Nighttime Cleaners (IC)

[Tipod]

Cleaning service. Stepan sat idly in his 1973 Thunderbird, parked adjacent to the quaint establishment's sign. Everybody calls it a cleaning service. It was almost unsettling. The verb "clean" implied making a certain person, place or thing free of clutter, all nice and proper. Generally a positive thing, but when used in anything but the most literal sense, it turned ugly and vile. Even though this place was probably a lot more high-class than the typical urban streetcleaning/death squad service, it made Stepan uneasy; he had no delusions about what he did for a living, so why did people have to label their fronts specifically as cleaning companies? ...the hell do I care? I need the money. He parked his sleek, black machine just out front of the building, closed the door with a moderate slam, and strode towards the front door.

"Excuse me, but I'm here for an interview." He gave his short hair a quick finger-combing before replacing both hands in the pockets of his gray sports coat. As his eyes settled on Khimara, however, his body stiffened and relaxed. For a split second, he thought a literal dog-guard was minding the lobby. Thankfully, it was just a feline. Metahuman minding the lobby. Maybe this place has more to it than I thought.

[Angel]

Khimara was half-asleep, now listening to "Love Stinks" by the J. Geils Band, when he heard a voice that wasn't in the song. He blinked his eyes open, saw a human standing there, and remembered where he was. Okay, don't do that again; suppose they figured you were a janitor and decided you weren't worth the "real manager's" time? Then they found out and took over? Khimara was practical, but in this business, being practical meant having a weird imagination. He took his iPod off the desk and hit the pause button, yanking the headphones out of his ears and standing up.

"Sorry about that. Did you receive a letter?" He held his hand out and waited, the corners of his mouth turned up just slightly.

[Tipod]

"But of course." He produced the small, neatly folded letter from his breast pocket. "The name is Spud, by the way. Antone Spud." He wasn't about to give his real name right off the bat. If the place turned out to be legit, then he'd consider using it.

"Just out of curiousity, how did I receive this letter? Referral from a satisfied customer or did you pick my name out of a hat?"

[Angel]

Khimara took the letter and skimmed it with his eyes, placing it on the desk when he was done. "I found everyone through referrals from family associates. I also did some snooping of my own to confirm what I'd heard. This company is pretty new, so I couldn't just start hiring people without knowing anything about their skills."

A thought occurred to him right then. "For my own curiosity, has anybody else seen this letter? As the manager of this place, I prefer interviews to be private."

[Tipod]

"No sir. My eyes only." Family associates, huh? Maybe the place is legit. He couldn't help giving Khimara a good look over. Hair, suit, immaculate appearance, iPod... The next generation of mafia. Same clothes, different species, new trends. Working for this guy wouldn't be like in the movies or true crime novels, but at least it would give some job security.

"As odd as this sounds," he gave a nervous chuckle and another quick hair-combing, "this is my first formal job interview. Us west-coasters tend to freelance rather than sign up with outfits."

[Angel]

Khimara nodded briefly at the affirmation of secrecy, feeling Antone analyze him and not caring. Lack of trust was practically a job requirement for these people. He'd paid attention to the human earlier; he seemed almost unsettlingly normal. But that was to be found out in the interview, not right when he walked in.

"That's understandable. Most of the people who've come in so far were brought here because they did very well on their own. I myself can't really risk freelancing that often, but I was, well, bred for this line of work." There was a beat. "Oh, I almost forgot. My name's Khimara Transphermi." He gestured to the chair in front of the desk. "You can sit down if you like, the interview might take a few minutes."

[Tipod]

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Transphermi." Stepan's grip was firm and warm, just like any good gentleman's. He took his seat shortly afterwards. "So, what do you wish to know about me?" Possibly the standard questions: skills, experience, past contracts, medical problems, describe yourself without using the letter E, anything along those lines. "Because right off the bat, I'll tell you there're few better men than myself in the tri-county area."

