So Night Follows Day

"I'd like to help you, Tom, in any way I can.

I sure appreciate the way you're working with me.

I'm not a monster, Tom. Well, technically, I am.

I guess I am."

-Jonathan Coulton, "

Re: Your Brains

"

Leonard Whyte CBE paced around his suite as the sounds of gunfire and explosions thundered from one floor above him; in the La Contessa Suite at the Seattle Hotel de Società Finzione. He wore a blue suit, identical to the one he'd given the vagrant before sending him to his death the night before. This helmet was for his own use, though, and didn't contain an incendiary device like the other one.

There were still ropes hanging from the balcony of the suite above, down onto the balcony of his own suite, from the grappling hooks that the mercenaries had used to climb to the floor above and plant C-4 charges on the steel shutters that protected Contessa Helena de San Finzione from them about a minute ago.

There was a frantic knock at the door. He picked up his pistol from the table. If the Ultimados had won the fight upstairs and figured out where he was this quickly, they'd have kicked it in and chucked grenades, rather than knocked. Leonard looked over at the frightened sign-language interpreter that he'd hired to relay his orders to the men. He pointed the gun at the man.

"Be a good chap and see who's at the door, would you?" Whyte said, cocking the hammer.

Whyte had been terrifying the sign-language interpreter over the past few days with the instructions that he was giving and the fact that Leonard wouldn't allow him to go home. The absolute certainty that, at this point, he "knew too much," and there was no way that Whyte was going to allow him to live after killing this woman, did not help either. Because of this, Whyte added to his instructions.

"Don't just open it, use the peephole. And remember that I have this aimed squarely at your back if you try to make a break for it."

The interpreter gulped and did as he was told, knowing that trying to open the door and flee was probably his one chance at survival; but also that the man who had the mercenaries prevent him from escaping and made his life a nightmare since he accepted the job was completely serious in his threat. He knew now that Whyte would absolutely shoot him in the back if he thought he'd try it.

"It's them." He said, after looking through the hole. "Three of them, anyway."

Whyte looked dumbfounded. He'd been skeptical about their chances of success, but never imagined that any of them would make it back alive. He let out a "Fuck!" under his breath as he realized he'd probably have to pay them now. From his own pocket, no less; since his companies' assets were done for. After he dealt with Miss Parker, he'd have to rebuild his empire on what would be left of his own fortune, so every cent mattered now.

"Well, let them in, I suppose." Leonard said. The men were wearing body armor, but he might still have enough bullets to kill four men, if he could use the lack of hearing of three to his advantage and catch one or two in the back of the head before the others noticed what was happening.

He opened the door. The three men stormed past him into the room. The interpreter realized that they were now between Whyte's gun and himself, and this was his one chance at self-preservation, so he bolted out the door and around the corner while he had the opportunity. The three men continued walking directly toward Leonard Whyte CBE.

"What are you..." Whyte started to ask, before realizing that they couldn't hear him anyway, and seeing the look in their eyes. He aimed for the one in the middle's head and fired, putting a round through it. The man's body dropped to the floor, and the other two continued toward him, seemingly oblivious to the loss of their teammate. Leonard turned to another and was able to shoot both, dropping the second, before the third was upon him, yanking the gun out of the old man's hand.

Whyte's scream changed from coming out the speakers of the helmet to directly from his mouth as the last mercenary pulled it off of his head with the last of his strength before succumbing to his wounds.

"Hi, Leonard." A familiar voice said, from the balcony behind him. He started to turn before the voice added "Don't move." He immediately found himself unable to compel his body to complete the action of turning around and froze in place. Seeing, just out of the corner of his eye, Contessa Helena de San Finzione and Mander standing on the balcony, guns pointed at him.

"Also," She added. "Dun-dun-DAAAAA!!"

* * *

Contessa Helena de San Finzione lit a cigar, then lit Leonard Whyte CBE's cigar. She sat in an easy chair across from the man who'd made her life hell for the past two months, seated on the couch, and looked at him. She'd worn the black leather jacket she'd taken from the Triad goons back in San Finzione, but now paired it with a matching skirt and shoes.

