You barely have time to finish your drink before the Manager summons you back with a phone call. Her voice is even, almost painfully so, and after knowing her this long, you know that she is holding onto her composure by the skin of her teeth. You don't think you've heard her like this in recent memory - you shouldn't tarry.
"I apologise for cutting the evening short, Sans," you say once you hang up, looking at him apologetically. You are truly regretful that you have to head back without spending more time with him.
Sans smiles at you, just barely not a smirk, and shakes his head. His bare phalanges find your gloved hand, bringing it up to his teeth where he nuzzles it affectionately in a skeleton kiss. "that's alright," he says, looking up at you from where he's bent over your hand. "with that kinda news...it's worse than mine. sorta."
You look at him amusedly. Indeed, Asgore still lives, their safehouse still stands. Which is more than can be said for the Elder and the New York branch.
"yeah, too soon?"
You stifle a laugh and shake your head. "No."
He grins. Lets go of your hand hesitantly. "mind if i come with ya?" At your look, he takes a puff of his cigar. "i get ta hear what's goin' on and give the manager a heads up 'bout tori. two birds, one stone and all that jazz. and ya get ta explain what the elder is ta me. sounds like he's a bigwig though."
Oh yes. You really were labouring under the assumption that the monsters had learned about the different ranks and titles by now, but you suppose it's a lot to take in.
You only have to think about it for one moment. It would be good. And if the Manager preferred not to have him there, she would tell him to leave. With a nod, you sweep out to get your umbrella and lead Sans back to the Hotel.
Or rather, Sans offers to teleport you back to the Hotel and you agree.
"My Heart," the Manager spins around and walks towards you with a strained smile as you enter her office, Sans in tow. "And Mister Sans."
"hey." He waves. She inclines her head. "hope ya don't mind me crashin' this lil meeting."
"Not at all." Though she gives you a tired but amused look. "My Heart. You've heard, yes?"
"Yes."
She nods. "Winston has been removed from his position as Manager and declared excommunicado. And Charon..."
No. Oh no. It is only by will alone that your expression doesn't change, but only just. By the tone of her voice, he...
"Charon was executed."
Fuck. You close your eyes - the only outward reaction you give. The New York concierge had been in his position for longer than you had, and while you were active he had been nothing but kind and professional. The standard every concierge holds themselves to. The standard you hold yourself to.
"The Marquis?" you ask evenly, with only a tinge of strain in your voice. It could be no one else.
The Manager nods again. "The New York branch has been completely demolished at his order - it's no longer operational."
That's bad. It's so bad that words can't describe it. You have never known a Continental to be so completely destroyed as to be inoperable. Not since the Accords between the High Table and the Continentals were struck...
This would be bad not only for the other Continentals but also for the assassins in New York.
"And the Elder?" You knew, through the grapevine, that John Wick had previously found the Elder, but that he had spared him in exchange for a pardon. He wouldn't have gone back for the Elder, surely? But deep down, you know better.
"John Wick's doing." The Manager looks like she has aged ten years, the lines on her face suddenly stark in the light from her desk lamp. "That happened some time ago - pilgrims found the remains of the Elder and his attendants. One survived and identified the Baba Yaga as their executioner."
That made some sense - it would line up with the appointment of the Marquis as Imperator and now with the destruction of the New York branch.
Which reminds you. Shifting so you can turn your head enough to speak to Sans without turning your back to the Manager, you speak quietly, "The Elder leads the High Table, defined as 'the One who sits above the Table'."
Understanding floods Sans' face then and he nods, taking a drag from his cigar but saying nothing more.
The Manager watches you both with a hawk-like gaze, meeting your dead eyes as you turn back to her. "We know a Harbinger visited Winston before this happened. It's possible, and quite likely, that this came about due to the fiasco with the Adjudicator earlier this year - because Winston gave Mr Wick an hour to escape."
"But you don't believe that."
"No."
Then, Sans speaks up, his mind clearly turning behind those bright red eye lights. "They're flushing this John Wick out."
Two human eyes turn and fall on the skeleton monster, who chews on his cigar and smirks at the two of you.
"Explain," the Manager turns and takes a seat, crossing her legs as she looks at him with piercing eyes.
"John Wick seems to be a rather elusive man, but he is excommunicado. He will need weapons, shelter, and most of all, information but with few places to turn to. Destroy his safehouses until he only has a known few." Then he shrugs, blowing some smoke with his face turned away. "Also helps ta cow any signs of rebellion amongst the regular folk. If they can take yer sanctuaries, nowhere is safe."
The Manager hums, turning her eyes to her desk as she worries at her chin with her fingers. "I agree. Some Hotels enjoy a strong relationship with Mister Wick; killing any supports he might have would be a smart move."
Sans frowns slightly. "What about this Hotel?"
Both you and the Manager look at each other for a long heartbeat. You nod. She sighs, then speaks. "Not currently. But we have, individually, stood against the Table previously with varying levels of success and are more likely to sympathise with his goal. Due to our previous...misunderstandings, some consider us to have less fealty than some other branches."
"So they'd come here to prove a point." The red light in Sans' eyes seem to glow brighter. He leers at you with...hunger? in his eyes. As though this new revelation has made him want to corner you and take up some of your attention. You shoot him a warning look, to which he grins and sits back on his heels.
The Manager ignores the exchange, her eyes going distant as she plots and plans in her head. "All speculation." She waves her hand as if to dispell her thoughts to no avail.
A moment of quiet descends then, until you realise - after Winston, the person closest to John Wick who also runs a Hotel is...
"Osaka."
Sans looks at you curiously, but the Manager only makes a sound in her throat - an agreement.
