harryvoxx

[harryvoxx]

HARRY VOX: THE MEMORIAL CHARITY GALA.

[harryvoxx]

Harry was well versed in the works of women like Valentina: but in his first initial meeting with her this evening, something told him she was a forced to be reckoned with. Fading into the background, the music thumping from the speakers become of little consequence as Harry leaned his forearms atop his thighs. A laugh like that, innocence laced with a venom he had no doubts could hurt even the strongest of men.

Maybe his imagination was running wild, and she was none of those things.

“Where I’m from, sarcasm's typically reserved for parliamentary debates, dinner with the in-laws, that kinda' shit. Anything to get through it, really...so yes, to answer your question: I understand it. I just don't fawn over it when it's delivered...like that," head tilting to the side as he regarded her with an almost bored expression. "Do you know the difference between sarcastic and sardonic? I'm trying to figure out that out about you..." a man born into politics could be as cutting as the next person.

Every move she makes, whether that's reaching for her drink or a shift in her seat: Harry tracked. He'd learnt to read a room long ago, but there were still people, much like Valentina, where it wasn't as simple. The political world, and the world of the Assembly, bore many kinds of people — those he understood. Her, though? Something...grabbed his attention.

Harry didn’t smile—at least not in any way that warmed the core of anyone around him or mirrored those on the dance floor, thrusting their hips in time to a new, changing beat. This place was still a shithole, he thought, bringing his mind back to Val. A man who found more pleasure in argument than agreement. That trait he'd gained from his father, that particular thought alone, caused his skin to prickle.

“You make him sound petty...I just — hang here with me a sec, okay — Nietzsche didn’t burn cathedrals because he was bitter. He dismantled them because he saw the rot in their foundations. It takes a particular kind of intellect to stand where most kneel and ask why the altar’s there in the first place.”

His father hadn't seen the rot that was forming in their family, and had never made the attempt to pull himself together enough to want too save them. "I mean, think about it, he wasn’t afraid of belief. He was afraid of stagnation. There’s a difference. He knew ideas, like empires, get complacent when they grow too comfortable. So he struck matches, and kept strikin' over and over—and the best of it, not even out of spite, but because he understood that sometimes, fire is a kind of mercy.”

Like the hell he was going too one day: he'd already accepted that fate.

“You call it masculine. I call it inevitable."

Tit for tat, over and over.

"I needed a palate cleanser.” No, he was waiting on a client. But that was information he wouldn't hare freely. Especially with not just anyone. "What about you?"

Valentine lets out a breath of a laugh, it's nearly angelic, but everything else about the woman screams otherwise. Thick lashes lift slowly, as if the significance of the conversation had finally piqued something real behind those lacquered hues. And possibly it had.

Her crimson-stained petals part in mock wonder. “Awe, Crumpet, is sarcasm usually not served with tea where you’re from?” Her smirk is quicksilver, there, gone, then back again, keener. She could be tasteless in her jestful ways, but she'd enjoy the outcome regardless.

She grants herself a sip, savoring it like it’s aged scotch and not the lukewarm excuse for gin the bar dared to offer. “I never said Nietzsche wasn’t provocative. Or clever. Or occasionally profound.” Her manicured talons tap once, twice against the glass, matching the beat of a thought she hasn’t quite decided whether to share or safeguard. “I said he wasn’t right. There’s a difference.”

Her gaze drifts back to her bartop buddy. “He built chaos out of cathedrals and called it philosophy. Fascinating? Sure. Renowned? Of course. But let’s not pretend he didn’t glorify destruction simply because he couldn’t bear the ache of belief.” She shrugs, a bare shoulder glinting like temptation. “It’s all very masculine, don’t you think? Burn the house down because you didn’t build it.”

The minx leans in, chin resting on her knuckles now, entirely too composed for a room this unrefined. “And as for what I’m doing here…” She lets her gaze sweep the bar, slow, ironic. “Call it... slumming. Or perhaps divine tedium. Maybe I like watching men with expensive watches squirm in places that stain.” Her smile flickers wider. "And may I ask what you're doing here?"