If his family members had questioned previous clientelle, they'd find a plethora of satisfied customers. "Courteous, calm, adaptable and efficient" being the key descriptor in most accounts. Really, the only complaint was from one Victor C. Vallejo, and it wasn't so much a complaint as it was an observation. "Yeah, he did just what I asked. More than I asked, really. I have him kill some vato at his house, and not only does he blow his head off, but every dog in the yard too. Guy's got somethin' against pits, man."

[Angel]

Khimara smiled at the handshake and sat down himself, opening a drawer and flipping through a few sheets of paper inside before finding the one he wanted, skimming it and shutting the drawer.

"Well, with most of the ... nominees, for lack of a better word ... all I had to go on was their job statistics and word-of-mouth. So I guess my first question would be, why did you start in this business? You already said you were a freelancer, so it makes sense that the targets were random, but even then, no-one picks this kind of job without a reason."

[Tipod]

Stepan sniffed a little, rubbing his nose before he spoke. "Personal reasons. I killed a man in high school and went along from there." He subconsciously rubbed his forearm. "It was deceptively easy, all things considered, and let me know that I had an aptitude for precise murder."

He paused for a moment, and gave a pleasant smile. "And before you ask, he did deserve it."

[Angel]

Khimara gave an approving smile. "Good. Hopefully, that will be the case with clients here; motives will be questioned before the case is taken. You'll take jobs alone most of the time, but there will be the occasional group job."

His face grew more serious now. Even if he had no reason to suspect Spud of being unprofessional, this was a necessary warning. "By the way, on group jobs, as always, you'll be expected to be quiet and efficient. I'd prefer not to have any signs that something ... unusual happened, for your sake and mine." He relaxed again. "Also, when a group job is complete, pay will be split between you, your teammates, and myself. Is that a problem?"

[Tipod]

"Depends." One of the great joys of being a freelance assassin was knowing you were the only liability on a job. Add more people to the equation, and things start to get problematic. "What's the split on payment, and are these people of the highest quality? I refuse to work with anyone who can't follow direction or watch themselves." Payment was something he could negotiate; having to work with sub-par killers, on the other hand, was not.

"I've heard stories of planned jobs falling apart at the worst times, all because of one guy who couldn't stick to the plan. I need assurance that that won't happen."

[Angel]

Khimara didn't show it outwardly, but he was pleased at the question. Clearly, this was a man used to being careful - exactly what he'd hoped for. "I appreciate the question. First of all, I couldn't risk hiring anyone mediocre at this job. Hell, I can't even risk hiring someone who's just good. I'm in the same boat as you, so I can assure you that I'm taking all necessary measures to prevent anyone the least bit sloppy from being hired.

"As for payment, I intend to take 20% from each individual successful job. For group jobs, only 15%. The rest will be evenly divided among whoever completed the job. Oh, also, jobs will be assigned based on which of you and your coworkers I believe would complete it most successfully. Either that, or by personal request from the client." He paused to take a breath. "Work here may not be too regular, as you may have guessed. Will that be an issue?"

[Tipod]

Khimara's take of only 20% had Stepan hooked, and it showed on his ever-so-slightly raised brows. He couldn't get better payment outside of a total mafia contract, and even that had its downside. Even with only 80% of total profits, work would at least be a lot more frequent and with better client screening. What a hassle that was, making sure the customers weren't ratting you out. "No issue at all, Mr. Transphermi. Just seat me with competent people and I'll sign whatever contract you want."

Though, there was one caveat. "But I can't take supernatural targets. I'm good for my kind, but going after people who can immolate me with willpower alone or turn into a demon past midnight is something I can't do. Too much risk."

[Angel]

Khimara nodded and wrote down the detail in shorthand in the margins of his yellow legal pad. He had nearly forgotten about those kinds of targets... hopefully, he wouldn't need to take any out himself, though if push came to shove, he could certainly do that. But given his abilities, it was hard to complete jobs in a way that was neat and inconspicuous. To find a man with cobra venom in his blood might be confusing enough to be misleading, but to test the DNA in the venom would mean his end.

