Sorry for the huge delay. I'll try to get the next few chapters edited and out quicker.
Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men: Evolution or any associated properties.
-
My Interview with the Vampire
"Good going, Rockhead," Pietro announced as soon as he stepped foot inside the room. Lance didn't look up from the show about nothing. "You blew that."
"Not my fault," grunted Lance. George and Elaine were arguing about birth control while Kramer did his usual comedic schtick. "She can call me up when she gets off the rag."
"Yes, I can see the sparkling cheerfulness Kitty fell in love with," remarked the other mutant as he sat down on one of the dressers. "But I mean it. You really blew it. Badly. I've seen how you can mess things up before, but that's a new low, even for you. Really you should be proud of yourself. You're setting new standards of incompetence, buddy."
Lance considered using his powers to knock his counterpart off the dresser but decided that it wouldn't be a good idea, seeing as they were eight stories up. Maybe down in the lobby. "Thanks a million, Quick. Even when I'm having a shitty day I know I can come home to you and get bitched at for at least a good fifteen minutes. It does a lot for my morale."
"Hey, I've tried using kid gloves with you. It doesn't work." Pietro grabbed the phone receiver and spun it around like a cowboy's pistol in his hands. "I didn't invite her up here just so you could scream at each other."
"I know, Quick. Next time…" Lance's palms met his eyeballs as he tried to clear his vision, clear his head of this unbearable, constant frustration. "Next time, just warn me, okay? Her showing up all of a sudden kinda threw me off my game."
"Fine, I'll warn you." Lance could feel Pietro's laser-like gaze on him, and it made him uncomfortable. Pietro could be too intense sometimes. All the time. "You're going to call her, right?"
Lance took the liberty of one second to answer. "I guess. Yeah. Not now, though. I need to cool off. But I know I screwed up. I know I've been acting like one, but I'm not a huge idiot. I just need to cool down some. Maybe tomorrow."
"Okay. But just know that I'm holding you to it."
"Oh boy. I can't wait."
Pietro's legs crossed, and that meant business. "Where's the file that Drew gave us? Our information?"
"I got it right here." Lance groped for the file before grabbing it and tossing it to Pietro, who just managed to catch it. "Get out my papers for me, won't you?"
"Sure." Pietro rummaged through the file with his usual hastiness. He flung a wad of papers over to Lance, who was less than successful in receiving them. "There you go. You take care of that, I'll speed-read through the rest…"
Pietro finished reading first, of course, but Lance was in no rush. He always took his time when reading the details on their mission. This meant that Pietro was left to his own devices for a while, but shockingly the mutant was able to stay relatively still.
"We're college graduates," Lance mused. "I'll be damned. That's something new."
"I know, we're going to have to actually seem smart," Pietro lamented. The king of paradox continued: "I hate it when they give us difficult cases like this. But I also love a challenge."
They spent the next hour or so talking over every last scrap of information, making sure each knew their roles like the back of their hands. Lance was Bruce Kent, a recent college graduate who was taking up this job to pay for further education; Pietro was Clark Wayne, a graduate who had a degree in creative writing and needed a steady job as he tried writing a hit spec screenplay. Many of the particulars were the same as they had always been with those particular aliases – birthday, family, friends, hometown – but enclosed were the phone numbers of several professors (in reality S.H.I.E.L.D. undercover agents) who would "recommend" that the two be hired by the Club.
Also, specifics on the Club's clientele were included, as well as tips on how to act like experienced waiters. It seemed like too much, but if there was one thing Lance had learned during his time with S.H.I.E.L.D. it was that he was capable of things he would never have expected he would be. After only a number of months on the job he was already becoming a skilled thespian (re: liar).
They ordered in pizza, popped in a movie, and went to bed early. Another benefit of S.H.I.E.L.D. was that it had instilled some sense of discipline in the previously ramshackle Brotherhood, although not as much as Fury would've liked. Lance had always liked to go to bed early – a full day of hanging with the Brotherhood was enough to wear anyone out – but now even Pietro was hitting the hay before midnight. It hadn't been this way when they'd started, but they'd learned pretty quickly that it was much easier to run for your life when you were rested than it was to run for your life when you were dead tired. Less bullets at your heels.
