Irresponsibility
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In her defense:

It's been weeks since Andrea Adams has had sex.

No, correction: it's been months.

Working for the Foundation is one of the most sexually frustrating jobs imaginable. If you aren't stationed in a communal living space, then good luck making the necessary connections; if you are, good luck finding the privacy. "Date nights" had quickly become the domain of creeps and weirdos, and that's on the nights Bright doesn't slink in. Unless the Foundation sets you up in a placement program — and good luck with that — your best hope is the annual Halloween party.

At least, Andrea hopes the Site-17 Halloween Party is going to end her dry spell. Thirty minutes in, anything could go wrong.

Andrea's costume is a "sexy" imitation of The Suit, courtesy Soojung of Witch Hunters. It's entirely possible that her reasons for helping were less than altruistic — Agent Hae is the thirstiest woman she's ever met — but it breathes surprisingly well, and highlights her best assets well enough. A lack of attention will not be the problem tonight.

Andrea takes a sip of her drink, and scans the room. Most everyone with a thing for chicks has taken notice of her, but no one's approached. Some of them she knows, some she doesn't, none of them are obvious picks — Andrea's desperate, but she knows her worth.

She nearly chokes as a large and calloused hand claps her back. "Adams! I thought you fuckin' hated that thing."

Clef.

Andrea groans, but she's been around him long enough that she can skimp on scowling. "Fuck off."

Clef circles into view, garishly dressed in an obscene button up, khaki shorts, Gucci socks with Gucci sandals, and a three-eyed paper-mâché monster head strapped to his shoulder. He's traded his ukelele for a handheld theremin, which explains the music up to now. "Happy Halloween, Andrea." He plays an uncomfortably long tone before speaking again. "Lemme guess: Type Green with a thing for Dorara."

There's still a part of her that hopes her sneer will drive him off. "It's called Durarara. And… and no, I'm off duty."

"Of course you'd know that, weeb." Another long tune of his theremin. "I gotta admit, it's nice to see you taking things lightly for once, or at least without bringing the GOC into the mix." He grins. "Is Iris with you?"

"No, this isn't her scene." Andrea crosses her arms. "Look. I'm here to have fun, Clef, and my kind of fun doesn't involve you. Go…" She uncrosses to gesture, and nearly spills her drink. Clef laughs at that. "Go bother someone else! I'm sure there's some pretty… catboy twink looking to fuck a gremlin like you."

"Heh, you're a lot more…"

And then, like a flip of the switch, the facade shatters. Clef's smile disappears, the contours of his face settling into an expression so rare for the man that it takes a moment for Andrea to recognize it. His theremin, once a weapon of aural warfare, sits like dead weight in his hand. The gravity handily outweighs his outfit.

"… I'm sorry." All the playful malice of before is gone from his voice. "Do you know where Iris went?"

Andrea blinks. Clef never apologies.

"She's…" Andrea wets her lips. "As far as I know, she should either be in her cell, or with 3127. Why?"

Clef looks worried. He's never worried.

"Alto?" Her throat is parched. "What's wrong with Iris?"

Clef opens his mouth to respond, but the words don't come out immediately. He's being delicate with what he says — he's never delicate, never tries to be delicate.

"… I shouldn't be talking about this right now." Clef shuts off the theremin, and stuffs it back into his pocket. "Command's… worried about her. They think her condition might be worsening, and they're worried she might do something… irresponsible."

Andrea's drink feels heavy in her hand.

"Right, look: don't worry about it right now."

"'Don't worry?' Seriously, Alto?"

"Look," Clef brings his hands up. "Not right now. Tav-666's got a meeting Monday, priority number one. Anything sooner's liable to get us in shit with Psychiatry. You just… enjoy the party, find someone nice to spend the night with, and let me know if you see Iris do anything weird. Still got my Slack, right? Good."

And then Clef's expression shifts, and he's back to usual shitty self. "I'm gonna TP King's office and see if it turns into apple seeds. Catch you later, Adams."

He's gone before she can process his words.

Andrea downs the rest of her drink, and yanks herself over to the punch bowl for more. Iris Thompson, bless her, is in no position to do anything irresponsible, and as nice as it is to have a heads up, Andrea is in no position to stop her. Not now, and possibly not even when she's sober. She's not too drunk to care, not yet — but god willing, she'll have to be to get through the night.

Andrea's second drink goes down a lot harder; it's a lot easier to chug her drink when there's only a quarter left. The punch is cloying, too sweet — the kind dudes serve to chicks who don't want to get drunk. She can barely taste the alcohol, let alone feel it.

Can't even chug the third drink. She needs a human distraction.

Andrea tightens her grip on reality, scanning the dimly-lit room for her excuse. None of her exes are in attendance, not even the ones she's on bad terms with — she'll need to make a new connection. Bright's not here either, so she's not duty-bound to pull someone out. None of the people here have the immediate gravity to make her forget about Iris. Fuck, Andrea's too desperate to be picky, but that's never stopped her before, has it?

She isn't sure if the alcohol is starting to kick in before the panic. There's that burning feeling in Andrea's chest that only comes out when she's on the wrong end of a gun, like the end result of who she ends up fucking holds sway over Iris Thompson's fate.

She is, perhaps, more correct than she cares to accept.


But just now, it occurs to her that a beautiful young woman has come into the party, and her hormones take her several steps and half-formed opener before she recognizes the woman as Iris fucking Thompson.

One year ago:

"Of course, Reinhardt believes that such unexpected returns free considerable resources…"

Iris wondered, if she were fast enough, whether she'd be able to get a clean shot on Ms. Schaeffer. She wondered if it'd take.

Iris Thompson didn't like Madeleine von Schaeffer. No, she didn't like most people in her line of work — creeps, murderers, heavy-eyed bureaucrats who choked on unspoken slurs — but not like she didn't like Ms. Schaeffer. Iris hated her coworkers; Schaeffer scared her. It was as if she were looking at Michelangelo's David, so terribly life-like, ready to move off of its podium — and somehow even more uncanny in motion.

According to command, Ms. Schaeffer was only a person of interest. It didn't explain why they had Iris and Andrea standing guard at the meeting.


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The lights are low enough to obscure Iris — obscure where she is, obscure what she's doing, smooth away the detail and leave a pretty little doll in its wake.

In her defense:


A few days ago:


In her defense:


Whenever:


In her defense:

"But for once — just once," she smiles. "I'd like to be the glassy-eyed tranny."

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Andrea's hands slide the dress down her body.


Ten years ago:


In her defense:





No way in hell Moose puts this on the hub.

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