Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
The warehouse.
In the few months of working with Chance and his team, Ilsa had been met with a couple of disturbing sights, her least favorite being Chance in protective clothing, Guerrero aiming at him with a shotgun and her sister-in-law staring at both of them with thinly veiled horror.
The sight that presented itself to her now, however, wasn't far off: Harry. In nothing but underwear. Snoring deeply on the sofa in the lounge.
"Weren't you supposed to have a stag night with your friend tonight?", she asked Chance who was coming out of the kitchen area, carrying what looked like a gray suit, a white shirt and a tie.
She had hoped for a peaceful night in the office, with nothing but her, the team's expense accounts and a glass of Sauvignon blanc. Obviously it was not meant to be. Sigh.
"Oh, we are. We just figured it would be more practical if we… um… arranged things a little more than usual…", Winston explained, coming out of the kitchen, too, with a tray full of strange items such as a cigar, lipstick, handcuffs, a spray bottle and a pink thong. "The tumble dryer just finished its cycle. Looks like it was a good idea to put the shoes in a bag with gravel. Very believable scratch marks."
Chance spread out the clothes on the floor and started trampling and hopping around on them. Then he and Winston picked up the shirt and tore at its sleeves in a playful tug war till it ripped a little in the back. They repeated the procedure with the trousers.
Before Ilsa could ask what in the world they were doing, a horrible smell met her nose. Ames came out of the kitchen with a pot, unmistakably the source of the stench. "I think it's perfect now."
"This reeks like an Irish pub after St. Patrick's Day", Ilsa exclaimed, holding her nose.
"As I said, it's perfect!", Ames replied cheerfully and filled some of the thin sludge into the spray bottle. While Winston burned holes into shirt and suit jacket with the cigar, Chance tore off a couple of buttons. Then he stuffed the handcuffs and the thong into the suit's pockets. Ames put on the lipstick and planted a kiss on the collar of the shirt. "Now everyone step back!" She sprayed the clothes with the sludge.
Ilsa could nothing but stare at them. "You're going to pretend he had a wild bachelor party while instead he spent the night in a drug-induced slumber on our sofa?"
"Definitely safer for all of us", Guerrero stated, joining the others in the lounge.
"Why did you bring your tackle box?", Ilsa asked, highly alarmed.
"As you said, wild night out…" Guerrero walked over to sleeping Harry, put on rubber gloves, opened his box and took out a variety of sandpaper.
"You're going to injure him on purpose?"
"Relax, Ilsa. We just roughen him up a little. He'll be proud of the marks", Chance tried to placate her.
Guerrero worked methodically and effectively. Harry's hands soon looked as if he had been in a fist fight.
"Time for the present?", Chance asked him when he was done.
Guerrero nodded. "Time for the present." He got up and removed his glasses.
Ilsa couldn't believe her eyes. "One moment, you're not going to…?"
Chance punched Guerrero straight in the face. His nose started bleeding. He walked over to the clothes and left a couple of blood spots on the shirt.
"Harry will be so proud of having given you, of all people, a black eye, he'll probably print it on a shirt", Winston told Guerrero.
"Least I don't have to spend money on a toaster."
Before Ilsa could put any of her objections into words, the elevator signaled. The doors slid open and revealed Nelly.
She took one look at her husband-to-be, another one at the clothes on the floor, breathed in a whiff of the pub stench and smiled. "You're faking his bachelor party? I knew he would be safe with you." Then she turned to Ilsa. "Could I have a word with you?"
As Ilsa led her into her office, they could hear Ames complaining: "I'm so not going to dress him."
"How shall I call you?", Ilsa asked her visitor as they sat down. "Harry calls you Nelly, so I assume you're still going by that name?"
"I prefer "Nelly", but I react on Fran, too. The people at the farm call me "Frelly" – as long as you refrain from that, everything is fine."
"So you're in contact with the farm again?" Ilsa studied Nelly discreetly. Aside from the rash on her face, she looked a lot better than last time they had met. Not haunted anymore. The deep shadows underneath her eyes were gone.
"In fact I'd like to celebrate my wedding there." Nelly hesitated. "I grew up there, it's my home…. But I also want my biological family to take part, especially the aunt that raised me. Aunt Estelle is a wonderful person, she's just a bit… how shall I put that… she's…a bit stiff… As it turned out, I'm a descendant of one of the old upper class families in the Hamptons. My mother went a bit astray with my father who was a descendant of one of the not so upper class families in Detroit…."
She took a deep breath.
"Bringing my real family and my farm family together requires more skills than a regular wedding planner would have. I'd like to hire your team to organize my wedding."
For the umpteenth time that day, Ilsa mouth dropped open. But not for long. This sounded – finally! – like a job without near death experiences, explosions, high altitude stunts and lots of work for the Foundation's lawyers in the aftermath.
"We'll be happy to help", she smiled.
"And there's the additional problem of Harry's only relation, a brother... we'd really like him to be Harry's best man. It would mean a lot to him..."
Nelly sheepishly smiled back at Ilsa.
"...unfortunately he's currently in prison…"
Job without dangerous stunts, huh?