Rocky Road #10, Cashew #15, Pistachio #1
Title: The Business at Hand
Story: Scionverse
Flavours, Toppings, Extras: Rocky Road #10 (bar), Cashew #15 (business as usual), Pistachio #1 (meeting)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1596
Characters: Riviera, Mach, Laca
Summary: His next words are practically ritual, the words and tone - even the inflection - exactly the same as any other time he's greeted them: “Thank you for being prompt.”
Notes: Eh, can't seem to edit out the 'chapter 1' vibes, so I'll see where this leads.
It's smoky in the bar, and the stench of cigarettes mingles with whiskey and beer to form an unpleasant sensory fug as Riviera makes her way through the room, dodging tables, customers, and a couple of harried-looking patrons attempting to usher out the players of a drunken game of 52 Pick-Ups. Most of the cards are two tables away, and Riviera smiles humourlessly as she catches sight of the Ace of Spades.
She hopes that's not why she's here.
Laca is where he always is before these meetings: sprawled out on a leather chaise in the tiny room between the bar and the dancefloor - his favourite of all the easy-to-attack rooms spread throughout the complex - hand tapping out a rhythm on the low-lying oak table as he... well, Riviera has no idea what the cambion is doing. The first time she'd seen him like that, Fischer and Mach - David, not Jeremy - had been guarding him, the latter leaning his lanky frame against the far wall, brown eyes disinterested but watchful as she'd gently shaken their boss' shoulder.
“Drugs?” She'd asked dryly as she moved back. The floor had been carpet then, and the steel toes of her boots had sunk into the plush material as she walked.
He'd just looked at her, but Fischer had shrugged, which Riviera had taken to mean, 'Don't know, don't care.'
Today's just the same as that; he's slack-jawed with an empty, glazed look in his eyes, as unmoving as corpse but for that tapping. Wilson and Vega are guarding him... and today, she sees with distaste as she draws nearer, the other person he's called in is the other Mach.
He glances over in her direction as she skirts an empty table, and checks her in that special way they all seem to have, even her now - assessing if she has any of the unconscious tells that give away the presence of concealed weapons. And as he's giving her this quick look, so she's checking him, though she already knows what he carries: gun at his belt, not quite neatly hidden by his choice of jacket, wires hidden in his sleeves, which are tucked in his pockets - there's a dangerous sign, for him. It means he's toying with either his flick-knife or his strings.
She nods to the other two, functional, then stalks over, her grey eyes narrowed, and takes up a spot on the wall about three feet from him. The plaster is oddly cold against her back. “Mach.” It's as much warning as greeting.
“Seen the papers?” He asks conversationally.
Riviera's stomach does a sick little flip. “Yeah,” she says, remembering the stark block print, 'Carver Sentenced'. “Psycho grande. Glad they're hanging him.”
He repeats her words quietly, with a little smirk, like he's amused by them, and Riviera's suddenly reminded of why she has such a low opinion of the bastard.
Ignoring him, she stands in silence, listening to the late-night ruckus in the bar and deliberately twisting her head, seeing past Mach to the other room, the barest peek of the dancers out on the floor. Safiya's crooning some old song up on the stage, her voice washing out over the crowd but muted by some trick of sound-proofing or architecture in Laca's vulnerable little room, and Riviera grimaces as she recognises it, from back in the mid-'90's when it was a hit.
Yes, because we all need fifty year old nostalgia....
She sneaks a glance over at her boss, still apparently tranced out, then over at the table. A manila folder lies on the table, but he doesn't have his usual bowl of 'snacks' out, and for that she's glad. There's only so much cannibalism a girl can take.
Then suddenly, his eyes blink and he's sitting upright, straightening his tie and looking from her to Mach with an otherwise pleasant look mask-like on his face, as if nothing happened.
“Good evening, sir.” She says politely, because that's what it is outside. The small windows high on the opposite wall show proof of that, the darkness of post-teatime autumn visible from where she stands.
And once upon a time, my mornings used to be mornings. No messengers pounding on my door getting me in for early work.
