Summary: A team of five young anthropologists are recruited by the notorious Romafeller Foundation to investigate something long lost; instead, they find each other and much more than they had bargained for. 1x2, 3x4, 5xS, other. AU. WIP.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters; however, the concept and the plot are of my devising. No profit has been made or will be made from this venture, and no infringement of rights is intended.
Note: All coincidences are purely coincidental; this short story is not meant to infringe or insult any anthropologist anywhere. As I am not acquainted with ethnographers and I have just begun my first anthropology course, all of the anthropological activities are my creation and any passing similarity to established protocol is just that, passing and no more. It is my sincere hope that true anthropologists are more diligent and less self-centered that the characters portrayed.
Chapter 3: A Perfect Gentleman
A perfect gentleman waited.
A rich abundance of precious mahogany, walnut and ebony inlays were repeated in ever diversifying patterns across the grand floor, and the banisters of the sweeping stairway were carved in elegant patterns, a chaos of vines, and the walls and arches depicted the smooth curves of women peering out of hand-made foliage.
In the middle of the lushness, the perfect gentleman was white. All white ruffles of silk and lace, a white velvet tailed coat, pure white lambskin riding trousers, and white silk sheer stockings and immaculate riding boots. Even his skin was white, and his hair, long and free down his down his back, white. The only color seemed to be his brilliant blue eyes imbedded in the platinum gleam of his mask. "I am the representative of OZ, the Organization of Zeitgeist."
That did not sound good.
"You've gotta be kidding me." Duo muttered to himself. "Jeez."
Wufei frowned, drawing his arms over his chest. "I was contacted by Romafeller."
"Yes." The man commented, and then turned. "Please follow me to the parlor."
So, they did. Heero watched everything very carefully. Wufei was very alert and cautious, while mild little Quatre was looking vaguely worried and Trowa refused any expression but careful neutrality. Of course, Duo was outright rebellious. It was very American of him.
In the parlor, which was a delicate little room with a Victorian atmosphere and a great number of China flowers, there was a tray holding a typical English tea. Small biscuits with chocolate, currents, and almonds were artfully arrayed beside a small arrangement of lemon slices. A small cream pitcher was pressed against the sugar bowl, complete with silver tongs, and the teapot was large and dribbling steam.
Heero wondered if there were servants, or if this was prepared by the gentleman.
Sitting down, the man surveyed them. "Come, now, enjoy yourselves."
But, everyone just stared at the seats. Heero stared at the man.
"Oh, come now. Did I forget to introduce myself by name again?" His laugh was slightly rueful, and very mellifluous. "Oh, I did. You must be edgy because of the so-called mystery around here. I apologize. I am Zechs Marquise, and though I know the names, I do not know the faces."
"I'm Quatre Raberba Winner." Quatre smiled, hesitantly, and held out his hand with a practiced air.
Zechs had to stand up again to shake it. "I see. A blond Arabian."
"Ah, yes." Quatre nodded, shortly. "My mother was a convert."
"I see. Yes, that was quite the scandal?" Zechs murmured, and looked at the rest of them in askance, politely waiting for someone to step forward.
Quatre sat down, but he was still lookingn uneasy.
"Chang Wufei." Wufei bowed, and sat before Zechs could echo the gesture.
"Ah." Zechs didn't seem very happy about this, but he let it pass.
Grinning, Duo flashed the peace sign. "Duo Maxwell, at your service. I run, I hide, but I never tell a lie!"
"So I've heard." Zechs murmured, and looked over at Heero.
It was his cue. So, he grunted his name "Heero Yuy" and sat.
Trowa sat without further promting. "Barton."
"Hm." Zechs looked at the ethnographer with a critical eye. "I saw some pictures of you, when you were younger. Before you attended Yale and Oxford. You've … changed quite a bit over the years, haven't you?"
Trowa just looked at him.
"Ah, well then. Back to business." Zechs sat down, and poured himself a cup of tea. He put two sugars and a lemon in it. "So, so…you want to know the details of our mission, why we're hiring you, the five foremost up and coming anthropologists. Well. Before the nuclear wars, a small group of anonymous scientists put together a very powerful machine. Unfortunately, with the onset of the wars, they were scattered. There is a small village, slightly north of here, that contains the descendents of some of the old lab techs who were unable to escape. We need to find out the location of the base, and more importantly, of the machine."
