Cohost writing prompt: @Making-Up-A-Villain — Villain who kidnapped your mother and asked her to do their hair
"Paramount!" Kira yells furiously into the converted oil rig, slamming doors open as she searches. "You motherf—"
"Kira," a voice scolds, and Kira glares at the latest scene before her eyes: Magistrix Paramount, sitting smugly in a specially-installed barber's chair, while Kira's mother shampoos her hair, frowning disapprovingly at Kira's language.
"This is the most ridiculous, malicious, ignorant of basic psychology and personal circumstances, shitty man-child pigtail-pulling bullshit way of getting my attention you could possibly have tried," Kira spits. "My mother? Really?"
"Your mother's quite delightful," Paramount purrs. "And I tried simply talking to you, last time."
"You invaded my personal space and treated me and my cat like objects you could just walk off with to accessorise yourself," Kira says, and jabs an accusing finger at her mother. "Are you humouring this?"
"She seems better than Brenda," her mother says.
Paramount narrows her eyes. "Brenda?" she murmurs. "Do I know any Brenda?"
"We broke up years ago," Kira says impatiently. "In a very adult way, after actually talking about it, because we were in different places in our lives—"
Her mother makes a dismissive noise. "You could do better," she says, lathering Paramount's hair.
"You think she means you," Kira says to Paramount, lip curled. "She actually means any woman at all, as long as they're strictly theoretical. Lovely liberal not homophobic of course, but — types run in the fucking family—"
"Is it wrong to want someone good enough?" her mother says sniffily.
"You're too much of a ludicrous narcissist to notice this," Kira says, to Paramount again, "but the way she says good enough doesn't in any way overlap with the meaning of good enough for me—"
"Stop arguing with your mother," Paramount says. "You're here for me."
"And yet," Kira says, deadly sharp, "such a self-centred similarity."
Paramount grips the arms of the chair, a dangerous glint in her eyes, before being distracted by the distant sound of gunfire. "What—" she begins, and then, "Kira."
Kira grins wolfishly. "Didn't somebody order me to get cozy with a double-oh?" she says. "Tipoffs are so hygge. And if you want a woman to arrange as part of your ego's mise en scène, looks like you're getting on fine with one right now—"
"Kira," Paramount says, tone dangerous, "if you dare walk away from this conversation—"
Shots rattle again, much closer; Kira blows her a mocking kiss.
"Have fun with my mother!" she says, and darts out of the door.