albinomilksnake | Open RP: Smutty nonsense

It was by far the most bizarre job she'd ever been sent out on. Not the request itself, or the Babylonian jewelry that she'd plucked from the hands of a wealthy old collector in Venice, but rather the contacts themselves: all suits and silk ties, tinted shades in the dead of night. It's enough to give her the creeps.

And she's slept in cursed ruins.

But the payoff's good. Better than, actually, given that there's a follow up offer attached to the briefcase Chloe's quick to wrap her fingers around. She'd been planning a trip to the states for nearly seven months, baited by a few solid gigs in the Midwest. The sort of thing that's more of an excuse for her need to stay on the move than a matter of money. It's not about the money. It's not, so how she finds herself accepting the nameless lackey's invitation (against better judgment and common sense) isn't something Chloe can manage to pinpoint even hours after the fact as the heels of her boots click out a rushed, uneven tempo across unfamiliar polished stone floors.

Talbot hasn't been long in the business, but long enough to appreciate the rarity of good work. Bare competence is all they can afford to screen for in the recruiting process. Talent is special. Talent gets noticed.

Which is why, upon safe delivery of her charge, Chloe Frazer has earned herself just that: notice, from the highest seat in the Order.

He awaits her at the end of one of the outlying corridors eventually leading into the heart of the underground, an eye on his watch until her footsteps echo down the passage.

All right, at least this one's not hiding his eyes. That's a plus.

Chloe shoves her thumbs through the belt loops of her trousers when she's close enough to stop and still leave more than a fair amount of breathing room between them. She's young. Rough and raw out of necessity; cockiness and pressure win battles before they start more often than not. In her line of work that's a damn good thing.

"You the one I have to thank for the quickest, creepiest payoff I've ever had?"

She may be a bit rough around the edges...unrefined. But that hardly makes her any less pleasant to look at. It's a disarming asset he recognizes the instant he sets eyes on her, and it's one he can use.

"Considering you're here," he says, eyeing the briefcase at her side, "I take it the 'quick' outweighed the 'creepy'."

"Mostly." Chloe huffs out as she follows the line of his gaze, tapping an index finger against the smooth leather handle. Like most things around here, it's bloody expensive.

And eerily pristine.

"Look, if you need another run I'll sign up for it, but I've got plans to head over to the US in a few months, so don't expect me to be at your beck and call, yeah?"

"Then I suppose we'll have to keep making you offers you can't refuse." Said with smugness he makes no effort to hide, by the way. Talbot knows her kind. He knows even the most earnestly laid plans and promises mean less to her than the number of zeroes he can put in her bank account.

"Sounds like a good place to start."

And it does, though she's certain eventually wanderlust will outweigh the heaviness of money in her palms. "So what's the plan, mate? Where am I off to this time?"

Negotiations being what they are usually, Chloe figures they'll want her up and out on the road before the day is out. Shame, given that despite the fact that despite all the unnecessary black ops posturing, the fellow manages to cut a fairly striking figure.

Now, clearly he knows he can hold her attention with a carrot on a stick. But this organization doesn't deal with hired swords beyond street-level grunt work, and Marlowe sees something in this girl. Talbot's job is to make certain she is instructed precisely where her loyalties should lie.

Though he's already weighed and measured her appearance, he makes a show of looking Miss Frazer up and down.

"I don't expect you came prepared with anything more formal."

"Not really, no." Is the response he earns, Chloe cocking a quizzical brow at the idea. It's not as if she's never been to a fancy soirée or snuck in some convention center's back door, but usually the job is 'rob the partygoers before they catch on'; pretending to be one of them isn't exactly part of that plan.

"I had no idea this was going to turn into a date."

He has a feeling this woman's dates aren't very particular about what she is or isn't wearing.

"I think we can accommodate you," he says, neatly sidestepping the quip and swinging his head to gesture at the door behind him. "This way, if you would."

There's a good half a second of hesitation there when he does; the lot of them are unreadable, hard to say whether or not he's keeping a knife in his pocket to dig in between her shoulder blades the moment she passes. Her grip on the case tightens, a swift strike to the side of the head with it ought to fend off any attack.

Chloe shrugs, forces out a grin. "Suppose there's my answer, then."

She's not really sure what to expect behind the door when she draws in close and sets her palm against it to give a good shove, but hey, for this kind of money she'll keep most of her observations to herself.

Beyond the door she'll find a long corridor, sparsely lighted and scattered with a half dozen additional doors before its first bend, all solid and aged with water wear as the first.

"Last door on the right. You'll find everything you need there." Talbot speaks from her shoulder, though he has given her a respectable bubble of personal space. "Once you've finished, leave the door open. Someone will be on hand to escort you."

She doesn't trust him.

Then again, she doesn't trust anyone.

It takes her a good fifteen minutes in that dim little room to find something that suits (they're all designer, all in that same color set, all more expensive than she cares to really consider because it'll only lead to her wanting to know more about these people than she ought to.) a red, fitted dress with one generous slit right up the skirt and the sort of neckline that could only have come right out of Bond film. One careful assessment, another three minutes of thoughtfulness and Chloe decides that dabbing on a little of the makeup left out near the only mirror on a worn, weathered dresser might be a good idea if outfits this pricey are involved.

And the diamond necklace that she spots no more than a minute later is less sense than greed.

Done, and feeling more out of place than anything else, she nudges the door open with a stilettoed heel; waits patiently with her briefcase still in hand.

Talbot is not there to meet her himself, but as promised, she's approached shortly by another escort in identical black and red, who leads her in silence through the dauntingly complex twists and turns of the underground until they reach the dining hall.

The other man holds the door open just long enough to usher his charge through before disappearing back the way they'd come without a word.

