[ On a small table nearby, a few elegant punch cutters are lined up for use. Vasquez selects one, only pausing when Faraday leans in to speak.
Ah.
He manages not to sigh, and he returns to piercing the cap of his cigar, before offering the stamp to Faraday. ]
Talk later.
[ This is surely not the time nor place, but the fact that Faraday noticed reminds Vasquez that he needs to be more cognizant of his posture, of his public demeanor. A small comfort comes because he's sure Faraday may have been the only one to notice, so far. ]
[ He tries to keep the frown off his face, masking it by taking the proffered punch cutter and preparing his cigar. Acknowledging the issue with a "Talk later" is a better assurance than dismissing it offhand with an "I'm fine" could ever be, ironically enough. And as much as Faraday's natural inclination is to push and poke and prod, he knows now isn't the time. ]
Later, then.
[ He returns the cutter to its proper place. For a blink, he hesitates before reaching over and resting his hand over Vasquez's upper arm, squeezing lightly.
Whatever it is, Faraday wants to say, we'll be fine. ]
[ The contact, minor as it is (especially when Vasquez and Faraday have been antagonizing each other through the evening) feels more genuine. He manages to push through the awkward hesitation that bubbles to the surface, just reaching up to rest his hand over Faraday's.
Honestly, it's nothing, given all the other liberties Vasquez has taken, but he drops his hand again, reaching into his pocket for his personal lighter.
(There's a gas aerosol that can be activated to turn it into a tiny flamethrower, but it also happens to double as a lighter.)
He flicks the gold cap open, putting his cigar between his lips and holding the flame up until it smolders to life. He takes a few short puffs, then holds up the lighter for Faraday's. Vasquez's eyes scan the smoking lounge, taking in the layout. There are two other exits, though Vasquez has no clue in the world where they lead. Maximiliano has fallen back into conversation with a few other men in Spanish, apparently content to let Faraday and Vasquez get settled. ]
[ Faraday leans forward when Vasquez offers a light.
(He should really quit, he thinks again.)
Quietly, ]
Your new friend seems familiar.
[ That is, Faraday hasn't forgotten that little nagging at the back of his head, the one that reminds him that the man was important, in some way. Or maybe Faraday is misremembering.
The tip lights up as the tobacco starts to burn, and he inspects it a little critically, blowing gently on it to even out the rosette. ]
Do we need to keep an eye on him, or is it back to business as normal?
[ Vasquez moves with Faraday across the room, taking in the faces in the small lounge. Other than Rojas, he's pretty confident he recognizes someone from the Russian mob, a big face in the IRA, and... the CEO of a Fortune 500?
Not ideal. ]
You want to see if we can slip away? Here or back in the other room?
[ He inhales slowly from his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment longer.
Just for appearances, even though he's comfortably convinced no one can hear them, ]
[ Faraday flashes Vasquez a grin before putting on that teasing, breathy voice. ]
Oh, sweetheart, I thought you'd never ask.
[ He thinks it over for a second. Ideally, he figures, they'd want to put a highly dangerous biochemical weapon in a low-traffic area – even if that low traffic area does pose as something of a fire hazard, with liquor and lighters and lit cigars free for the taking.
If it is nearby, they certainly have a great deal of faith in its containment.
He doesn't nod this time to show Vasquez his intentions; instead, he trusts the other man to wander behind him as he heads to one of the exits leading out of the smoking room.
Small as the space is, he doubts they'll be unnoticed if they attempt one of the doors. At best, they'll be shooed away by a polite waiter or waitress. At worst, it'll mark them as clearly not belonging here. Best not to chance it, Faraday figures.
Statesman taught him a great deal, obviously, but he lived a pretty interesting life before Chisolm recruited him. He's always had clever hands, has always had a good instinct for distraction.
They pass by a guest laughing boisterously – a little too drunk on expensive liquor, Faraday figures – with his hands occupied by a full tumbler and a cigar.
Quick and calm and smooth as anything, Faraday slips his lit cigar into the man's trouser pocket.
It should take a few moments for the man to notice his pants on fire, Faraday figures. ]
[ Vasquez is far from the first person to flatter Faraday's skills, but there are some fields where Faraday just excels. Violence? Vasquez has that down. Sleight of hand? Not his strong suit.