"That doesn't seem ethical." Quatre commented without malice.
"Anthropologists," Trowa stressed the word, "are not spies."
"It is not like that." Zechs opened his hands in a placating gesture. "It is just that the people are very secretive, very ethnocentric, very culturally correct. There is no way we could get close enough to them without relying on translator who will translate more than words—we need to know customs, etiquette, if you will, in order to negotiate and speak to them properly. Like equals. To share an understanding."
"Still…." Quatre whispered.
"Your costs will be covered, and you will be paid. As long as you are examining their nature, and that can be any facet of them as a people, you will be fulfilling your obligation to us. We will simply wish for a copy of your to-be published work, and then perhaps we can re-negotiate a contract placing you as a consultant for the native people, or some such. But, that is far in the future."
"What sort of machine?" Duo's voice held a measure of excitement. "Why do you want this hunk of junk? It's a century out of date software!"
"Yes." Quatre pressed. "Tell us."
"Well…it was supposed to be a revolutionary breakthrough." Zechs said reluctantly. "A machine of such caliber, such precision, such speed that it would even be able to save…find a way to clean up the atmosphere and screen the radiation."
"Fuck." Duo crossed his arms over his chest. "I can't believe some big bad ass corporation is paying a bunch of skinny dweebs like us to go hunting for a golden goose. Shit, it's more than ridiculous. It's downright incredible. Start playing a kazoo with your ass cheeks, Zechs, because I'll believe that you're Mozart when you hand us the money for this gingerhouse job."
Neatly pulling a pocket pc out of his coat, Zechs turned his little machine on and logged into the company checking accounts. "Give me your account numbers. I'll make the transfer now."
"Damn!" Duo leaned over to see if the pad was genuine. "Fuck! No fucking way, man. You're just going to give us the money. You're not even going to check to see if we're going to get the job done good?"
"It's not like you'll just be able to walk away with it." Zechs said, dryly.
Everyone looked uncomfortable.
Heero quoted his bank account number, and watched Zechs make the deposit with quick movements of his stylus. Heero opened up his laptop, and verified the amounts. It processed in a remarkably short time, and he confirmed that he had received the specified amount. Quickly, he shifted the money into a differing account, and it would eventually be forward, transferred, and squirreled away in locked savings counts, bonds, and certain reliable stocks. A moderate amount would remain liquid, under an alias name at his bank in Switzerland. It was would be virtually untraceable.
After that, the others gave over their numbers, and then used his laptop to check the numbers and transfer the funds to safer accounts. Heero did not like them touching his laptop's keys. It felt invasive. He was a very private person.
"Would you to stay the night?" Zechs asked, selecting a biscuit and setting it on his saucer. "We have quite excellent accommodations and the chef is simply dying to cook for others."
It was very quiet. There were no birds outside.
"Dude man, has like anyone here seen something like those horror films you know the ones that they show at the theaters in the U.S.? I mean, this so feels like a horror film, I mean, the silence and the whole dying comment. How creepy are you anyway, creepy enough for a bad guy with that mask? Not that I am insulting you or anything buddy, because you did just stuff my pockets, pal." Duo grinned. "It was just that you called your chef dying, I mean, really!"
"It's a London expression." Zechs seemed mildly affronted. "I am sorry that I have seemed to incorporate some of their speaking patterns."
"More than that, buddy." Duo said, cheerily. "A helluva lot more than that."
"This does not seem honorable." Wufei said pensively.
"I think that all of us would like to decline your invitation, Zechs. Of course, with our greatest gratitude that you offered." Quatre smiled tactfully. "But the truth is, we are at the top of our field because we follow our passion. Our passion is the people."
"Ah." Zechs stood, and bowed slightly. He said, with a bit of warmth, "There was a reason that we looked into hiring you. You are all at the top in your field. I will respect your decision, and see you to the door."
After a bit more paper work, Zechs Marquise showed them out to through the grandiose mansion, and then pointed toward a gleaming star and instructed them on the cardinal direction and the various landmarks that would lead to the area in which the people were generally sighted. He was regretful to inform them that neither OZ nor Romafeller had any solid idea where the village was, or even if the village was seasonal.
The anthropologists took this with a grain of salt. Sometimes, the field was just like that, and they would be able to slip into the elements and seek out the people like born blood hounds. In order to get as good as they were, and at their age, working like this had to be an instinctual thing.