OOC: I really wasn't feeling writing the "The Search For God" arc, and seeing as though it was more or less a precursor to the main plot line, I decided to just move forward. Things lost from the prequel will hopefully be made clear through the course of the series moving forward.
"Militem," the condescending voice of the man seated at the desk in front of me begins, his thin, bony finger pointed at my chest.
"Militem Dominum," I state, matter-of-factly. My normally faint Australian accent creeps further and further into prevalence as I utter the remaining bit of my request: "Either you say it right; or you don't say it at all."
"Of course," the supervisor shoots back, chuckling. "I forgot, you're from the Sydney branch. You Aussies do everything ass backwards."
"Well, if you don't want me sticking to the role, I could always use my real name. What was it again - Michael-"
"No need for that!" he exclaims, wiping a droplet of nervous sweat from the bridge of his nose. I lean back in the padded, leather seat and look upward at the ceiling with a smile on my face. Not even here five minutes, and I already got my supervisor sweating.
"Then say it right. Also, the correct answer was Melbourne."
Must've pushed my luck, the deathly thin man sitting opposite me simply utters some unintelligible phrase that seemed like a cross between "fuck you" and "whatever" before looking down at his desk. At this point, the door behind me slides open, and in my peripheral vision I see one of the company's secretaries - her name tag reading Veronica Dufresne. Walking past me, a cup of what smells like coffee resting on a saucer in her hand, I can't help but feel as though she smiled at me or something. She carefully lays the saucer down on the desk, on the left hand side of where the man who was likely her boss was seated. Well, right hand. Left hand for me, though.
Turning back around to leave the office, I catch a full glimpse of her. Coincidentally enough, she's the spitting image of your stereotypical secretary: medium length blonde hair, glasses, incredibly attractive. Okay, maybe the last one isn't so typical. Looking over to the door, she walks closer to it, before stopping a few inches in front of where I sat.
"You must be the new guy?" she asks, her thick French accent drowning each word in pretentiousness and perpetual confusion. "Nice to meet you!" she says, extending a hand to me, which I accept without the slightest hesitation.
"The pleasure's all mine." Smooth.
She giggles, before walking the rest of the way out into the maze of connected hallways that make up every floor of this God forsaken tower. Or, should I say: Lord forsaken? On her way out, I turn and look behind the back of the chair at her. Nice ass.
I turn back to the supervisor, who already began drinking the brown liquid in his cup. He sets the cup back on the saucer, taking a few seconds to swallow any remaining coffee he had in his mouth, before talking.
"Welcome to Montreal, Militem Dominum, your new home."
I grip the armrests of the chair, leaning forward a bit, until I no longer feel my back pressed into the dense, comfortable material. With a sigh, and a slight attempt at clearing my throat (I say slight in the sense that what came out was an awkward "heh," and absolutely nothing changed regarding the situation of the slight hint of mucus possibly forming and settling on the walls of my esophagus), I look the man dead in the eye, and respond.
"I think I'm gonna like it here."
"I'm not sure how they handle things in Aussie-land, but here where company guidelines matter, it's sort of an unwritten rule that you don't sleep with your co-workers." Damn, that was harsh.
"Who said anything about that?"
"Don't be so coy. I saw the way you were looking at Miss Dufresne." Shit, busted. Quick, I gotta think of a way to derail this train of thought.
"Speaking of work and company guidelines, what exactly is my job here, boss?" That ought to keep him talking long enough to forget about the inevitable sleeping with co-workers that's going to be happening sooner rather than later.
"Don't play dumb," he said with a sigh. "You're going to be an agent, just like you were in Perth."
"Melbourne."
"Be glad I didn't say Auckland."
"Touche." Even he understands how much New Zealand sucks. I might like this guy, after all. "There's gotta be more to it than that. You wouldn't request my presence here if I was just doing grunt work-"
"Grunt work? Here in Montreal, there's no such thing as grunt work!"
"Oh, right. You're the Detroit of the tundra."
"Wrong," he says, taking a sip of his coffee. "Detroit is the Montreal of the United States."
"Doubt that. Don't you know that Americans invented everything?"
Once more, he puts the cup back on the saucer, the clank from the two pieces of glassware meeting accompanied by a laugh. "If you ever listen to one of those pigs speak, you'd think they did!"
Precisely why the joke works, asshole. I take that back, I might turn out not liking this guy like I assumed. Superiors aren't normally my thing anyway, Canadian superiors? This is an uncharted territory of awkward conversation that makes me hate someone's guts.
"Seriously though, you've made it clear you don't think too highly of Aussies. Why would you handpick one to come over here?"
"Every conglomerate of social pariahs has at least one exception. Looking at your track record, I came to the conclusion that you definitely are an exception." He rubs his chin with two fingers. "That, and I don't gotta pay through the roof for one of you spear chucking, English rejects like I would if I picked a kraut."
Ouch, racism.
"You see? That just furthers my question. Why do you need a foreigner at all?"
"Okay, fine. You want to know your briefing already?"
"Already? If I was back in Melbourne, I'd already be done with this meeting!"
"Irrelevant. Allow me to repeat myself; do you want to know your briefing already?"
"Yes."
"It's waiting on your desk."
Ugh. I get out of the chair, turning around to walk out the door into the hallway, when another thought occurs to me. The door slides open, and as I step into the open doorway, I call out one last question that I know won't be answered.
"Also, who the hell is Mani Devan?"
In the corner of my eye, I see him open his mouth to speak, but the door closes behind me before any words get out. Continuing down the hallway, I catch a glimpse of who else - Veronica Dufresne. Part of me wants to stop and turn the charm on, but ultimately I decide a nod in her direction is enough. No need trying right away. Onward to actual work, for the first time in a while. This should be interesting, seeing the circumstances that drove me to this position.
After a forty five second walk, that took me down a couple of wrong passageways, I finally find my office. The window looking into the room marked Militem Dominum - Third Tier Agent. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a key chain, and easily spot the correct one in the sea of four total. Moving across the world has some benefit. I open the door and step inside, instantly being assaulted by the heater.
"Temperature, sixty degrees."
"Affirmative," a cold, robotic voice calls out from the ceiling. Good.
I look over to my desk, where sure enough, a manila folder sat on the spotless glass surface. That however, was the least of my concerns right now. Walking over to the armoire, I take a deep breath before pulling one of the doors open.
Perfect. My signature red and gold colored robe. I carefully take it out of the fancy piece of storage and put it on. Closing the door, I walk back over to the desk, and flip open the folder. One word greets my eyes with the force of a slap to the face.
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