Nordlys: The Northern Lights Orgy Club

75

"I can not BELIEVE you!" Queenie's voice explodes with fury from the direction of the living room, and Brit hastens her steps into a trot while still tying her robe around her waist. "How could you DO THAT!" the whole apartment rings throughout with echoes of her indignation.

A dramatic scene unfolds before Britt's eyes as she turns the corner. Sonni's six-foot-two, broad-shouldered frame, frozen with surprise, confronted by an extremely aggrieved Queenie, five-foot-six at most, with maybe an added inch for vexation, and SHE is DOMINATING. Behind her, Cressida's tear-streaked face sniffles mournfully into a tissue, phone still in hand.

"Oh, Cress, you didn't" Britt laments, unheard by anyone.

"You don't want to be with ME anymore, FINE" Queenie spits acidly, "I'm a big girl, I can take it. Go FUCK your Instagram Stripper, I don't fucking CARE!" Sonni's eye's widen and he throws up his hands like he wants to stop her tirade, but he doesn't know what to say. "NOW you are hurting MY FRIENDS and that is NOT okay!" Queenie continues, and then she spots Mordred in the back of the crowd, and zeroes in on him like a hawk. "AND YOU! You could have had a really good thing! You are an IDIOT!"

She turns on her heel, and latches on to Cress in her arms, holding them to her chest protectively, and ushers them towards the shelter of the kitchen. Gale exchanges glances with Judas, and they both look to Sonni who gazes off in the direction of the kitchen indecisively. Judas shakes his head, touches Sonni lightly on the bicep, pulling him away.

Britt scans the faces in the crowd, and her glance falls upon the large Scotsman who is known to finance Bree's wild lifestyle, looking winded and red in the face, and she frowns at him. He was also supposed to have escaped quarantine. If he is here, Bree is not far behind, although it's hard to imagine her walking up twenty flights of stairs.

She cranes her neck, searching for the large crowd which security had told her was coming. So far there doesn't seem to be very many more people here. The little scene in the living room was barely even noticeable, truth be told. She deliberates checking the stairwell, wondering if it is too great a risk, or if she should make some kind of announcement. Is she dooming everyone by wasting time? What if this is all a big nothing-burger?

Layla's door has stayed firmly closed, and Britt takes that as a sign that she needs more proof before she makes an evacuation notice. She tries to dial her husband's phone while she heads for the stairwell, but he doesn't seem to be picking up.

The door handle on the stairwell has been broken, chopped with a fire axe. Very dramatic of Queenie, although that could have been done by Bree's Sugar Dad.  Britt picks her way delicately through the detritus, comes to the first stair landing, and hangs over the railing to look down, cocking her ear to give a listen.

Distant rumblings like thunder, far down from here, although the weather today is fine and clear. Uneasiness settles in Britt's chest, and she backs away from the stairs, stumbling over the axe handle in her slippers. She shakes her head, and runs to the nearest bedroom, to look for real clothes, for shoes, and finds all of the Russians already in there, changing in front of each other.

"Did you guys plan this?!" Britt shrieks.

They pause for a millisecond upon seeing her, then shrug, and go back to strapping on vests over their black tank tops, with tough cargo pants, and boots. 

"Give me some fucking clothes" Britt demands.

Many of them side-eye each other, acting like they can't hear her. Sonni slowly starts to walk over to her, his hands held out like he is approaching an angry tiger.

"Whatever you have to say, I don't want to hear it. Just give me some goddamn bloody clothes you gormless cockwomble tosser" spit flies out of Britt's mouth with the force of her adjectives and her ire.