Flaneur ✅💋

Prologue

April 21, 1942

"Ms. Blondeau?  Do you need a break?" The interviewer across looked at her with mild concern.

Genevieve scoffed and tapped the ash off the end of her burning cigarette.  The smoke curled around them in elegant plumes of wispy gray, nowhere to gather with the absence of a draft.  "Christ, William." She blew a strand of white blonde hair from her eyes. 

"My apologies.  Continue." He held his hand out, gesturing for her to go on.

Genevieve took a drag from her cigarette, leaving crimson remnants from her lipstick around the end.  "I remember the entirety of events.  No need to dance around it.  Ask me anything you would.  This isn't my first time getting shot." She splayed her bruised hands out for him to see where she had drove them into the face of her target just hours ago.  Her French accent drifted musically out of her heart shaped lips.

William cleared his throat.  "Well, for starters, can you explain how he ended up dead?  The mission was to turn them over to the American front lines alive.  And now I have a dead man being transported overseas instead of a prisoner."  He glared at her from across the table, the concern gone and replaced with annoyance.

Genevieve shrugged, tapping more ash.  "I suppose I used my judgement on that.  I felt it was imperative that I kill him, rather than see him shoot my driver.  I'm sure the driver would agree.  He was growing suspicious when he didn't follow the directions given."  William jumped, slamming his fists on the table and she felt a rush of pride keeping her calm and impassive.

"That wasn't your call to make!"  he barked, his face turning as scarlet as his hair. 

"On the contrary," she clucked her tongue at him, "that is precisely what I've be trained to do.  Shoot and kill upon discretion.  I believe you'll find everything you need to know in my report, so I'm not quite sure why you're wasting my time when you could be doing your homework at your desk like a good boy." She puffed on the cigarette, hardly glancing in William's direction to show her utter disinterest in his interrogation.

It was a shock, to say the least, when she felt William's hand across her face.  Her cigarette flew out of her hand as her head whipped to the side at the force of his smack.  "Do not patronize me!" he bellowed and she felt her lip curl in response.

In an instant she was up on her feet, one broken heel uselessly slung about her pretty foot, and grabbed him by the collar.  William barely had time to react as he was slammed face first into the gunmetal gray table and tossed back into his seat.  He howled in pain while she daintily dusted her chair and took her seat, scowling at the wasted cigarette on the floor.

"There's a special place in hell for men that hit women.  I'm sure your wife...Susannah?  Sandra?  No matter, her name isn't worth knowing if she settled for the likes of you," she drawled in a bored tone.  "Regardless, I'm sure she'd be horrified to know you backhand women during interviews.  Perhaps I'll send her a little card, or a package." She narrowed her eyes menacingly at the man who now clutched his broken and bleeding nose.

The doors burst open and a team of soldiers rushed in to pick him up and drag him out.  She sat with crossed legs, the side of her red evening gown ripped up the thigh and exposing the garter beneath that usually held her pistol, but now just seemed purely cosmetic. 

A tan man in a black suit strutted inside shaking his head at the blood and William.  "Get him out of here," he growled and the soldiers hauled him out.

"Ah," Genevieve sat back with a smile on her porcelain face, "I was wondering when you would show.  They always send the boring ones in first, as though you're intentionally testing my patience."

He stood, hands in his pockets, regarding her with an unreadable expression.  "Not a test.  I simply like to send in the idiots when they piss me off," he smirked at her.

She laughed beautifully.  "Well then, you're welcome." She inclined her head.  "Tell me you brought me a new cigarette, Marcel.  Your ass of an agent made mine fall." She pouted dramatically.

Marcel rolled his eyes, pulling his own pack from his breast pocket and delicately placing a fresh cigarette between her waiting lips.  He leaned over the bloody table and lit it for her as she smiled softly up at him.  "Good to see gentlemen still exist," she remarked, taking the first long drag.

"You had doubts?" He raised a brow.

"After this mission?  Wouldn't you?" she challenged, blowing the fresh smoke upwards.

"I suppose so." He pushed the table away towards the wall and sat across from her.  "So," he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, "you've made a mess of paperwork for me."

"Yes, but I know how much you and your brother love to write stories about me," she quipped.

Marcel scratched at his golden haired jaw.  "It may appear that way, mademoiselle, but I assure you I enjoy approving the stories you write far better than I like writing them myself.  Billy, on the other hand..." he trailed off with a shake of his dark head.  She shrugged indifferently.  "What happened in Paris?"

"The usual.  I overreacted."

"No.  You never overreact.  That's bullshit." He cracked his knuckles out of habit.  A habit that Genevieve has expressed irritation at regularly and she knew he was doing it on purpose.  His brother never cracked his knuckles, never had a nervous tick.  She supposed it was that serene calmness that landed him the position of director for the Order of the Ghost Division.  

"That's not good for you," she clicked her tongue in disapproval.

Marcel chuckled gruffly.  "Neither is interviewing you, but both seem to happen habitually."

"Yes, they do," she agreed, leaning forward to tap ash on his boots.  "Clearly my methods are appreciated somewhere though, or else I wouldn't work as often as I do with assignments as large as mine."

"Don't you ever get tired of being in that chair?" he checked.  There was no humor in his voice, only honest curiosity.

A devious grin broke out over her face, her dimples on full display.  "On the contrary," she blew a smoke ring that gracefully floated to circle his head like a misty halo, "I find it ghastly delightful."