I know how you get when you can't see my handsome face.
[ His tone, however, doesn't have the flat quality of Faraday's – if only to annoy his partner a little more.
He plucks up a glass of wine from a passing waiter, resituating himself at Faraday's side. He rests a hand again at Faraday's back, leaning over to murmur in his ear – for the appearance of teasing his lover, instead of what he actually says, ]
You let me know if you hear anything interesting from our friends down the hall, hm?
[ This, a little sarcastically, as he ducks his head a little toward Vasquez, adjusting his glasses. The motion almost looks bashful, the shy turn of someone appreciative of their partner's teasing, but mostly, he's trying to conceal the way his gaze darts around the heads-up display.
A few breaths later, and he taps into the bug Vasquez had planted on the Welsh man. ]
Make me do all the work. Don't see why you took your glasses off.
[ Oh, absolutely not the case, but he can still give Faraday shit. ]
I was going to keep an eye on the party, but I can put them back on, if you want to complain so much.
[ His hand moves from Faraday's back to rest on his shoulder as he stays close – not quite so intimate, but still with the appearance of a private conversation, instead of conspiratorial sniping at each other. ]
[ With the sort of wooden delivery that would make a tree proud.
He shifts back into a more natural position, though not nearly far enough to dislodge Vasquez's hand. This, at least, is a little closer to normal; they have a habit of leaning on one another, of eating up each other's space in meetings – mostly to annoy the shit out each other, but also because it's comfortable, and the other doesn't mind nearly as much as he says he does.
He listens intently to the bug for a second – for now, nothing more interesting than idle small talk between the Welshman and whoever it is he's chatting up. The weather, compliments to the hotel and its staff, blah, blah, blah. ]
I can't believe people come to these things for fun.
[ Vasquez watches the party idly, still with his hand on Faraday's shoulder as he sips at his wine. He's not trying to actively get on Faraday's nerves for now; really, the absent contact comes naturally to him, in their odd, tenuous peace. ]
Not our sort of people, cariño.
[ Because Vasquez wouldn't be caught dead at one of these places on his downtime. Only his training with Statesman keeps him at ease here.
He comes from little, and his interests haven't changed much, even with access to the lavish perks of his job.
On the other end of the bug, the smalltalk continues. It's the same boring chitchat, where the folks involved somehow manage to use so many words and still say nothing at all. It's all normal, uninteresting, until—
[ Vasquez uses that nickname again, and Faraday frowns to himself as he calls up the heads up display. Under the guise of looking around the party, he works at the HUD again, typing in the word.
Or, at least, his best approximation of how to spell the word.
He gets as far as typing in "cari" before that odd little phrase catches him by surprise. He gently nudges Vasquez with his elbow. ]
[ Vasquez straightens with the nudge, and he at least realizes that this means he can't leave Faraday to the surveillance on his own.
He doesn't scramble to get his glasses out, but he pulls them back from his jacket, flicking out the hinges. He slides them onto his face, and the HUD reappears, the feed of the bug filtering into his ear. ]
Maybe we'll have to look for a little privacy later.
[ As in: maybe we'll have to investigate whatever room those men disappeared into.
He sips at his wine, still leaning on Faraday as he focuses more intently on the audio.
"I thought we were starting earlier, Mihael."
"I believe our host was delayed."
"So now we're left killing time?"
"Felix, just enjoy the drinks and the hors d'oeuvres. This should still be worth our while." ]
[ Faraday makes note of the names – largely unnecessary, considering the glasses are recording everything the bug is picking up, but it's better than simply listening.
Once they know the auction, such as it is, seems to be delayed, Faraday licks his lips, considering. Then, quietly, ]
I think you mentioned something about privacy, sweetheart?
[ Faraday follows suit, depositing his glass – Lord above, he could really use something with more of a kick – but he leads the way out of the ballroom. ]
Couple of options.
[ This, as they're slipping away from the main crowd. ]
Back up to the room? Or should we find ourselves a shadowy corner?
[ Faraday doesn't have to force the suggestiveness in that particular proposal, at least – cover or no, he likely would have delivered it in the exact same manner, because he's nothing if not a twelve year old. ]
[ He fakes a sort of breathiness, a hand pressed to his chest and eyelashes fluttering. ]
Don't make promises you don't intend to keep.
[ He flashes him another bright, devilish grin before turning to lead the way.
