The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A Little Night Music part 11

By T.MaskedWriter

“I’ll drink the moonlight from your hands.
I’ll swim an ocean filled with sorrow.
No, lover, please don’t go.
We can crucify tomorrow.
Let the sunlight feed the air.
Let it fill our lungs with lies.
We’ll be memorialized by shadows,
but our loneliness will survive.”
—The Swans, “Will We Survive

Generalissimo Hernando Ramirez listened to the distant chatter of the reporters gathered behind the press line in front of the hospital. All other movable patients at Byroni Medina Memorial Emergency Medical Center had been evacuated to nearby facilities when they got word that La Contessa’s helicopter was coming in, and the Ultimados had secured most of the building, but the administrator refused to shut down the emergency clinic, even for La Contessa.

The throng of reporters and cameramen were now in danger of impeding ambulance passage, and the administrator demanded the Generalissimo say something to make them go away or he’d have La Policia remove them.

An aide brought him a clean uniform; and, without questioning the unusual request, a carton of La Contessa’s brand of cigarettes. The hospital had let Ramirez use a shower, but the day had still taken its toll on him as he found himself unable to do anything but sit and wait for Maisson’s reports on her condition. Ortega had reported that Lady Maria… no, she was Contessa Maria now; had started seeing advisers and would call him for a meeting soon.

The Generalissimo tapped the little stack of four 3x5 cards containing the information he had to give the press. He looked out the glass doors at the podium that had been set up for him in front of the hospital entrance. The setting sun off to the side gave it a long shadow that caused him to picture the scene as a waiting gallows with a microphone where the noose should be.

The reporters stopped chattering as he walked out the sliding glass doors of the entrance. When the Generalissimo stood at the podium, he saw the setting sun as a brightness out of the corner of his right eye. He’d left his cover and sunglasses back inside, and his eye was now reminding him of the purpose of those two objects. Looking down at his cards helped, though.

“The hospital has informed me that your presence is interfering with the Emergency Center’s other patients, and I am expecting to be called to a meeting at any moment, so this will be brief; and then you must leave,” he said to the cameras and faces; a few in the crowd still holding notebooks and pencils, bless them. He continued.

“I will read the doctors’ statements; about which, I am not qualified to answer questions, and believe I have time enough to take two questions on matters unrelated to La Contessa’s condition.” He tapped the cards into alignment and read from them.

“Contessa Helena de San Finzione was admitted at 12:45 Hours with multiple stab wounds in the right abdominal region. She had additional wounds to the right side of her chest and a cut on the left side of her neck.

“The cut on her neck was deemed superficial, having been stopped by this necklace, a birthday gift from the late Count Vincenzo de San Finzione, forever does he reign in our hearts.”

The last part, he uttered sotto voce. Many of those in the crowd near Hernando’s own age murmured back the devotion. In the last five years, it had become a mark of his generation. Those who’d been born in the latter half of Good Count Vincenzo’s reign and who’d seen him as their leader all their lives; guiding San Finzione through times of war and peace; of strife and prosperity.

The generation whose family tables had become battlegrounds seven years ago over whether that Yanqui harlot was just after all the gold in the sweet old gentleman’s crown and teeth; or that pretty, young, American girl had stolen nothing from their beloved Count but his heart and made the still-virile old man smile in a way that they hadn’t seen him smile since Contessa Sofia was taken from us all too soon.

After Vincenzo’s passing, the devotion came about amongst those to whom he’d always been “Their Count.” Tone of voice was the difference in meaning it as eternal respect for Count Vincenzo or contempt for the so-called Contessa “American Jezebel Who Sexed Him to Death.” Ramirez’s had been the former, as had most of the responders.

The Generalissimo held up The Count’s broken, but life-saving, gift to La Contessa; now in one of La Policia’s evidence bags. Older pictures of the same necklace intact had become part of the clip rotation since the second hour of ongoing ‘round-the-clock’ coverage, when the media ran out of facts and started commenting on La Contessa’s outfit at the time, instead. The image of Ramirez holding the bag with the broken necklace would soon follow it into the rotation. The clip would be in black and white and he would raise the bag in slow-motion.

Ramirez flipped his next card over and continued.

“She was admitted to surgery immediately, where she remains at this time. Doctors have reported intestinal damage; which they believe to be under control; and multiple lacerations to La Contessa’s liver, which they are still working to save. A donor organ is on standby as a precaution. Her condition is still being described as critical.” He struggled to keep himself from angrily hissing out the word “still.”

As the sun’s rays were fading, flashes from cameras began to burst from the crowd. Generalissimo Ramirez mused that this was the second time today that he was facing a crowd with flashing cameras. He turned to the next card.

“The wound to La Contessa’s… er… breast... did not pierce any vital organs; however, she did sustain hairline fractures in her left arm and shoulder from impact with the marble floor of the room.” He swallowed before finishing. “During her struggle with the assassin.”

As he turned to the last card, the scene played out in his head again. La Contessa stepping forward, the cart crashing into the support column, a flash brighter than any of the camera flashes, everyone turning.

