The Razorgirl's Five Hundred Suitors

[IamLEAM1983]

As with everything else the Commission touched, you couldn't have guessed as its criminal roots by looking at it. The secretary's head was artfully shaved in a blue-tinted faux 'hawk, her skin was maybe a shade too pale to be strictly Caucasoid and her eyes, while indubitably human, had a bit of a feline slant to them. A Winter Fae, perhaps? In any case, this put Mary's assumed species-oriented racism into question.

She managed to combine elegance and professionalism in a way that didn't suggest feminine wiles, with sweet lips and white teeth that turned up into a beautiful, calculated and obviously polite smile as she nodded to Jameson.

"Mister Biggs' associates haven't been scheduled for a meeting, I'm afraid," she said, moving lips the colour of frozen raspberries. Her voice was utterly ageless, as was typical of the Fae, sounding neither young or possessed of a certain refined nature that came with age. She was without wrinkles or outwardly expressive features that would have disrupted her ethereal, yet oddly grounded and somewhat severe beauty.

"I can see about fitting you in for a quick meeting, miss Jameson, but my employers request that I place you into an Oath of non-aggression. Times are - troubled, for this city's entrepreneurs, and even mister Winters values his life. Under the orders of sirs Biggs and Winters, I've placed them in Oaths of non-aggression for guests who accept to do the very same."

This was new, to say the least. The last secretary had been a pretty-looking brunette, and here was Weasel, tapping into Evergloam's more capable racial subset for something that did succeed at acting like a first layer of protection without involving extra bodyguards or imposing PMC goons. Something that went so far as to double as a proof of courtesy, even.

If she accepted, she wouldn't be able to draw her sword in Weasel's presence, or think of reacting aggressively. Thinking about it would make her arms feel like two dead weights. On the other hand, the Eldritch secretary had also stated Weasel wouldn't be able to draw his signature pistol. This would defuse any and all conflicts before they'd have a chance to happen and curb the rodent's tendency to lash out, when he was suitably tested.

On the other hand, Weasel wouldn't have authorized this if he wasn't aware of his own foibles and didn't value conducting business more than letting free reign to his temper. That spoke of a lucid decision - something which the rodent was still more than capable of seeing through.

[Karl the Mad]

Mary frowned and tilted her head in puzzlement, wondering what had happened. That's new, she thought to herself, about both the Fae secretary and the requested Oath. Did something happen? No use asking her, I'm sure. Talk to Biggs.

"What are the specific terms of the Oath?" she asked carefully. "I do not believe in making agreements I do not understand first."

[IamLEAM1983]

In lieu of answering, the secretary's gaze grew penetrating, her voice a tad loftier, and power gently surged through her calculated words.

"Do you, Marianna Jameson hereby agree to leave all ill will before the threshold of one Weasel Reginald Biggs, to honour him with the respect due of a gracious host and to forfeit your potency while in his demesne, should you attempt to lift your arm or voice against him? Answer in the knowledge that Weasel Reginald Biggs has been placed in a compact with me, Silve of the Night's Star, Clan Winter and sworn Banshee under the rightful rule of King Oberon, which swears him into guaranteeing graciousness and all honours due to a guest welcomed in free will. His mantle of Host stays his hand, binds his tongue and curbs his thoughts.

One cannot harm the other. One may not slander the other. One may not insult the other - as is my decree."

Each Oath differed from the other. Oaths were as unique as each person and Sidhe could hope to be. Silve's Oath had an air of polite authority, something that felt less like something binding and restrictive than simply courteous and expected of proper behaviour. Mary would feel that the goal of the process was to structure meetings without instigating something like John William Waterhouse's take on Thoughtcrimes. In a sense, and to the former policewoman's intrinsic being, this proposed Oath would feel rather light and permissive.

The light mental pressure of the Oath's energy ebbed for a second, and Slive's tone returned to its natural roots. "I'll unravel the Oath as soon as you'll be ready to leave, miss Jameson."

