I Am the Thorn

[Quentin Fairchild]

Prompt List

• Contract
• Loyalty
• Laughter
• Angel
• Dangerous
• Disappear
• Necromancer
• Vegas
• Identity
• Hidden

[Quentin Fairchild]

V E G A S

Quentin rarely worked joint jobs with people. It wasn't that he was opposed to it, it was just that his schedule was usually not open enough to allow for exceptions. However, when Sal had called him personally and requested a special job, Quentin was more than willing to oblige. Sal always paid expenses up front, and Quentin knew that the money would be in his account as soon as evidence had been provided the job was done. As a plus, he was working with Marcus Walker. While Quentin himself had been nicknamed QRF - as in, Quick Reaction Force - for his methods of incredibly fast and violent results, Marcus had been widely known as the Boogeyman. It was no secret that Walker was called in for nasty supernatural jobs that most others wouldn't touch. He was the thing that was under their beds, so to speak.

Fortunately for Quentin, though, he and Marcus got along swimmingly. Though Quentin rarely passed on jobs, he did know his limits. The proposition that Sal had for him was more or less a support position: Quentin was there to handle everything right up until the "big bad", and then Marcus would handle that. Cut and dry. In fact, the time it took them to disembark from the flight, get to their massively posh hotel and get settled, and then get to the job and do the job, was much shorter than either man had anticipated. They assumed a whole weekend for the entire design, but they'd gotten a stupidly wide opening when the sorcerer who had been warding the mark had gotten sidetracked by a pretty girl on the strip while on his way back to the place they'd all holed up.

Standing among the carnage a few hours later, Quentin pulled out his burner phone and whistled to Marcus. "Smile, brother - we're on camera." Marcus gave a salute with the pistol he had in his hand, and Quentin held the devil horns up on his forehead. The camera was far enough back that the mark was very easily seen, splattered against the wall. Whoops. The sound of the shutter snapped, and he sent the picture forward to Sal. Back at the Excelsior, Sal let out an audible snort as the picture came through. He was endlessly surprised by the talent that Walker had. The Triste had been no easy target, he could see by the damage in the photo, but he had betrayed Sal's trust, and that was just something Sal couldn't abide.

Two quick showers and new phones later, the men sat at a rooftop bar with a stunning view. Not only of the city, but it was a bar with a pool, and despite the sun having just gone down in the late desert summer night, women were still in the pool. Of course, neither man was too concerned with said view. Quentin's eyes were on the soccer game the bar's TVs showed, while Marcus simply let his shoulders hang a little and sipped a neat whiskey. It had been a while, hadn't it? Since he'd just relaxed.

Raised voices - more raised than normal for the usual noise of a bar - caught Quentin's attention, and he glanced over his shoulder. He clocked a man he recognized arguing with three men he did not. The man he knew had a small briefcase in his hand, and the three men all made a grab for it. The man yanked it from their reach, and started to walk away. As Quentin turned back to his drink, he distinctly heard the words not leaving with that briefcase.

  "Isn't that Grayson Cole?" Quentin asked.

With a brow raised, Marcus turned to look as well, though his glance was much more quick. "It is," he agreed. "Also, he's coming over here."

"I don't know what he thinks is going to happen," Quentin muttered.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than did Grayson wedge himself between the two of them. "Mr. Fairchild. Mr. Walker," he greeted. "Listen, I'm a bit pressed for time, so I'll be quick. I work with Sal, and right now, I need a little situation handled. Could you help me out?"

Marcus had his glass back in his face now, but his eyebrows were all the way up as he eyed Quentin, as if to say,"I think I know what HE thinks is going to happen." He was met with a grimace from his comrade, and Quentin focused back to Grayson. He smelled nervous.

"Mr. Cole," Quentin began. "While I can see that you do, in fact, have a situation that needs to be handled, I'm afraid that Mr. Walker and I are off for the weekend."