A call from the hotel office woke them up at seven o'clock. Pietro, who had always been quick to rise, answered it and thanked them, and he was dressed before Lance was even out of bed. Pietro was wearing his "nice" outfit (Fury had taught them to bring outfits of different categorizations in order to prepare for anything; judging by his attire, Pietro had prepared for a modeling gig with Abercrombie), and as Lance threw off the comforter his partner inspected his collar.
"You figure they would've given us a suit or something," complained Pietro. "Isn't this supposed to be a nice joint?"
"Call Drew about it if you're so pissy," Lance grunted. He stumbled out of bed and began fumbling around for his suitcase. "Ask her if we need some sports coats or something."
Pietro got out his phone and the file and began to dial in Drew's number while Lance dragged out his only decent pair of slacks and began to pull them up his legs. He was groggy and grumpy, but that was pretty normal: he'd never been a morning person.
Pietro had always been one.
"Helloooooo, Ms. Drew," said the silver-haired man into his cell phone. "Yes, yes, we're both up, and we know our stuff. Don't you worry your pretty little head about that. But we were wondering if it mattered if we wore suits? I mean, when we need suits Fury usually provides them. We don't carry around our own."
Lance threw on an undershirt and reached for his collared shirt.
"Yes, I see. Good. I didn't want to have to inconvenience you." Pietro gave a fake laugh. "We don't need luck, Ms. Drew, but thanks anyways. You too. Au revoir."
He ended the call and threw the phone in his pocket. "Drew says no suit required. Apparently it's not in their dress code for waiters."
"Well thank God for that," Lance drawled as he buttoned up his shirt. "Wouldn't want to dress up any more, would we? Now where are my black shoes?"
He dressed and they headed downstairs to the lobby. They were hardly the first ones up, but plenty of tables still sat bare and lonely.
"All right!" Lance exclaimed, one hand on his stomach. "Free continental breakfast! The best part of my week right here!"
They loaded up on food and sat down to eat and watch whatever channel the TV was turned to (in this case, CNN). Congressmen were debating the subprime crisis and bank bailouts as a silver-haired dude mediated – yadda yadda yadda – and Lance only hoped that they'd cut off before they got to the mutant issue. He didn't need to start off his day mad over something some stupid politician said.
"It's nearly eight," Pietro said as he munched on a muffin. "We need to leave soon."
"All right. Just let me finish my coffee."
Lance chugged down the rest of his drink and set it down on the table with a loud sigh, licking his bottom lip to get every last drop. He was already feeling much better than he had when he woke up, which was definitely a good sign. No matter how many strings Fury had pulled, it would probably be hard to get the job if he bit his prospective employer's head off.
They cleaned up after themselves and headed outside to get a cab. It didn't take long, and soon enough they were both cramming into the backseat of yet another taxi.
"Hellfire Club," Pietro ordered, strapping on his seatbelt.
The cabbie snorted. "Well, ain't we swanky today?"
"I forgot the address," continued Pietro. "Do you know where it is?"
"Of course I know where it is!" exclaimed the driver. "Who doesn't know where it is? What do you think I am, some kinda idiot? You're a tourist, aren't you? Of course you are. What am I saying. I hate tourists. So stinkin' arrogant. I hope you guys aren't arrogant. I wouldn't like that."
The two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents shared a glance but said nothing, which was probably for the best. The ride to the club was quiet, the silence only broken by the driver's occasional humming or low muttering.
They pulled up to a stop amidst a large traffic jam. Neither was surprised by this – Chicago is not particularly known for its clear streets – but soon it became clear that this wasn't just a traffic jam.
"What're you waiting for?" the cabbie asked. "We're here."
Lance was about to say something in response, but Pietro tapped him on the shoulder and nodded to the window. The Hellfire Club was evidently looking to impress, and the rich bastards could rest easy with their polished Italian shoes and oblong martini glasses – they'd succeeded. A long, marble staircase led to an elaborate Gothic building at least five or six stories high, skyscrapers sticking out in the background like overgrown weeds. The front doors were massive, and one stone gargoyle stood on each side, guarding the club against any unwelcome visitors.