[Karl the Mad]

Mary's green eyes went wide as saucers as the Fae spoke, the enchanted words washing over her, through her; she had to suppress her first reaction, to violently reject the Oath and stand on her own freedom of will and choice, and remind herself that this was simply a courtesy. It would go both ways, Biggs was as bound to the Oath as she was. "I, ah..." she began, stopping to clear her throat and compose herself. "Yes. I, Marianna Jameson of Hong Kong, agree to your words and consider them binding, Silve of Night's Star." Formalities; gotta love 'em.

In the next second she cleared her throat again. "Is there a water fountain around? And do I just sit down and wait for Weasel or Jimmy or whoever's around right now?"

[IamLEAM1983]

Slive looked down on her desk and at her curving, slightly transparent computer screen. She paused one moment to spare Mary a quick look of acknowledgement, fingers typing out a few words as she sat back down.

"He'll see you now," she confirmed, a few seconds later. Weasel probably had some sort of instant-messaging suite running in his penthouse office and had responded to his secretary's notice. As for Silve, she stood up and walked Mary to another elevator - ostensibly a private one.

"You have forty-five minutes," the Banshee gently intoned, her voice still somewhere between courtesy and authority. "Mister Biggs will be leaving, afterwards. Already scheduled meetings with his core franchise owners are planned for this afternoon."

Overall, Silve wasn't the most Wintry of all Winter Sidhe - or maybe she'd had one hell of a sensitivity training program. In any case, she spared Mary another quick smile.

"Have a pleasant day, miss Jameson."

The elevator doors closed on her.

***

The penthouse floor was large, to say the least. Mary didn't exactly live in excess, but the combined revenues of legitimate pursuits and refined debauchery seemed to pay handsomely for the rodent. An entire two-storey floor was his, Mary's own apartment fitting in the wide-open space that was decked out in dark marble, purposefully bare concrete and dark wood essences. Weasel clearly liked his Modernist architects, as he looked about two or three revisions ahead of the latest IKEA catalog. Splashes of colour were largely left to abstract sculptures and paintings, and these touches of refinement seemed to venerate the female form to a degree. The man had finely constructed tastes, that much was obvious, but they ran along a fairly limited spectrum. Some sort of Jazz-like construct floated in the air, probably this year's latest Bossa Nova club mix as output by Putumayo. Otherwise, the penthouse was marked with an undercurrent of cigar scents, all of them refined, all of them pricey, and all of them seating the unsurprisingly masculine presence of the place's owner.

Off to the left, Mary would hear the sounds of buttons being snapped closed and suspenders slipped on and absently snapped by pushing a thumb underneath them. Some jacket could be heard whispering as it was shucked on, behind an acid-etched and reinforced glass privacy panel.

"Yeah - Jameson, right?" asked Weasel. "Be right with ya. Kinda pulled an all-nighter last night, heh - Silve almost caught me in the fuckin' shower. Them Serbians, always runnin' their shit at night - I'll, uh, be wearin' sunglasses, if you don't mind. Been runnin' on a coffee binge, I'm dehydrated as fuck, my head pounds and light still feels like a buncha screwdrivers drillin' through my eyeballs..."

The man who stepped out was comfortably overweight, at about five feet seven and a hundred and fifty pounds. If anything, not being tremendously fit seemed to flatter him more than anything, giving him a solid presence that was reinforced with his love of two-tone clothing options. He still felt loose and supple in how he walked forward, suggesting not so much agility as a sort of casual ease with his body. He was probably one of these lucky bastards in the occasional Italian-American strand that had grown up on a steady diet of pasta and sauce on a generational level, to the point where his cholesterol levels and overall health didn't entirely coincide with his everyday excesses. His black-on-white sartorial cues suggested restraint, or someone who valued part of the older codes of the Cosa Nostra.

At the same time, the anthro's loose, expressive face was sympathetic in a sort of purposefully thuggish, atypical appeal. Shaking her hand, he didn't so much smile as he snarled happily, which was something a few anthro breeds were usually stuck doing. He had a sort of do-it-yourself level of charisma, as though talent and persistence had allowed him to go from being what had probably been a goon without a GED to one of the economic forces in town. As could be expected of a discrete and efficient mobster, his was a likeable personality; a little rough around the edges, but in a way that made people appreciate his presence. If anything, Weasel Biggs was known to be the life of the party during charity events, having the innate ability to turn a boring round of canapés and Classical music into a bubbling cauldron of conversations diverse.