Grayson blinked rapidly. "Aren't you a contract killer?" he asked.

"If you want to get specific, sure, that's one of my many hobbies," Quentin said, waving his hand.

"Okay, so...." Grayson gestured vaguely with his free hand, back in the direction of the men who were covering the exits. "Go and kill them?" Grayson wasn't stupid, but sometimes the subtleties of inflection and context were overlooked when he was concerned for his life.

Marcus snorted into his drink. Quentin gave him a Look, and then sighed. "Mr. Cole. I'm a sellsword, if you will. I sell my sword. I don't loan it out to people when they ask, even if they are in very good standing with one of my main employers. So you see..." he shrugged. "I just can't help you."

Grayson reached into his pocket and slammed a money clip down on the counter between them.

"Now for the magic words," Marcus prompted, enjoying the entire exchange far more than anyone else involved.

  "I am hiring you to handle that however you want, so long as the end result is them not breathing and me still breathing. If that's not enough, you'll get more after the job is done. Now, could you please go and use your sword, or gun, or dukes, or whatever it is you're going to fight with? Because I have things to do tonight, and they don't involve having my technology stolen and being found face down on a golf course."

In one motion, Quentin snatched the clip up and put it in the back pocket of his pants. "Alright, Mr. Cole," he said, cutting him off. He gestured to his freshly vacated seat. "Feel free to my drink. I'm on the clock, after all. Wouldn't be proper." And with that said, he gave him a rough pat on the shoulder, then walked towards the man who had been lurking by the pool.

"Christ, is he always like that?" Grayson asked, looking to Marcus for validation. He helped himself to the drink the badger had left. The scotch was welcomed against his dry throat. He hated the fucking desert.

At Marcus' back, he heard a splash, and screaming. He raised his hand to the bartender. "Another round, please. It's going to be a long night."

[Quentin Fairchild]

A N G E L

Quentin sat in the comfortably furnished office, expressionless as he waited for the man who had contacted him to finish his phone call. The room was dark, and the furniture was all black, save the desk, which was a rich brown - in the so-brown-it's-black fashion. There were no photos on the desk to speak of, and the only thing that Quentin found rather odd was a full-length mirror against the wall. It seemed incredibly out of place for an otherwise completely impersonal, almost clinical (if not dark) space. It was sparse on light fixtures, and with no windows, the glow of the fireplace and the meager desk lamp caused shadows to crawl on the walls, almost as though they were alive.

"Mr. Fairchild," the man began. He held out a hand, standing. Quentin stood as well, clasping the man's hand firmly in his own. It was cold - vampires were always cold. They both sat, and the man began to speak. "Your reputation precedes you," he observed. He picked a file up from his desk, and though Quentin showed no outward interest, he did wonder what it was in it. "Or should I say, your lineage."

"I'm not sure I follow," Quentin said. He remained utterly neutral, though he was raising his guard little by little.

The man glanced down to the file, speaking as he read over it. "Your father, the one called Matador? It's okay to acknowledge, Mr. Fairchild. I already know who you are." He paused, watching the Chamita clench his jaw. A hand raised, he spoke less matter-of-factly and more pleasantly. "I promise, this all has a point. Your father's kill list includes some rather pesky creatures. I'm assuming that you were also trained in the proper disposal methods of them as well?"

Quentin's nostrils flared as he exhaled, trying to contain his growing anger. The vampire was beating around the bush, and it was starting to actually piss him off. "Which creatures, exactly? And how did you acquire so much knowledge about my supposed family?" he countered. His frustration was apparent in his voice.

With a flicking motion, the file that was in the man's hand went straight into the open fireplace, settling on a log and causing little crackling noises. "At ease, Mr. Fairchild. I had to be sure that you would be capable of undertaking the job before I offer it to you. Tell me, when's the last time you killed an angelic being?"