The interpreter had run straight into Dr. Tenente Paul Maisson of La Squadra de Ultimados as soon as he'd made it around the corner. He'd subdued him, and Helen ordered him and Mander to take him up to her suite and give him a drink or something. As soon as Maisson had let him talk and he'd told him that Whyte had been keeping him prisoner, Helen ordered them not to let him leave until she could learn how much he'd been involved; and if he was really being held against his will, what he knew and that she'd allow him to remember.

"Mander had an idea about tracking you down via your interpreter." She told him, taking a puff. "Turns out that there's a lot of them in Seattle, and almost all of them were booked up because of STRANGERS and unreachable. Still, it was a good idea."

Whyte took a sip of the double brandy that she'd allowed him to have. She did the same from her own, feeling a little buzzed at having drunk more alcohol today than she normally did in a week. Everyone else had returned to her suite, leaving Helen and Leonard alone.

"I figured you'd appreciate the misdirect." Helen continued. "With Mander and I using the same ropes your men used to grapple up to my suite to get down to you. Pretty scary from fifty-one floors up, but the Ultimados showed me how to do it back at the warehouse, then it was fun. Like driving a semi for the first time."

Whyte nodded.

"I'm fully aware that I'm not walking out of this suite alive, Contessa. You're going to win whatever happens next, I know. However, while we're finally having this little face-to-face, I hope you'll at least pay me the courtesy of telling me what happened up there."

"Oh, absolutely, Leonard." Helen said with a smile, blowing a smoke ring. "And I'm glad we're on the same page on your Leaving Alive status. But I've wanted to talk to you like this for a while now. We've got all the time in the world. Well, I do, anyway. No reason not to be civil about it. Speaking of, that 'If I die, Contessa Helena de San Finzione killed me with her mind powers' video you left with your solicitor pal in London? Thanks for telling me about that. I mean, I know I made you tell me with my mind powers and all, but still. We have 'cultural attaches' at the London embassy, they'll see to it, possibly him, too."

"Well," He said, smiling back, taking another drink, and dipping the end of his cigar in the brandy. "For what it's worth, I'd planned to skip out on the bill anyway."

They shared a small laugh at that.

"As for what happened upstairs," Helen explained. "The first guys in the windows were wiped out before they even set foot inside. I managed to take control of three of the others. The fourth turned out to be an old friend of Mander's. Recognized him and went "Mander?" He told the Ultimados to hold their fire and went over to talk to him. Mander knows sign language! Who'da thunk, right? So, Mander told him 'Oi, Bluey!' He calls him Bluey. 'Look, whatever this crafty butcher's payin' ya, this bird'll triple it. I know they all say that, but she's a geezerette, she's on the level.' He could've started at double, but Bluey dropped his gun and assumed the position, just like Mander did when we met. They're upstairs having a pint now. He assured me that these guys were rotten tossers, though; and I have learned to trust his judgment on the subject of rotten tossers. Plus, I DID promise you a suicide charge in return. Except this one was just to disarm you and get that helmet off your head if they had to use a blowtorch. So, I guess I HAVE sunk to your level now." She thought for a long puff. "I wouldn't call that a victory if I were you. I've sunk lower, and I will again."

"But how'd you control them?" Whyte asked with a puff of his cigar. "Your power doesn't work on people who can't hear you."

Helen dipped the end of her cigar in the brandy as well and blew another smoke ring.

"Let me tell you something about myself, Leonard. I'm what they call a polyglot. I know, it sounds like the Pokémon that nobody likes. Like you'll go to the toy aisle, and they'll be sold out of Pikachu, and Jigglypuff, and Squirtle; and there'll one sad, lonely little peg of Polyglots on an otherwise empty rack. I'm sorry if that reference is lost on your generation, sir."

"My grandchildren weren't born worthless, Helena. It took them a couple of years to get good and entitled. And even at my age, knowing nothing else about Pokémon, who the fuck doesn't know the Pikachu Monster?"

"Good. I got your Uncle Milty reference this morning; my Real Father educated me in 'the classics,' so I wanted to be sure. No, polyglot is the term for someone who speaks and uses multiple languages. And I love languages, Mr. Whyte. All of them. I've learned every one I've been able to. I mean, I'm the kind of nutty about them that I'll get the mood to sit down and just read a few pages from a Norwegian-to-Inupiaq dictionary like it's a regular book. And I'm reasonably certain that I HAVE that actual dictionary, Leonard. Three shelves in Castle Finzione's library are devoted to translation dictionaries, because reading them like that is literally a thing that I sometimes do for fun! Some people like to do the crossword, this is my thing.