[harryvoxx]

"He believed that personal style, or "Stil,", as they called it, should be an expression of one's psychology" That thought alone gave him pause. It was insight into the author's world, how one dresses, as it was to those in the current age. Attire was strategdy. His first suit had been from his father: something to attend some gala he'd cared little for. But it was there that'd he realised the power was beheld in presentation. "Though, molly and me don't get along all that well."

One bad experience had been enough.

“You mistook civility for interest. That’s on you.” it was there that his lips shifted into something akin to a smirk. He was half-joking, though he wondered if his features had shifted enough to give way to that. Harry wasn't the best at social aspects outside of the political word. He'd been made for that, but places like this dive? It wasn't exactly what he'd call 'his scene'. However, educated conversations like this one were enough to keep him engaged, and anyone who had the intelligence to debate philosphers grabbed his attention. The uncomfortable leather seat that he was sat upon groaned as he moved: he fucking hoped that didn't break.

Or he might just use a piece of the splintered wood on the owner.

God, he was in a mood tonight.

"Flirting? I don’t flirt. I negotiate.”

He pause for all of a second. Adjusting the cuff of his shirt like it mattered. It didn't. It was diversion from the topic at hand. There was a burn left there, from someone who'd once been there and was now but a ghost. "Only thing we're seducing tonight--" he grimaced as he looked around "is these radioactive cocktails." But he was right: if his client didn't turn up soon, he might just join him. "Are you always this way? Or is only when you find yourself in shitholes like this?"

Graham lounged like a man who hadn’t felt urgency in years, sprawled across the too-small vinyl seat with the kind of easy arrogance that only came from knowing you were smarter than everyone in the room, and not needing to prove it. The bar was a low-simmering pit of bad lighting and worse decisions, the kind of place where secrets changed hands over sticky tables and nobody remembered names. He was perfectly in his element. Across from him, Harry looked like he’d rather be bleeding out in his bathtub than enduring the next five minutes, and that only made things more entertaining. Graham cocked his head, eyes gleaming with amusement as the man across from him tried, and failed, to disguise his rising irritation. “Okay,” Graham began, his voice honey-smooth and already far too pleased with itself, “let’s walk this back. I’m not saying Nietzsche wasn’t a genius. I’m just saying if he walked in here right now looking like a brooding scarecrow with a mustache, half this place would assume he’s here to pitch his new startup, and the other half would ask if he sells molly.”

He took a sip from a glowing drink that probably violated FDA regulations and rested his elbow on the table. “It’s charming, you quoting Nietzsche. Tragic, but charming.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to border on conspiratorial. “Be honest, Vox. Is this how you flirt? Nihilism over cocktails? No wonder you’re married to your inbox.” Graham flashed a slow grin — infuriatingly relaxed, too sharp to be friendly. “Don’t think I haven’t clocked the way you grit your teeth every time I talk. You’re one customer service phone call away from a full psychological break. And I find that... adorable.” He sat back again, nonchalant. “Now, if your contact doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, I’m going to start dramatically reciting Thus Spoke Zarathustra until someone throws a glass. You included.”

[harryvoxx]

His reasoning was enough to elicit a snort from between Harry's lips. Damn, American education wasn't the finest in the world if that name had slipped through the cracks of getting a high school diploma. But then again, maybe it was the snobbishness he'd always retained from attending a school like Eton. "He's very dead." Harry confirmed, lifting his own drink as he took a sip. Macallan was always his liquor of choice, and he welcomed the burn as he leaned back into his chair, ankle hooking over his knee.

"I'll have to say less agree to disagree on that one." He'd been a long-time fan, and Harry, if anything, loved to read. It was one of the first philosophy books his dad had ever given him, accompanied by the Art of War. "Are you not much of a reader, or just not into philosophy?" It was a question that posed further insight: who are you, what can you offer us. Every interaction was always possibility for The Assembly.

Harry watched Neo, assessed. His client was late, and this was passing the time — but if he could turn a no-show into potential? Why the fuck not?

