The third instalment of my satire about my lounge buddies and I being super sexy thriller spies. This time I smoothed out the tenses before posting.
The Regulars: Chapter Three: Night and day
The light of the projected display is somehow drawn into the self fulfilling light of Seven and her features. Her skin gives off the smoothness in motion of heated wax but her eyes are as always of utter refined steel. Her voice seems to favor her eyes. "Andre Petorvich, C.I.A insert into Russian military. Eight years ago his reports simply dropped from existence. It was surmised that he had gone native and was serving his more direct function. By this time he had achieved the needed rank and connections that direct removal was not possible. This in addition to inactivity of any and all intelligence contacts lead to the decision to let him stay and rot. And rotting is apparently what he did."
The display now turns to fairly standard documents, there mainly for decoration as they have not been translated from Russian, however a mug shot is a mug shot in any language. "A common enough, if extensive list of base level corruptions. Whether they're true or fabricated is unclear however there is a notable lack of any activities on the level of which someone with his training would have allowed. If legitimate this furthers the theory that he had for whatever reason fully absorbed into his new life. Upon discovery of these sins he was moved with particular efficiency through the military court system and scheduled for execution."
The mood in the room starts turning from professionally bored to outright insulted. While outwards professional no one among these agents is particularly fond of being schooled on something they were there for by someone who wasn't. Seven knows this well enough but still has a job to do. "Said execution was personally witnessed by field leader Stafffighter and munitions specialist Proteas. Secondary unit of tactical officer Reviewer General and transport operative Wizard." The flashes of résumés draw a contained chuckle. Among the greater truths is that identification photographs are not designed to be flattering and the fact that the subjects are in the room does spark of humor. Feeling the ice sufficiently melted Seven goes on. "Later examination of the body confirmed initial observation that the man who was hanged was not Andre Petorvich. Along with signs of extensive cosmetic surgery cancerous masses were found on the man's lungs. It is assumed that he traded whatever life he had left for a substantial sum of money. This is still being tracked."
The pictures proceed to take a gruesome tone as the aftermath of their attack is displayed. "Fourteen individuals from two vehicles. The vehicles, that is what remains of them, are not of make used by the Russian government leading us to believe they were privately financed. But what was spent on material seems to have been taken from the personnel budget. The men themselves were local muscle thrown beyond their depth."
From his slouched sitting position Staff nods in agreement. That had been the most obvious thing about their attackers. They weren't gunmen, they were men with guns. A lot of people tend to think that anyone with a rifle in their hands becomes a marine. But true shooters don't spray and see what sticks. There's an artistry to guns like any other trade. He believes himself to be as true a devote to this art as any man alive. It seems that Seven is still talking.
"As it stands identifications are still being made but until we know more we're going to have to draw inward, leave no threads to trace. We go anywhere, we call ahead. We do anything, it's written down. Anything you purchase, business or personal, it's on the company accounts. If you have to see a doctor, see the medic. We're playing this very close to home, people." The room is divided on her repeated use of the word "we." To some it means she's here now and to others it means she plans to stay awhile. This isn't the issue D.K has in mind when he raises his hand. This is due mainly to keen survival instincts.
"Yeah, question, what's the huge deal here? Guys trying to kill us is in the job description. I get shot at so fucking much my gravestone will say 'finally." This causes an eruption of laughter in the room.
Willing her accent back. "The deal is that before they did it because you were in their way. This time you are their way."
"Let them come." His hands slap loudly on the arms of his chair.
Seven approaches him and speaks face to face absolutely refusing to give the blow up he wants. "They are coming. And when they do come we're going to be so ready for them that we can nip this whole thing in the bud and then get back to solving problems for other people. Is this understood?."
"Not entirely."
"Tough." She turns her attention back to the room as a whole. "Duty rosters are as of yet unaffected. Go back to what you're doing. Staff, you're with me.
From the back of the room a boldly accented voice calls out "Ohhhh, teacher wants to see you after class." A glare from Seven shuts Lowe down immediately. The team disperses without another word, saving their words for when they're out of her strike zone.
When the room is cleared save for him and the guest Staff rises nonchalantly and points out "That could have gone better."
Seven is already packed up and moving on. "Walk and talk cowboy." He quick steps to her side and opens the door for her the way a gentleman should do for a lady. This causes her to roll her eyes before stepping through it anyway. "You're a bad influence on these kids."
Looking straight ahead "I gave up trying to be a role model a long time ago."
"You see, this is exactly your problem. If you just behaved a little bit you'd be running this place by now."
Still not looking "If I behaved you'd be running me."
"God, why do you have to take every little direction as an attempt at Draconian control?"
"It's the American way." A moment of peace sets between them. All around the lounge people have resumed their business at the snap of a finger. At the end of the day they can not and will not be shaken. That's what makes them what they are.
Breaking the silence Seven asks for something that finally bears attention. "Can I count on cooperation?"
Staff stops and leans against the concrete wall, staring her directly in the eye. To her credit she stops to listen. "These people are the best there are at what they do. There's not a one of them I wouldn't trust on my back when the shit hits the fan. This is how it was before you got here and that's how it'll be long after you're gone again."
