afraid the mafia will have tracks on that video, will see who visits the URL. It doesn’t occur to him that maybe the mafia doesn’t even know about this video, and if they did, it would be down so fast the shipping company’s demise wouldn’t even make the headlines. Because that’s the truth. And Li is such a genius, but most of the time, he’s a complete idiot.

It’s like that with a lot of people, you’ll see.

This video, it shows Charles’s back. It shows another man’s face. And he says, “We’re almost at the Dow Jones level.”

And you can’t see what Charles says, but you know he says, “I know.” Because he does. And you also know he has this disinterested look on his face, because this guy is stating the obvious, and Charles doesn’t like to waste his time listening to pointless sentences.

“On your way to world domination, then?” The guy has this stupid, ugly smile on his face. “How much are the stocks worth, anyways? You must be making millions!”

Charles is already a multi-billionaire. This man is so ignorant. You can’t see what Charles says, but you know he says, “And I sincerely hope you don’t own any of them.”

“Mr. Flight, it doesn’t matter who owns them. All that matters is it’s in the mob, right?”

You still can’t see his mouth, but Charles says, “Loyalty matters, doesn’t it?”

The guy looks a little nervous, and he says, “Oh yeah, no, of course, right. Loyalty. They only pick the most loyal.”

And Charles says, "No, they don't. You clearly don't know how the mafia works, you fuck-up."

Well, okay. Maybe he doesn't say that, but you can tell he's thinking it.

The guy continues. "Anyways, soon you'll be the richest man in the world! Richer than Bill Gates, even! This plan is genius, Mr. Flight."

Charles says, "I know it is, dumbass."

I made that one up too. Sorry.

"And I can't believe Alexis doesn't know anything about it! She's clueless!" The guy throws his head back in a laugh.

What I didn't mention about the video before, is that before the video cuts off, starts to loop, Charles takes a step forward. A pretty big step. Almost like he's lunging for the guy, ready to drag him down and beat every inch of him for his ignorance and stupidity. "That's my wife you're talking about!" he'd say, hands gripping the fool’s neck. "Don't fucking forget it!"

The tape doesn't show that, though. It doesn't show what happens next.

It doesn't show the papers two days later. This guy was found down an alley, beaten senseless, killed. Gang activity is suspected. There are footprints, but the shoe is so generic it could be anyone’s. A dress shoe. A nice, black, shiny dress shoe. Goes with the tie they found, too. Ripped off someone's neck.

You don't piss off Charles Flight. Not with the kind of group he's in charge of. The mafia, they mean business. They always have. It's what they are, after all. Even when their leader doesn't want them to do it, tells them it's completely unnecessary, they have to. It's like code, or something. Charles gets mad enough with someone to beat him up, they should be snuffed. They're no good anymore.

I guess it's good the guy got killed early, though. If they'd found out about this video here, he'd have it a lot worse. Believe me. A lot worse. The mafia can't be discovered. By anyone. Ever. And that's why I'm leaving him unnamed.

God, Charles was right. He is a fuck-up.

Li, he doesn't have any idea about this afterstory. All he knows is what the video tells him: Charles Flight leads the mafia, he controls the stock market, and that's the only reason he's this rich, the only reason his company is on top. And Alexis doesn't know about it.

Ross, he doesn't know anything, either.

And Reagan, she knows everything. She read the papers. She connected the dots. She spoke to Charles, and now he knows she knows, but not to what extent.

See, when Reagan takes something into her own hands, she gets it done. She does better than anyone else can do, because that's how she is. If she needs something, she'll ask for it; she'll get it, but if she wants it done to her own standards, well, she'll have to do it herself. Not many people can live up to Reagan's standards. She demands perfection.

Ross was close, for awhile.

And so for the moment, Reagan reigns, both in knowledge and power. The knowledge over her brother, the power over Charles Flight. Right now, Reagan Cester is queen of the world. When she leaves the building, she knows this, and is feeling as such.

Ross almost ruins it when he meets her outside the double glass doors, papers in hand.

“Got the info,” he tells her, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Good.” She snatches the packet of papers from his hand. “I’ll be needing this.”

Ross falls into step beside his sister. They cut through the crowded sidewalks without any trouble; people in general, I’ve found, are excellent judges of character, at least when they let their subconscious take over. No one knew it, but they were all inadvertently avoiding the two Cesters.

“What were you doing in there, anyway?” Ross asks, looking back at the tall, shiny structure.

“Just having a little chat with Charles,” Reagan murmurs, already leafing through a few of the pages Ross gave her, eyes almost a blur.

“Charles Flight?” Ross questions, his voice showing disbelief. The light they’re stopped at turns green, and he’s so surprised he doesn’t move a muscle. When he snaps out of it, he has to run to catch up with Reagan’s speedy stride. Reagan rolls her eyes when he reaches her.

“That’s the Flight Corp. building, Ross, what did you think I was doing?”

“I don’t know… I thought this was supposed to be about Alexis.”

“It is,” Reagan answers shortly. “You think her husband isn’t going to have information about her that no one else knows? Of course he will.” Reagan lies seamlessly. As usual.

“I don’t know, Rae, I think we’ve sort of got it covered with all of this.” Ross chuckles, motioning to the stack of paper Reagan is shuffling through.

Reagan refrains from letting a snide remark slide off her tongue, and instead says, “Can’t hurt.” She’s still reading at an alarming rate, not to mention walking at one, yet she still manages to stay in perfect control. She never so much as stumbles in her four-inch heels, and doesn’t even come close to running into anyone on the busy walkway. That’s just the kind of girl Reagan is. “Do you think this is worth the thousand dollars?” she wonders aloud.

“Yeah,” Ross replies, “this is more than we’ve ever got before. Li really came through on this one.”

But Reagan is noticing one key thing missing. Yes, what she had found out was extremely hush-hush, kept firmly under the rug, but she had honestly expected Li to find out. He is that good, after all. He doesn’t just look at the person asked for, he looks at friends and relatives, too. Reagan had gone to Charles for more information than anyone could find through the net; the most she’d hoped for was to know a little more detail. And now, it seems she knows an entire world more than him. Reagan thought Li might have been suspicious of Charles’s success, but no, apparently he isn’t.

And—if Li doesn’t know, then neither does Ross.

A smile spreads across Reagan’s face.