Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-26130256-20170711055926/@comment-26130256-20171230092621

Azulius yawned fitfully as he walked into the cafeteria. Flagg's overkill policy extended to their dormitories, and whatever clouds got stuffed into his mattress made for one of the best rounds of sleep the mobster ever had, especially with jet lag. Everything looked like it was going to be a great day...

Until Not!Trigo shocked him out of his reverie with the least flattering picture of Uncle Trigo he had ever seen.

"I think better with food in my stomach.  Can we pause this conversation before I answer?" Not!Trigo and his friend shrugged, which gave Edom all the opening he needed to make a beeline for the food.

Obviously, this looked bad, but not excessively so. Based on that guy's style of dress and bad accent, it should have been obvious he knew something about the family. And it wasn't like the eyes, the same shade of brown eyes inherited by every Cardamom from Jasper himself down to Azzie's six-year-old cousin, were a secret by any stretch. Still, the imposter (the bad imposter, Azulius corrected himself) didn't seem extra knowledgable about the family, so it should have been relatively easy to give him a false lead or two.

In a few minutes, Edom returned to the table. One half of his plate was occupied by a bowl of apple cinnamon oatmeal, with a handful of dried cranberries sprinkled on top. The other half was a piece of frybread hollowed out like a pita and stuffed with an impressive amount of eggs, bacon, peppers, lamb, mushrooms, and a few other things he could barely pronounce, but smelled great. Washed down with a glass of half orange juice, half lemon-lime soda, it was a breakfast fit for champions. Extremely hungover champions.

"Glad to see the jet lag hasn't ruined your appetite," Not!Trigo quipped once Edom had sat down.

"The good night's sleep helps too," Edom replied as he took a bite of his sandwich-thing. "Seriously, those mattresses are something else."

"No kidding!  But about that picture--"

"Before I forget, I don't think I've ever asked your name.  We should probably fix that."

"My given name is Cebada," the wannabe Vacuan shook hands with Edom before continuing. "My friends call me Ceb for short, and what my enemies call me ain't exactly fit for repeating in mixed company," he gestured at two rather pretty girls at the other end of the table, but they seemed to be embroiled in a discussion about long-range weaponry. The blonde bob cut with chameleon horns loved how her giant laser didn't have to worry about bullet drop or wind, while the human with the forest green ponytail countered that her sniper rifle had never bloomed into uselessness because of a thick cloud of dust. After eavesdropping for a few more seconds, the men returned to their conversation.

"Now, as for your picture, I feel like that color is all wrong, at least from my experience.  I remember hearing the Cardamom brown had a little more red in it, like cinnamon," Edom ate a heaping spoonful of oatmeal to make the point. "His eyes look more like a dark chocolatey brown to me."

"Why do you say that?" Cebada raised an eyebrow. "Didn't ya say you were from Vale?  Your accent says so, at least."

''Damn straight my accent says so. Unlike yours,'' Azulius thought before responding. "I am from Vale, but the Cardamoms don't just operate in Vacuo.  There's a building in Vale, a few blocks from my job, that's rumored to be a branch of the family.  No evidence you could use in court, obviously, but I've seen a decent number of folks with Vacuan accents coming and going there.  And a whole lot of them have the same cinnamon-brown eye color.  The funniest thing."

=
Meanwhile, Trigo Cardamom's red eye flight had touched down at Agua Fria. The director moseyed through customs without incident and made his way over to his waiting ride. Despite Flagg's absurd wealth, the vehicle resembled nothing more than a silver Toyota. Under the appearance, the car had armor enough to handle mid-grade explosives, reinforced windows and ventilation systems, a pair of SMGs concealed in the doors for easy access, and the two men in suits waiting by the door had the relaxed ready stance of veteran operators.

"Director Cardiffson," one of the men nodded as he opened the passenger rear door, "Glad to see you've arrived safely."

"Sangfroid," the director nodded as he got in. "Glad to see that arm's healed up."

<p style="font-weight:400;">"Clean living and lots of Viton," the Eliminator smiled subtly once he had gotten into the shotgun seat (which did, in fact, conceal an automatic shotgun underneath a hidden panel) "plus avoiding any drugged-up lunatics with chainsaws."

<p style="font-weight:400;">"Yes, I try to avoid those at every opportunity." Out of everyone who had challenged him at Flagg, only five people had ever managed to beat Trigo in a one-on-one, tournament-style fight, and only three of those five had done it more than once. Sangfroid wasn't one of the club, but he had come frightfully close the last time they sparred. The injury in question came from the man's last assignment, where he made the mistake of blocking a chainsaw-axe with the wrong part of his body. "And here I was hoping to get a rematch out of you."

<p style="font-weight:400;">"I'll just get in line for next time.  And by the way, Director Hargreave told me to give this to you once we were underway." Reaching around the seat, Sangfroid placed a bottle of Tortuga Silver rum in the Director's hands.

<p style="font-weight:400;">"Bless that woman," Trigo smiled as he opened the bottle and took a swig. Maybe this trip wouldn't be so bad after all.