: Prompting Needed_

Monthly Quota (NIB)

From Daily Quordle 346 (1/5/23): SUAVE, BYLAW, PASTY, BLINK

He noticed that his accent was flowing particularly thick today. Each word swirled with Southern syrupiness that sweetened the air before curling into the various mahogany surfaces. "That's the reason we had that chiseled into the bylaws, Jason." Thomas swiveled in his chair and flashed his brightest grin to the smaller, pale gentleman on the other side of the desk. The leather of the chair creaked only slightly as the bearings in the base offered no complaints to the shift of his weight. His fingers drummed on the wooden armrest. The steady tap-tap-tap­ paired well with the beating of rain against the windows behind him. Lightning flashed, and that spike of light coated the room in a blue-white glare for a split second. A ghostly afterimage, like a world only barely perceptible with the naked eye, lingered for a moment before the dim incandescent bulbs reasserted the darkened office. And then there was Jason.

Little, pasty Jason sat on the bare wooden bench and looked up into Thomas's face with simple expectation. He had his blazer folded on his knees with his hands laced on top. His white button-up shirt was immaculately ironed, and the man's collar could cut hard cheese without a fold. Thomas liked Jason. Well, maybe just a bit more than he could like any of his supporting staff. That's why it angered him when Jason asked questions that were rhetorical.

"Every member of this..." Thomas twirled his hand as if stirring the ether, "organization needs to bring in their keep. Whether it's through the bounty channels or through their own means, everyone delivers. If they don't produce at least one fulfilled contract per month, they're out."

Jason nodded and refolded his hands on his lap. "Yes sir. No one is disputing that, sir, but it's the matter of this particular contract-"

In contrast to Thomas's own voice, Jason's accent was as flat as his shirt. Thomas steamrolled over it with a booming, "You're referring to the half-bred."

He scrutinized the little man's face for a sign of being perturbed at the harsh way Thomas had dropped the description from his mouth. It had plopped out like a slur. To Jason's credit, he bore the term with little more than a blink, and then nodded in agreement. Damn, but he was a good assistant.

"Yes sir, the half human, half Oryctolagus Cuniculus. Goes by the name of Nib." Jason glanced off to the side. "I'm still a bit miffed that no one has ascertained as to whether it's a code name or not." He shook his head, and returned his smile towards Thomas who merely arched an eyebrow. "Our operatives have been delivering payloads regularly. Everyone is on schedule."

Tap-tap-tap. Thomas felt a heat build up behind his eyes. Tap-tap-tap. He leaned forward, this time eliciting a quiet groan of complaint from the chair beneath him. His fingers came together in front of him and steepled below his chin. "It's a game of numbahs." He heard the word slip from him without an 'r' on the end, but the anger was superseding proper diction. "We've had the contract for this mutated freak in our grasp for five BLAZIN' years, Jason." Thomas placed his hands on the blotter before him and mentally dared the other man to flinch beneath his stare. Jason bore the heat with no outward adjustments. "We've had other contracts in and out in that time, some as soon as days." The moleskin beneath his fingers began to curl steam from its cool surface and the stench of cooking leather began to build beneath his nose. "And yet somehow a whole GOT-DAMNED team of professional body brokers can't find one bunny-man and his talkin' toaster."

Jason shifted his grip on his own hands again. There was a dip in the man's smile now. "To be fair, sir, the 'talking toaster' as you've named it is strong, quick, and proficient in the art of body guarding." His eyes dipped towards the desk's surface where lines of char spread from Thomas's fingers like black lightning. The room flashed again as the storm outside continued to beat against the manor's walls. He returned his light, round eyes up to his boss's face. "Everyone has met their quotas, sir." The smile, that little line of suave confidence, curved again beneath Jason's nose.

It'd be hard to smile through a scar, Thomas thought before he realized what he was thinking. He froze. Crackling sounds were starting to come from the desk's surface. He lifted his fingers from the ruined blotter and sat back, willing the heat to recede back into his core. He laced his fingers over his gut and turned to face back out the windows. He could still feel the anger slithering and chafing inside, begging for a physical release. He snorted as he examined the roiling sky and its organic light show. "I want him found, bagged, and tagged, Jason. With prejudice that would make my ancestors blush, is that clear?"

There was a long pause. Thomas could only assume Jason was consulting something on his phone before he responded. He was no doubt responding to the messages that had led him to requesting this meeting. Thomas heard the little click of the phone being locked before Jason asked, "They'll need assurances that no one will be fired simply because they fail one acquisition if their ledgers are in the black, sir. Otherwise..."

Thomas nodded. The squirming, liquid heat of his fire raged within him, aching to be released. His eyes darted across the racing clouds above. "Fine. But I swear to the Lord above, Jason. If I so much as sniff the color red in one of their books, the example set by their dismissal will make last week's bonfire seem like a snuffed-out match."

"That's all they'll need to hear, sir," Jason agreed. "Good night, sir." Thomas never heard the small man get up or walk away. The only indication he had of the assistant's exit was the muted catch of the door in its frame.