So much so that he doesn't even realize Faraday has ditched his cigar until Vasquez prepares to leave his cigar in a nearby ashtray so it can extinguish itself. He looks over to Faraday, intending to gesture to the ashtray, and—
There's no cigar in his hand.
Confusion furrows Vasquez's brow momentarily, but a very brief glance around shows a slow trail of smoke starting to drift from a man's pocket.
Vasquez absolutely does not grin, but it's impossibly close. He abandons his cigar just as the first quizzical noise comes from the group of men behind them. ]
A fair bit of flailing, too, though Faraday misses it by taking them into the first door he reaches. He ushers in Vasquez first before shutting it firmly behind them. Ahead of them is another hallway – Spartan and plain and lit with cheap, bright, bulbs that cast everything in an unflattering light, which tells Faraday that this area isn't meant for guests. A good sign, he figures, though it's just as possible that this just leads to the waitstaff's break room.
The commotion from the lounge is muffled, now, though no less urgent, and Faraday hisses in a breath through his teeth. ]
God dang it, I'm good.
[ He still keeps his voice low, just to be safe, before he grins brightly at Vasquez. ]
[ Once the door is finally closed behind them, Vasquez allows himself to snicker. He manages not to burst into full-on laughter, and after a moment, he clears his throat, composes himself. He readjusts his jacket with a grin. ]
Sí, cariño.
[ Vasquez sweeps his arm out, gesturing to the hall ahead of them. ]
[ Faraday leads the way down the hall, passing by a few open rooms &ndash cleaning supplies, store rooms, a couple of bathrooms.
He stops up short when he hears a quiet, unassuming sneeze, accompanied by a polite, bless you. Faraday slows to a crawl, trusting Vasquez to do the same, before he slowly peeks around the corner.
Down a ways, two men stand on either side of a door, both dressed in nondescript, slightly ill-fitting black suits. They seem disinterested but alert. Faraday taps on the frame of his glasses, zooming in, switching the view.
Oh, those men are definitely armed. His glasses helpfully point out the pistols in shoulder holster beneath the men's jackets.
Faraday jerks his head, guiding Vasquez back the way they came to get them out of earshot. ]
The quiet sneeze makes Vasquez freeze. There's no sign that they've been noticed, at least, and he continues at Faraday's creeping pace. When they reach the doorway, instead of taking a peek for himself, Vasquez taps into Faraday's visual feed on his glasses to see through Faraday's eyes.
Those guards are clearly guarding something, even if they're hanging around with the kind of boredom that indicates they're not expecting someone to bust in.
Their mistake.
He shuffles back with Faraday, switching back his HUD once they're far enough to whisper. ]
Distraction or sedation, guero?
[ They have no idea how long it will take to get into the other room; if they're lucky, it's been left unlocked with the posted guards instead. If they're slightly less lucky, the lock is pickable or hackable.
If their luck is horrible, it's impossibly sealed and they're fucked.
[ But, as Faraday turns to his watch, Vasquez does the same. He twists a few dials, and with the correct setting, he offers a short nod.
They've done this so many times together that the beat between moving is all Vasquez needs.
With practiced, perfect ease, Vasquez rounds the corner with his watch at the ready. Before the guards can even properly react or open their mouths, they collapse into heaps with darts in their necks. There's no hitch in the precision, in the way he moves opposite Faraday, because he knows exactly how his partner fits into their rhythm.
They may wreck shit, but they also know what the hell they're doing. ]
[ Faraday only waits a bare breath to let Vasquez move around him, but after that, they move in tandem, a well-oiled machine. That goes beyond training, he thinks; most of the Statesman agents work well together as a rule, but there's a lot to be said for chemistry.
The two men drop like sacks of potatoes, and Faraday continues on toward the door.
Ah. A touchpad lock beside the door.
He changes the settings on his watch again, switching to Hack. ]
[ The watch beeps pleasantly, announcing the lock has been hacked, and the touchpad echoes the noise. The door clicks and Faraday jerks his head toward it. ]
[ He carefully pushes open the door to yet another hall, though at the end of that hall is a thick steel door. Faraday pauses, listening, but he doesn't hear any voices or further movement.
He creeps forward, quickly testing the door. Unlocked, it seems; they must have put a great deal of faith in the two guardsmen outside, or else put a lot of trust in their would-be customers not trying to take a gander at the lot a little too early. After a quick pause to ensure Vasquez is still at the ready, he pushes the door open. ]
Oh, thank fuck.