He slid the pad out of sight once again. "Understood. If that's all there is, I'll need you to come back in ... nine days for your first assignment. This will be a test run so I can see your skills for myself. It will be a real job, on which you will work alone. You'll be paid for your services, and once the task is complete, we'll know if this job is right for you." He smiled in a way that was just friendly enough to be professional at the same time. "Any questions, comments, other things I should know?"

[Tipod]

"Just two comments. One, I only require general knowledge about a target. The less I know outside of the essentials, the better." It helped him sleep better at night knowing as little as humanly possible about each victim. "And two, I... would prefer to not work alongside canines. Bad experiences with them during childhood." To put it lightly. He stood and quickly gave his sportscoat a little straightening.

He produced a pleasant smile and small business card from his pocket, flipping it neatly onto the desk. Antone Spud, Health and Safety Director, and seven digits. "My number, should you so need it." Stepan made his departure, speaking out just as he exited through the door. "I look forward to working with you and your diverse cast of players." And all that was left was some dinner and a good night's sleep. Wonder if that Max's on Fifth Street is still open...

[Angel]

Khimara took the business card between two fingers and did a small hand-flick wave as Spud left. Slipping the card into his desk drawer, he picked up the legal pad yet again.

"Antone Spud. Human. Pleasant, professional, conscientious. Do not put on jobs with canines or supernatural beings; give minimal information about targets. Test run in: nine days." He set the pen aside and leaned back for a minute. He was hoping supernatural cases would be rare, as even he would have trouble with overly powerful beings. Cases involving animals were probably safe for him to handle, though. After all, he didn't intend to let the cleaners have ALL the fun, and some cases would require help.

Getting off track, he quicky realized, and pulled out the list of clients and targets he'd received so far. Glancing at the list of applicants for the job, he frowned. Not enough targets yet. He wanted to judge each applicant individually. This was a problem. Hn. Better hope you get at least a few more targets. Maybe word's started to spread underground...

[Tipod]

The world has gone mad today,
and good's bad today,
and black's white today,
and day's night today,
and that gent today
you gave a cent today
once had several chateeeaaus~

Stepan listened to the tinny radio of his car, idling just outside of the local Max's Bistro. A franchise joint, to be sure, but with just enough class to keep out the typical punchclock patrons who'd rather spend money on a value menu than anything halfway substantial. Not that he was considering that kind of thing at the moment, though. He looked to the radio, as though it were something sentient. ...I swear to God, this thing never plays music that isn't topical. He switched off the device and exited his Thunderbird, giving a nice *slam* to the door.

"Booth or table, sir?" The receptionist perked up at Stepan's entrance, having been on the verge of passing out mere moments earlier. "Just a bar seat," he replied, picking up a menu on his way over. It seemed as practical a location as any. "I'll just have the apple pie with a glass of nonfat milk, if you please. And a copy of the Mercury." Normally a morning activity, but at least at night there would be less background noise to distract him.

By any objective account, he should have felt happy to find work, but something made him just a bit apprehensive. It should be nothing. What have I to worry about?

[lucas marcone]

Max's had a nice homey feel to it, the music was light colonial, the decor though all pourpose seemd to fit and the ambiant lighting was enough to see the room but not so bright as to keep you from enjoying your stay.
Shaun was enjoying  a shellfish platter with some Budwiser, normally he'd of gone for a Guiness, but he thought "What the hell, the Yanks seem to like it, might as well try it."

Just then the door opened, he didn't pay attention till the man sat down at the bar three stools away from his table. He looked him over then set about devouring the clams, oysters and scallops in a semi-noisily manner.

[Tipod]

Stepan gave a fleeting glance towards the otter, noting his meal with a stifled smile. Though before he had the chance to snicker or snerk, a young waiter interrupted. "I'm sorry," he apologized quietly and produced a menu, "but we're fresh out of apple pie. Could I get you anything else?" Stepan rubbed the side of his nose in agitation. "In that case, I'll have the hot pastrami and a Samuel Adams. Boston lager, please." He handed the menu back, waiting until the waiter scurried off before muttering. "At twelve dollars it better be the best damn sandwich I've ever eaten."

