Mission One
Grace was practicing her quick-draw, having tucked her spiffy new identification wallet into the pocket of her heavy leather jacket. She'd whip it out, unfold it to flash the shiny badge within, then snap it shut and put it away again, looking at her shadow where it had been cast on the wall by the fluorescent lights overhead. No reflection meant she couldn't use the mirrors, which was kind of a drag, but making her own fun - even of the non-killing kind - was something she was good at.

Black jacket, dark blue workpants, heavy boots, white wife-beater. She felt very Erik Estrada right now, getting ready to go out and be all law-abiding. Wonders never ceased. "Oh, yeah, I'm hot," the vampire muttered, putting the wallet away again.

What she wasn't crazy about was the idea of a partner, especially the partner they'd assigned her. A girl was known by the company she kept, after all. But whatever, she wasn't going to kick over it. She knew what her agenda was here. As long as she followed the rules on the surface, she could get done what she needed to get done.

Grace's new 'partner' eyed the spectacle from afar.

" 'Cause nothing puts the fear in a Gnaral demon quite like gold plating." Rhiannon made no effort to check her facial expression. Distaste. If matches within the U.S. government were made in Hell, then they'd gotten this just about right. The only thing more absurd would've been sticking her with Deanna. One or the other would be dead before they got outdoors.

True, Grace was rumored to be a decent fighter. Someone who could keep up. That was a plus. But a slayer/vampire duo was probably asking for disaster, like pouring a bottle of bleach in with ammonia. Particularly when they had a history of not liking to share.

(Matthew)

Perhaps that was a tidbit the Feds hadn't been able to dig up. Rhiannon slouched in her chair. It was a straight back, set against a conference table where she supposed they'd get 'debriefed' by a suit before they were dispatched on Mission #1. At least they'd been allowed to skip basic training. There were people doing actual aerobics in the room beyond.

"Gold plating's the shit, man," Grace responded with a distracted look at the Slayer. "I was thinkin' about putting some gold rims on the Plymouth, but it wouldn't look right against the whitewall tires." Shwe shook her head, still fiddling with the ID wallet. She looked around for a 'No Smoking' sign, then said a mental fuck it and lit up anyway. She was on the payroll now, the least they could do was let her have a smoke inside. Screw regulations. The Marlboro was quickly lit, the lighter tucked out of sight. The chair creaked as she slouched back in it, crossing one booted foot over the other.

"Some world, ain't it?" she asked Rhiannon, her tone not quite idle. "Us at the same table. Reckon next pigs'll start flyin'."

"Mm." The noncommittal noise didn't give much away. As verbose as the Slayer was with demons, not only at the bar but on patrol, she felt very tight-lipped now. If she was being honest, she probably wouldn't have been any chattier had another Slayer been sitting across from her. The whole situation was uncomfortable. No matter who her partner was, they felt like an enemy, because Rhiannon didn't want to be there.

Her eyes eased up to the vampire's face. Sooner or later, Rhiannon knew, they were going to have a problem. No way would Grace let the Slayer turn a blind eye to somebody like Connor. She'd have to figure out how to manipulate the circumstances, unless she had a bargaining chip. She wondered what loyalties Grace hid.

Everybody had them.

Rhiannon lightly tapped her knuckles against the table. It took about ten seconds for her to want a cigarette. She revealed her own pack of Marlboros and lit up. "Could be worse," she decided. "You could be a nonsmoker. You could be..." She mentally scrolled through a list of options. "Tristan."

"I could be Deanna." Grace exhaled, looking at Rhiannon sideways. "But I'm not, which is why furniture's not flying across the room right now. As it is, I'm not involved in that shit. If she had asked me for my assistance, I wouldn't have hesitated. That woman's been damned good to me. But she didn't ask, and ergo, what's betwixt her and you is betwixt her and you."

Leather creaked as she shrugged one shoulder. Did it irk the Slayer, that she could make such a pronouncement in a reasonably calm fashion? Possibly; Rhiannon's expression seemed to suggest that someone had given her a colossal wedgie recently. Then again, maybe she just didn't like Grace's face.

The vampire put one boot on the desk in front of her and looked at it. They needed polishing. The thick rubber sole hit the floor again with a muted thump. "I guess it could be worse too," she allowed, looking at a point on the wall over the framed picture of the President. "You could be Matthew."