Blowing off steam, that was why Neo was here. He needed to get Destinee out of his head. She was draining every thought. Not her per se, but her presence back in the city and this so-called son that belonged to him. Something told him to believe her, but part of him was skeptical. He couldn't know for sure, not till he got the kid tested. He knew he needed to handle the situation carefully, that that wasn't something he was good at.

"Not world-renowned enough for me to know his name," Neo said as he lifted his gaze to the other, as he took a sip of his drink. "Kinda yawn worthy if you ask me. If the bitch is dead then who cares what he had to say." Neo too checked his watch, wondering when someone worthy of his attention would walk in, hopefully before he rotted to death or had to go home and pay the sitter.

[harryvoxx]

FOR: @fcrbiddcn WHEN: JULY, 2025.

He was always discreet: it was bred into him.

Harry's father had always taught him that one whisper of something defaming could spread like wildfire if not contained. It was his job to extinguish fires — so he didn't want to start any himself. His reputation outside of the Assembly had remained in stellar condition because he was vigilant. With that came a responsibility to keep up the facade — and that? He couldn't do alone.

Tugging at the lapel of his dark black suit, he tried to remind himself that while the upcoming dinner that he was to attend in aid of a charity would be filled with hundreds of people he'd rather avoid. And in order to do that, he needed someone who could bail him out.

And there was only one woman for the job.

But tonight was different and the party behind the doors had been kept on the down low. It was the same old story, however. A lot of people he needed to escape while also being seen.

Fucking swings and roundabouts.

"I didn't think my evening was going to go this way--" Harry started. "Got the call about an hour ago, thank you for coming so quickly."

[harryvoxx]

"But he challenged traditional Western morality and was able to bring religion to the forefront of his work while still remaining provocative." it was in him to have these kinds of discussions, when he wasn't working, he was attending parties with those involved in both British and American politics. Those connections had always proven useful when recruiting. Those who were less imaginable for what he needed. "Why do you think he's not world renowned? I'm really interested to hear your take..." and in some respects, he was interested. To know where her thoughts were, and how they'd landed her at this ridiculous conclusion.

He wouldn't voice that particular thought, though.

Why the fuck was he in this shithole debating Nietzsche's work? Another glance at his watch confirmed his client was now an hour late and that didn't sit well with him: he was always on time. Was it because she was beautiful, that he'd taken this particular seat? He wasn't blind. But no, it'd been more calculated than that. Someone who looked too refined for a place of this...calibre.

If it had any at all.

"What's a woman like you doing in a place like this?" It wasn't to mock— he was far too polite for that. The britishism's making their way through. Politicians enquired for insight, and it'd been bred into him.

There were rare occasions when Valentine hungered for a shift of pace. An escape from the ravishing glitz and glam, she encompassed herself in a silk cape of defense. Her present dwelling was far from the typical venues she frequented. If anything, the bar resembled something she might find her pal, best friend's twin, Neo, wallowing away in self-pity. The modern-day tavern reeked of poor choices and affordable libations. Oh yeah, this would be the joint for Neo.

Luckily for her, there was an easy on the eyes, even more compelling on the ears, gent' mildly apprehending her engagement. "Not even a little-" The redhead goozed, turning to steal a glance at the other with an unbashful once over, before slowly lifting her glass to her lips, pausing just before the rim met perfectly stained ruby. 'And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.' The socialite may appear as nothing more than a spoiled socialite, which, true, but she'd also been awarded the greatest education money could afford. With a taunting roll of mahogany pools, she finally awards herself a drink.

[harryvoxx]

(OLIVER JACKSON COHEN, MALE, HE/HIM) They say the city never forgets a name and HAROLD ‘HARRY’ VOX is no testament to that. The THIRTY-FIVE-year-old has carved out their place in NYC’s underbelly. On the surface, they’re all EXTRAVAGANCE, smooth moves and sharp eyes. But dig a little deeper and you’ll find something far more dangerous , UNFORGIVING, with no hesitation and even less remorse. They move through the streets like they own them, wearing the colors of the ASSEMBLY and running the game as a HEAD RECRUITER, Some say they’ve always been here. Others swear something’s changed. Either way, they’re not just part of the story. They’re rewriting it.

