Triumphant Rhythm

[Rachel Ascot]

Riiiiiiiiiing~ riiiiiiiiiing~ riiiiiiiiiing~

The silence of the penthouse was shattered immediately, the phone being the only source of light in the darkened room. It kept ringing, the only sound in the room until the door was shoved forward by an inch, before slowing to a halt. It pulled back, then pushed forward once more, faster and harder. It made a bit of progress, then ground to a halt.

"Oh for fuck's sake," grumbled Duchess Rachel Ascot as she shunted the door ajar, stamping into the room with her jacket unbuttoned and one sleeve on, the other hanging limply and leaving her body naked save for her underwear. She looked down at the source of the hassle; a large beanbag that she kicked away frustratedly as she reached for the phone. Just as she had to leave, as well. "Ascot speaking."

"Duchess Ascot?" Rachel heard the voice, the mood improving almost immediately; it was the daughter of one of the more influential members of Creta's House of Lords. She had become a good friend of Rachel's, but an even better source of information. She seemed to know everything about the inner workings of the house and Rachel was happy to give her an ear.

"I've said you can call me Rachel, haven't I? Duchess is what your dad calls me."

"Sorry Duc... Rachel. I just had to phone, though."

"You'll need to make it quick, I'm going to the club in a minute; I hear there's a few reporters going and I want to make a good impression." Rachel explained this as she fed her other arm into the blue sleeve, the phone balanced on her shoulder.

"Will you ever, Duchess! Have you heard the news?" Rachel paused buttoning her jacket up for a moment.

"I didn't know there was any." She said, curiosity in her voice.

"Well, the vote for Dietrich's heir tomorrow, and daddy's been talking around. You're as good as queen."

A wolfish smile began to curl onto Rachel's face, her eyes lighting like bonfires. She put the last button on her jacket, ready to leave the penthouse. "Is that so?" Not really listening to the reply, Rachel filled her pockets with everything she'd need; money, cigars, keys, nothing beyond the bare necessities. "Look, I've got to go, but I'll see you later." She said, before disconnecting. Her brain spun; how to make a good impression with the press now?

She input another number into the phone.

"Hello? Yes, one limo for Duchess Rachel Ascot please. The usual address."

----------

Her arrival to the club was not a long time after that; Rachel watched from behind tinted glass as the long, long queue of people turned their heads to see her pull up; the future queen was certainly recognisable. She gestured for the chauffeur to stop, and she stepped out to the front door with a grace that came naturally to her. She moved to the front door with both speed and power, every step having a certain might in it that comes more to royalty than a playgirl, the grin on her face wide and glowing. She moved to the very front of the door, the long queue to her right and the bouncer to her left. She looked to him, pulling a cigar out of her pocket.

"Free entry for everyone tonight, Franklin, I'm in a frigging amazing mood." She explained. The bouncer looked surprised, but announced this to the crowd with jubilation. He then asked her if she would go in as well. "After this cigar, yeah." Rachel brought the brown, tobacco filled tube to her lips and lit the opposite end, inhaling the smoke for as long as she could before breathing out again. She felt like she had deserved a treat, perching herself on top of a small wall and watching the people move through the doors of her club.

[Cookie Waterford]

Political coverage was a snooze, international coverage or not. FOX news was an insult, both to legit reporting, and to Cookie personally since they made other foxes look bad! Sure, she did the occasional hard piece; the expose on the school was what got them shut down, get her an award, and solidly stamped her career as a reporter. But Cookie's Bites had a mood and a reputation that people looked for, expected, and even wanted. If they wanted to read just another interview with a political figure, that's what Barbara Walters and Walter Cronkite were for. But after the articles from her week in Carraig and the last political figure she wrote on went over so well, Han was curious to see if she could get that kind of intimate scoop on another as the world shifted powers and they were all in the midst of change. Well, maybe not that intimate; Cookie didn't want a reputation for having sex with all of her interview guests, and this new one was a chick. As much fun as Cookie was sure that was, she did have a reputation to keep up, and that might screw with her chances for seeing Prince Brendon again.