Laca glances back at her, then stands, vainly patting down his pinstriped, charcoal grey suit. His next words are practically ritual, the words and tone - even the inflection - exactly the same as any other time he's greeted them: “Thank you for being prompt.”
Riviera and Mach merely wait for the rest of the speech.
Their boss frowns at the spot his snack bowl would have occupied for an instant, then the expression vanishes as if it'd never been. Riviera glances to one side uncomfortably. At least he's never taken chunks out of his own people.
“What's the job?” Mach. She looks over at him; the man's usually silent through briefings, preferring to let Laca talk, but right now he looks impatient, shifting from foot to foot, face set in lines she can't quite decipher.
Let me guess, the poor darling hasn't killed anything for ten whole minutes, what a tragedy, part of her mind sniped. She shoved it to one side. It really had too much to say for itself.
Laca reaches down for the manila folder flips it open to what looks to be a handwritten report of some kind, and hands it to her. Their fingertips brush as she takes it, and she barely manages to restrain the wincing revulsion that would have fleeted across her face. He's not human, nowhere near it. She remembers Jacoby, sitting cross-legged with chopsticks in her hand, saying that in better days, before the Ravening, her father was much more human, but after...
We could never be the same again.
Snapping her wandering mind back, Riviera studies the photograph and rakes her gaze over the records as Laca speaks, committing the relevant details and sight of short ragged dark hair, violet eyes, scar slashed across left cheek to memory, then hands it back to Mach to study. He studies it more thoroughly than she had, though with less actual interest.
“The woman is a rogue satellite,” Laca was saying in his gravestrone-smooth voice, “The Archers have been searching for Klein for some time. I'd like her returned to me.” He smiles, ever so slightly. Out on the dancefloor to the left, Safiya begins another song, voice lower than her usually brassy pitch. “Klein is confrontational, but not dangerous. You'll find trouble with the ones protecting her... whereabouts.”
The address on the record had said, 'Whitely'.
“You want an example made of them,” Riviera says quietly.
Laca - when had he sat down? - nods. “That's why I'm sending the both of you. Finding Josephine Klein may take some time, but I'm confident you can handle it.”
He glances down at the table again, then says something to Wilson, who nods and walks away.
Something oily slicks through Riviera's stomach, and she places a hand over the red material over her stomach, exhaling slowly. It - the job - is nothing unusual and yet - no, she'd been a little twitchy ever since that incident with the Hovells. It was nothing.
So why is something prickling at the back of her mind? Something about violet... Jacoby would know. If only she hadn't left for New Adelaide two days ago...
“The file?” Mach asks, holding up the object in question.
I'm here because of my deal, but what the hell's he here for, anyway?
“Keep it.” Laca says, unusually. “You'll need the details.”
Riviera can't stop herself from exchanging a glance with Mach, grey eyes meeting hazel. One of those jobs, then.
The formalities for leaving Laca's presence are the same phrases as always. Stepping back out into the bar is an almost physical relief, a new atmosphere rushing against her skin, smelling of cigarette smoke and old alcohol, and the sounds of people.
Knowing the drill for working with Mach, his little drinking ritual, Riviera heads straight to the bar. Besides, they can't afford to do things the usual way, considering all those details Laca had left unsaid...
They slide onto their stools almost in unison. The closest person to Riviera is three seats down engaged in a tipsy, rowdy conversation of the kind that eventually spills over into everyone else's soundwaves, and Mach has the last seat at that end.
“A game of find the fucking goose,” he mutters, signalling the bartender. “I don't like it. You drinking?”
Yeah, well join the club, Mach. I don't like playing chasey, either.
“We don't have to like it, we just have to find her,” Riviera says bluntly. “Are you paying?”
He mutters something she chooses to assume is a very indirect, 'yes', and orders a white coffee, decaf, to replace the one sitting abandoned on her scarred coffee-table at home. The bartender doesn't take long fetching up their orders, and for a moment, they sit there at the bar, taking the first drinks.
Riviera nearly chokes on her first sip - This isn't decaf! - but decides it's not worth worrying about, until she notices Mach smirking in amusement. She glares, and he's smart enough to down more of the crimson liquid in his glass, rather than laughing.