"Power is a lot like real estate. It's all about location, location, location. The closer you are to the source, the higher your property value." - Frank Underwood. 

BIOGRAPHY

An English upbringing was the perfect example of what pride and love looked like – though, it was often uncommon when it came to the foundations of those who sprang from old money. Contention is often a large factor when looking down at how the Vox family dealt with each other. Politicians were brilliant at double talk, and his mother and father had been the perfect example of how money could delude even the best of people into thinking they wielded power. Harold Vox was the oldest child, of six, and the one who’d spent most of his life being manipulated by his father to become the miniature version of him.

And, in some ways, that’d been true. 

Amongst his siblings, there was George, Esme, Beatrice, Henry and Charles. Though they’d often squabbled, as all young siblings do, they were a team. Being the oldest, a lot of responsibilities put on him by his father, meant of all of them, he’d been the most removed. Though his relationship with Gregory and Beatrice had always remained steadfast, the three oldest of the six, and just over a year between each of them, they’d always remained firm, steadfast, even in their trio.

None of them had known just what Harry really did when he was away from his father, not even his siblings. Some would've called it a double life -- he'd called it freedom.

But that would come at a cost, later on.

At the age of nineteen, their lives were flipped upside down when the plane carrying his mother, father, and three younger siblings vanished. No trace. Not a single sign to determine where they could’ve gone – left Harry in charge of a family, the estate and everything he was truly not prepared to deal with. Hounded by the press, stuck in a home that felt cold.

He was left with no option but to call the only family member he had, Doreen. It’d take no time for her to prepare her home, much larger than their own and for their lives to change as they immigrated to the United States. Life for them all was never truly the same, and each of them dealt with it in their own ways. Beatrice locked herself away in her room, kept to herself a lot, while Charles pushed himself into studying, pushing hard. And Harry – his entire life he’d been prepared for something he no longer was forced too.

That’d been the start of the collapse of his life, though he’d never seen it that way.

It was there that he stumbled upon a friend, Jordan. The two become inseparable, and just like Harry, he’d been brought up with a father who’d pressured him to be something he wasn’t. Jordan, however, had never grown up rich, forced to fight daily for his food while his father drank their money away night after night. It was there that Harry was introduced to his father's profession – a member of the assembly. It didn’t take long for Jeremy, Jordan’s father, to take a shine to Harry, and although they’d remained friends, his son felt the jealousy creeping in. 

It wasn’t fatherly love, however, it was the interest in recruiting a man as highly educated and well spoken as Harry was. And it didn’t take long before he was inducted. A part of a new, untarnished family.

Harry, for all his morals and love for his family, chose a road that was tare him away from them, but give him a path that truly, and utterly his. Years passed by, and his relationship with Beatrice deteriorated. Charles always tried, even into adulthood – but things weren’t as they’d once been.

Harry climbed until he became Head Recruiter.

Sacrifice, loyalty, and willing to die for his people — that was who he was.

[harryvoxx]

FOR: ANYONE. Open to all. WHEN: 21st of June, 2025. WHERE: Bar.

Harry wanted to be anywhere else, fuck, the inside of his boiling hot, too small apartment would've been better than sitting in this hellhole. Though he was aware he had no choice. A title meant little when orders were given from those who outranked him, and like a loyal dog, Harry always followed through when an oath had been promised. Even as his jaw slid to the side, teeth grating, his features neutral.

A poker face, his father had taught it him well.

His fingers probed the bridge of his nose as he leant over the table. "So, tell me — '' his kept his voice even, as to not alert them to the agitation that was brewing beneath white skin. "I'm just trying to understand," he already fucking knew the answer, but framing it a different way might better the outcome. "you don't think Nietzsche is world renowned?" he checked his watch. Where was his client? Falling into small talk was one of his most hated pastimes.

And here he was, British politeness still in bloody tact.

[harryvoxx]

OLIVER JACKSON-COHEN  Surface 1.02: Muscle Memory

[harryvoxx]

Oliver Jackson-Cohen as James Ellis Surface 2.04 "Legacy" (2025)