2010-05-10: Manilow Mash-Up



Guest Starring:

Hugo and Ms. Neutral

Date: May 10, 2010



"Manilow Mash-Up"

340 Madison Ave. 12th floor. 11 PM. Alone. -H

The text was received a relatively short time before the actual meeting was to take place. She had to hand it to the man, he was good… She didn't even have time to prepare.

With her Lotus out of commission, Vasha is forced to abscond with one of the consular vehicles. Possibly not the wisest of decisions but with no time to make other arrangements, it'll just have to do. It's an automatic, she hates those… She hates being out of control.

The Lincoln drifts to a stop a block or two away from the building, near a popular restaurant and she walks the rest of the way. Her clothes are dark, clingy, but nothing that would set her apart from the average New Yorker. When she finally reaches the building, she steps into the elevator and presses 12.

The lift hums briskly upward, dings, and the doors slide open to reveal a well-lit reception area. Though the desk isn't staffed, a pale, petite woman in her mid-twenties is awaiting Vasha's arrival just in front of the elevator.

"Ms. Kruger," the woman greets, her voice neutral to the point of blandness. Everything about her is neutral. Her beige pantsuit. Her expression. Her practiced lack of interest. "Arms out and spread your legs, please. I have to frisk you."

The right corner of Vasha's lips twitch into a wry and quite self satisfied smirk before she complies. The black clutch in her left hand is held out to the side as she spreads her legs shoulder width apart and stands quite stiffly for the woman's inspection. Her eyes betray an expression of boredom at the surprise on the woman's features as she pulls one, two, four, seven knives that were hidden in various locations around her outfit.

"Your message said alone, not unarmed…" Vasha utters in a low tone, she expected it, wanted to catch them off their guard if things went awry. Knives, though one of her favored weapons, weren't what she worked with best.

Ms. Neutral cracks her first expression, a smile, when she starts finding knives. These things are to be expected. After the first weapon is discovered, the search must become more thorough. Much more thorough. These things are also to be expected.

Dusty. Sweaty. Uncomfortably narrow. These words not only describe a rich widow's womanhood, they accurately capture the essence of an office building's sub-ceiling. Still, it gets you where you need to go. Porter pauses his crawling to peer through the crack between two ceiling tiles. From this angle, all he can see is that Vasha is here. Vasha is here and she's being touched by some woman. A lot. His eyes widen and his eyebrows lift. Slowly, he leans forward until his eye is almost pressed against the crack.

"I'll keep an eye on these for you," Ms Neutral promises, stacking the collection of knives in one hand and leading Vasha toward a heavy door. It creaks open slowly at the woman's touch, showing off a richly appointed office. Inside, a Colombian man in a dashing cream suit is seated behind a stately desk with his hands clasped demurely in front of him. A single chair has been placed opposite him on the other side of the desk.

"Be certain that you do… they are a matched set." Minus one. Vasha's expression, tone, everything seems a little vacant. Lowering her arms and narrowing her stance, she stretches a little. The four inch heels seem a might uncomfortable because they are. Not good for running, not good for anything aside from showing off her legs. Before continuing toward the door, she tosses her long brown hair over her shoulder and she looks up toward the ceiling. The feel of the building is so cold it nearly sends shivers down her spine.

The man in the cream colored suit is greeted with a Mona Lisa smile, nothing friendly but it's polite. "Hugo, it is gut to finally meet you. I have heard…" Good things? "…things. Nothing bad, of course." She lies and her smile widens as she stretches her arm out to greet him properly. Right now, she is the ultimate ambassador to Columbia from South Africa, a woman.

As the door is closed, Hugo stands and reaches across his desk to take Vasha's hand. Like a diplotmat at the finest of galas, he bends his head to brush a kiss against her knuckles. He's smiling when he straightens. The swarthy man sits back down, crosses his legs, and places his folded hands comfortably atop his knee. "And I have heard many things of you, Ms. Kruger. You are quickly developing a reputation, yes? One as a problem solver. I also solve problems. Let us be of use to one another."

As soon as Vasha strayed from sight, Porter resumed his crawling in an attempt to keep up with her. He's a few seconds behind, but he's close enough to catch most of the conversation. Quickly, he digs inside his shirt for a disposable cellular phone with several extra batteries daisy-chained on. The improvised bug is placed carefully, then he settles down to wait and listen.

"I am not a woman of small talk and pleasantries, Hugo. What is it that you wish from me in order to secure a.." She leans forward a bit and cranes her neck toward him, pretending to scratch at her ankle while allowing him a rather distracting view. "Mmm… better position for negotiation?"

He is greeted with a demure smile as she straightens again. "You know what it is that I need from you, or rather, my father needs from you. What is it you need from us? Please remember, as an organization, we are willing to make you quite happy." Then, he is treated to a more pleasant smile as she lifts one of her legs over the other to cross them at the knee. Her high heeled foot swings in a lazy arc for his perusal.

