feat. @frostkingoftheapocalypse and @apogexn
This town was a dusty place. A film of dirt and grime that settled into every nook and cranny available to it. Different from the smog of the eastern cities where smoke was the primary antagonist, this was nature trying to bury the town in a shallow grave. Unforgiving, like the sun that beat down on them, yet a place Loki was quite proud to call home. From his vantage point out the big bay window in his office he could watch the dusty people go about their dusty ways with a sort of grim satisfaction. People that had worries of their own, unique errands, choices and knowledge that differed from the next man. He wondered what horrors they had seen that were comparable to his own, what trials they had faced in life, if they knew death as intimately as he did.
Ah, but that was a morbid way of thinking and Loki, though a decadent personality, rarely allowed himself to employ morbidity unless in a humorous way. That was the brilliancy of personal thoughts: no one else could hear them.
“Sir.” From the office door, Keir’s head appeared, his hair neatly combed as ever and his suit pressed to perfection. It seemed dust never settled on the corvid regardless of where he went and what he did. Loki turned to acknowledge him, both brows raised in silent questioning. “Two people here about your flyer.”
“Ah, very good. Send them in.”
The flyer in question had been very particular about the character (or characters) it desired. Loki knew the law was of no use for him in these trying times because they were rarely ever of use in normal day to day occurrences. The idea of sending police after a mob was laughable and no doubt would be used against him the second the police were annihilated. No, no, Loki required a specific skill set that only outlaws utilized. He needed people who were adept with the blade, who understood the barrel of a gun, who did not shy from blood and gore, and who had an intimate relationship with death. And yet, he had to be careful. The wrong outlaw would sooner gut him for his money than do what he asked in turn for reward. He needed someone with a good head on their shoulders and a level of bravery to match.
He was, after all, offering an incredible amount of money in payment.
Loki turned fully from the window and braced a hand on the back of his chair in preparation for a greeting. He had, thus far, interviewed three other sets of people and had been left sorely disappointed in their wake. Either untrustworthy, unskilled, or terribly dull. Out in these western reaches of the U.S. it seemed like there was no end to the amount of outlaws running amok, and yet the second they were required they made themselves scarce.
Two people walked in and Loki was quick on his feet, directing them to the two chairs opposite his desk just as he reached the small side table where a decanter of alcohol rested. A man and a woman, that was all he committed to mind in those brief seconds, too focused on the task at hand to pause for the minute required to take these characters in.
“Sit, sit, sit, please. Scotch?” He poured three glasses without awaiting a response and set two of them on the surface of his desk. His own he held in hand, returning to his position just behind his chair. “Hello, hello, glad to meet you acquaintance. I’m Loki Iversen. You saw my flyer, yes? Good, good. Well, please, tell me a bit about your exploits, your talents--don’t worry about the police. I can hardly trust the fellas myself or they would’ve been involved in this. Bloody well can’t trust the law anymore than your own damn self, it seems. Anyway, hah, please, your names?”
The words came out fast, but the breath he had was sufficient enough and with the end of his ramble he punctuated it by downing the entirety of his glass in one go.