As could be expected, people also freely talked about what after-parties involved for him. As a lover of life, Biggs greatly enjoyed a good round of food shared with people he could trust. What he especially enjoyed, the rumours said, was the kind of stuff you needed someone of the opposite sex for. Local caricatures frequently depicted him as a Tex Avery-esque figure, copiously drooling at the sight of tax cuts, preferential agreements with zoning committees, a huge bowl of pasta or a well-formed member of the fairer sex.

The sunglasses might have been a convenient excuse, but if he'd intended to size up Mary, she wouldn't be aware of it. The rodent had met with enough women in his time to know just how you went about keeping lurid thoughts off your face.

Casual and professional. Period.

"I think this is the first time we've officially met, right? I sorta remember you from Commission audiences a few months ago - you've been pitchin' in for a spell..."

His dragging sentence had an air of tacit and friendly approval.

[Karl the Mad]

Mary thought it all somewhat extravagant, and doubted she was alone in that opinion. "Nice place," was all she said out loud, though. "Darn Serbs anyway, eh?" No idea what that was about, of course. Maybe it had to do with the extra security downstairs?

When he came out, her gaze flicked over him once, comparing what she saw with what she knew of him and his ways. "Charmed, I'm sure," she replied with a smile of her own. "And yes, we've not met directly until now. I've dealt with Shen Long, though, and I do 'pitch in' now and again, as you put it." So far so good, but she had to wonder how much of it was the Oath and how much was simple manners and courtesy.

"Unfortunately I'm here on business, and it may be bad business," she went on, the smile fading. "Might be best if we sat down with a glass or two at hand, you know? I'd be glad to discuss cheerier topics afterward, but this is somewhat urgent and needs to come first." Then again, if he was already having issues with Serbians, maybe this whole Russian affair wouldn't be news to him. She wasn't sure which would be worse.

[IamLEAM1983]

One of Weasel's eyebrows went up and he produced a circumspect grunt. "You're the fourth person this week to come up to me with tough shit."

His gaze turned briefly inquisitive, and he gestured to a kind of sitting nook in a corner of the loft-like space. A drinks cabinet was set up, as well as a loveseat and a few armchairs. Once they'd reached there, he repeated the gestures while referring to the cabinet, as he spoke. He obviously wanted to know what she'd take.

"I've got colleagues all over the East Coast beatin' back the Central-American dragons at the drug trade business. My contacts down in Winter tell me something's comin' up sometime in the not-too-distant future and I need to brace for it. Then there the Russians pushing in, but that one just don't make sense."

He cut himself a Double Robusto Bolivar stogie and quickly lit it, his motions practised. Having served her by now, he picked one of the armchairs, settling down with a pleased little grunt. His left hand went for his jacket's buttons and unfastened them almost on reflex. Like some other suit-wearing men, Weasel tended to close his single-breasted jackets while standing and opened them if he needed to sit down, giving himself a little more abdominal room.

"I know how they work. Well, usually. Their schtick involves puttin' down roots with the Eastern Bloc types in town. Those Serbians I mentioned, the city's Czech cliques - basically anyone you'd peg as bein' in the post-USSR territory. They cancel out old racial rivalries an' turn these guys' eyes onto us. We're the big leagues, the big fish. We're big money."

He sniffed thoughtfully. "Outfits are pretty much run the same way no matter where youse comin' from. You find like-minded types, lay down some ground rules with the community, make it clear you're givin' The Man the proverbial finger, and organize from there. Once it looks like a nice and tight company from the outside, you're golden.

These bozos? The ones runnin' bullshit Clank rackets around my turf? First off, they ain't even from the Bloc - I've seen folks that look like, uh, those types where the Borat guy comes from. Starts with a K... Pretty far South, anyway, and some of 'em even speak fuckin' Cantonese. They're from the ass-end o' nowhere, somewhere in the spot where Russia and China share a shitload o' nothin' and a handful o' rocks."

