Cecilia Benoit stood outside of the bar regarding the sign, then looked down at the advertisement in her hand.
Two hundred Nexus dollars per day. The Nexus didn't actually have an official currency, but whatever the exchange rate was for various other worlds, 'nexus dollars' was the general term used for the equivalent. To her estimation, if she took the job and taught for four hours a day, that would be near about fifty an hour, which was a fair rate for a vocal instructor. Even if she found herself needing to put in more hours, that would still be a good salary, enough to get a roof back over her head and some necessities.
She wasn't planning on making this strange place a permanent home, but thanks to the worsening Gulf storms, her own house, which she had been born in as a matter of fact, and her mother before her, was no longer standing. Ending up in the Nexus was purely an accident, but she might as well make herself comfortable until she found somewhere else to go.
Cecilia was nothing if not pragmatically practical, and though she crossed herself before opening the door -- what kind of a den of iniquity could a place by that name run by a man named Greed be? -- she nevertheless squared her shoulders and stepped inside.
The lighting was surprisingly ordinary, and at first look around, it seemed more like the average restaurant pub than the sort of bar the name implied. A man -- a very tall, very large man whose build and countenance somehow put her in mind of an ox -- asked if she needed any help.
"I am looking for someone named Greed, or someone named Elsa," she announced, and showed him the flier.
"I haven't seen Elsa today, but follow me. The boss is back in his office."
They went past a very well-stocked bar, and she noted with approval that the floor and furnishings were cleaner than the mental image of the establishment that had begun to form in her mind despite trying not to make assumptions. The large man rapped his knuckles on the door twice before opening it and sticking his head inside.
She couldn't see past him, but their voices were easily heard as he announced her arrival, and another man telling him to send her in.
The large man stepped back. "The boss will see you now, ma'am," and she appreciated the polite and respectful tone with which he addressed her. Maybe this wouldn't be quite such a bad place after all.
Once inside, with the door shut behind her, she studied the black-haired man at the desk, who wore some atrocious sleeveless jacket with a ratty fur collar, and round sunglasses in a style popularized by John Lennon, despite being indoors. The back of his hand sported a red tattoo of some stylized snake biting its own tail. Oroborous, she remembered it was called. She might be a good Catholic woman, but in Terrebonne parish, there had been no escaping learning of the more mystical aspects to the world, and no denying them either.
Nothing was said as he studied her as well over the rims of his dark glasses, and she straightened her spine a little more.
"My name is Cecilia Benoit," she announced. "I am here in response to your notice seeking a vocal instructor." She held out the flier.