He looked back to Shaun. "Is your meal worth the inflated menu price?"

[lucas marcone]

The otter smiled as he looked up and said, "Coulda' fished better outta that slimey bay, but I ain't one to gripe about payin for conviniance." After the last bit of oyster was gone he decided that he'd have some stronger stuff to drink, so he shuffled up to the bar a stool away from the man who had adressed him. The aroma surounding the otter wasn't a particularly bad one, though it was diffrent, and resembled a boot dunked in sea water for a month the dreged up and filled with booze and fish and left to sit. He looked at the human and extended his hand. "Shaun, and you?"

[Tipod]

"Antone. A pleasure." He shook the otter's hand, fighting the urge to immediately wipe it off on his pant leg. The scent didn't exactly bother Stepan, but it certainly clashed with his more clean-cut odor and complexion. "Call me crazy, but I get the impression you're not from these parts." He gave a cordial smile. "Wanted to see how American brew stacks up to something more European, or did you just come to sightsee?"

[lucas marcone]

"Family." he lied "Me sister moved 'ere a bit ago and ended up in the hospital." He motioned for the comely barmaid to take an order.
"What will i be?" she asked
"A bit o' that stuff 'n' a BLT" he replied
"Hungry arn't you?" she laughed
"Liquor don't sit well on shellfish alone, dear"
She giggled and set about her buisness.
"And where are you from?" He asked the man

[Tipod]

"Peyton, Iowa." He at least possessed the kind of unassuming and otherwise humdrum demeanor of an Iowan. "Just here on holiday. Heard the climate was best by government test." He perked as the waiter walked by, handing off a worn copy of the previous morning's paper. "Sorry to hear about your sister, though. Nothing serious, is it?" He flipped over the business section, folding the periodical halfway.

[lucas marcone]

"Well if a broken bone's somethin' serious then yeah." he said with a laugh. "So what's so special 'bout this place that brings ya 'ere on 'oliday? 'Ere must be somethin more 'n some smeggin report done by wee little men in wee little black ties."

[Tipod]

"Well, it's fairly quiet. Things back home were getting a little too... boisterous for my liking." He flipped a page over. "The other counties started pushing their undesirables on us. Didn't exactly make for easy living." A lie, of course, but it essentially described his experience after leaving Palo Alto. "You'd be wandering the streets past ten and something knocks you unconscious, drags you back to its lair, and you'd wake up missing several parts. At least that's what the savage ones do; the sophisticated ones are even worse."

[lucas marcone]

"Aye, it's almost as if ye talkin' of IRA country." He took a bite of sandwich and though the mouthfull he could hear a muffled "An' God help ye if ye protestant."

[Tipod]

"We haven't reached the 'blowing up churches and airports' phase quite yet, but yes, it's comparable." Stepan smiled. "Orthodox Catholic, by the way." He turned another page, giving the police blotter a quick scanning. 'A man, 21, was bitten in the neck by one of four males of indeterminate racial makeup in the 900 block of McAleer Court about 6 p.m. yesterday and was taken by a city Fire Department ambulance to St. Mercy Hospital. His condition was not available.'

With a barely audible sigh, he put  the paper aside. "This may seem like a silly thing to ask, but... do things seem more dangerous now than they did in the 70s and 80s? In the general sense of 'is it safe to walk the streets at night?'"

[lucas marcone]

'I've got me own way 'o belivin' an' nondenomonational sounds the same as pagan in those parts." He made a dismissive wave, "Let's leave religion inna church hmmm? Anyway, in response to ye question, if yer askin then ye already know the answer." Shaun shifted uneasily.

[Tipod]

"Yeah, I suppose it is that evident." The waiter dropped by to deliver his meal and a tired smile, and was politely dismissed by Stepan. "It reminds me of the time when..." He paused, picking up a sandwich half. "...I really shouldn't bother you with my ramblings. It's poor social grace."

[lucas marcone]

"We're at a bar, I'm bound by the code to at least listen to ye." He paused "An so're you ta pour your guts out." He looked at him intently. "So..."