[ This murmured beneath his breath.
Because inside the storage room, aside from shelves lining the walls containing various tools and equipment, is a heavy metal crate with yet another keypad lock – practically screaming for attention with how carefully unremarkable it is. ]
[ This, as he's plucking a small, plastic bag from the inside of his jacket.
Their normal bugs work well, attaching to clothing like little burs, but there was always the chance they'd be noticed – or worse, that they'd fall off. For this, they needed something practically undetectable, and Faraday frees the tracker – flat and tiny.
("This is expensive, Faraday," he was told, over and over and over. "Keep track of it. We're only shippin' you two out with one of these."
For once, he seems to have taken the warnings to heart.)
He kneels down, adhering the tracker to a low point on one of the crate's faces – harder to spot that way, though as he pulls his hand back, he admits it's almost impossible to spot even while he's looking straight at it.
He moves through the settings on his watch again – faster than tapping through on his glasses – and pulls up their tracking program. A red blip shows up on the radar, showing the tracker is active. ]
[ Vasquez keeps his eyes keenly fixed on the door, his ears waiting for any hint of footsteps or otherwise. Mercifully, applying the tracker isn't an arduous task, and once Faraday gives the all-clear, some of that alert tension eases out of Vasquez. ]
Then let's get going.
[ Like he said, the sooner they get free of this party, the sooner they can loosen these ties and finally shrug off the overly formal masks they've worn all night.
This time, Vasquez takes point heading back. The hall is still quiet, and when they return to the bodies of the guards, they haven't budged. They shouldn't be out for much longer, and they'll just wake up confused with some mild headaches.
Vasquez steps around a splayed leg, pausing to nudge an arm with his loafer.
Nope, still out.
Vasquez is still alert – both thanks to his training with Statesman and his life before – but he's also more at ease, knowing they've accomplished their goal for the night and that they won't have to go back and deal with insufferable smalltalk anymore.
He glances back at Faraday as they make their way down the hall towards the smoking lounge. He still keeps his voice low, because he's not an idiot. ]
What were you thinking for your drink—
[ But he stops short as the sound of a doorknob turns down the hall. ]
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no subject
Ah.
He manages not to sigh, and he returns to piercing the cap of his cigar, before offering the stamp to Faraday. ]
Talk later.
[ This is surely not the time nor place, but the fact that Faraday noticed reminds Vasquez that he needs to be more cognizant of his posture, of his public demeanor. A small comfort comes because he's sure Faraday may have been the only one to notice, so far. ]
no subject
Later, then.
[ He returns the cutter to its proper place. For a blink, he hesitates before reaching over and resting his hand over Vasquez's upper arm, squeezing lightly.
Whatever it is, Faraday wants to say, we'll be fine. ]
no subject
Honestly, it's nothing, given all the other liberties Vasquez has taken, but he drops his hand again, reaching into his pocket for his personal lighter.
(There's a gas aerosol that can be activated to turn it into a tiny flamethrower, but it also happens to double as a lighter.)
He flicks the gold cap open, putting his cigar between his lips and holding the flame up until it smolders to life. He takes a few short puffs, then holds up the lighter for Faraday's. Vasquez's eyes scan the smoking lounge, taking in the layout. There are two other exits, though Vasquez has no clue in the world where they lead. Maximiliano has fallen back into conversation with a few other men in Spanish, apparently content to let Faraday and Vasquez get settled. ]
no subject
(He should really quit, he thinks again.)
Quietly, ]
Your new friend seems familiar.
[ That is, Faraday hasn't forgotten that little nagging at the back of his head, the one that reminds him that the man was important, in some way. Or maybe Faraday is misremembering.
The tip lights up as the tobacco starts to burn, and he inspects it a little critically, blowing gently on it to even out the rosette. ]
Do we need to keep an eye on him, or is it back to business as normal?
no subject
He gives a low, absent hum as he takes a few slow draws from the cigar. ]
I think he's here for the same reason of everyone else.
[ Though considering the kind of devastation Rojas could cause with the nerve gas...
It makes Vasquez's blood run cold.
He's seen the death that follows the cartels, knows it personally, but that's probably why he feels more sensitive to it. ]
What do you think of those doors?
[ He speaks quietly around an exhalation of smoke, pulling his cigar back between two fingers. ]
no subject
Dining rooms? [ Quiet as ever, between puffs on the cigar. ] Broom closets? Fire escapes, maybe?