Seven takes this to add up to a yes. "Good" She starts walking again. "I'll need a desk while I'm here."
Calling out to her in the distance "I'm using mine."
"Never said you weren't."
The rest of the day goes about in roughly the same vein with Seven marking her territory in all but the most undignified of ways. It's not at all difficult as she's far from a stranger to most of them. She thanks Fluff for a recipe she'd given, fawns over pictures of R.G's children and inquires to Keither as to if he's finally worked up the courage to talk to Monique from the motor pool. He hasn't. It's not that Seven's a bad person. It's just that she represents a level of order that Staff just cannot reconcile himself with. It's a very, very long day.
"It's going to be a very, very long night." That is the only thought on the mind of the poor henchmen watching the sun set through the window of the limousine. It's not auspicious as limousines go. It's as close to a workhorse as such a name would touch and that befits the current passengers. Imp, momentarily Emp, previously meant as E.M.P is in this car to deliver a whore.
"You look sad." she said with an actresses smile when they met at her particular home of ill intent. "I could solve that if they pay you enough." They don't. Since he told her of this with a shame he was so reserved to it was almost a comfort she had been silent. The perfume she wears is dignified in it's subtlety. Her dress is both tasteful and clearly expensive. Nothing but the best for the bosses new business partner. Still this is not strictly the role he had be assigned to.
It was necessary to assign an underling with medical training to watch over someone this fond of chemicals and dangerous behavior. This task itself had a dubious medicinal purpose to it as the man claimed that he had a "genetic inability to sleep alone." It's barely sundown but when one hasn't slept for several days such definitions are achidemic at best. On top of that it was he who'd given Imp his current title. When he'd heard the particular abbreviation he was once known by his love for the art of sobriquet took hold. Imp does not fight the name. He does not fight his job or his masters. Fight left him a long time ago.
When they arrive at the hotel the valet does his duty by opening the ladies door. Imp exits the vehicle under his own power. The doorman greets them and as the whore walks out ahead he gives Imp a knowing nod. Working somewhere this nice he has seen a lifetimes worth of rich peoples vices. Imp is warmed for a moment by this unity of the working man. This fades during the course through the lobby, up the lift and down the later hallway. At the end they are met by two guards whose apparel are very much like his own. They check the girl for weapons, extensively, before allowing her entrance. As the door opens her client is laying in the bed embodying at once everything men envy and disdain about rock stars. He holds up his goblet of red wine and beckons. "Come, pretty one, and taste the Venom." She steps in with that same smile and the door is closed behind her. Imp is granted the small mercy that he does not have to watch. The inside guard does.
It's about that same time when Staff pulls his motorcycle up to the building he calls home. After exchanging a few greetings with kindly neighbors he unlocks his apartment door and is finally at rest. "I'm home guys." The "guys" don't even bother to look in his direction from their aquarium. After closing and relocking the door he kneels beside them to see how they've faired. The plant he'd given them before leaving for Russia floats on the top of the water. He makes himself busy cleaning it out, proving far more meticulous about their enviroment than his own. "I know. I know. You see more of your vacation feeders than you do of me but that's no reason to be anti-social." Upon taking the plant he holds it to the side of the glass and shakes it as if scolding children. "I work to pay for these."
As the fish gobble up their first fresh flakes in a week Staff goes about feeding himself. A plethora of canned and boxed options greet him from his cupboards. "Food, food, food food, food. You know, it's embarrassing. I call myself a Frenchman and I can't even cook." He has, however, mastered enough of his ancestral homelands language to make a phone call and order pizza. "Hooray globalization."
A bit later Keither calls it a day and on his way out says goodnight to Monique, who says it back much more responsively than he realizes.
A bit later than that R.G has just fulfilled a promise to his wife. Now he can only gaze at her. She's so lovely. Young James starts crying. Electing himself to see to it he throws on a robe and goes to their sons room. "You should be asleep little man." He picks up the toddler with the gentle touch only parents truly master. He fusses just a little before succumbing to the gentle rocking "I love you so much Jamie. I love all of you. I swear to you I'll keep you out of my world." Jamie coos.
At much that same time Fluff enjoys a nice dinner with a new acquaintance. It's a young relationship but could lead to something.
Much later than that Proteas looks up from his workbench to see that it's nighttime. He shrugs and gets back to work.
Later still Seven finishes the workday and returns to her hotel room. The one advantage of company travel was that they set you up in class. The second the door is closed she kicks off her shoes. Clothes join them in a steady path to the wet bar. By the time she gets there she's clad solely in her garter holster.
She makes her way to the wet bar and mixes herself a simple rum based drink. A few sips of this are taken before she recalls what else is wrong. Setting her drink side she zips open her bag and goes searching. Her quarry is soon found and within seconds her body is being hugged by her boyfriends stolen "physicists do it theoretically" t-shirt. Second best but still. She's been to so many of these places they all tend to blur together but now she has his shirt to sleep in so it feels like home. The moment is one of utter peace. That is until her cell phone rings. Picking it up from the bedside table she checks the caller. It's Fluff.
"Hello?"
"Hey there"
"Something wrong?"
"I guess you could say that. My apartment just blew up."