The question made Quentin stop breathing for a moment. He was plunged back, for the briefest of seconds, to a job when he was younger - much younger. He remembered the blade his father had given him, the Enochian etched on it. He remembered the small apartment, the sound of the television with cartoons on it. The sound of a baby screaming, and of a boy about his age, trying to quiet that baby, hiding in a closet but still peeking out. His father told the man, "I'm not here for them." It had been Quentin's first time accompanying his father. He was - nine, ten? The man ran for the door, but Quentin was there. The emergence of a child was enough to give the man pause, but that was why his father had brought him along, wasn't it?

The knife made its way right where it had always been destined to be. Quentin was shocked by how easy it had been. He'd never killed anyone before then - certainly not anything so powerful or with such a permanence to the world. But as he lay there, knife in his chest, he didn't seem permanent at all. A dead angel looked just like a dead man, in the end.

Back in the present, he blinked few times. The man was still focused on him, brows arched in expectation of an answer. "Truth be told, it's been a very long time. They aren't my favourite." He had cried on the way home, and his father had beaten him within an inch of his life. Why are you crying? Your father is here, theirs is gone. You killed him. Do not cry over your kill; let the bereaved mourn their own.

"Nor are they mine, which brings me to the point. I'd like you to consider an offer. You don't have to answer today, or tomorrow, but sooner rather than later. I'm making plans for some family coming into town, and the individuals in my way seem to be preventing that. I'd like to consider you for the position of removing them."

"I'm currently under active contract," Quentin reminded him. He forced the memories back down into whatever dark corner he'd found them in, refusing to give them any more attention. "I did tell you that when you requested this meeting."

"Oh, I understand. I wouldn't dream of being competition for your employer. You could consider it a side job. You will be compensated, of course."

"Of course," Quentin replied smoothly. The man stood, and so did Quentin, taking his hand again. "I will let you know in a few days, Mr..." he trailed off.

"Rutherford," he said. "You may call me Benjamin Rutherford. And I will await your answer, eagerly."

[Quentin Fairchild]

L O Y A L T Y

"I'm going to be taking a few days off."

Leon started at his desk, the unexpected voice causing him to bump his coffee with a slight jerk of his hand. "Quentin, come on in," he said, waving the man in from the doorway. "That shouldn't be an issue, it's been a light month. A little too light, actually, but we've got people to cover down."

"Good. I'll be back in two weeks."

He walked out of the office without any further conversation, and Leon arched his brow a little. He picked up the phone, pressing send on Edward. He and Quentin had a working relationship and that was fair, he didn't expect to be best friends with even a fraction of people he knew. But something seemed off - and who better to consult than the other resident Man of Few Words? "Hey man," Leon said, cradling the phone into his shoulder as he went into the schedule to block Quentin's name out. "What's up with your boy?"

Edward, who was currently on his way to see Natalia, frowned at the voice coming out of the speaker. "What boy?" he asked, fully expecting to get off the phone with Leon and get into someone's ass.

"Fairchild. He just walked into the office and said he was taking some time off, then walked right the fuck back out. I mean, I gave it to him, but he's usually way more personable than that. What's up?"

Edward snorted. "Why would I know?"

Leon let out an audible, frustrated sigh. "Come on, man. I pay you to know everything about everyone at all times."

Laughter came back through his phone at him. "Do you, now?" Edward challenged, unable to stop laughing at the notion that he was expected to be Leon's All-Seeing Eye. Leon started to clarify what he meant, but Edward stopped him. "No, I know what you mean, you drama queen," he said, still biting back a laugh. "I'll tell you what. After my lunch date with Natalia, I'll drop by his apartment and see what I see."

"That's all I wanted," Leon said, feeling like he had to defend his request. "He's a good hunter. I'd rather him not suddenly have a huge case of buyer's remorse and go swan dive off a building." He grimaced.