Faraday makes it a point to not make a beeline for the the venue Vasquez had headed toward earlier, instead taking a wandering sort of route. Keeping an eye out for the livelier clusters of guests, Faraday slips the two of them in, every now and again, offering a few introductions. It helps, obviously, to offer the appearance of networking, rather than flit in and out and making it all too obvious that they're merely crashing the party.
He offers his fake name, Dave Nolan. His training helps him control the twang of his accent, though he lets some of it show through.
But once all of that is finally out of the way, he starts moving toward the hall where Vasquez found the Welshman. ]
"The hound walks at midnight."
[ He whispers it dramatically, once they're away from the crowd. ]
[ There are situations where Vasquez is content to let Faraday take point. Vasquez is not nearly as much of a "people person" as Faraday, and while his training means he's perfectly proficient with schmoozing when he needs to, Vasquez doesn't prefer it. He smiles and laughs, shakes hands as needed, but otherwise allows Faraday to lead them through the crowds until they finally head for the hall Vasquez had found before.
He offers a hum of agreement, whispering back. ]
Must be.
[ He can't imagine another reason for it to sound so ridiculous. ]
Something to do with the time or just to know who is involved?
[ The easier answer, considering the hotel is huge. At least heading toward the auction is a more concrete destination than stumbling around going, "I dunno, did we try this way yet?" ]
Unless you've got any more concrete ideas on where they might be keeping this shit.
Oh, darlin', it's only the best for the light of my life, the apple of my eye.
[ He forces himself to sober a handful of paces before they make the final turn. The same guard is still there, just as alert and cautious as ever. Faraday doesn't recall from Vasquez's feed whether the two men offered the guard any sort of pass phrase to be admitted, so Faraday's making a bet that there isn't one. For lack of anything better, Faraday walks forward with confidence.
It's the easiest thing in the world – act like you belong, and everyone will assume that you do.
He pauses in front of the guard, lips pressed into a faintly disapproving line, an expectant quality to his gaze. The guard sizes him up before nodding curtly, though politely, and rapping a knuckle against the door behind him. The door opens, and the man steps aside. ]
[ The guard doesn't give them issues, and the easy confidence that Vasquez and Faraday radiate makes up for the expectation of further proof. To the guard's credit, Vasquez doubts anyone is coming to bother him unless they're supposed to be there.
As they're admitted into the other room, they're greeted with a much more lavish offering. The servers are dressed all in black, and they move seamlessly around the smaller throng of people (more than Vasquez expected to be present; a depressingly large group, considering the product up for buy). They bear trays of elegant appetizers, but also varied drinks with small, metal tents explaining what they offer – liquor Vasquez knows costs thousands by the bottle.
Vasquez leans close to Faraday's ear again, humor in his voice. ]
Maybe I won't be buying that drink for you, cariño.
[ Faraday manages to keep the surprise off his face when they reach Party 2.0, maintaining that facade of mild, polite interest and faint boredom.
With his glasses still transmitting, he scans the crowd. They'll have to run the recording through some facial recognition software later, but even without it, Faraday thinks he recognizes at least a few faces from grainy photos and surveillance footage.
They're probably in the right place, which might be some consolation. Or, at the very least, the rich and sadistic have a shared interest in partner-swap parties.
It's necessity, of course, for Vasquez to keep leaning into Faraday's space, for the man to keep up the appearance of offering sweet nothings or lurid offerings, but focused as Faraday is, this time, Vasquez catches him by surprise. He tenses rather than jumps when Vasquez's breath brushes against his skin, when he catches the scent of cologne.
The way his stomach flutters makes him think a single, but vehement, Fuck.
A waiter drifts past with a tray of ridiculously priced Scotch, and Faraday uses the second to recompose himself as he's plucking up a Glencairn glass. ]
Don't be goin' back on your promise now, babe.
[ He sips at his glass, pausing before letting an appreciative, Shit, that's good. ]
Probably the right place, at least.
[ This, with a subtle nod to a far corner. A balding man sits at a table, surrounded by what appears to be standing guards.
Bartholomew Bogue. A slippery bastard who's been on Statesman's radar for years. ]
[ Vasquez feels Faraday tense, but he largely chalks it up to catching him by surprise; he feels the weight of his own tension in the room, and it's hard not to be on edge right now.
Fortunately for the both of them, actively concealing that is a matter of practice.