[ It doesn't seem as though anyone is coming or leaving from them – at least, not at the moment. ]
Private rooms for quick tête-à-têtes?
[ A quick nod to Vasquez as he wanders further into the room, circling the edge like he's finding them a comfortable spot. ]
No guards. No foot traffic, either.
no subject
Not ideal. ]
You want to see if we can slip away? Here or back in the other room?
[ He inhales slowly from his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment longer.
Just for appearances, even though he's comfortably convinced no one can hear them, ]
Maybe have our own tête-à-tête.
no subject
Oh, sweetheart, I thought you'd never ask.
[ He thinks it over for a second. Ideally, he figures, they'd want to put a highly dangerous biochemical weapon in a low-traffic area – even if that low traffic area does pose as something of a fire hazard, with liquor and lighters and lit cigars free for the taking.
If it is nearby, they certainly have a great deal of faith in its containment.
He doesn't nod this time to show Vasquez his intentions; instead, he trusts the other man to wander behind him as he heads to one of the exits leading out of the smoking room.
Small as the space is, he doubts they'll be unnoticed if they attempt one of the doors. At best, they'll be shooed away by a polite waiter or waitress. At worst, it'll mark them as clearly not belonging here. Best not to chance it, Faraday figures.
Statesman taught him a great deal, obviously, but he lived a pretty interesting life before Chisolm recruited him. He's always had clever hands, has always had a good instinct for distraction.
They pass by a guest laughing boisterously – a little too drunk on expensive liquor, Faraday figures – with his hands occupied by a full tumbler and a cigar.
Quick and calm and smooth as anything, Faraday slips his lit cigar into the man's trouser pocket.
It should take a few moments for the man to notice his pants on fire, Faraday figures. ]
no subject
So much so that he doesn't even realize Faraday has ditched his cigar until Vasquez prepares to leave his cigar in a nearby ashtray so it can extinguish itself. He looks over to Faraday, intending to gesture to the ashtray, and—
There's no cigar in his hand.
Confusion furrows Vasquez's brow momentarily, but a very brief glance around shows a slow trail of smoke starting to drift from a man's pocket.
Vasquez absolutely does not grin, but it's impossibly close. He abandons his cigar just as the first quizzical noise comes from the group of men behind them. ]
Alfred, is that—
[ And then the shouting starts. ]
no subject
A fair bit of flailing, too, though Faraday misses it by taking them into the first door he reaches. He ushers in Vasquez first before shutting it firmly behind them. Ahead of them is another hallway – Spartan and plain and lit with cheap, bright, bulbs that cast everything in an unflattering light, which tells Faraday that this area isn't meant for guests. A good sign, he figures, though it's just as possible that this just leads to the waitstaff's break room.
The commotion from the lounge is muffled, now, though no less urgent, and Faraday hisses in a breath through his teeth. ]
God dang it, I'm good.
[ He still keeps his voice low, just to be safe, before he grins brightly at Vasquez. ]
Shall we, darlin'?
no subject
Sí, cariño.
[ Vasquez sweeps his arm out, gesturing to the hall ahead of them. ]
After you.
no subject
He stops up short when he hears a quiet, unassuming sneeze, accompanied by a polite, bless you. Faraday slows to a crawl, trusting Vasquez to do the same, before he slowly peeks around the corner.
Down a ways, two men stand on either side of a door, both dressed in nondescript, slightly ill-fitting black suits. They seem disinterested but alert. Faraday taps on the frame of his glasses, zooming in, switching the view.
Oh, those men are definitely armed. His glasses helpfully point out the pistols in shoulder holster beneath the men's jackets.
Faraday jerks his head, guiding Vasquez back the way they came to get them out of earshot. ]
Well. This seems promisin'.
no subject
And then—
The quiet sneeze makes Vasquez freeze. There's no sign that they've been noticed, at least, and he continues at Faraday's creeping pace. When they reach the doorway, instead of taking a peek for himself, Vasquez taps into Faraday's visual feed on his glasses to see through Faraday's eyes.
Those guards are clearly guarding something, even if they're hanging around with the kind of boredom that indicates they're not expecting someone to bust in.
Their mistake.
He shuffles back with Faraday, switching back his HUD once they're far enough to whisper. ]
Distraction or sedation, guero?