"No, I hear you," Edward assured him. "I don't really think he's the type, but you are right, this is a little more abrupt than we're used to from him." He excused himself from the call, having arrived at the restaurant that he and Natalia had agreed upon. Once inside, he sat down and welcomed a hearty glass of red wine. It always helped him think, even if it didn't do much for him in any other capacity.

"What's wrong, dad?" Natalia asked, tilting her head. "You never drink with lunch." She herself had just gotten a beer, because she did drink at lunch - and any other time, really. Work hard, play hard. She watched her father set his menu down and scratch his chin thoughtfully, and perked her brows in anticipation of whatever he was going to tell her.

"Just work things," he said cryptically.

Natalia rolled her eyes. "Okay, am I to assume that you're just going to be deep in thought for the rest of the meal, then?" She was more than willing to drop the subject, as they refrained from pouring the personal business of others out on general decency, but not if he was going to look so bothered.

He took the hint. "No, of course not. Let an old man have a glass of wine and sit pensively for a few moments, and then you can tell me all about your week," he said, offering a compromise. She was receptive to the idea, so they sat in silence a while longer - at least until it came time to order food. Natalia was glued to her phone for that time anyways, putting out small fires by text because she was both that good and that heavily relied upon.

After lunch, Edward made good on his word to Leon, and went over to Quentin's apartment. It was true that he got along well with Quentin, more than the other people Leon had employed in the past, at least. He found the badger's inability to beat around the bush and blunt attitude incredibly refreshing. Too often he had noticed that people (supernatural and normal alike) danced around topics with pretenses of trying to work an angle or manipulate an outcome in some favourable way - but his kind were blunt, always had been, and though the art of subtlety had not been lost on him, the practice of not saying what you mean was. To that end, he knew that one of two things would come out of this meeting: either he would determine what the problem was (if there was a problem), or Quentin would tell him to mind his business. Either outcome he was fine with.

He knocked on the door, and saw a shadow at the peephole. Quentin opened it wordlessly. His jaw was set as he stared at Edward for a moment, then he exhaled through his nose in acknowledgement of the situation, and stepped back, holding the door open for the gargoyle to come in. Edward obliged, moving out of the way as said door was secured behind him. He took the opportunity to look around his apartment - and was not even a little surprised to find that it was sparsely decorated. It suggested that Quentin was rarely there, and with the amount of jobs he took for Garden Security, it made sense. This was merely a comfortable storage unit for what few things he had.

"So," Edward began. "What's got you on the move?" He gestured to the duffel that sat on the couch, packed and ready to go. He glanced down at the kitchen counter, and picked up a passport.

The badger stared at him for a moment, and the only sound between them was the ticking of Edward's watch for a long minute. Finally, just as Edward set the passport down and was about to depart, Quentin took in a breath. "I took a job," he said. Edward squinted a little, and Quentin realized that he was going to have to elaborate. To be fair, he didn't feel that he owed them (Garden Security) anything, but he did like to keep good relationships where he could.

"When Leon hired me, he told me that if anyone ever put a hit out on him, he'd pay me twice as much to take care of the problem. So, I'm going to take care of the problem." He spoke so matter-of-factly that Edward needed a minute. Quentin took the opportunity of speechlessness from the gargoyle to take his passport back, and put it and a few other things into a black backpack that rested on one of the stools. "So, there you have it."

"Okay," Edward began, rubbing the stubble on his face. He needed a moment. "While I understand that you didn't want to tell anyone exactly what was going on, don't you think it would have been beneficial for us to know that someone was gunning for Leon? I mean, he's in my charge, after all. A courtesy call would have been nice." His mind was already working on where they were going to move to, and who he would want tasked out for this until it blew over.

"Edward," Quentin said, stopping his train of thought abruptly. "I didn't tell you because it's not an issue. I didn't want him to panic, I didn't want you to panic. It's being handled in about," he paused, glancing to his own watch. "Twelve hours. It's about a seven hour flight there, and if I count in travel time to the airport and from the airport, that about cinches it."

"Okay...." Edward said slowly. "Do you know who it is?"

