— Léon — 

“Is it that strange I want to have sex to Gotye’s State of the Art?” Léon asked in a whisper.

Satina Hamman scoffed and whispered back, “Do we really need to discuss this now? We’re kind in the middle of something, cousin.” She glanced at the golden plaque nailed on the double doors before them, then looked at Léon again.

He twiddled with his fingers and looked around the somber corridor. The yellowish lights pouring around the expensive Greek busts and old paintings were the only thing between them and total darkness. “Can we? I’m nervous as hell, trying not to think about being dismembered... or fired. Or both.”

Satina rolled her eyes. “All right. Make your case about those old-as-hell songs you like.”

Léon breathed out a thankful smile. “Being old is what makes them unique. I mean, there’s nothing like it anymore.”

Satina snickered, staring at his good eye. “We have better music. Like Mercurial Unicorn. Have you heard their latest single? It's the pinnacle of new-meaty-synth!”

“Let’s be real, Tiny. It’s the remix of a cat sneezing.” Satina furrowed her brow and shushed, but he continued. “You have to hear Beyoncé, EXO, Mc Tha, and mainly The Darkness. That’s real music!”

"And BTS?"

"And BTS."

Satina was smaller than Léon, but she scoffed and looked down at him as if she was one meter taller. "Right. No one cares about that, Leo. I mean, I love you, but you're obsessed. Be a neo-hipster if you want; just don't grate my nerves." She crossed her arms, her shocking-blue uniform contrasting with the strong sienna in her pouty lips. "We're three years away from the half of the century. Be a part of it."

A second woman cleared her throat.

“Sorry,” Léon and Satina said in unison.

And yes, chatting about music should be enough to calm him, but being called to the main office was never a good sign—and it was even worse for the two villains with the worst personal rankings in the entire company.

Wringing the plastipaper folder in his hands, Léon Dickens stared at the closed wooden doors. Goosebumps formed on his arms. “Say something,” he whispered to Satina.

At his side, Satina took in a deep breath and turned to the woman beside them. “Are you sure this is necessary, Nica? We were about to leave for a mission—a three-point-nine mission. We received word of a hijack in the freelancers’ neighborhood. Silver Coldheart is trying to steal something from one of The Mayor’s facilities, and we want to intercept the cargo before the League can have it.”

Anachronica stared at them. She was a tall woman with a thick Old Continentian accent who always wore red pantsuits and white wingtips that clicked on the marble floors like tap-dance shoes. As second in command, she answered only to Iara Iamí-Xarãma, her wife and CEO of Invidia Company; different from Iara, Anachronica was severe and direct—and filled with a warm strength that inspired trust.

Today, though, she seemed exhausted.

“Since our mission rankings go as far as fifteen,” Anachronica said, “I’m sure you understand your boss’ direct order is much more important than your mission, no?”

Satina grimaced while Léon placed his trembling fingers on his forehead. That was it: they were screwed. Few things were more important in Invidia than getting missions done, so to ignore one like that… Iara’s reason must be something else, Léon thought.

Anachronica checked her wristwatch. “It’s time. Wait here.” She crossed the double doors and closed them.

“It’s okay, cousin,” Satina said, squaring her shoulders. “Whatever happens, we’re in this together.” She took in a trembly breath and raised her chin.

Satina had always been like this. Since the first time they had worked together, in that small office in Old Continent, as much as she complained about his loose clothes, perfume, and the pomade he used, she always stood by his side. He remembered little of his time in Old Continent, of course, but since then, he drank from Satina’s knowledge and friendship as if drinking cheap vodka: it seemed like a good idea at first until the headache started.

And it was a huge headache when she appeared at his doorstep all those years ago, asking for help. She was still dressed in jailbird-orange, with wide eyes and a blood-stained uniform from the St. Lucretia Reformatory School. Satina was only twelve that day; he was fifteen—or so she told him. Eight years later, he was still paying the price for helping her. But he’d be lying if he said he regretted that. The only thing he regretted was not helping her before she went to jail in the first place.

“Where’s Mary?” Léon asked.

“Taking photos and autographing shit for the launch of her new line of toys. It brings a lot of money to Invidia, so I doubt she’ll be here. Besides, Mary’s personal ranking is ten times better than ours.”

Léon sighed and bobbed his head. This was bad. This was really bad.