Vasquez's brows rise as a tray passes labeled "Michter," and he catches a glass of his own before the waiter disappears again. His smile is more genuine when Faraday relishes his new drink; even by their standards, this is still a treat. Vasquez contents himself with sipping his bourbon, eyes finally landing on Bogue.
He's not surprised. ]
We're in good company, it seems.
[ Maybe if they get the chance, they can drop a tracker on Bogue, too.
(Not one of the internal ones.)
He rests his hand absently at Faraday's back as he sips his drink, trying to keep up that effortless appearance of romance. ]
[ He keeps himself from tensing again when Vasquez touches him again, which is a point in Faraday's favor, he thinks. He examines the contents of his glass a little thoughtfully, though he has to struggle to keep his disgust from his face when Vasquez makes that suggestion. ]
Sounds fun.
[ In much the same way that a visit to the dentist for a root canal would be fun.
He doesn't knock the drink back for liquid courage, like he might have with some cheaper offering, but he does, at least, take another sip of it.
And won't it be exciting to introduce them to mi amante.
[ And naturally as anything, he curls his arm around Faraday's waist, finally directing them towards a set of faces. It's easy to insinuate themselves into the conversation, though Vasquez is almost surprised no one so much as blinks twice at the familiar way he and Faraday stand and introduce each other. Vasquez has to wonder if it's a matter of business, of wealth; money speaks louder than any tastes or proclivities.
Mingling gives them the chance to put names to faces, to get a better look at the auction attendees: a room of almost exclusively men, from all corners of the globe.
At some point, they come across a man with black hair and a husky voice – made all the deeper, surely, by the cigar between his fingers. He stops in the middle of passing Faraday and Vasquez, pausing as Vasquez waves off a joke with a click of his tongue and a grin. Vasquez is suddenly very aware of him when he notices the man stop mid-step, and then a broad palm rests on Vasquez's shoulder.
It takes so much self-restraint not to swing on instinct.
Just as Vasquez is turning to ask the man what he wants, the gentleman offers, ]
Tu acento – Michoacan, sí?
[ That actually manages to throw Vasquez for a loop. He blinks at the man for a heartbeat, but his confusion and wariness is pushed aside by a brilliant grin (even if his mind is setting off alarm bells). ]
¿Sí, y usted?
[ The man's broad face splits in a smile. ]
Bogotá, mi amigo. Tan poca gente que habla Español aquí.
[ Bogotá—
Oh. ]
No lo se, no lo se. [ He sticks his hand out to the man, who pops his cigar between his lips to shake. ] Alejandro.
Maximiliano, amigo.
[ Maximiliano Rojas. Big in the Columbian cartels. Very big.
Vasquez rests his hand on Faraday's shoulder, speaking again to Maximiliano. ]
Ah, mi pareja no habla Español.
[ Maximiliano turns his attention to Faraday, finally, blinking at him before bursting out in another deep laugh. ]
My apologies, my apologies. English for you, then.
[ Mingling is certainly more Faraday's strong suit than Vasquez's, being a gregarious son of a bitch in general, but even Faraday starts getting tired of it, after a while.
He may be sociable, and he may enjoy being the center of attention with a good story or joke, but Faraday is, in his heart of hearts, a surly bastard. He gets tired of the small talk real quick – especially when his conversational partners are the type who wouldn't look at him twice if it weren't for the well-tailored suit he's wearing on the company dime.
The only relief he has from it, really, is the snide remarks he makes under his breath as they're drifting from group to group – comments about the thick, stinking cloud of someone's eau de toilette, or the shameful way someone is trying to conceal their receding hairline with a poor comb-over— but they're interrupted.
Faraday forces himself to remain relaxed – but the blank-faced confusion, at least, he doesn't have to feign. He looks first to Vasquez, and it's a testament to how long they've worked together that he can see the faintest shadow of tension in his smile. Faraday's reasonably sure their new acquaintance won't be able to spot it, especially considering the man continues on in that bright, delighted way of his.
God. One of these days he seriously has to learn Spanish.
He definitely recognizes the exchanging of names, at least – and the name "Maximiliano" nags at him. When the attention turns to him, Faraday blinks then forces a slightly awkward smile as he holds out his hand. ]
Dave Nolan.
[ He's still keeping his accent mostly wrangled. ]
I'm hoping all of that was good. I haven't the faintest idea what either of you just said.
[ Maximiliano shakes Faraday's hand with a firm grip. ]
Your friend, I recognized his accent. I'm sure Spanish sounds all the same to your ear, but it is very different. Especially, you see, I am from Columbia, not Mexico.