"I do," Quentin responded. Edward stared at him, then made a gesture with his hand, as if to say, well? Quentin hesitated for a second. "I don't know who contracted it out, but I know who's taken the job. I took two weeks because I reckon it will take me more than a day or two to track the source back, but when I do, that will also be handled."

"Deliberately withholding information like you are right now is going to start pissing me off, Fairchild," Edward said, and the edge in his voice was apparent. "I respect you, but you know about a threat to someone that I protect as my own, and I'm going to need a name." He leaned on the counter, as if to punctuate the finality of his words.

"I understand that, Edward," Quentin said. "But I have to protect my own interests and assets as well. You have my word - I'll send a confirmation kill in half a day's time. I'll follow up when I've tracked the rest down, too." He was a Chamita; a threat from anyone, even a gargoyle, would more than miss its intended mark. They simply didn't feel fear the way others did. It was part of what made them so dangerous.

Edward's fingers twitched. He wanted to bludgeon the badger with his pistol, but thought better of it. "Who are you loyal to, Quentin?" he asked him instead.

"To myself, first, friend. I've made good on my promise to our employer. I fully intend to deliver. You'll have to have a little faith," he said with a shrug. Quentin was obviously done with the conversation, because he turned his attention to his bag, ensuring he had everything he would need. He slung it over a shoulder, and then retrieved the other, larger bag from the couch. "Are you giving me a ride to the airport, or should I take a taxi?"

Edward set his jaw. "I'll give you a ride," he said, the displeasure evident in his voice. At least by agreeing to that much, he could see where the badger was headed - and he assumed Quentin figured as much. He made no effort to hide where he was going, booking a flight to Madrid as they drove.

When they arrived at the terminal, Quentin collected his bags, and then leaned in the window of the passenger side. "Trust me," he said. "I did not earn my name for nothing. I will talk to you soon."

Back at the office, Edward debated on exactly how much he was willing to tell Leon. Begrudgingly, he acknowledged that Quentin wasn't wrong about panicking Leon. The man already had enough to deal with as it was, and he truly was in need of a break. He elected to lend a little faith Quentin's way, as the man had asked.

"Family emergency," Edward said, sitting down in the chair across from Leon's desk. Leon, who wasn't doing anything really besides aggressively clicking in Minesweeper, glanced up at him.

"Oh yeah?" he asked. "Huh. Wasn't aware he had any family to speak of," he said, surprised. "Then again, most of us don't really speak of family at all, so... Makes sense."

Something Quentin said bothered him, and after a moment, he spoke up. "Hey - does he operate under a different name?"

Leon's brows knitted, and he clicked away from his game to their secure drive with employee records. "I feel like I remember seeing a note, let me look," he said. "Yeah, his Clan - "

"Cete," Edward corrected him.

"Whatever, his Cete - all badgers have names they use. They're all in this business in some form or fashion, so it makes sense, I guess."

"Okay, what was the name?"

Leon laughed. "Volkermord. Is that like a play on Voldermort?" he asked.

Edward nearly swallowed the gum he'd been chewing. I did not earn my name for nothing. "No, it isn't," Edward said, admonishing Leon. "It's German. For genocide."

"Jesus Christ!" Leon exclaimed. "What do you have to do to get a name like that?"

On the flight to Madrid, Quentin looked out the window at the coming darkness. He knew that eventually, the time would come where he had to turn his craft inward, as most badgers did in the end. These violent delights, as they said, had violent ends. He closed his eyes, and pictured in his mind's eye, his sister Elsa. No, that's not right, he thought. He remembered when her father had given her the name that she operated under. Försvinne. It was Swedish - it meant disappear.

Ironically, that's what was about to happen to her. Sorry, sister. You know how the game is played. He had an inclining of who had set her on this mission, too. My, but it had been a long time since he'd seen his father, hadn't it? And Quentin was in the mood for a reunion.