He took a few quick puffs. "So, well, that doubles my search grid. I've got the fuckin' Comrades to watch out for on one hand, then maybe some sorta Redneck-ish Northern Chinese outfit. Makes no sense, I tell ya. I'd figure Triads, yeah, sure - that's convenient - but do you honestly see business diplomas from Peking and Hong Kong seriously bustin' their ass to try and order a bunch of alkie Russkies from Nowhereistan around our little stretch of America, of all places?"

Cigar wedged between his teeth and grinning a bit, he shrugged emphatically for effect, expressing a mixture of frustration and confusion. Perhaps even amusement, as you had to admit that the idea of an Asian outfit chipping off Russian ciphers for its own use was both ingenious and a little ironic.

"That's my week in a nutshell. Sorry about the exposition and shit, but I figured you oughta know. Ex-cop and all," he explained. "I'm assumin' your added chunk o' bad news matches up with mine."

[Karl the Mad]

"Whiskey and soda, please," Mary asked, "easy on the whiskey." She took one of the chairs and got comfortable, wondering just how to say what she had to say.

...except it turned out he already knew about the phony clanksmen. Well, phooey. "You mean Kazakhstan," she remarked. "Right next to Mongolia, in fact. Desolate wasteland," and she made a dismissive motion with her free hand. "Anyway, I'd come to let you know about the robotics racketeers, but you seem to be aware of them already, so." She tried not to smile sheepishly, and largely succeeded. "Well, maybe we could compare notes? I got pulled into it earlier, and it's all rather a befuddlement." She adjusted herself in the chair and had a sip of her drink. "So I was at Toni's earlier, like I always am..."

From there she described the events of the day, from "Joey" asking for help to her decision to come see Weasel. "Once it was all said and done it felt... organized," she concluded, uncertainty in her voice. "The Reds were told to watch out for military clanks, but otherwise they were just running a scam. This Joey, whoever he really was, I think he was after me. He knew what to say, which buttons to press, probably knew just what would happen and how I'd react..." It was unnerving, and she shivered briefly. "So now you're saying you think a Triad outfit is using commie trailer trash muscle to... what? Harass all our vintage brass and springs? Or just the capable ones?"

She shook her head and downed the remainder of her drink. "The one we went to is shut down for good now, 'Joey' killed the mechanic and made off with their hacked credit card reader." Privately she still couldn't believe how fast that had happened. "But I interrogated the other one and he said other groups are set up already, paid for by someone. He said they were supposed to capture any weaponized clanks who came their way, but honestly? They didn't stand a damn chance against one vintage Naughton! No, they were just bait; someone's testing the waters, probably trying to draw out the really good ones like Archie Holden or Bucky Wallace. I was stuck in the middle, although if I'm right I was probably put there."

A long sigh. "For all I know that Joey kid was Holden himself in disguise!" she blurted sarcastically. "Who was he and what's he want with me, is what I want to know! And why can't he come and ask like a proper gentleman?" She gave Biggs a direct look. "What do you make of it all, Mister Biggs? Am I crazy or is something really going on out there?"

[IamLEAM1983]

The more Mary talked, the more Biggs grinned. It wasn't so much a gesture of mockery as a kind of silent delight at seeing a bright newcomer putting the pieces of the local puzzle together. He didn't interrupt her, letting herself inch ever closer to the one most likely explanation for her part of the problem.

Silent chuckles shook his chest. "See? You just needed a soundin' board, is all!" he said, his grin receding into more of a simple smile as he took a moment to rub at an eyelid underneath his shades. "Yeah - your Joey was probably Holden. For a Clank, the local Brit's an ace at transformism. That's, um, what folks like that Brachetti fellow dos; change in and out of costumes in close to no time flat. My guess is he one-shotted the guy, cut himself loose, bounded across the room, grabbed the stuff, made for one o' the rooftop windows in one leap and then - poof."

Chuckling a little, Weasel mimed someone running off with two fingers he had dart along the length of an armrest. "Exit stage left. He does that, sometimes. Fools my own boys a couple o' times a year. Fools me pretty often, too. The Naughton models are have that verdigris thing going on and people aren't really perceptive about old and rusty shit, y'know? Nobody ever notices anything. All they see is iron and copper moving life-like, so they just handwave it. We all do.