Except him. The assassin. Everyone else heard what sounded like firecrackers going off, then he seemed to run at her in slow-motion. And the two Ultimados had come running to the scene because they’d heard the noise from a distance too far away to hear La Contessa’s command. The thoughts coalesced as he read the last card.

“Lady Maria de San Finzione has been officially appointed Contessa-in-Reggenza until such time as Contessa Helena is able to resume her duties. She has been meeting with advisors in a secure location and is expected to call a cabinet meeting within the hour; which I must leave for soon, so I will take the first question.”

He selected a reporter that he recognized. Ramirez already knew what the first question would be, whomever he’d picked. It was one of several on his growing mental list of “Questions La Contessa May One Day Force Me To Answer;” which he practiced responses to in a mirror or on occasion, compared notes with Capitan Ortega’s own list.

“Generalissimo,” the reporter spoke up. “You were standing right next to La Contessa during the attack. You had your weapon in your holster. Why did you not act?” Murmurs of agreement and “I was going to ask that” came from the throng assembled.

The word “act” caused the thought in Ramirez’s mind to complete: Not act, RE-act. The assassin hadn’t reacted to the noise because the man couldn’t hear it! If the assassin had no sense of hearing, it would explain everything. He had something now, he just had to get through the next couple minutes. He got back to the question.

“The Bystander Effect is a known psychological phenomenon, as is the Mass Hysteria that causes it to sweep through a crowd. The training of La Squadra de Ultimados; which it was my proud honor to once lead and to now command, is the best mental and physical discipline that San Finzione’s Armed Forces have to offer. However, any man who would stand before you and proclaim himself entirely immune to known psychological effects would be a liar or a fool. It can happen; it happened to me at the worst possible moment; and for my shame, I shall seek to atone by continuing to serve San Finzione and La Contessa until she deems otherwise. Next question. Yes, you.”

The reporter he selected stepped up slowly. More details of the memory were coming in to Ramirez’s brain. There’d been a shuffle to the man’s step as he’d charged. The Assassin didn’t SEEM to charge La Contessa in slow-motion because Ramirez could not stop what was unfolding in front of him, he WAS moving slower, and she was still so stunned that her power did not work that he was able to reach her and force her to the ground.

Ramirez thought “Difficulty moving the right side of his body… an injury, perhaps?” And he held the knife in his left hand. A deaf, left-handed assassin who chooses to work with a knife despite being handicapped? Interpol should not have too many of them on file.

“Generalissimo, do you think that Lady Maria will be able to fulfil the role of Contessa?”

The question shook him out of his train of thought. He replayed the question in his head to make sure he’d heard correctly. He fixed the reporter with a serious stare before answering.

“Contessa-In-Reggenza Maria de San Finzione has been prepared for this task her entire life, and has been aided by the guidance of Count Vincenzo and Contessa Helena throughout. I have every confidence in her.”

The phone in his pocket vibrated.

“The meeting is being called now. I have no more time to give you. Please leave and go report your stories, as your equipment is interfering with the hospital’s emergency business. Gracias.”

The reporters began packing up their equipment. Generalissimo Ramirez’s driver had brought his staff car up the hospital’s main drive, and as he speed-walked toward it and pulled out his phone.

The message was, as he expected, Contessa Maria calling in her top staff. He confirmed that he was en route, then placed a call.

“Get me Interpol,” Ramirez told his secretary as he got in the vehicle. “Call me back when Luc Allaine is on the line.”

The driver made for the castle.

* * *

Half a step ahead of Ramirez, Helena and Suzy-Q discussed the issue while talking on a couch in her head. If not for the television studio setting and their outfits, the two of them might have appeared to onlookers as idly chatting neighbors; provided Lara Croft’s neighbor wore a Chinese qipao dress around the house.

“OK, so they knew how, when, and where to hit you. This must be part of the plan too. Not us talking, nobody could’ve seen that; Susan still hasn’t even noticed me gone. I mean, there’s a reason it had to be now. He had to make sure you were dead, or at least in the hospital by now. Why? What did you have planned after the tour stop?”

Helena had to think about that.

“Hmm… nothing, really. Had a meeting, something earlier canceled and it got bumped up to before Noon, so my plans for after were a cup of cocoa and some hot sex with Jeanne.”

Suzy-Q gave her a look. A look that told Helen that she’d just missed something there. She picked up on it and ran the thought through her head again.

“I had no plans… because the afternoon meeting got bumped up! I wasn’t supposed to be at that meeting!”

The look on Suzy-Q’s face became a smile.

“That’s it,” she said to Helena. “So, what happened at The Meeting That Shouldn’t Have Been?”

Helena was about to open her mouth when Suzy-Q raised a hand.

“Before you even think ‘that’s classified,’ I think you already know what the real Susan would say to that. I’m here to help, really.”

Helena nodded and took a puff of her unending cigarette before speaking.

“We discussed how everything’s a go for the Air Finzione launch. And this year’s wine harvest.”

Suzy-Q looked around before answering.

