Below The Surface - A Lackadaisy Fanfiction

Control

"This is downright inexcusable!" Lacrimosa yelled at her brigade, her eyes flaring. She had slammed her hands down. "Do you four have any idea what this could have cost us?!"

Silas had pulled Raquelle behind him, in order to protect her: it was a natural instinct he gained from being with his mother. Mandisa's arm around James' wrapped around more, tightening.

"Yes ma'am." Mandisa kept her head down.

"Yes ma'am," James nodded, "we understand."

"What about you two delinquents?" Lacrimosa sneered at the Tueuse siblings. Silas wrapped his arms around Raquelle, holding her tightly.

"We understand completely, ma'am." He quipped. He was feeling a little too bold. Lacrimosa gave him a blistering once over, enough for him to shut his mouth. She sighed, slumping down in her chair and crossing one leg over the other.

"This is tiresome. That damn run-in we had was a nightmare!" She exclaimed, exasperated. "We had to carry this out with precision and care! Yet we didn't! Mandisa, Silas!"

Mandisa and Silas both looked up.

"Yes ma'am?" Mandisa spoke for both of them, swallowing thickly. Silas' tail only fluffed up more.

"...did you kill Atlas?" James finally brought up.

"Of course I did, you nimwit, a lady never lies about murder!" Lacrimosa huffed.

"Do not talk to him like that." Mandisa growled out, and Lacrimosa slammed her hands on her desk again, rising to her feet. Her tail fluffed up, swaying and lashing around like a snake.

"I suggest you bite your tongue before I take your other eye." She hissed out, lurching forward as an intimidation tactic. Mandisa instinctively reached for her glass eye, and James yanked her back, protecting her while growling. Lacrimosa stood up straight, only chuckling.

"That was far from funny." Raquelle blurted out, but shrank back after receiving a withering glare.

"...all of you: get out of my sight." Lacrimosa demanded, but nobody moved. "NOW!"

Mandisa sighed, her ears flattening. James nodded, leading her away. Silas dragged Raquelle away from Lacrimosa, all while still glaring at her. He made sure to leave as fast as possible, and shut the door behind him.

Lacrimosa sighed, reaching for her phone in hopes of calling someone. When the phone rang and someone picked up, she continued. "Darling, come into the office of my jazz lounge. It's about...that job listing I explained. We're going to need you as soon as possible too. Heller and the rest of them are damn monsters. We need the backup."

"...I'll come in as quickly as possible." Another woman, but much younger, spoke up. "Anything for you...ma'am."

****

"Miss Smitt, I can reassure you—"

"It was my mother who was killed!"

"Miss Smitt—"

...

Celeste didn't think she'd be having this conversation. Yet here she was: standing in front of Mr. Sweet, wearing a black gown, black lace gloves, and flats. Her pumpkin orange eyes were filled to the brim with tears.

"My mother was killed, and I was the last one to know?" Her voice wavered. "Why?"

"We did not wish to stress you out during your pregnancy and cause complications: stress is not good for a pregnant woman..." Mr. Sweet tried reassuring her, but Celeste merely took another step forward in front of his desk.

"Need I remind you that I have seen horrors in the Rose Brigade?" Her voice lowered again, ears flattening. Her dark gray tail fluffed up, and her eyes now flared. "It would have been appreciated that I was informed earlier."

Mr. Sweet opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't. He just watched her sorrow, and he got up, moving around to get to her.

"Believe me," he began softly, "if I had known Mrs. Smitt was your mother, I would have informed you about this immediately."

"Yet you didn't." Celeste growled out. "Do you at least know who killed her?"

Now Mr. Sweet grimaced: this was not going to be fun explaining that someone in the Rose Brigade killed her mother. He prepared for the rage and more tears.

"...unfortunately, the murders are traced back to, erm...your gang." He cleared his throat. Celeste blinked back tears.

"...if it was that dirty rat Silas, I swear—" She growled out under her breath, flexing her claws.

"Miss Smitt," Mr. Sweet reached for her, but Celeste backed away.

"Call me Celeste. Smitt was my mother." She replied sharply. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Mr. Sweet. I sincerely hope you know that." She added on, eyes continuing to flare. Mr. Sweet backed up, hands held up and eyes wide. His ears flicked back, watching this woman, younger and smaller than hum, raise hell for the murder of her loved one: he respected it. That's why he didn't want to get on her bad side.

"Oh, I do," he chuckled nervously, "I definitely do."

"...the next event Lacrimosa is attending is by the end of this week, yes? On Friday night?" Celeste raised a brow.

"Yes? How come?" Mr. Sweet tilted his head.

"Out of vengeance and out of spite, I'll help: I won't forgive what Lacrimosa ordered. I cannot fathom the fact that my own flesh and blood—" Celeste paused to take in a heavy breath, before sighing. "...I will do whatever it takes to make sure she pays. So consider me a patron to Marigold and Lackadaisy." She stood up taller. With a short pause, she concluded, "I will help you take back control."

Mr. Sweet was stunned once more, but more so impressed with her determination. He held out for her to shake, and he nodded.

"...welcome aboard, Celeste: we'll take control soon enough...I just need to see what you're capable of."