You're from Hong Kong, there's not a whole lotta native Clanks over there. It kinda makes sense that you haven't learned who or what to really watch out for."

He shrugged again, shook his head, took another drag and scoffed. "First time he caught me, I was pissed. Had me stuck in front of a Grand Jury for a whole fuckin' week. He knew what I'd do and I damn well did it - I denied everything. Omertà. We make it sound like it's something really specific to the mob but honestly? Winters' boys keep their traps shut too. So do Sarvin's. I took it personal, but I figured out it was more of a warning shot from our local Lord. I've got my eye on you and your Commission, mister Biggs, and I know how to reach you, more or less. Been walkin' on eggshells ever since the fuckin' Tree woke up."

Another cigar drag, this one somehow a little dismissive and rather self-assured. "I'm used to it. You'll get used to it too. You've dipped your toes in with the Commission and your folks' business has ties with the Triads, but you've been in with the Blues. In some people, blue washes off pretty damn well. In others?"

Biggs rolled his eyes a bit. "It ain't that Archie Holden's in with the cops - it's more a case of him having iron-clad principles. I've got some, too. We all do. It's just that I'm okay about dipping my hands in certain pies, where he ain't. Then he goes off and says I murder, steal and cheat."

He raised a hand. "I ain't judgin'. City needs folks like him, what with self-absorbed vampire pricks around. I canoodle with Winter, I've got Bugbear boys and a couple fangs in some specialty outfits - but I know there's some rotten apples in all the city's baskets. We need someone to clean things up, or else there ain't gonna be no room for folks like youse or me. Let him judge all he fuckin' wants; I don't fuckin' care."

Still, a lopsided smirk returned to the cigar-chomping side of his face. He leaned a bit forward, elbows on his knees and hands in a steeple. "There's a pretty frickin' high likelihood that you're being tested, miss Jameson... Just make sure you're okay with takin' a paycheck from a bunch of fine, upstanding folk who have the one nasty problem of being righteous as all Hell. They're all fine kids - Aidan Drake's done good for our country and I will say the taller of the McConmara chicks has a nice ass - but they think I'm out to more or less eat up the city's entire infrastructure. They see the Commission as a bunch o' Evil Goatee-strokin' bastards who practice their Evil Laughs when nobody's lookin'.

The truth is, if anything? We're the lesser evil in town."

[Karl the Mad]

"Wh- wait a second, you think they want me for that Shield stuff?" the razorgirl blurted, rather caught by surprise. "But- well, yeah, sure I was a cop. Was," she insisted. "Not the nice kind, though, not the traffic cops you'd ask directions from or who helped little old ladies cross the street; I was in the bloody SCRT! Red lights went on and the suit lockers swing open, shit's done for; we didn't fuck about, we didn't play nice, we were the last resort and we damn well knew it. Assholes died when we were sent in, and everyone else knew it too. They didn't like it one bit, and honestly? Neither did we; I'm still all whacked in the head for some of the shit I had to do! In my ten years with SCRT we were only activated once, maybe twice a year; major shit, feral vampires and rogue wizards and power-mad supers and such, when civs were dying and the normal cops were being killed off too. Rest of the time? Beat patrols, boring shit, regular PTU stuff."

Clearly she didn't quite get it. "I don't think I'd be the right fit for their team," she went on. "You send in someone like me? Better be ready to stack the bodies up afterward; it's how I was trained, it's what I did. I'm not proud of it, but I'm sure as hell not ashamed of it either! Plus I work with Triad, with criminals; I don't exactly advertise it on billboards, but people do know and that probably wouldn't give the right PR angle for your goody-two-shoes coalition."

With a groan she leaned back again and held her glass out, in silent appeal for a fresh dose. "But you're not the person to talk at about that. I came here about the Reds, not Shield." Another direct look. "So, someone's running a shell game with the clanks in town. I'm thinking Triads, russkaya mafiya doesn't have a real presence anymore and if you're right they weren't exactly Russians anyway. But who? Last big Far East outfit was the Five Hundred Dragons, and Shen Long's boys drove them away."