“I don’t see Troy here, so we can rule out any James Bond plots right away. Nobody’s going to go to all this to blow up some planes or poison the wine supply. That’s not something they’d ‘need you out of the way’ for, anyway.”

That gave Helena a small upraising of the lips and a little snort.

“Ok, yeah. They’re not after the emeralds in my tiara for their superlaser. So, after that, it was just me and the Top Secret guys, we talked about The Elders and Raymond Chen for a moment; but that just makes the idea that they’re behind this even more stupid. Why go through with the whole charade with him if they were going to hit me 12 hours later?”

“Yeah, they’re out of this, though it also explains why they sent a hand instead of a head, because then you might say ‘Hey, that’s the wrong Raymond Chen.’”

“Right,” Helena answered. “So that just leaves…”

They said the word together.

“Springheel.”

* * *

At a table in an outdoor café outside the San Finzione Marketplace sat an old woman dressed in black, drinking her wine and watching the world go by under the now-lit streetlamps.

How long the Yia-Yia had been there, none could say. Children who saw her and asked their grandparents about her as they walked past long ago now had grandchildren of their own who would ask them how long she’d been there. And like their own grandparents, they had no answer to pass on to the little ones who would one day be asked the same question in turn by grandchildren of their own.

It was a gathering of young people she was watching now. Everyone was young to her, though. College students, maybe. They were gathering in the marketplace near the café, and she could see a lot of them now. She watched them carefully. Her long life had taught her that when that many college students gather together, something idiotic usually happened next.

People that age eluded her. As they had for a long time. Possibly because they never changed, but they always imagined they would.

She’d seen young street hoods grow up to become businessmen in suits, stammering about how someone needed to do something about all these street hoods. Always longing for some mythical better day when they’d been the bully instead of imagining themselves as victims for no longer being allowed to bully others. Always promising to change the world and ending up becoming it, despite all their vows not to do so, unlike their fool parents.

She got a little concerned when they started taking out signs. Young people holding signs didn’t usually end well. But some of them also had candles, and young people holding those tended to end… not well; better, maybe. Signs meant they were mad about something; candles meant they were sad about something. Whatever got them so outraged must be sad too.

She shouldn’t assume, though. All young people weren’t like that. That one girl who’d been coming around lately, she was quite nice. She couldn’t recall her name, but people who approached the girl when she came to the café to sit with her called her ‘Tessa,’ so maybe that was her name. The Yia-Yia had thought that Tessa was American, but her Greek was… eh, adequate. They could talk.

Tessa wasn’t like those youngsters who seemed to be organizing into a group now. They looked like everyone younger than herself; always busy, on their way somewhere with something too important to stop staring at on their phones or taking pictures of themselves and everything around them. Tessa wasn’t like that, though. She carried a telephone like all of them, but she was polite about it.

Tessa would stop by now and then, always unexpected, and always offering to buy the next bottle. Or sometimes she’d bring a bottle of something even better from home to share with the Yia-Yia. She always accepted Tessa’s kind offer graciously, even though these fools seem to have forgotten to charge her for anything in quite a while.

Sometimes, Tessa even bought dinner for them both; and stayed for hours, wanting to hear more stories about her life and the things she’d seen. The girl was always a polite listener; and when she’d ask a question, was patient while the Yia-Yia searched her old brain for the answer. Sometimes, Tessa would even get dessert if the story turned out to be a naughty one.

She asked a lot of questions when the subject of cooking came up, as if the poor dear’s mother had taught her nothing of the kitchen. But then, a girl who looked like Tessa was going to marry well enough not to have to worry about cooking.

But their visits were often too brief. People would come up to Tessa and ask questions or ask Tessa to sign things or want to take their picture with Tessa. Sometimes, a group of nice young men would come and take people away if they started being rude to Tessa, which happened more often than the Yia-Yia would have expected. Was Tessa a movie star from Hollywood, maybe? She was certainly pretty enough to be.

In fact, Tessa looked like the woman on some of the signs the young people were holding up as they seemed to have gotten into their formation. Phones were being put away and candles were being lit; little wind guards placed around them, so things were getting serious now. Things HAD to be serious for young people to put away their telephones.

But it couldn’t have been her. Tessa didn’t try to look fancy like the woman in the posters. That woman had on an emerald tiara and held a gold scepter. She was trying to look fancy, like some Baroness or Duchess.

.As the young people started walking by her in the street… Was the hospital that way? She’d never been there before… she could see one of the banners they carried more clearly as it passed through the clearer part of her vision:

FOREVER DOES SHE REIGN IN OUR HEARTS

Oh dear, had something happened to young Vincenzo’s darling Sofia? She hoped that wherever Tessa was, she was ok. This seemed like the kind of thing that would worry her. Perhaps she was in that crowd of young people. Tessa was very respectful, and whatever this was, it seemed to be an act of respect.

Those young people didn’t seem so bad now; they really were different from the others somehow, and so, she had to be involved. Well, sometimes, young people really did get busy, so maybe she hadn’t had time to talk.

She considered going into the crowd to see if she could find Tessa when the waiter came and refilled her wine glass.

Yeah, why change a good thing now?