"Hot damn," was Pietro's elegant musing. Lance couldn't think of anything to say at all.
"I could just sit here for a while," said the cabbie, interrupting their moment of awe and wonder, "or you could get out and I could find other paying customers. Up to you. I'm in no hurry. No rent to pay or nothin'."
"Fine," Pietro muttered. He threw open the door and hopped out of the car with great speed, although Lance could tell that he was restraining himself. "Lance, you pay the nice cab driver. I forgot my wallet."
Lance knew it was best not to argue so he pulled out a crisp bill (provided by a government bank account, possibly counterfeit) and stuffed it in the driver's outstretched hand. "Here you go," he growled as he kicked his legs out of the door and with a helping hand from Pietro pulled himself up. He slammed the door and broke eye contact with the driver. "Have a wonderful day. May many pigeons bless your windshield with their shit."
"Amen," echoed Pietro. He motioned to the stairs. "You first, buddy."
"Wimp."
Lance led the way up the wide stairway. As they climbed it, he began to get a strange sense of déjà vu, as if he were Rocky Balboa in sweats (although in that case, they should probably be jogging, he thought to himself). A few others hung around the edge of the stairway, talking on their cell phones or typing away into their PDAs or generally doing whatever it was business types liked to do. All were completely oblivious to the world around them and talked in loud, nasal voices with fake, tinny laughs. Lance had the strange feeling that, when hired, he would be spitting in a lot of people's food.
"Mind getting the door?"
"Whatever." Lance held it open and let the wannabe-diva walk in ahead of him. He followed, allowing the door to shut behind him. "Jeez, could they put on a light or something?"
"More like a torch," remarked Pietro. The interior of the building looked like something out of Dracula, and everything had a distinct red tint. Lance had trouble seeing even a few feet.
"Hello," greeted the man behind the register. "You are…?"
"Clark Wayne," said Pietro, "and my friend Bruce Kent. We're here to apply for jobs at the restaurant."
"Oh yes. I think Leland mentioned you two. Take an elevator down to the underground floor. Someone there will help you."
"All right. Thanks."
Pietro led the way to one of the elevators, which was just as ridiculously large as anything else in the Hellfire Club. They waited for a minute before the plain steel door slid open, allowing them access to the interior. Lance jammed the 'U' button and they waited as the door closed.
"Nice place," commented Lance.
"No kidding. I'm already depressed." Pietro suddenly checked his watch. "Oh shit, I forgot about the inducers. Turn yours on."
"Damn it," Lance murmured as he activated his disguise. "D'you think they'll notice?"
"Nah," said the newly blond Pietro. "We look pretty similar to ourselves anyway, and that room was too damn dark to see anything. No biggie."
It was a short ride to the underground level. The door slid away again and they were confronted with a diminished jazz chord from a piano some fifty feet down. There was a buzz of quiet conversation, and big circular tables were situated all around the main stage in the center of the floor where the pianist rung out each note of the song with perfect precision. A saxophonist and guitarist were sitting down next to their instruments, apparently on a break. It was exactly the kind of restaurant Lance wouldn't be caught dead in, and even if he was, he'd probably be kicked out within seconds of entering. And to think that he was applying for a job there.
"May I help you?" asked a woman. Lance decided she was the hostess. If not he'd pretend she were anyway and see how far the force of will could take him.
"Yeah, we're here to apply for jobs," started Pietro, but that was all Potential Hostess needed.
"Oh! That's right. You need to see Mr. Leland." She stepped out from behind her desk and walked past them. "Right this way. Follow me."
She led them down the hallway branching off to the right. The decorum changed considerably as they progressed down it, the gothic wooden panels evolving into plain steel walls illuminated by fluorescent lights. Lance mentally noted every doorway and took a glance behind him, noticing that another similar hallway ran in the opposite direction of the one they'd taken.
