Illyana 2015

Note from Lauren: Heeeey, this bandwagon looks kinda comfy. I wrote this in between classes. :) Yeah yeah yeah, I'm wordy.

If there was anything wrong with being tall, blonde, and possessed of a certain position in the business world, it was definitely the high cost of drycleaning. Sad, really, that good help was so hard to find; as she walked back into her office, kicking her stilettos at the floor-to-ceiling windows, Illyana Rasputin examined the polyester dress bag hanging on her coat hanger with something akin to dislike.

"What's that for, again?" she addressed to the general population of the room, waving her hand more specifically at her personal assistant. She stepped over a footstool to unzip the bag, finding a floor-length black dress within.

"The charity ball and auction, ma'am," a pudgy young man, fresh from business school, ventured. What was his name? Henry? Something like that. Possibly Harry.

"Hmm." Distaste made her pout a little. "Can I get out of it? Where's Marisol?"

"I'm here," said the short, solid Latina woman leaning on her desk. "You told me not to let you skip this."

"Well, I've got the magic touch, don't I. Who's on the guest list?"

"Plus PR will kill you."

"The list, Marisol."

"Okay, okay. Colbert - "

"Talentless bitch. Have we gotten rid of that one PR had in their lobby yet?"

"She's auctioning some of her work. You know, for the charity. We tried to get rid of the picture, but the art committee threatened revolt. I thought I'd leave that for your delicate touch. Anyway, Stavros, Forge, Madrox - "

"At least there'll be someone to talk to."

"Xavier - "

"Probably shining up his wheelchair and cute bow tie right now. Alison Blaire?"

"Touring."

"Thank God. Anyone else we know and hate?"

"Your brother and his husband and - "

" - their brats? Are they still letting them out in public?" Frustrated, Illyana blew her very fashionably-cut bangs out of her eyes. "Is anyone going? Anyone important?"

"Movie stars, pop singers, politicians, and X-Men, ma'am." Marisol looked very tall for a woman who was five feet flat. It was a quality Illyana admired, and made up for the fact that Marisol was annoyingly good at her job. Firing personal assistants had been the highlight of her week until she'd chanced upon Marisol, former juvenile delinquent and very capable of filling out a suit, operating numerous personal organizers, giving people shit on the phone, and knowing that Illyana could do her job (making lots and lots of money) just fine. "It's for a good cause. Save the mutant children."

"I don't care about the mutant children," Illyana said, throwing her hands up and heading behind her desk. A pile of contracts nearly slid into her lap until the same pudgy new kid made a sacrificial dive, ending up sprawled halfway across her desk with papers proclaiming the new world order of Russian utilities infrastructure spread across him. If she had a picture of every time someone did something stupid to keep her happy, she'd have a wall of funny pictures. Perhaps she'd have a whimsical desire to sell them. "I'm not an X-Man for a reason. Well, a whole list of reasons, starting with that."

"Oh, yes. A young man called from the Xavier Institute, Miss Rasputin. He said to tell you that they would prefer for you to inform them of weapons sales to rebel mutants in the Middle East." Silence ensued; Illyana raised her eyebrows. Marisol sighed. "Actually, he told me to tell you that, and I quote, 'You won't get away with it forever just because you're rich now and think about your family and where you owe the education that got you where you are', and that you should watch your back."

"Did he?" Tossing a cursory glance at her Blackberry, Illyana smiled thoughtfully. "Well, if he calls again, tell him that it just wouldn't be interesting without surprises. And that I would be personally shocked if they had anything that would hold up in a court of law, the backbone of our great country - after all." Her inbox was overflowing - it was such a pain, keeping up appearances by travelling like a normal person - but that could wait for an eager-to-impress wannabe-apprentice. "Why do they send me the new recruits? I wish you'd patched him through to my cell. I'd have told him that my company only deals in legitimate arms sales, and they can take it up with the board of directors if they're so concerned about it. You probably just said you'd pass it on. Useless. Useless! Henry? Harry?" She snapped her fingers at the young man waiting by the door. He jumped. She'd have to fire him soon; he was getting on her nerves with the puppy-dog thing. "The hairdresser? When?"

"Twenty minutes. Oh, Accounting just called to tell you they're having a party tonight."

"On what grounds?"

"Trump filed for bankruptcy at market close."