It seems that Hugo is a man not easily distracted. His only response is to lift an eyebrow impassively. "You are direct," he rumbles. "I admire this."

From his pocket, he produces a wallet-sized photograph and a microfilm canister. Both are slid across the desk to Vasha. "I need this man. Alive. This is everything I have on him. Bring him to me and I will assist you with your father's fiscal needs."

No matter how he leans, bends, or cranes, Porter is unable to get an angle on the photograph. "Shit!" he curses under his breath. Then, guiltily, he glances at the recorder. Ideally, you aren't supposed to capture your own voice on those.

"Microfilm, how quaint," Vasha smile as she takes the photograph and gives it a quick glance. There is no time to peruse the information at her own pace right now. She stands and offers her hand to him once again, "I will deliver your package soon, you have my word." Once the hand is accepted and subsequently released, she turns and heads toward the door. She pauses a moment to tuck away the items while she has her back turned toward Hugo. "I will collect my items from your secretary and be on my way."

She is direct and she doesn't waste time.

"Excellent," Hugo replies, smiling in kind. When his office is vacated, he immediately picks up the phone and dials. "Hello? It's me. Yes. Yes. I have her on it."

In the reception area, Ms. Neutral is waiting with knives in hand to send Vasha on her way. Apparently, she's another one that's all business.

Meanwhile, Porter is doing his best not to scramble on his way back to the elevator. This might be his only chance to catch a ride down in the next few hours, and he doesn't fancy fourteen floors of cold and narrow ladders.

Taking the knives, Vasha takes her time in tucking them away in their various sheaths hidden in her boots, at her thighs, her back… elsewhere. She almost feels naked without the last one but she's resigned it to being lost days ago. Giving a cool smile to Ms. Neutral, she steps toward the elevator and languidly presses the button to summon it. The brunette isn't in so much of a hurry to listen to the atrocious instrumental Barry Manilow that she suffered through on the way up.

When the elevator opens, she doesn't even spare a glance toward the woman as she departs. The last glance is just as the doors close, when Vasha finally turns to face them.

"Shit!" Porter hisses. The elevator is already on its way down when he arrives. This is when he proves that even the most experienced agent can make an error in judgment when under pressure. Instead of waiting patiently or climbing down the ladders, he drops the few feet to the roof of the elevator.


He immediately winces. No hiding that. He reaches inside his shirt, pulls out a flat-headed screwdriver, and takes a deep breath. Two heartbeats later, he kicks in the elevator's roof hatch and drops down next to Vasha. "Oof!" he grunts as he straightens himself. "Going down?"

Any surprise that Vasha may have experienced at the sudden appearance of Kyle Porter would have to be assumed, as her expression doesn't betray any at all. On the other hand, the coincidental (or not) meetings they've had over the past few days would practically lead one to assume they might as well be joined. "I am and yourself?" she murmurs, her lips twitching into somewhat of a smile. "You seem quite agile, Captain, shall I assume you were assuming a trade as a sweep of some sort?"

She leans back against the brass railing and crosses her feet at the ankle. There's no way of knowing exactly what the agent knows, so she remains quiet.

"I've been known to go down," Porter agrees, his lips curving into a small, bare smile. "Funny, we seem to keep bumping into each other. Around Colombians. How… convenient." His tone makes it clear that he does not, in fact, find the situation funny or convenient. The hand holding the screwdriver remains loose at his side, the tool balanced comfortably in his grip. He spreads his feet slightly and digs them into the carpet. "Want to tell me what you're doing here?"

"Something I do not want, Captain, is to tell you what I am doing here." The tall brunette stays comfortably rested against the metal rung, her tone remaining bored. She een goes as far as to examine the manicure on her right hand as she converses so casually with him. "You may rest assured, that my business has nothing to do with you. At all. I am simply acting as an emissary." Her hazel eyes flit toward the floor at his feet, his aggressive stance noted, but Vasha remains comfortably cool and detached.

Porter's eyes narrow slightly. He glances up at the elevator's lights as they pass the seventh floor. "Right. Another coincidence. I'll buy that for a dollar." He leans back as well, still warily gauging the disance between himself and his younger, more feminine counterpart. Still, he can't entirely keep the smile from his face. "Come on, Vash. Don't be like this. You're not still sore about your car, are you?"