"No, I couldn't." Rhiannon flicked ashes on the floor and balanced her chair on two legs. "I don't have cut-and-run tendencies." If that comment was any indication, old wounds hadn't healed. There was just something about your Watcher (whom you had naively or perhaps stupidly called 'family') leaving town without a word. It hurt. And while it wasn't a daily or even a weekly worry anymore, she didn't censor herself when the subject came up.

"Look, we might as well get this out of the way," Rhiannon said. Distractedly, she plucked her eyelashes between thumb and forefinger and removed a clump of mascara. "I'm not what you'd call a 'patriot'. I'd rather be driving little toothpicks under my fingernails than hanging out in this conference room. But I don't have any plans to fuck over someone I call my partner. So." She let the chair slam against the floor. "I may not want to be here... and I may not care for vampires... but I'm not going to stab you in the back either. At least not while this is going on." The Slayer gestured at the facility around them.

"Uh huh." A straight shooter. Grace could tolerate that. She herself was seldom less than anything but direct, and now turned out to be no exception when she continued with, "Sounds like you've got your agenda all set up. I've got mine too. I don't see any reason for us to get our wires crossed. Not with Uncle Bossman hanging over our heads." She used her cigarette to point at the photograph of the Commander in Chief, then took a long drag.

"You don't fuck me, I won't fuck you. That sound fair to you?"

Rhiannon smirked. "Yeah." She smoked her cigarette a bit more, then decided there was one more thing she was going to say. After a glance over her shoulder, which verified that the nearest suit was too far beyond the door to overhear, she said, "But if they go after my boyfriend, all bets are off." There were others Rhiannon would protect. People like Whistler and Connor, whom she didn't know if Grace had heard of before, and in that case, she wasn't going to bring them up. But she hadn't seen the government make any overt actions towards them yet and, so far as she knew, neither of them had actually killed an Agent, unlike her significant other.

Now it looked as if the Agent was coming back. There was a brief under his arm. Rhiannon settled in her chair, pulling a knee against her chest and wrapping an arm around it.

Grace had been about to deliver some badly-timed snark, ask how old Joseph was, but the re-appearance of the agent made her close her mouth. This was 'play nice' time, after all. God forfuckingbid she gave signs she might not be getting along with the rest of the class.She kept the smoke going, though.

"What's in there?" she asked the man, slouching back in her seat to inspect the tread of the other boot for a second. "That our homework assignment?"

"Yes." Agent Powell was a humorless drone the DHS must've gotten off a Washington assembly line. Even his underwear were government issue. He pulled a paperclip off the folder and spread its contents between the two women. "You'll begin with reconnaissance. Here." He pointed at exterior photos of a Las Vegas exotic dancing club and a particular man. "When you go inside, you'll both be wired. You're to feed us information about this man. He's a frequest guest. We need photographs of his friends... anyone who visits his table. Then we need you to get him outside, alone."

Agent Powell looked at the female Agents. "I don't care how you do it, as long as it's discreet. Once you're out back, a van will meet you. You're bringing him in. No soft sell."

"Nice implication." Rhiannon looked at the photographs. "Olympic Garden?" It wasn't known as a place where low-lifes hung out. The cigarette burned down between her fingers, and Rhiannon tapped it again. "I don't suppose you're gonna tell us why he's on your shit list. Anything we should know before we approach?"

Despite the fact that she was listening, Grace was also already bored, looking at the papers and photograph with one eye while counting the holes in the tile above the agent's head. If this was what government work entailed, no wonder they had to get vampires to do their dirty work for them.

"He's protected by at least one hybrid bodyguard, " Agent Powell said, "but we haven't been able to get photographs of him. The bodyguard you can neutralize, but we want this guy in here for questioning."

"What's he wanted for?" The vampire asked with mild interest.

"We don't reveal that except on a need-to-know basis. You don't need to know," Agent Powell said.

Lousy bureaucrat. Grace thought about putting her sandy boots back on his spotless desk just for spite. "We supposed to get to this joint on our own two feet or provide wheels?"

Powell didn't bother pointing with his arm. He pointed with his eyes, outside the room where another, more-seasoned Federal employee waited with keys in hand. "That's Agent Sims. He'll distribute your Op Tech in the van and drop you off two blocks from the establishment. You'll go in on foot. When you have the target in custody, he'll meet you out back." Powell gathered the contents of folder.

Rhiannon churned her cigarette against the sole of her boot and put the butt in her pocket. "Great." Because she, like Grace, was more of a doer and less of a planner, she wanted to get out of there. This was too much like listening to a Watcher issue commands, albeit a very clinical, disaffected one. "Agent Hutchinson?" The brunette scraped her chair back and stood up. "Shall we?"