“Right,” she says, before he can say anything. “Back to the business at hand...”
Story: Scionverse
Flavours, Toppings, Extras: Rocky Road #10 (bar), Cashew #15 (business as usual), Pistachio #1 (meeting)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1596
Characters: Riviera, Mach, Laca
Summary: His next words are practically ritual, the words and tone - even the inflection - exactly the same as any other time he's greeted them: “Thank you for being prompt.”
Notes: Eh, can't seem to edit out the 'chapter 1' vibes, so I'll see where this leads.
It's smoky in the bar, and the stench of cigarettes mingles with whiskey and beer to form an unpleasant sensory fug as Riviera makes her way through the room, dodging tables, customers, and a couple of harried-looking patrons attempting to usher out the players of a drunken game of 52 Pick-Ups. Most of the cards are two tables away, and Riviera smiles humourlessly as she catches sight of the Ace of Spades.
She hopes that's not why she's here.
Laca is where he always is before these meetings: sprawled out on a leather chaise in the tiny room between the bar and the dancefloor - his favourite of all the easy-to-attack rooms spread throughout the complex - hand tapping out a rhythm on the low-lying oak table as he... well, Riviera has no idea what the cambion is doing. The first time she'd seen him like that, Fischer and Mach - David, not Jeremy - had been guarding him, the latter leaning his lanky frame against the far wall, brown eyes disinterested but watchful as she'd gently shaken their boss' shoulder.
“Drugs?” She'd asked dryly as she moved back. The floor had been carpet then, and the steel toes of her boots had sunk into the plush material as she walked.
He'd just looked at her, but Fischer had shrugged, which Riviera had taken to mean, 'Don't know, don't care.'
Today's just the same as that; he's slack-jawed with an empty, glazed look in his eyes, as unmoving as corpse but for that tapping. Wilson and Vega are guarding him... and today, she sees with distaste as she draws nearer, the other person he's called in is the other Mach.
He glances over in her direction as she skirts an empty table, and checks her in that special way they all seem to have, even her now - assessing if she has any of the unconscious tells that give away the presence of concealed weapons. And as he's giving her this quick look, so she's checking him, though she already knows what he carries: gun at his belt, not quite neatly hidden by his choice of jacket, wires hidden in his sleeves, which are tucked in his pockets - there's a dangerous sign, for him. It means he's toying with either his flick-knife or his strings.
She nods to the other two, functional, then stalks over, her grey eyes narrowed, and takes up a spot on the wall about three feet from him. The plaster is oddly cold against her back. “Mach.” It's as much warning as greeting.
“Seen the papers?” He asks conversationally.
Riviera's stomach does a sick little flip. “Yeah,” she says, remembering the stark block print, 'Carver Sentenced'. “Psycho grande. Glad they're hanging him.”
He repeats her words quietly, with a little smirk, like he's amused by them, and Riviera's suddenly reminded of why she has such a low opinion of the bastard.
Ignoring him, she stands in silence, listening to the late-night ruckus in the bar and deliberately twisting her head, seeing past Mach to the other room, the barest peek of the dancers out on the floor. Safiya's crooning some old song up on the stage, her voice washing out over the crowd but muted by some trick of sound-proofing or architecture in Laca's vulnerable little room, and Riviera grimaces as she recognises it, from back in the mid-'90's when it was a hit.
Yes, because we all need fifty year old nostalgia....
She sneaks a glance over at her boss, still apparently tranced out, then over at the table. A manila folder lies on the table, but he doesn't have his usual bowl of 'snacks' out, and for that she's glad. There's only so much cannibalism a girl can take.
Then suddenly, his eyes blink and he's sitting upright, straightening his tie and looking from her to Mach with an otherwise pleasant look mask-like on his face, as if nothing happened.
“Good evening, sir.” She says politely, because that's what it is outside. The small windows high on the opposite wall show proof of that, the darkness of post-teatime autumn visible from where she stands.
And once upon a time, my mornings used to be mornings. No messengers pounding on my door getting me in for early work.
Laca glances back at her, then stands, vainly patting down his pinstriped, charcoal grey suit. His next words are practically ritual, the words and tone - even the inflection - exactly the same as any other time he's greeted them: “Thank you for being prompt.”
