Ajedrez

She had remembered the feeling from last time, uncomfortable and itchy and get-to-your-room and...

And, well, she hadn't quite made it to her room before she was sprawled out over the hallway floor, human and naked and swearing in gutter-Spanish. Getting to her feet, she quickly checked where she was. Not her floor, but close to his, and so that is how Ajedrez came to be standing in front of Nicholas Wolfwood's door, knocking on it loudly.

"Nick, Nick, mi amor, please let me in. Nick, are you there? Nick, I can't unpick the lock..."

There may or may not be impatient bouncing, because even standing in the hallway in such a state that anyone passing would be able to see both tattooes and every scar on her body, she is still Ajedrez.

Thus has all the patience of a five-year-old.

Without really saying anything, Mal and Ajedrez have been meeting for fencing lessons. All winter, in fact, since Mal offered. All spring, too, and all of summer up to today and Ajedrez is getting very good at it. Some people are natural fighters, and for all her money and refined voice, Ajedrez is a natural fighter.

Still, she is only human and they've been at it for a while today, so when she pulls back she's breathing heavily and brown whisps of hair cling to her sweaty face.

It's been a while since Ajedrez has been a date. Six months or so, and even then on the last time she got stood up anyway, so maybe it's closer to seven or eight.

It's been much, much longer since she's been out on a date with someone she hardly knows. Years, but thinking about it like that makes her feel...

Old.

Old, in a way that only the young can feel and she knows this and she really should stop thinking and just find that pair of earrings. Ah-huh, there are they are, and Ajedrez looks at herself in the mirror. High-heeled boots, a long black (mostly black, there are horizantal strips with panels of blue, green, yellow and red, a swirl of colour against the plain black) skirt that falls to her ankles, a simple black top, sleeveless with a high neck, and the red leather jacket that Edna Mode had given her.

Plus the dratted earrings, big and bronze because Ajedrez is of the opinion that it's no use having pierced ears if you don't play with it. Off-duty anyway.

And, for once, no guns. It feels a little odd, and she couldn't leave without the knife hidden in her boot, but sometimes an effort should be made. Even if she isn't entirely sure why.

Still, she's moderately pleased with her appearance, so she takes a deep breath and walks out her room door to try and find Nick downstairs.

It's been a week since the door opened, and Beatriz Barillo can't sleep.

It should be November 9th, 2003, and she could have been with her father and Mexico long behind her.

(I too want to start a new life)

It should be Novemeber 9th, 2003, and she could have been with Sands and where ever he was planning on taking them.

(Meet me at La Pileta, 10pm sharp. And, uh, bring only what's important to you)

It should be Novemeber 9th, 2003, and she should be seven days dead, only she doesn't know it yet. What she does know is that seven days ago, her boyfriend was tortured in front of her eyes and she just laughed and laughed. She's been dreaming of it for six nights, dreaming of screams and blood and laughter and the fact that it didn't have to happen.

This time, she doesn't wait for the dreams to come.

She just starts crying.

Ajedrez has claimed a table. Not in a corner, just one where she happens to have her back to the wall and a damned good view point of most of the Bar. Ex-boyfriends and their psychotic new lovers, and all that.

Still, she's not just watching the bar - she's never been that good at being idle. So, she has her guns out and is cleaning them.

Beatriz Ajedrez doesn't smoke. Neither does Beatriz Barillo. It's one of the few things that the two women have in common, so she keeps it like that.

Beatriz doesn't smoke, but she does like fire. Summer at the estate, and Daddy is having a business meeting. Normally she listens in, learning the ropes, so to speak, but tonight she's been banished to the garden. Night-time in summer, in a white sleeveless dress and her hair twisted up, and the young woman is playing with a candle. Flirting with her fingers, bringing them in and out so the flame tries to kiss them.

It passes the time.