But fucking aside, Brendon was right up her alley- he was extreme. And that's what people read Cookie's Bites for. She wasn't too interested in taking the assignment until Han baited the reporter and gave her a few tidbits about the would-be queen. She was a Duchess with a nightlife. Apparently she owned a club, and not just any club, a rather hot club that was doing fabulously, even without the woman's political aspirations. Sooo..... Duchess trying to become Queen now that Lord Dietrich was a very cute vegetable who just happened to own a nightclub that made bank on a regular basis. That... was a bit more worth looking into. One very long, annoying coach flight and shuttle ride later, the Cretan fox was going over her notes and trying to not plot the demise of all toddlers in coach. One day... ONE day, she'd fly first class and not be the subject of impromptu chair massages granted by kicking and screaming children.

The worn denim jacket and short denim shorts were hardly anything that screamed professional reporter, especially with the pyramid-studded collar that never left the blonde's neck. But then again, she was Cookie Waterford; like fuck she'd do an interview dressed like she was going to a funeral. Press pass secured to the breast of her jacket and tape recorder in her hand, the little black cab quickly ferried her to the club where it looked like everyone in creation was that night. Hot damn, they weren't kidding about business being booming, were they? The bouncer at the door was letting people stream inside in a steady flow, only glancing at ID's but the door girl apparently not slowing anyone up by taking cover charge. Cookie looked at the flow of people and then up at the bouncer and the woman chilling next to him. "'Scuse me," Cookie said brightly, stepping close enough to the bouncer and away from the human river so not to block anyone. Even after all these years in Xing, her coastal Cretan accent was still as natural as ever. Heh. Guess some part of Creta was still home after all. "Cookie Waterford, Mag X Zine of Xing. Like, just wondering if there's a set place inside for meeting with the press?"

[Rachel Ascot]

Cracked knuckles as she stretched her arms out, her body splayed across a thick, body-length cushioning of the deepest blue. She rested her head against the armrest, the gold cool against her neck as she brought her cigar back up to her lips. Queen Rachel the First of Creta; no need to work, only play. She turned her head to the dancefloor under her; the beat was heavy and the dancing energetic, the floor seemingly unending. She had to unfortunately knock down several of the other competing clubs to build this place, but they simply became just another part of The New Royal. Her brother was at work on a desk, he'd handle running the country, all Rachel had to do was smile and reap the rewards of becoming queen. She didn't even have to dress smart now, simply wearing her pyjamas in public. No one was going to stop her. "Miss Ascot?" came a distant voice. Rachel rose her eyebrow. It sounded like the bouncer...

"Yes, Franklin?"

"It's the press. Some Xingese print, I think; Miss Cookie Waterford." Her bouncer said, forcing Rachel out of her daydream. "You speakin' to her now or we letting her in for a bit?"

Rachel's gaze slowly turned onto Cookie. She certainly didn't look like a reporter. Denim jacket, short shorts, and something that looked akin to a dog collar around her neck. Not a typical clubber but could certainly pass as one. Rachel's eyes shot all over the reporter. She had a hint of wildness to her; the clothing choice wasn't just something to blend in with the crowd. This was something she lived for. As for how long she had been reporting, it couldn't have been forever. Young, fresh-faced, skilled but not experienced. The kind of interview Rachel would usually shrug off; while her relation to the public was well-known and she had earned a reputation as a friend of everyone, she was still just a nightclub owner playgirl, and her media appearances were sparse. The people she met were either young students who only wanted to interview her as a tick on their CV, some high-brow broadsheet columnist who didn't want to be there and was only going to look down on her anyway, or the worst of the lot; the red tops waiting for her to drop private shames about either herself or one of the more famous of her club's patrons. Interviews were a mostly sour process for her.

"Then again," thought Rachel, "- that's not considering today's news." She gave Cookie a very hungry grin. If there was one benefit to having younger reporters, it was that they 'got' the play-hard mindset, so if there was anyone who could put a good word in for Rachel, it'd be this woman. The future queen jumped off the wall and walked over. Even with the hustle and bustle, the noise from the crowded nightclub and the talking hundreds in the queue, her footsteps seemed amplified and important. She extended her hand to the reporter.

"Welcome to the club, Miss Waterford, or do you prefer Cookie?" She asked, a friendly tone to her low hum of a voice. "I know I prefer Rachel, none of this Duchess shit or stuff. There's a main office if you want an interview in there, though it's not really that big, or tidy, or we can do it on the floor."

[Shula Brighton]

{BUMP}

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