She stopped in front of a door simply marked 'PERSONNEL.' "This is it. I'll show you in."
She pushed open the door and through the sliver Lance could make out a desk and a man working on his laptop. "Mr. Leland? The two job applicants are here."
"Yes? Good. Let them in." She stepped back and allowed the two to pass her. When they were standing a comfortable distance inside the office, Leland nudged his pen towards the woman. "Thank you, Karolina."
The door shut and they were alone with the man. Lance was about to make an awkward introduction, but Leland spared him the need.
"Let me introduce myself." A pale hand extended, blue collared shirt just slightly wrinkled. "I'm Harry Leland. I make all of the personnel decisions here at the Hellfire Club, among other things."
"Clark Wayne," said Pietro, shaking Leland's hand.
"Bruce Kent," said Lance as he took the hand and gave it one jab upward.
"Pleasure meeting you boys." Leland put his hand in his pocket and gestured to two seats behind them with his free hand. "Please, sit."
They did, and he took a seat behind his desk. Now that his face wasn't hidden in shadows, Lance immediately saw a resemblance in Leland to Orson Welles. The combed back hair, the puffy cheeks, the piercing eyes. Most of all, the skin white as provolone. Leland looked just like an over-powdered Bela Lugosi. Or Robert Pattinson, Lance supposed. Not as good looking as the latter, though. Kitty was crazy about that Pattinson guy. Dick.
"I'm sure we've all got plenty of things to do today, so we're going to try to keep this short." Leland pushed his laptop to the side so he had a clearer view of them. "Let me just say that I've heard wonderful things from your professors and former employers."
"Really?" said Lance with a degree of modesty he didn't think Pietro could pull off. "That's nice of them. They're probably exaggerating a little."
"Oh, possibly. I'm not going to jerk your chain at all. Waiting tables isn't exactly hard. But waiting tables at the Hellfire Club is nigh impossible. We're not looking for good servers. We're looking for good servers and good people. Our customers are only the most elite members of society. If you get nervous, this isn't the job for you, which is exactly why we've done such extensive background checks."
"You really do this much just to hire a couple of waiters?" Pietro asked.
"Oh yes," said Leland. "We're all about quality. It's important to us that we maintain our reputation as the best in the world. By hiring you, can we trust you with that reputation?"
Lance straightened up in his chair, posture perfect enough to please the bitch formerly known as Mystique. "Yes, sir, you can."
"I thought so." Leland chuckled, and his face moved into the light in such a way that the blood vessels beneath his skin became visible. "I heard a story about you from one of your former professors… Nicholson, I believe?"
The two shared a glance. Lance had a bemused expression on his face, but Pietro just mouthed 'Fury' and Lance nodded. The interaction was quick enough that Leland didn't even notice it. Pietro's talents did come in handy once in a blue moon.
"Yeah, Nicholson's a talented storyteller," Pietro remarked. Lance could feel the inevitable follow-up questions coming, but any such story hadn't been detailed in their file, and he could only guess it had been an improvisation by Fury. Pietro did the smart thing and cut Leland off before he could ask them a question they didn't know the answer to. "Listen, Mr. Leland, I'm not going to mess around. Bruce and I want these jobs. We're two kids that need the money and frankly I think it would be a great experience to be around such high society in such a close proximity."
"Definitely," Lance agreed after detecting Pietro's expectant gaze upon him. "It's one of those life experiences you can't find in a classroom."
"Exactly my thoughts," continued his companion. "Now, we're two hard-working, honest guys who'll do what it takes to make the customers happy. We're not upper class or anything, but we want these jobs and we want to do them well. Obviously you've done your homework. You'd know if we weren't decent human beings. Enough with the chit chat. Can we help you out or not?"
Lance appreciated the move, as he tended to get antsy during long talks with people he was lying to. Leland's expression was less decipherable. He studied them for several long moments as if they were especially interesting pieces of artwork, trying to discern any flaws or stray splotches of paint. Finally his pallid countenance shifted into a broad smile.
