SilverEye Continued

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February 2nd, 3:51 pm

“Bonjour, SilverGuy.”

A French voice rolled over each syllable with precision and restraint. It came from the thin lipped mouth of a well-dressed man seated behind a massive desk. The elbows of his spotless suit rested lightly on the clean surface of his desk, and his hands were clasped beneath his chin. He examined his approaching guest with inquisitive eyes.

“SilverEye. And bonjour to you as well,” responded Brice, taking stock of his surroundings as he approached his host. A dozen less intelligent pairs of eyes examined him as well. Thugs were strewn about the room, some lounging on flour sacks, some leaning back in metal folding chairs, all quite large and unkempt. Brice wondered if they had ever been acquainted with a razor. Or antiperspirant.

“This is a strange place for you to set up camp, of all people,” said Brice, noting the stacks of various baking ingredients and a thin layer of flour coating all surfaces besides the desk.
His stiff host rose to his feet and moved methodically around the desk, not once detaching his glare from its subject.

“This pastry shop tends to be overlooked by… unretired company.”

“Desired. Undesired company,” corrected Brice.

The two men approached each other warily.

The tense atmosphere was broken when a sudden smile burst across Brice’s face. “Good to see you again, CopperTop.”

The Frenchmen released a quick, tight laugh. It hardly affected the shape of his face. He seemed as if he were laughing from behind a mask, unable to change his expression. However, the sound of laughter, stiff as it was, lifted the blanket of apprehension from the meeting.

“Good to see you remember me, SilverEye, and my old nickname. Please, call me Auguste.”

The thugs distributed about the room visibly relaxed. They had appeared comfortable beforehand, but now their demeanor digressed to lethargy. Some now seemed to be napping.

“It’s been a long time,” began Brice.

“Indeed, it has.” Auguste returned to his large leather chair. “Please, has a seat.” He motioned towards a dilapidated folding chair dwarfed by his oversized desk.

“Have,” corrected Brice. He placed himself, carefully, into the uncomfortable seat, ignoring the layer of flour. He noted that his eye level was now scarcely six inches above the desk’s remarkably clean surface.

“I was serious about what I said before. This place doesn’t really seem to be your… style.”

“I am not a stylist or decorator, monsieur. I must use whatever locations are most effective.” Auguste seemed to be having trouble not speaking French. His accent became more prevalent as he relaxed. “Now, let us go to business. Have you not come all this way to catch up with an old friend?”

“Yes… no, I mean… I came here with a special order.”

“Do you mean special, as in a wedding cake or something? I am sure Jimmy could have whipped it up for you without incident. He’s really quite good.”

“No, Auguste, I am insinuating that I require an item which only a connected man such as yourself could acquire.”

“Ah, I see, you need something special…er?”

“More special.” Brice corrected.

“S'il vous plaît. Well, I certainly can provide such service. What are the item?”

“Is.” Brice corrected him again. “The antidote to the Neurouturno toxin.”

For the first time during the meeting, Auguste’s thin lips stretched into a wry smile.

“Why yes, Silver, such a thing can be done to you.”

“For me,” responded Brice. “Merci. How much would you consider the agency indebted to you?”
“Oh, payment?” The Frenchman’s smile uncoiled farther across his face. “What is a little antidote between old fiends?”

“Friends, you mean.” Brice smiled back, hiding his uneasiness.

“Yes, of course.” Auguste grinned ever wider. “Friends.”