"Again? How tedious. Look, tell them not to buy an extra case of Cristal to take home to their families if they want a Christmas bonus this time. And we're still not buying Trump Tower."

"Shall do."

Seeing the back of Henry-or-possibly-Harry made her feel efficient again. "Now, Marisol, where was I? Oh, yes, the new recruits. Watch my back? Where do they come up with it? It's like they have someone call once a week just to annoy me." A pause. It lengthened; enlightenment dawned like refracted light through glass on Illyana's face. "I'm having a chat with Charles Xavier tonight, Marisol. Make a note."

"Of course, ma'am." Irony was not Marisol's only talent. "Now, about the Stark contracts - "

"I talked to Tony this morning. He needs backing for some robot suit or other, same as usual. I'm going to sell them to the Venezuelans and make a hell of a profit. For a functioning alcoholic, he's actually fairly tolerable at 7AM. Something I haven't heard of or dealt with yet? Anything?"

"The head of TNK called this morning. Wanted to know if you had anything against his most recent aquisition."

Her eyes rolled so often she probably had a condition by now. "You mean where he sent a mercenary militia into the PetroCan field, held everyone hostage, and took it over? Why do they even have to ask? It's none of my business."

"I'm taking it you mean that literally."

"Mmm-hmm. If they can't play nice with my biggest Canadian contract, they can sit in Russia on their extraneous millions of dollars and watch as I never send anything their way again. Heartbreaking. Give Solenko the contract. If they take us to court, have us bribe the judge more than the other guys. Next."

"People called. They want you on the cover of their 100 Most Influential People. You're the prettiest self-made millionaire on the list, apparently. You're number eighteen."

"Eighteen, hmm? Tell them I'll do it if they bump me to thirteen and quit printing that nauseating stuff about the X-Men."

"Specifically?"

"Anything involving any of them. Especially the exclusives on their boring lives. Some of us need something to read in hospital waiting rooms, hello. If you can't control the media, bribe them with your body, I always say."

"Admirable. Speaking of legal action, I forged your signature to the lobby group supporting the mutants right bill - you know, the ones with brains in their heads - figured it couldn't hurt, what with your appearance tonight, to put up a uniform front."

"I'm only going to get wasted on cheap wine and make fun of my friends from high school," Illyana sighed dramatically. "And look! Now I'm a philanthropist. I hope we didn't throw any money after those losers."

"No, but we promised a speech."

"Send Norman. He doesn't have enough to do."

"No, he only oversees our American division. I'll fit it in between his marriage counselling and his weekly visit to Grace cardiology."

"Good. Jewelry?"

"Segueway into your next thought, please?"

"Jewelry. To go with the dress. Am I paying you for nothing?"

"Clearly." Marisol's dark eyes had that particular longsuffering look that Illyana had inspired in many a teacher in her youth. For that alone, it was worth keeping her on - nevermind that she did twice the work anyone else did around here. Right now she was talking on the phone in passable Russian and digging through her purse, pulling out velvet cases and dropping them on the desk. After a moment, she hung up and surfaced triumphantly. "I found this hanging on the mirror by your dresser. You didn't specify anything, and it would be no trouble to repair - "

Her expression didn't shift an inch from brisk and impersonal. "Marisol," Illyana said patiently, "there is no way I'm wearing that ugly, retro, broken, wannabe-Wiccan necklace to a black-tie charity event, especially if so-fashionable-she's-tacky Marie-Ange Colbert is going to be there. The Tiffany necklace and bracelet set I got for my last birthday from what's-his-name will do."

"But it's fine, it matches your hair perfectly, like it was made for you." There was one irritating thing about Marisol: She didn't back down. On mergers, this was great; fashion sense, not so much. "It wouldn't even be a problem to - "

"No."

"But - "

"Hand it over." Illyana held out her hand, palm up, and tilted her head expectantly in the way that meant her patience was up and blood was about to be shed. Gold and red glistened underneath the suddenly harsh-seeming light. "Good; you get to keep your job this week. And here's the hairdresser - three minutes late. I'm on a schedule, people!" And she was moving again, leaving the room, barely listening to Marisol's last-ditch attempt to talk her out of the Tiffany.

"But it's not even missing any stones, the gilding's just chipped a little - it would be easy to repair - "

Whatever.