[ They have no idea how long it will take to get into the other room; if they're lucky, it's been left unlocked with the posted guards instead. If they're slightly less lucky, the lock is pickable or hackable.
If their luck is horrible, it's impossibly sealed and they're fucked.
That seems less likely. ]
no subject
[ This, as he's cycling through options on his watch, stopping on the Amnesia setting. ]
You take left. I got right.
no subject
[ But, as Faraday turns to his watch, Vasquez does the same. He twists a few dials, and with the correct setting, he offers a short nod.
They've done this so many times together that the beat between moving is all Vasquez needs.
With practiced, perfect ease, Vasquez rounds the corner with his watch at the ready. Before the guards can even properly react or open their mouths, they collapse into heaps with darts in their necks. There's no hitch in the precision, in the way he moves opposite Faraday, because he knows exactly how his partner fits into their rhythm.
They may wreck shit, but they also know what the hell they're doing. ]
no subject
The two men drop like sacks of potatoes, and Faraday continues on toward the door.
Ah. A touchpad lock beside the door.
He changes the settings on his watch again, switching to Hack. ]
I think we're gettin' warmer.
no subject
Maybe we can even end the night early, eh?
Get out of these stupid suits.
no subject
[ This, a little absently, as he's tracking the progress of the hack. ]
And don't think for a second this'll get you outta that drink you owe me.
no subject
Was that a compliment, cariño?
no subject
Then, simply, ]
No.
[ The watch beeps pleasantly, announcing the lock has been hacked, and the touchpad echoes the noise. The door clicks and Faraday jerks his head toward it. ]
C'mon.
[ Shorthand for cover me. ]
no subject
His grin only fades when the door opens, and he nods once, all business again. ]
Entendido.
[ He has his watch at the ready, and his (conveniently tiny) pistol in an inconspicuous shoulder holster within reach. ]
Right behind you.
no subject
He creeps forward, quickly testing the door. Unlocked, it seems; they must have put a great deal of faith in the two guardsmen outside, or else put a lot of trust in their would-be customers not trying to take a gander at the lot a little too early. After a quick pause to ensure Vasquez is still at the ready, he pushes the door open. ]
Oh, thank fuck.
[ This murmured beneath his breath.
Because inside the storage room, aside from shelves lining the walls containing various tools and equipment, is a heavy metal crate with yet another keypad lock – practically screaming for attention with how carefully unremarkable it is. ]
Was half-expecting this to be their wine cellar.
no subject
When they make it to the metal crate, he actually sighs with relief. ]
No kidding.
Tag it and we can get out of here.
[ Because there is absolutely no way they're moving the damn crate on their own. Getting it through the hotel unnoticed? Not likely.
They're also exposed here, with their only real exit strategy being the way they came. ]
no subject
[ This, as he's plucking a small, plastic bag from the inside of his jacket.
Their normal bugs work well, attaching to clothing like little burs, but there was always the chance they'd be noticed – or worse, that they'd fall off. For this, they needed something practically undetectable, and Faraday frees the tracker – flat and tiny.
("This is expensive, Faraday," he was told, over and over and over. "Keep track of it. We're only shippin' you two out with one of these."
For once, he seems to have taken the warnings to heart.)
He kneels down, adhering the tracker to a low point on one of the crate's faces – harder to spot that way, though as he pulls his hand back, he admits it's almost impossible to spot even while he's looking straight at it.
He moves through the settings on his watch again – faster than tapping through on his glasses – and pulls up their tracking program. A red blip shows up on the radar, showing the tracker is active. ]
We're good here.
no subject
Then let's get going.
[ Like he said, the sooner they get free of this party, the sooner they can loosen these ties and finally shrug off the overly formal masks they've worn all night.
This time, Vasquez takes point heading back. The hall is still quiet, and when they return to the bodies of the guards, they haven't budged. They shouldn't be out for much longer, and they'll just wake up confused with some mild headaches.
Vasquez steps around a splayed leg, pausing to nudge an arm with his loafer.
Nope, still out.
Vasquez is still alert – both thanks to his training with Statesman and his life before – but he's also more at ease, knowing they've accomplished their goal for the night and that they won't have to go back and deal with insufferable smalltalk anymore.
He glances back at Faraday as they make their way down the hall towards the smoking lounge. He still keeps his voice low, because he's not an idiot. ]
What were you thinking for your drink—
[ But he stops short as the sound of a doorknob turns down the hall. ]
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