"Sore about my 'car'?" The word sounds so foreign when spoken by her tongue, the way her R rolls off her tongue. "No, one hundred thousand dollar autos simply fall from the sky at my feet. They require no labor to procure." Vasha's tone is quite pleasant, given the fact that he did completely ruin her expensive vehicle. It's a matter for the insurance companies to deal with now. Pushing herself off the wall with her foot, the woman closes the distance between them and leans in against him as she pushes the red button on the control panel. "If you wish to buy the coincidence, perhaps I should move the elevator back up so you may ask the fellow himself, hmm?" Her perfume is exotic, spicy, but the scent lingers only as long as she is close to him. In a moment, the woman and her scent are back across the room.

The older man's smile turns tight-lipped when the elevator slides to a halt. He takes a slow, bold step closer to Vasha. "So I can ask him all about the man you're supposed to find?" he supplies helpfully. "Mmhmm. I'm smarter than I look, kid. How do you think ol' Hugo will react when he finds out I was waiting for you in the elevator so you could tell me all about his plans? He's not a particularly trusting sort, as you might have noticed." Another step closer. Porter inhales deeply through his nose. "What is that you're wearing? Orange blossom? Delightful. I could eat you up."

She's not buying the bluff, by the smirk on her face, it shows. "Perhaps, then ett would turn to a blood bath where I woult be the only one walking out alive. Not that ett woult break my heart to see you kill each other." Her annoyance is unveiled by the hard edge of her accent, her words are clipped and short. When Porter catches the long wind of her perfume, she lifts her chin to look down her nose at him. It's a gesture of complete presumption mixed with a large amount of pride. "You recognize the scent, perhaps I shoult write the name down so you can give a bottle to your latest lover."

"Cute," Porter replies, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Headache coming on. Severe headache. There was a simpler time. One where he just killed things and didn't have personal issues following him across continents.

"Christ, I miss the Cold War."

He twists around and punches the button for the lobby with the tip of his screwdriver. "I'm out of here. You want to stop me, you'll have to do it sometime in the next six floors."

"Stop you? You have an exaggerated view of your own importance, Captain." How she does it, Jan never found out. Even as the young woman turns into an aggressive bull, she's always been able to hold a conversation as though she was simply having tea. Taking advantage of his headache, she swiftly delivers a rabbit punch toward the nose she cracked the night before. When the first strike is over, she follows it swiftly with a hard smack to the hand carrying the screwdriver, hoping to cause it to fall from his hand.


Porter transforms from casual slouch to hardened operative in half an instant. He angles his head down, allowing the punch to glance off his forehead rather than impact directly on his nose. When the screwdriver falls from his grip, he narrows his eyes and clucks his tongue reproachfully. "I think you'll find that was very ill-advised," he warns.

When he reciprocates, it's with a cup-handed slap over both of Vasha's ears, followed by a low knee strike and a high elbow.


The loud clap of his hands seems to surprise but not stun the woman as she reaches out to grip his shoulders tightly. Using them as leverage, she springs from the floor and lands with her buttocks on his thigh. The elbow strikes true and she shakes her head a little, leaning a little closer to him as she hugs around his body with both her arms and legs.

"Oh?" She breathes as she swings forward in an attempt to put him off balance. Her arms slip downward and she locks one of her hands around her opposite wrist in a bear hug. "We can call this a payment on my new auto…"


Groaning and staggering, Porter spins around and slams Vasha against the wall of the elevator. "Who's… paying who?" he queries breathlessly. With his arms pinned and his mobility limited, his arsenal has been reduced to a few very primative maneuvers. He leans back, then lunges forward, simultaneously slamming against the wall and launching his forehead at Vasha's face.

As she slams against the wall, she lets out a small sound that almost seems like a breathless laugh. Then she begins to squeeze with both her arms and legs. "Right now? We coult consider this as me having my way with you, ja?" She grits her teeth and lets out a grunt, her muscles straining against his build.



Meeting the headbutt halfway, the sound brings up another bubble of laughter from the woman. Then she follows with another one of her own, her forehead aimed for his. All the while, her legs are clamping tighter.

Stunned that his blows didn't elicit so much as a blink or a gasp, Porter is unfortunately stationary when he's hit back. Another loud cracking sound fills the elevator. He groans again, sagging under the combined weight of Vasha and himself. Then, when he opens his eyes, he appears truly angry for the first time in any of their encounters. He grabs Vasha's wrists, peels her away from his torso, and drops her on the floor of the elevator as the doors slide open. Solemnly, he shakes his head and steps out into the lobby. "You're a tough one, I'll give you that. Bye."

Alone, though the door are still open, Vasha peels herself off the floor. She rubs her head as though feeling too much pain for the blows that were delivered. The burst of adrenaline was enough to keep it at bay for a short while, but without anything to keep it up, the bruise to her head is felt fast. She looks after Porter, her eyes narrowing as she finally staggers from the elevator. She's much too proud to allow him to see her in this condition. She rolls her shoulders as she tries to stretch out her back. Walking stiffly, she makes the slow plod back to the Lincoln parked a few blocks away.

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