"I can understand your impatience. I feel the same way. Time is money, and money… well, money is everything!" he added with a laugh. He stood again. "It's been a nice talk. If you want the jobs, they're yours."
"Thank you, sir," Lance replied as he shook Leland's hand. Pietro did the same. "We won't let you down. You can trust us." And hopefully you will, Lance thought to himself. That'll make the spying a damn lot easier.
"Ditto," echoed Pietro. "I know we've just been hired and everything, sir, but when will we start?"
"Oh, you can start training on Monday. That will give you the weekend off."
"No offense, sir, but if you wouldn't mind, could we stick around the next two days and see how things work here?" Leland looked confused, so Pietro hurried to continue. "I know we haven't started training or anything yet, but I'm not asking to start waiting or be paid or anything. I just want to hang around with the staff and see how things work here. Off the clock, of course. I want to make sure we live up to the standards set by the Hellfire Club."
Once more Lance appreciated Pietro's thought process. The sooner they got their information, the sooner they could get the hell out of Chicago, and the sooner they could get away from everything – and everyone – that came with it.
Leland gave it some consideration before shrugging. "Oh, why not? I'm sure it can't hurt. It's nice to see employees with some initiative for a change. I can see why you were so highly recommended. Go back and find Karolina and ask her to bring you to Kine. He runs most everything with the restaurant, and you'll report directly to him, although I want you to contact me if you have any other issues. Tell Kine that you're the new waiters and you're just going to hang around to see how things go and all. Basically what you told me. He may send you home, but I don't think he'll mind. And even if he does, I'm his boss, after all, and what I say goes."
"Thank you, sir," said Lance. "We'll get out of your way now."
"Yes, yes." He sat down and turned his attention to his laptop. "Been a pleasure, boys."
"The same to you."
They filed out of the room and into the hall. Pietro smirked at Lance with a knowing expression.
"Jesus, we were starting to sound like Summers for a second there," grunted Lance. He did his best impression of the erstwhile leader of the X-Geeks. "Yes sir. No sir. More coffee, sir? Would you like your asshole licked, sir, or just gently powdered? You're welcome, sir."
"I knew you'd say that," replied the smirk personified. "But you've got to give me props for my quick thinking. I don't want to be stuck here for a couple months gathering intel. Boooooring."
"Yeah, that was pretty nice. Let's go find that Kine dude or whatever and tell him that we're gonna stick around." Lance pounded his fist into his palm, now emulating Duncan Matthews. "Maybe use our methods of persuasion if he tries to send us off."
Pietro wasn't thinking along the same lines, though. "No way, Lancey. We're in this super-secret hallway. Might as well explore around a bit! I wonder what's at the end…"
"Oh come on, we haven't even been on the job five minutes and already you're taking a stupid risk."
"Stop complaining! We're spies, that's what we do!" Pietro darted his head back and forth in a whirlwind of motion. "I really hope they aren't taping us. Doesn't look like they are, but I only scanned the room. Let's keep it quieter from here on out."
"Agreed," concurred Lance. "So we going to go see what's at the end of the hall here?"
"Lead the way, Rocky!"
Lance ignored the nickname and focused on taking long strides down the hallway. Many doors were unmarked, and Pietro tried them all before Lance could even reach them.
"Locked," he said as he walked back to Lance. "Sucks for us."
"Stop being too obvious with your powers," Lance hissed. "I know they've gotta have cameras someplace in here."
"Hey, I'm trying to slow it down. It's not my fault you move like the Jeep on the day after one of Tabby's old joyrides." Pietro jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "I didn't check the end of the hall, though. Shall we?"
They approached the end of the hall, Lance making sure that Pietro didn't walk much faster than he did. The door at the end of the hall was also the single door on the left, and the single door that had a keypad and a glass rectangle at eye-level.
"Eye scanner," noted Pietro. "Seen Father use them before."
"It looks like they're paranoid about something," Lance commented. "That or just a lot more exclusive than we thought they were."
"Well at least this makes our job a lot easier."
"How so?"
Pietro rewarded him with a grin. "Now we know we've got to get inside that door."
-