Chance meetings or fate? [RP for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dancewithadevil]
Sep. 4th, 2008 10:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elementof_riskWhy every would be criminal leader in Budapest had to deal out of a night club that he used as a front was something that Julian Sark had yet to figure out. Clearly they had all seen one too many James Bond films, and while he, himself, was inordinately fond of 007, if he didn't run around ordering martinis shaken not stirred, they could also step away from the cliché for a moment or two, at least.
And if they were going to embrace it, instead, he wondered, as he made his way through the gyrating crowd, fending off more than a couple of grasping hands, couldn't they at least do so with better music than this? The bass seemed to drown out whatever melody there might have been, and he wanted to ask the DJ if he realized that his musical selection was at least five years out of date. Still, he seemed to be the only one who minded, and, admittedly, he was not in the best mood, already. A cold morning had left his leg aching, which always brought Agent Michael Vaughn to mind, which never improved his mood.
Ever since Hong Kong he had lain low, again. Not quite as low as he had after delivering them Anna Espinosa, but low. With Irina and Sloane both permanently out of play, the shape of the underworld was rapidly shifting. He'd managed to seize control of a great deal of both of their assets--who else was going to take them, after all?--and reposition himself advantageously, but the arc of his life's work had been following Irina Derevko, or one of her sisters, toward a brave new world brought about by Milo Rambaldi. Without that...he would admit to feeling a trifle lost.
The jobs he was doing now seemed to lack vision, and while he would admit to an inclination to shoot anyone who mentioned Rambaldi in his general vicinity, he did long for the days when people had endgames and an agenda beyond the decimation of an embassy to make a political point or to turn a profit by flooding the market with the latest designer drug. He had hopes for this latest contact until he walked into the club. Now, he steeled himself with a sigh, for another disappointing meeting with another disappointing client who thought he knew better than Sark how to accomplish a job that Julian could have done in his sleep at sixteen. Amateurs.
And if they were going to embrace it, instead, he wondered, as he made his way through the gyrating crowd, fending off more than a couple of grasping hands, couldn't they at least do so with better music than this? The bass seemed to drown out whatever melody there might have been, and he wanted to ask the DJ if he realized that his musical selection was at least five years out of date. Still, he seemed to be the only one who minded, and, admittedly, he was not in the best mood, already. A cold morning had left his leg aching, which always brought Agent Michael Vaughn to mind, which never improved his mood.
Ever since Hong Kong he had lain low, again. Not quite as low as he had after delivering them Anna Espinosa, but low. With Irina and Sloane both permanently out of play, the shape of the underworld was rapidly shifting. He'd managed to seize control of a great deal of both of their assets--who else was going to take them, after all?--and reposition himself advantageously, but the arc of his life's work had been following Irina Derevko, or one of her sisters, toward a brave new world brought about by Milo Rambaldi. Without that...he would admit to feeling a trifle lost.
The jobs he was doing now seemed to lack vision, and while he would admit to an inclination to shoot anyone who mentioned Rambaldi in his general vicinity, he did long for the days when people had endgames and an agenda beyond the decimation of an embassy to make a political point or to turn a profit by flooding the market with the latest designer drug. He had hopes for this latest contact until he walked into the club. Now, he steeled himself with a sigh, for another disappointing meeting with another disappointing client who thought he knew better than Sark how to accomplish a job that Julian could have done in his sleep at sixteen. Amateurs.
