by Liz Barr
rated R, mostly for a bit of language
Post "Dead End". Lilah's been promoted. Why isn't she happy?
Characters: not mine. No profit being made here.
Feedback? Almost as good as chocolate. firstname.lastname@example.org
Six months. A year at most, but probably less. I'll be lucky if there's a body left afterwards.
About a month after I joined Wolfram and Hart, Holland took me aside and gently hinted that the senior partners were somewhat ... conservative in some respects, and he was sure I wouldn't embarrass the firm. So, like a good little evil lawyer, I avoided this club, and the drinks and the girls it contained.
But now ... what the fuck, I'm gonna die anyway. I might as well have the memory of a good cocktail and the girl sitting across from me.
This certainly isn't a lesbian bar. Nothing so obvious. It is merely merely caters to a predominantly female clientele. Professional women, actresses, musicians. The ones whose bosses, the businesses, the agents, the studios, don't need unwanted attention drawn to the private lives of their employees.
Nothing to embarrass the Senior Partners at all. Not that they'd really be interested in passing a moral judgment ("Morality is such an archaic concept, don't you agree, Lilah?" Holland had said back in the beginning). But, like the Catholic Church, Wolfram and Hart is administered, in this world, at least, by fallible humans. And like the Catholic Church, Wolfram and Hart takes issue with certain ... variations on tradition. So, for almost ten years, I've gotten by with discreet meetings, which stopped being sexy and exciting when I realised how much Wolfram and Hart spends on surveillance.
Well, screw discretion. Screw the Senior Partners, screw Wolfram and Hart and (oh yes please) screw the girl in front of me. I'm Lilah Morgan, head of Special Projects for Wolfram and Hart. Dead lawyer walking.
I sip my drink, make conversation and admire the girl's flawless skin. And, behind all that, my mind is reciting all the possible ways I could die. Killed by Angel. Killed by Darla or Drusilla. Killed by Nathan Reed, because Lindsey-darling was kind enough to fucking *tell* him about my own record keeping. And those are just the predictable deaths. Who knows what'll come tomorrow? Maybe they'll decide to cut their losses and kill me before I can make a mistake.
One thing you learn quickly, working for Wolfram and Hart: mistakes are rarely tolerated. Lindsey and I have already made mistakes, and I was their second choice. I may as well pull out my gun and shoot myself now. Lilah Morgan, designated scapegoat? No thankyou. I scowl at my drink.
The girl, who's worked very hard to look like Jennifer Lopez (and comes off looking like a cheap Mariah Carey clone) gives me a concerned look.
"Are you okay?"
I give her a smile. Brittle. "I'm fine."
"Because you look-"
"I'm fine." Too harsh. She flinches.
I touch her hand, give her another smile. Surely the behaviour of a woman who's not going to be killed tomorrow.
"*I'm* sorry," I say. "I've just been promoted. I'm under a lot of pressure." Not even a lie. ("Morality is such an archaic concept, don't you agree, Lilah?")
Jennifer-Mariah looks sympathetic. "Will it get easier. As you get used to it?"
I signal for another drink. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow, I may die. Or worse, be allowed to live, wondering like this for another day. And another. And another.
"I hope so," I say. "I really do."
Six months. A year at most. But I'm gonna end up in a ditch - or worse - I might as well have fun and die pretty.
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