[ He gestures to Vasquez with his cigar; Vasquez lifts his glass in acknowledgement. ]
Come! Have a cigar with me, my new friends. The smoking lounge is through here.
[ Maximiliano points to a door at the back – his apparent initial trajectory.
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no subject
I know how you get when you can't see my handsome face.
[ His tone, however, doesn't have the flat quality of Faraday's – if only to annoy his partner a little more.
He plucks up a glass of wine from a passing waiter, resituating himself at Faraday's side. He rests a hand again at Faraday's back, leaning over to murmur in his ear – for the appearance of teasing his lover, instead of what he actually says, ]
You let me know if you hear anything interesting from our friends down the hall, hm?
[ ... Since he removed his glasses. ]
no subject
[ This, a little sarcastically, as he ducks his head a little toward Vasquez, adjusting his glasses. The motion almost looks bashful, the shy turn of someone appreciative of their partner's teasing, but mostly, he's trying to conceal the way his gaze darts around the heads-up display.
A few breaths later, and he taps into the bug Vasquez had planted on the Welsh man. ]
Make me do all the work. Don't see why you took your glasses off.
no subject
[ Oh, absolutely not the case, but he can still give Faraday shit. ]
I was going to keep an eye on the party, but I can put them back on, if you want to complain so much.
[ His hand moves from Faraday's back to rest on his shoulder as he stays close – not quite so intimate, but still with the appearance of a private conversation, instead of conspiratorial sniping at each other. ]
no subject
[ With the sort of wooden delivery that would make a tree proud.
He shifts back into a more natural position, though not nearly far enough to dislodge Vasquez's hand. This, at least, is a little closer to normal; they have a habit of leaning on one another, of eating up each other's space in meetings – mostly to annoy the shit out each other, but also because it's comfortable, and the other doesn't mind nearly as much as he says he does.
He listens intently to the bug for a second – for now, nothing more interesting than idle small talk between the Welshman and whoever it is he's chatting up. The weather, compliments to the hotel and its staff, blah, blah, blah. ]
I can't believe people come to these things for fun.
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Not our sort of people, cariño.
[ Because Vasquez wouldn't be caught dead at one of these places on his downtime. Only his training with Statesman keeps him at ease here.
He comes from little, and his interests haven't changed much, even with access to the lavish perks of his job.
On the other end of the bug, the smalltalk continues. It's the same boring chitchat, where the folks involved somehow manage to use so many words and still say nothing at all. It's all normal, uninteresting, until—
"The hound walks at midnight." ]
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Or, at least, his best approximation of how to spell the word.
He gets as far as typing in "cari" before that odd little phrase catches him by surprise. He gently nudges Vasquez with his elbow. ]
Might finally be gettin' somewhere.
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He doesn't scramble to get his glasses out, but he pulls them back from his jacket, flicking out the hinges. He slides them onto his face, and the HUD reappears, the feed of the bug filtering into his ear. ]
Maybe we'll have to look for a little privacy later.
[ As in: maybe we'll have to investigate whatever room those men disappeared into.
He sips at his wine, still leaning on Faraday as he focuses more intently on the audio.
"I thought we were starting earlier, Mihael."
"I believe our host was delayed."
"So now we're left killing time?"
"Felix, just enjoy the drinks and the hors d'oeuvres. This should still be worth our while." ]
no subject
Once they know the auction, such as it is, seems to be delayed, Faraday licks his lips, considering. Then, quietly, ]
I think you mentioned something about privacy, sweetheart?
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[ Vasquez chuckles under his breath, but he takes another sip of his wine before leaving the half-empty glass with a passing server.
He and Faraday need to regroup, figure out their next move, especially if they have a few more hours on their side. ]
no subject
Couple of options.
[ This, as they're slipping away from the main crowd. ]
Back up to the room? Or should we find ourselves a shadowy corner?
[ Faraday doesn't have to force the suggestiveness in that particular proposal, at least – cover or no, he likely would have delivered it in the exact same manner, because he's nothing if not a twelve year old. ]
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Vasquez smothers a snort, managing to keep his tone light but low. ]
A corner seems more accessible, don’t you think? And that means I can get my hands on you sooner.
[ And that is once again to fuck with Faraday. ]
no subject
[ He fakes a sort of breathiness, a hand pressed to his chest and eyelashes fluttering. ]
Don't make promises you don't intend to keep.