"And I deeply love that the country that it is my privilege to rule had four official languages before I even got there! I am, by no means, a morning person; I'm simply used to being on the schedules of elderly men. So, I DO have a habit of getting up with the sun. My first thought when I wake up in the morning; well, second after 'Holy shit, it wasn't a dream, I really DID fall in love and marry a handsome king who died, and now I have to rule his country' is 'I rule an entire fucking nation of fellow polyglots! I will be employing multiple languages all day today! How fucking cool is that?'"

"About as cool as Mr. Equals' James Bond obsession. But don't let me interrupt you, Helena."

She didn't.

"So yes, all the ways that people on this planet communicate with each other have always fascinated me, and I wanted to learn them all! I wanted to be able to understand anyone and everyone's thoughts and ideas and express my own back to them. Every new one that I've mastered throughout my life has given me a thrill that no lover has ever been able to match. Even Troy and Vincenzo are tied for a close second. You own... well, WILL have owned, a phone company until your shareholders unload their stock on me for pennies on the dollar and I shut it down; or weed out your cronies, wipe your name from everything, make Leonard Whyte CBE and his electronics empire go the way of Betamax and Zune; absorb everything into Società Finzione, and give my nation another new industry to branch into. Still deciding, both ideas have their merits. Oh, I say 'another,' because we're getting a film industry within the next couple months."

"Oh, who do you think you're fooling, Helen. We all know that Mr. Equals is going to make you take the 'don't put my half-million legitimate employees out of work' option. Shame I'll never catch one of your pictures." Whyte said, attempting to blow a smoke ring himself, but failing. Helen responded with a perfect ring, followed by a second, bigger one.

"I suppose you're right. But you should know better than anyone, Mr. Telephone Man, that communication, understanding each other, is the key to EVERYTHING! So, I'd like to thank you, Mr. Whyte." Helen said, putting her cigar in the ash tray for a moment and gesturing to go along with the rest of her statement. "For reminding me to brush up on my sign languages."

Whyte laughed out loud at that.

"Of course! Well, you ARE smart, Contessa. I should know, that's what I've been playing off from the beginning. And I can certainly tell what Mr. Equals and your late husband saw in you beyond your appearance."

"Why, thank you, Leonard." She replied with a sincere smile. "And may I say that if you'd been able to contain that Riddler-like need to outsmart your opponents before you take them down, we might've gotten another day or two out of this game. You gave Troy shit for his company's name; but checking in a month ago under the fucking name 'Leonardo Le Blanc?' You are no one to talk, Leonard. It's unhealthy, as I hope you now see. Now, I've got a question for you."

"Well, you ARE compelling me to stay seated in this chair, not make any attempt to escape or harm either of us, and to answer your questions honestly, so I guess I can't really stop you."

She looked him up and down as she took another drink. Her tongue slid between her lips before she reminded herself that she was drunk and here to end his skeevy fucking existence.

"No, you really can't. Crying fucking shame, Leonard. I don't think you get me like Mr. Zevon or Mander, but on some level, we coulda been something. So, my question, then: How the fuck can you know Troy & Julie Equals and NOT know Susan Bailey, the permanent third member of their poly-amorous marriage?"

Whyte seemed puzzled for a moment.

"Who?" Then he remembered. "Oh, right! I came across that name when my people paid off the Equals' garbagemen for their trash. Appears that Mr. Equals is pretty good about shredding anything of use to them, so based on what they put together, we concluded that it was the name that Mrs. Equals orders her sex toys and Star Trek memorabilia from the internet under. Sometimes, one and the same. I already had 'exposing the fact that you and they can control minds' to threaten you three with. I figured 'Gorgeous Artist is Closet Sex Freak and Trekkie' was, yes, a headline that people WOULD click first and the bigger story would lose focus."

Helen smiled as he spoke, which turned into a laugh at the end.

"No, Leonard, first off, there's NOTHING 'closeted' about Julie, and she calls them 'Troys.' Assigns them numbers instead of names. 'Troy 2, Troy 3," and so on. It's cute, but a little nauseating, like they've always been together. It actually goes back to when we were all toddlers and she couldn't say her Rs yet, so 'Troy,' would come out 'Toy.' Second, it's a new millennium, Mr. Whyte, Sir! GIRLS can go into the adult bookstore now. WITHOUT the accompaniment of a male relative of at least 12 years of age." She thought a moment. "That's actually worked out better for everyone; but no, they even let us BUY stuff, too! With OUR OWN MONEY, no less! Why next, us little cupcakes'll be wanting to VOTE!"

