Today, I made an appearance downtown. I'm an expert witness, because I say I am.
On Monday morning, a limo pulls up in front of the Conrad and Adam Monroe, plus a few ranking Organization personnel and all their individual security details, arrive at the Conrad Hotel for a meeting. They head straight to the meeting room without lingering too long outside or in the lobby, and while Adam is choking down a deep-rooted urge to kill
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Claire doesn't much notice the janitor as she passes him in the hall just outside Topher's office, and she heads straight for his computers. And once she's gotten through his security - which he apparently hasn't thought to upgrade since she got into it the last time - she sets about making a few... modifications.
Any number of key combinations will now start playing the most obnoxious songs Claire can think of. At full volume. With no way to make it stop that doesn't involve restarting the entire computer. Have fun rooting out all of those tripwires, Topher.
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So yay for people doing his work for him.
He's still very intently mopping the floor when Claire comes out. "The Meow Mix jingle," he says, completely randomly.
On a normal occasion, he'd just go about his business, but if Chicago won't let him manipulate events the way he damn well wants to, he'll just be unsettling at people. That works!
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"What?" she asks simply. She's not turning on the wide-eyed false innocence like she might for Topher, but really, she is blameless. Entirely.
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"It's the most annoying song in the world," he shrugs. Duh, Claire. "It'll haunt his dreams."
This is totally a normal conversation. What are you talking about?
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It's working pretty well.
He only manages to demolish a good number of lemons in the process.
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NOT LIKE THAT. Jesus.
You may not have noticed the familiar guy entering the bar, because it's pretty crowded and, hey, people have the same face all the time, and, you know, those lemons won't chop themselves. Whatever.
It is really hard not to notice though when they sidle onto the barstools nearest you and say, completely cheerfully, "Sam. Did Dean send my regards?"
Ten to one, Sam doesn't know who he is either and the Winchesters just spent the whole of the last few days bashing their heads together. The Trickster can deal with this.
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"You," he grits out through clenched teeth. His jaw looks tense enough to snap, but he doesn't make any sudden movements.
Yet.
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"Me," he says, leaning forwards a bit. "So you do remember, hm? What? Did Dean hit his head on the way in? I always said that kid's been dropped on his skull one too many times."
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Your cover as a footman is kind of hard to keep up when sixteen identical cats (ah ah ah) come pouring out of the nearest alley to try and climb you.
Angel, Trickster God, jack-of-all-trades, and cat tree. The Cys are glad to see you.
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"Well, considering the ramifications for Chicago, I have to say this is my favorite." Because Chicago totally needs exponential Cys.
It's like doing Chicago a favor. Kittens make the sad go away. Or drive the entirety of Chicago over the edge of a cliff. The city's kinda doomed, in general, so whatever.
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"Didn't tell."
"He thought you were the drummer boy." One of the ones who has decided his foot is a better perch sighs in a longsuffering way.
"All about the circling, all about the centerpoint, that one." Another Cy, this one trying to climb into his pocket, speaks in a mournful tone.
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He almost snorts and looks down at the foot!Cy. "That putz?" Because he totally knows who she's talking about, on all fronts. He is the Trickster and he knows all. "I have way more style.. And a lot less crazy."
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It wasn't as hard as she thought it would be to track him down. Took a bit longer than she thought it would, granted, because of people either attacking her or falling at her feet. Awkward, that.
She lifts her chin, determined not to give him the satisfaction of her nerves. "Finished with your tantrum yet?"
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...Oh whatever.
At the sound of a certain prissy Knight of the Cross's voice makes him abandon the noble art of garbage collection and turn to her with a lineface that's more comical than threatening. If he wanted to be threatening, he'd be threatening. "I dunno. Have you learned anything useful from your experience?" He says, utterly sardonic.
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He shrugs. "I get around."
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"In 10 Downing Street," he says instead, announcing it as though it's a matter of high interest, "in the cabinet room, they've thought to provide a bottle of port. I wouldn't go so far as to call it excellent, but it's certainly serviceable. Here..."
He finally turns, holding up one of the carafes and one of the coffee pots.
"Coffee and cream, anyone?"
The overwrought smile that accompanied that remark vanishes after another moment, and he puts the drinks back down.
"Sit down, everyone," he orders, walking to put his hands on the back of his own chair. "I'd offer you all juice and pastries, but as you're about ten days late for our little rendezvous I think you should be glad we didn't start without you."
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"As I said, you picked a complicated time to arrive. I do apologize for the wait," he says, resisting the urge to add a snipe about why the hell anyone would choose Christmas as a good time for diplomatic negotiations.
He waves off the offer. "Nothing for me, thank you. Leona?" He turns to the woman at his side, gritting his teeth in what looks like a charming smile, but his eyes say differently. If this goes sour, you have my permission to kill every last one of them.Death happens in Chicago. He doesn't particularly want to go to war with the Trust, but he doesn't want them here either. In the end, someone always does have to make that hard choice for the ( ... )
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She accompanies this with perhaps a bit too sweet and dazzling a smile, quietly challenging their new guest to play the teamaid. She pulls out her own chair, though, sinking gracefully into it. She has absolutely no problem with that little directive Adam just gave her.
Granted, a meeting room in the Conrad Hotel is not the best place for a demoness to kill a bunch of people, but they're the Organization. They can afford to clean that up, if it becomes absolutely necessary.
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He takes a seat. "Since you've already been waiting for so long, I'm sure you won't mind if we skip the pleasant chitchat and skip right to the point."
There's nothing unpleasant about his tone. It's perfectly polite. In a way that suggests that he wants these people out of his city as quickly as possible.
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