Riviera and Mach merely wait for the rest of the speech.
Their boss frowns at the spot his snack bowl would have occupied for an instant, then the expression vanishes as if it'd never been. Riviera glances to one side uncomfortably. At least he's never taken chunks out of his own people.
“What's the job?” Mach. She looks over at him; the man's usually silent through briefings, preferring to let Laca talk, but right now he looks impatient, shifting from foot to foot, face set in lines she can't quite decipher.
Let me guess, the poor darling hasn't killed anything for ten whole minutes, what a tragedy, part of her mind sniped. She shoved it to one side. It really had too much to say for itself.
Laca reaches down for the manila folder flips it open to what looks to be a handwritten report of some kind, and hands it to her. Their fingertips brush as she takes it, and she barely manages to restrain the wincing revulsion that would have fleeted across her face. He's not human, nowhere near it. She remembers Jacoby, sitting cross-legged with chopsticks in her hand, saying that in better days, before the Ravening, her father was much more human, but after...
We could never be the same again.
Snapping her wandering mind back, Riviera studies the photograph and rakes her gaze over the records as Laca speaks, committing the relevant details and sight of short ragged dark hair, violet eyes, scar slashed across left cheek to memory, then hands it back to Mach to study. He studies it more thoroughly than she had, though with less actual interest.
“The woman is a rogue satellite,” Laca was saying in his gravestrone-smooth voice, “The Archers have been searching for Klein for some time. I'd like her returned to me.” He smiles, ever so slightly. Out on the dancefloor to the left, Safiya begins another song, voice lower than her usually brassy pitch. “Klein is confrontational, but not dangerous. You'll find trouble with the ones protecting her... whereabouts.”
The address on the record had said, 'Whitely'.
“You want an example made of them,” Riviera says quietly.
Laca - when had he sat down? - nods. “That's why I'm sending the both of you. Finding Josephine Klein may take some time, but I'm confident you can handle it.”
He glances down at the table again, then says something to Wilson, who nods and walks away.
Something oily slicks through Riviera's stomach, and she places a hand over the red material over her stomach, exhaling slowly. It - the job - is nothing unusual and yet - no, she'd been a little twitchy ever since that incident with the Hovells. It was nothing.
So why is something prickling at the back of her mind? Something about violet... Jacoby would know. If only she hadn't left for New Adelaide two days ago...
“The file?” Mach asks, holding up the object in question.
I'm here because of my deal, but what the hell's he here for, anyway?
“Keep it.” Laca says, unusually. “You'll need the details.”
Riviera can't stop herself from exchanging a glance with Mach, grey eyes meeting hazel. One of those jobs, then.
The formalities for leaving Laca's presence are the same phrases as always. Stepping back out into the bar is an almost physical relief, a new atmosphere rushing against her skin, smelling of cigarette smoke and old alcohol, and the sounds of people.
Knowing the drill for working with Mach, his little drinking ritual, Riviera heads straight to the bar. Besides, they can't afford to do things the usual way, considering all those details Laca had left unsaid...
They slide onto their stools almost in unison. The closest person to Riviera is three seats down engaged in a tipsy, rowdy conversation of the kind that eventually spills over into everyone else's soundwaves, and Mach has the last seat at that end.
“A game of find the fucking goose,” he mutters, signalling the bartender. “I don't like it. You drinking?”
Yeah, well join the club, Mach. I don't like playing chasey, either.
“We don't have to like it, we just have to find her,” Riviera says bluntly. “Are you paying?”
He mutters something she chooses to assume is a very indirect, 'yes', and orders a white coffee, decaf, to replace the one sitting abandoned on her scarred coffee-table at home. The bartender doesn't take long fetching up their orders, and for a moment, they sit there at the bar, taking the first drinks.
Riviera nearly chokes on her first sip - This isn't decaf! - but decides it's not worth worrying about, until she notices Mach smirking in amusement. She glares, and he's smart enough to down more of the crimson liquid in his glass, rather than laughing.
“Right,” she says, before he can say anything. “Back to the business at hand...”