"I went to Oxford, Contessa. I wouldn't call them friends, but I've met John Cleese and Stephen Fry. I have been exposed to weapons-grade sarcasm. That's a power of yours that WON'T work on me. But please, do go on."

Helen nodded and took another drink.

"Susan is a real person, a pretty fucking smart one, too. She's the one who really figured out where you were hiding. Bunch of other stuff, too. Thinking about it now, one way or another, I wouldn't be here with you without her. You know, she worked as a waitress in a shitty greasy spoon for eleven years. She's a secretary now, but she's still got some self-esteem issues. Learning mind control's helped with that. Oh yeah, she knows how to do it, too; I can tell you all this about her, because, again, speaking to a dead man. And yet, she still kind of thinks of herself as 'just a waitress.' Susan is certainly far more than that, Mr. Whyte. She's not 'just' anything. However, for our purposes here and now, after all your 'clever' plotting and misdirection? I like the notion of being able to tell you that, in the end, it wasn't me who brought you down; but a diner waitress. A 'Nobody,' because her tax bracket was beneath YOUR notice! Although, she's also one of Troy's clients, so, knowing him and what he's done to your companies today, I imagine you'd notice the soft, voluptuous curves of her bank account now."

Whyte smiled back.

"Well, I know someone who wants to see what's in her billfold." He smoked the cigar a moment before adding "As the Bishop said to the Actress." It got a half-grin from Helen. "I'm never going to meet her, so I guess she still doesn't matter to me." He changed his tone. "Your late husband and I crossed paths a few times over the years, you know. He put a damper on the odd project of mine, like you've been doing recently to everyone who had a stake in business as usual in Uongo; and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's an idealist who's actually capable of accomplishing something. Like him and Mr. Equals. Oh, it's easy to see the similarities between the two of them; why you'd be drawn to both men. I honestly have to say that when you fucked the Count to death, I did one of those fist-pump things." He showed her the move.

"Huh. Vincenzo never told me. Your name never came up. Out of embarrassment, would be my guess." Helen took another puff off her cigar. "Oh, and if that was supposed to get a rise out of me and make me get on to killing you, then you haven't learned a fucking thing about me, Leonard. You're right about not leaving alive, but I haven't really settled on how yet. And after all we've been to each other these past couple months, it'd be a shame to rush this. Matter of fact..."

A thought struck Helen, and she got up and walked over to nearby phone on one of the lamp tables. She opened the drawer, got out a small book with laminated pages, and walked back to her seat. She tossed the book to Leonard. He saw now that it was a menu.

"I know it's late, and we've already had brandy and cigars, but let's make an evening of it. Hell, YOU don't have to be up in the morning. Roomservice is on me. And don't think you're limited to the menu. This is a condemned man's last meal, after all. Whatever you want, Leonard, I will get them to make it."

"It's after midnight, Contessa." He said, setting down his cigar and picking up the menu. "Will the kitchen still be open."

Helen's answer was given not by her voice, but by her look. The look said to him, far more effectively than her mouth or hands could have conveyed, "I am La Fucking Contessa and I own this hotel, Leonard. If they're closed, they'll open it back up for me." It turned into one of her big La Contessa smiles.

"Come on, Leonard. I pick up this phone and say, 'I'm in the mood for something,' and a three-star chef gets paid enough to make it worth his while to drag his ass out of bed and come into work at this hour just to cook it for us. So, what'll ya have?"

* * *

Leonard Whyte CBE ordered a Full English Breakfast. Contessa Helena de San Finzione, being a Tolkien fan because of all the languages, liked the sound of a Hobbit meal after the drinking she'd done this evening, and ordered the same. The server was gone, and they were alone again; Whyte having been commanded not to make any effort to escape, harm himself or anyone else, or do anything to signal Roomservice. She hadn't told him that he couldn't tip, though. So, when he tried to tip the server everything in his wallet, La Contessa told him how naughty it was and told the server to keep the money and remember a big party in the La Contessa suite upstairs where he got it.