This room is dominated by a grand table at its center, equally water-warped as the doors and possibly even more ancient. It's set for three, two places of which are already occupied--one by Talbot, who rises at Chloe's entrance despite his attention being rapt with the other woman seated at the far end of the table.

Weird. Weird like those creepy late night films that come on and leave you wondering why they were shot or who exactly for. No one does this sort of thing-- or if they do it's with the usual enthusiasm and extravagance, not cold, formal silence.

Jesus, she half expects them to start hissing at garlic and crosses.

But some people are just odd, and there's only the barest hesitation as she makes her way over to take a seat (one pulled out for her. One she could've gotten herself, but fine.) and shift uncomfortably against plush, crushed velvet. The woman's older, not terribly, and not unattractive-- in fact she's polished enough to look lovely despite being beyond the tail end of her thrities-- it's just that Chloe's never been all that good with proper etiquette, and given the fuss thus far coupled with the way Talbot's deferring to her, Chloe figures she's the one behind everything.

And she's not wrong. Marlowe, she's introduced as, takes her time reviewing the details of everything that's happened over dinner. Details she's clearly already heard from her number two man, but listens intently to regardless. Chloe's not sure if it's fact checking or genuine interest, but once pristine, near-sizzling fresh veal cutlets are served, she finds she doesn't really care: five star dining isn't exactly in Chloe's usual budget.

"--You're joking, right?" Chloe asks, passing off an empty plate like she's in a buffet. It's been a solid half hour of recapping topped off with a proposition she wasn't particularly prepared for. Then again, she wasn't prepared for any of this. "I'm a driver; I don't exactly do salary jobs."

If he took personal responsibility for Frazer's being here beyond an honest appreciation of raw talent, Talbot might have felt some embarrassment at the lack of polish she shows at the table. Instead he's smug, his hands laced together at his chin once the meal is cleared. He would never think to question Marlowe's recruiting practices--it's the same eye that brought him into the fold, after all--but underneath his professional exterior, he is always conscious of threats against his standing as the favorite child.

"You're an intelligent woman," he answers coolly. "We think you can appreciate what this sort of job security offers."

Job security. Like she's ever needed a thing like that in a world this bloody big.

But...

The question of 'how much' is met with numbers she'd list under the category of Bullshit if not for the briefcase she's been careful not to let go of since the moment they'd dropped it off in her hands.

Chloe pauses, drums a few fingertips against the tabletop.

"All right. But nothing weird, yeah? I do the same job I've always done." Which, thankfully, gets the go-ahead from Marlowe, even if the woman seems less than pleased about being given an ultimatum.

While he continues to study them both through the course of these negotiations, he ultimately defers to Marlowe and keeps any further remarks to himself until the deal is struck. By reflex, he stands as she takes her leave from the table.

Then, once she is well out of sight, he turns his attention back to Miss Frazer.

"You will be given a room. I'll arrange to have your belongings moved."

"Uh..." There's not much, anyway. A few suitcases full at best, less than possibly, if she includes the clothing she had on when she'd arrived. "Seriously I can just make a quick run for it. Hardly enough to send a crew over for."

But she scoots herself back out of the chair, resets her center of balance in heels too high for comfort's sake, and glances about at the exits before adding: "Don't suppose you lot mind covering the cost of an airplane ticket I won't be using now."

If possible, she's proven herself even more opportunistic than he, or even Marlowe, thought to give her credit for. It earns her a tight smirk from Talbot.

"You will be compensated for your trouble. And now if you'll come with me," he says, nodding at the door directly behind her, "we'll see that you're made comfortable before attending to any other business."

Why is it that everything he says sounds ominous?

"Right, sure. Lead the way, mate," Christ, he can't be much older than her, if that. Weird to think he's so far up in the ranks when the lackeys they've been bossing about are at least twice his age. "I'll be right on your heels."

Which is why, once they're on the move, she's curious enough to ask: "Have a real name?"

"You may call me Talbot." It is not perhaps a definitive or satisfying answer, but it's the only one she's likely to get.

He pauses, but only to open the door and follow her through before politely taking the lead again and setting off briskly into the labyrinth that makes up the Underground.

Not an answer, but fine, she thinks, cocking her head and trailing off behind him in an effort to keep up.

"That's not a real one, you know."

"It's the one you will use." His voice isn't threatening, but it's stern. She has a problem with authority--it's a habit she'll be broken of if she intends to live long enough to see her first paycheck.

They've taken several turns off the first corridor before they reach their destination. When Talbot sees to the door, he leaves the heavy iron key in the lock.

The first couple of months weren't the best Frazer's known in her life. One regular job was done for Marlowe and Talbot before they bothered to teach her the ropes-- etiquette being her least favorite for the entirety of the first month, until inoculation was introduced in the second to build up an immunity to the drugs the Order's fond of using. Minor doses, standard procedure, but the illness of it always stuck with her for hours after.

She and Talbot never got on well before the shots, honestly. He'd been through them all before, though, offered a few quiet comforts during the worst bouts. (admittedly it was possible they were more out of obligation than concern) Recently she only goes in twice for it every seven, has studies six days a week and combat work every five. Bloody exhausting.

So Frazer tends to spend whatever time she can scrounge up sprawled out in her room. Nearly halfway through her third month and she's well beyond the point of wondering if she's made a mistake. It only dawns on her, pawing idly at the pages of something large of Tolstoy's that she doesn't give much of a damn about, that it's her nineteenth birthday in exactly three days.

"Frazer." Huffed out over the book's cover. That's what she goes by now. Still sounds strange to her ears. "Happy birthday, Frazer."

....Nah.

Order AU | Origin

Re: Order AU | Origin

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