[ He flashes him another bright, devilish grin before turning to lead the way.
Faraday makes it a point to not make a beeline for the the venue Vasquez had headed toward earlier, instead taking a wandering sort of route. Keeping an eye out for the livelier clusters of guests, Faraday slips the two of them in, every now and again, offering a few introductions. It helps, obviously, to offer the appearance of networking, rather than flit in and out and making it all too obvious that they're merely crashing the party.
He offers his fake name, Dave Nolan. His training helps him control the twang of his accent, though he lets some of it show through.
But once all of that is finally out of the way, he starts moving toward the hall where Vasquez found the Welshman. ]
"The hound walks at midnight."
[ He whispers it dramatically, once they're away from the crowd. ]
Seems to be some kinda passcode.
no subject
He offers a hum of agreement, whispering back. ]
Must be.
[ He can't imagine another reason for it to sound so ridiculous. ]
Something to do with the time or just to know who is involved?
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[ Though Faraday's guess is as good as anyone's, if he's honest. ]
Seemed like they expected to kick things off earlier, but you know how it is at these things – everyone's always fashionably late.
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[ Since it means they have a better chance of getting their hands on the gas before it gets shipped out. ]
You want to try looking for where they're keeping it or see if we can get closer to the auction?
no subject
[ The easier answer, considering the hotel is huge. At least heading toward the auction is a more concrete destination than stumbling around going, "I dunno, did we try this way yet?" ]
Unless you've got any more concrete ideas on where they might be keeping this shit.
no subject
[ The auction will also give them the benefit of recording the potential players involved in the buy, and that can only be for the agency's benefit. ]
Buy me a deadly weapon instead of art, eh?
[ He flashes Faraday a grin, but he tries to tame it as they near the hall. ]
Nothing more romantic than that.
no subject
Oh, darlin', it's only the best for the light of my life, the apple of my eye.
[ He forces himself to sober a handful of paces before they make the final turn. The same guard is still there, just as alert and cautious as ever. Faraday doesn't recall from Vasquez's feed whether the two men offered the guard any sort of pass phrase to be admitted, so Faraday's making a bet that there isn't one. For lack of anything better, Faraday walks forward with confidence.
It's the easiest thing in the world – act like you belong, and everyone will assume that you do.
He pauses in front of the guard, lips pressed into a faintly disapproving line, an expectant quality to his gaze. The guard sizes him up before nodding curtly, though politely, and rapping a knuckle against the door behind him. The door opens, and the man steps aside. ]
no subject
As they're admitted into the other room, they're greeted with a much more lavish offering. The servers are dressed all in black, and they move seamlessly around the smaller throng of people (more than Vasquez expected to be present; a depressingly large group, considering the product up for buy). They bear trays of elegant appetizers, but also varied drinks with small, metal tents explaining what they offer – liquor Vasquez knows costs thousands by the bottle.
Vasquez leans close to Faraday's ear again, humor in his voice. ]
Maybe I won't be buying that drink for you, cariño.
no subject
With his glasses still transmitting, he scans the crowd. They'll have to run the recording through some facial recognition software later, but even without it, Faraday thinks he recognizes at least a few faces from grainy photos and surveillance footage.
They're probably in the right place, which might be some consolation. Or, at the very least, the rich and sadistic have a shared interest in partner-swap parties.
It's necessity, of course, for Vasquez to keep leaning into Faraday's space, for the man to keep up the appearance of offering sweet nothings or lurid offerings, but focused as Faraday is, this time, Vasquez catches him by surprise. He tenses rather than jumps when Vasquez's breath brushes against his skin, when he catches the scent of cologne.
The way his stomach flutters makes him think a single, but vehement, Fuck.
A waiter drifts past with a tray of ridiculously priced Scotch, and Faraday uses the second to recompose himself as he's plucking up a Glencairn glass. ]
Don't be goin' back on your promise now, babe.
[ He sips at his glass, pausing before letting an appreciative, Shit, that's good. ]
Probably the right place, at least.
[ This, with a subtle nod to a far corner. A balding man sits at a table, surrounded by what appears to be standing guards.
Bartholomew Bogue. A slippery bastard who's been on Statesman's radar for years. ]
no subject
Fortunately for the both of them, actively concealing that is a matter of practice.