"Shimazu Koji would be their next target, if we are confining ourselves to individuals connected with John Wick." The Manager's voice starts out soft, then hardens the longer she speaks. She looks up at you, steel in her gaze.
You straighten up, hands falling from being folded in front of you to dangle by your sides. You know that tone. You know that look. "What would you have me do, ma'am?" You already know.
She smiles, a sharp edge to her expression. "Pack your bag, my Heart. You're going to bolster Osaka."
Owen had been expecting some files from Martha Jones, so when he found the large official-looking envelope on his desk, he grabbed it and headed to the medical bay without second thought. He thought he saw a UNIT logo somewhere, but didn't stop to wonder why it was a rather odd-shaped and soft package. He wanted to know more about the body they'd found three days ago, so he tore it open and stuck his hand inside.
And pulled out a pair of trousers.
Red trousers.
Red, lace trousers.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, dropping the offensive item as if it burned. He poked it with his foot. Yes, definitely red lace trousers. Flowers and vines and very see through. For the love of god…
"Harkness!" he shouted. "Get your arse over here!"
He grabbed a pair of forceps and picked up the undergarment. When Jack leaned over the railing, grinned, and opened his mouth, Owen held up his other hand.
"Shut up. Down here. Now."
Jack's eyes widened at Owen's tone, but he hurried down the stairs and stopped in front of Owen with his hands tucked into his pockets, the grin less blinding but threatening to burst at any moment.
"What's the problem, Owen? Can't decide what to wear tomorrow? Or doesn't it fit?"
"Sod off," Owen snapped. He waved the red lace. "What the hell is this?"
Jack bit his lip and shrugged. "Looks like a rather breezy pair of trousers."
"Breezy?" Owen repeated. "Jack, this is ridiculous. These are red lace lounge pants. And they were on my desk, in my mail!"
Jack raised an eyebrow; Owen wondered how hard it was for the man to not burst out laughing. "Secret admirer?" he asked.
"Yeah, apparently Martha Jones," Owen snapped. "I was expecting files. Why the hell is Martha sending us red underwear?"
Jack frowned. "I don't know. I asked for a red hat last time she was here." At Owen's look of confusion, he continued. "You know, those sexy UNIT caps? The red berets? I wanted one for—"
"Don't say it," Owen cut him off. "Because I really don't want to know. So this should be a hat? The problem is that it was addressed to me, not you."
"Maybe she thought you'd like it?" Jack suggested. He took a step back when Owen glared at him. "Honestly, I have no idea. They are kind of sexy, though. You know who'd look good in them?"
"I don't care," Owen replied. "I'm burning them."
"What?" Jack exclaimed. He reached for the trousers, but Owen dangled them out of his reach. "No, don't do that! I'll take them if you don't want them."
"I'm sure you would," Owen said. "And then parade around the office in them, which is why I'm burning them. Save us all the trauma."
"What trauma?" asked Ianto, appearing over the railing. "Oh. I see." He cleared his throat. "Nice choice of undergarment, Owen."
Owen and Jack turned toward him. "Martha sent them," Owen said. "I was expecting files and instead I got filth."
"They're not that bad," Jack protested.
"Jack, it's like something from a seventies porn flick. Can't you at least ask her for something normal, like a keychain or something?"
"Not as much fun," said Jack. "Those look much more entertaining. Hand them over."
"No way," said Owen. "Jones, I'm doing this for you."
"I appreciate your concern, Doctor," Ianto replied dryly. Jack started reaching for them again.
"Come on, Owen. Just give 'em up. You don't want them, so why can't I have them? Martha sent them all this way, someone should enjoy them."
"Yeah, you or Ianto?"
Ianto cleared his throat. "Not interested."
Jack whirled on him. "What? But they're hot! Look at them! They're the perfect size for—"
"For what, Jack?" asked Ianto, leaning on the railing. "For you? Did you plan to wear them for us tomorrow?"
"Well, no," said Jack. "I was sort of thinking…er, hoping…well…"
Ianto stood straight. "Not a chance." He pulled a red UNIT cap from inside his jacket pocket. "Uniforms only. Burn it, Owen." With that he turned and left, leaving both men speechless.
"I really didn't need to see that," Owen muttered. Jack, however, was wide-eyed, his mouth half open.
"I did," he said. He darted up the stairs. "Go ahead and burn it. I don't need it after all."
"Too much information!" Owen called after him. He sighed and dropped the lacey trousers into the rubbish bin. He couldn't be arsed going downstairs to the incinerator. Glancing back at the envelope that had started the whole nightmarish scene, Owen looked inside, but it was empty. He frowned, wondering where the files were. Heading back upstairs to look for them, he almost ran into Ianto, holding out a large sheaf of papers.
"Looking for this?" he asked. His face was straight, but Owen could hear the smirk in the Welshman's voice.
"You planted that envelope, didn't you?"
Ianto raised an eyebrow. "Of course."
"Right. That was low," Owen murmured. "I might have to bleach my brain."
"Just taking advantage when opportunity presents itself," Ianto replied. He was still smirking behind the dry demeanor.
"Of course," Owen muttered. "So did you buy it for him, or did he get it for you? You're both so depraved now I have no idea."
Ianto finally smiled at him, a snarky grin that made Owen want to rip the man's lips off sometimes. "Gwen ordered it for Rhys," he said. "I merely intercepted it." He tipped his head. "Enjoy the files Martha sent."
He left Owen groaning in the medical bay. Glancing down at the rubbish bin, he decided he'd burn them for sure later that afternoon. And if burning it meant he could forget everything that had happened in the last ten minutes, he'd stand in front of the fire all day.