"Agent Lee, I'd be delighted to." Grace's chair skittered across the floor as she pushed her weight out of it and almost tipped over, but she caught it absently with one hand and righted it. Out in the hall. she looked the other suit up and down before giving him a meaningless smile.

In the van, she and Rhiannon got rigged up with their listening devices, and the vampire decided that tape anywhere near her breasts was a thing she didn't enjoy. "If this chafes, I'm gonna be pissed," she said to no one in particular.

The van turned a particularly vicious corner. Rhiannon reached out to brace herself against the wall. "Look on the bright side. At least we don't have chest hair." The driver accelerated out of the curve and she settled back against the side of the van. Noticing a system of restraints, the brunette nudged them with her boot. "Jesus. These guys aren't dicking around." She remembered Beowawe, and couldn't help noticing the similarity between how the Scourge operated on their rounds and how the government was going about things now.

The Slayer kicked the buckle out of her way, the same way she tried to cast off her doubts.. "So how do you want to do this? One of us on recon, the other on approach?"

That was a good question, especially since the answer depended on how much Grace wanted to fight. She mulled it over while she tugged on the restraints to test their strength.

"I'll take the approach," she decided aloud. "I've hung out in strip clubs before, it'll look less obvious if I'm in the crowd with the other sweaty bastards. 'Sides, that bodyguard might be armed, and no offense, but I can take a bullet better than you can."

Fortunately the drive didn't take long, which was good because the van started to feel claustrophobic with a quickness. Probably something to do with the heavy-duty restraints, since Grace didn't think she'd seen a rig that complex outside of a mental hospital before. She gave one of the straps one final tug, then let go. Creepy shit.

The doors opened, and she and the Slayer found themselves in an alley behind the place. "Walk around front, use the regular entrance," their driver said, like they were morons. Grace wanted to eat him just on principle. She banged the door closed. "Your mother, Bucky."

Rhiannon told Grace that no offense was taken, though she wasn't sure she believed it. Once they were outside, she fiddled with her earpiece and said. "Alright, when we get inside, I'll find someplace inconspicuous. I'll hang back and feed the pictures to Sims, and then I'll head out here when it looks like you're moving. The bodyguard's gonna follow you. No offense, but if he's a half-breed, he'll smell the vampire on you a mile away. He'll probably skip bullets and go right for a stake."

She pulled out her wallet, in search of an ID. "Think they'll comp us for the cover?" She gave Grace a half-smile and started around the corner of the building.

Agent Sims put the van in gear and moved it down the alley a bit. His voice carried over their earpieces. "This is Sims, do you copy?"

Feeling like she was on a twisted episode of Alias, Rhiannon answered, "Disturbingly loud and clear," and got into the queue, where a bouncer waited. If he checked too thoroughly for weapons, she'd be able to pull her badge and get in, which was a strangely refreshing turn.

Grace rolled her shoulders, settling into herself as the line progressed. One titty bar was pretty much like any other, it was just that this was techinically 'work'. If she got lucky, the girls wouldn't be scags. No one said she couldn't look, right, even while she was on duty?

The bouncer's shaved head glistened with sweat in the light coming from inside, and he did a cursory search followed by an ID check. The vampire caught the heavy door with one hand to allow the Slayer to pass her by, then ducked inside to look for a seat. And there was their boy...

"Target acquired," she said with full irony, being a total fan of Jason Bourne if not Matt Damon. "Looks like he's already had a few."

Rhiannon nodded, sliding her ID back in her pocket. "God, would you get a load of the bodyguard?" she murmured, looking away after a few seconds. "He's got to be at least 300 pounds." She scouted a position for herself across the room, with a relatively clear shot of the target's table. "I'm gonna buy a drink and get in position by those doors. Don't have too much fun without me." She headed away from Grace and tracked down a waitress, who got her a drink. Then she was off to be as inconspicuous as the lone straight woman in a strip club could be. Once she was in position, the brunette pulled out what looked like her regular cell phone, but was actually a camera that cost more than her car.

"Uploading pervy photographs," she mumbled, pretending to send a text message while she focused beyond the bottom half of an exotic dancer to the man who was their target. He was broad and stocky, with a full brown beard and some kind of ring on his right hand. Probably from college or a sports team. "Was this guy a linebacker in a former life?" She took a few shots of his bodyguard and the other customers seated in his vicinity. As a waitress happened by, Rhiannon closed the phone and asked an inane question about the food menu.


[Thread: Open to Grace]