Vasquez's brows rise as a tray passes labeled "Michter," and he catches a glass of his own before the waiter disappears again. His smile is more genuine when Faraday relishes his new drink; even by their standards, this is still a treat. Vasquez contents himself with sipping his bourbon, eyes finally landing on Bogue.
He's not surprised. ]
We're in good company, it seems.
[ Maybe if they get the chance, they can drop a tracker on Bogue, too.
(Not one of the internal ones.)
He rests his hand absently at Faraday's back as he sips his drink, trying to keep up that effortless appearance of romance. ]
What do you think? Go make friends?
no subject
Sounds fun.
[ In much the same way that a visit to the dentist for a root canal would be fun.
He doesn't knock the drink back for liquid courage, like he might have with some cheaper offering, but he does, at least, take another sip of it.
A little teasingly, ]
You may yet find your elusive Roberto or David.
no subject
[ And naturally as anything, he curls his arm around Faraday's waist, finally directing them towards a set of faces. It's easy to insinuate themselves into the conversation, though Vasquez is almost surprised no one so much as blinks twice at the familiar way he and Faraday stand and introduce each other. Vasquez has to wonder if it's a matter of business, of wealth; money speaks louder than any tastes or proclivities.
Mingling gives them the chance to put names to faces, to get a better look at the auction attendees: a room of almost exclusively men, from all corners of the globe.
At some point, they come across a man with black hair and a husky voice – made all the deeper, surely, by the cigar between his fingers. He stops in the middle of passing Faraday and Vasquez, pausing as Vasquez waves off a joke with a click of his tongue and a grin. Vasquez is suddenly very aware of him when he notices the man stop mid-step, and then a broad palm rests on Vasquez's shoulder.
It takes so much self-restraint not to swing on instinct.
Just as Vasquez is turning to ask the man what he wants, the gentleman offers, ]
Tu acento – Michoacan, sí?
[ That actually manages to throw Vasquez for a loop. He blinks at the man for a heartbeat, but his confusion and wariness is pushed aside by a brilliant grin (even if his mind is setting off alarm bells). ]
¿Sí, y usted?
[ The man's broad face splits in a smile. ]
Bogotá, mi amigo. Tan poca gente que habla Español aquí.
[ Bogotá—
Oh. ]
No lo se, no lo se. [ He sticks his hand out to the man, who pops his cigar between his lips to shake. ] Alejandro.
Maximiliano, amigo.
[ Maximiliano Rojas. Big in the Columbian cartels. Very big.
Vasquez rests his hand on Faraday's shoulder, speaking again to Maximiliano. ]
Ah, mi pareja no habla Español.
[ Maximiliano turns his attention to Faraday, finally, blinking at him before bursting out in another deep laugh. ]
My apologies, my apologies. English for you, then.
no subject
He may be sociable, and he may enjoy being the center of attention with a good story or joke, but Faraday is, in his heart of hearts, a surly bastard. He gets tired of the small talk real quick – especially when his conversational partners are the type who wouldn't look at him twice if it weren't for the well-tailored suit he's wearing on the company dime.
The only relief he has from it, really, is the snide remarks he makes under his breath as they're drifting from group to group – comments about the thick, stinking cloud of someone's eau de toilette, or the shameful way someone is trying to conceal their receding hairline with a poor comb-over— but they're interrupted.
Faraday forces himself to remain relaxed – but the blank-faced confusion, at least, he doesn't have to feign. He looks first to Vasquez, and it's a testament to how long they've worked together that he can see the faintest shadow of tension in his smile. Faraday's reasonably sure their new acquaintance won't be able to spot it, especially considering the man continues on in that bright, delighted way of his.
God. One of these days he seriously has to learn Spanish.
He definitely recognizes the exchanging of names, at least – and the name "Maximiliano" nags at him. When the attention turns to him, Faraday blinks then forces a slightly awkward smile as he holds out his hand. ]
Dave Nolan.
[ He's still keeping his accent mostly wrangled. ]
I'm hoping all of that was good. I haven't the faintest idea what either of you just said.
no subject
Your friend, I recognized his accent. I'm sure Spanish sounds all the same to your ear, but it is very different. Especially, you see, I am from Columbia, not Mexico.
[ He gestures to Vasquez with his cigar; Vasquez lifts his glass in acknowledgement. ]
Come! Have a cigar with me, my new friends. The smoking lounge is through here.
[ Maximiliano points to a door at the back – his apparent initial trajectory.
Vasquez glances at Faraday, eyebrow quirked. ]
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