OVERLORD: All Hail Ultron

Chapter 11: Swords of Darkness.

'I can't fucking read - Narbaral can't either... Should have taken into account the language difference.' Marcus thinks to himself, standing before the board, his fingers tapping his mask in thought, looking from contract to contract—the lettering looking like either chicken scratch or random swirls. A man walked up and tore away a contract walking over to the attendant. Marcus's gaze locks on a particular contract.

"Eh fuck it. This looks important." the desert ranger grabbed the contract and meandered his way over to the front desk. The guild attendant standing there with her hands folded in front of her, looking calm and sweet in her fine green dress. 'Huh, beauty marks beneath the right eye seem pretty common,' he thinks as he approaches, the memory of the muscular redhead from earlier playing in his head. Placing the paper in front of her, he says, "I'd like to take this job, miss." politely.

She looks down and reads it for a second, then looks back up to him, noticing the copper trinket, and puts on a confectionary smile. "I'm sorry, sir, but this request is for Mythril plates only," she says, pushing the contract back toward him.

"I'm aware," Marcus nods, leaning on the table and pushing the paper back. 'Lying asshole,' Ultron mutters in his mind. The receptionist blinks a little in confusion.

"Sir?"

"It's why I'm requesting it," he said with a snicker.

"Sir, you understand that should you fail, many people will lose their lives," she insists, ensuring the man before her understands the gravity. Marcus smiles, straitening his relaxed posture.

"Ma'am, you will find me and my companion here are more than capable. She's a Third tier Magic Caster," he gestures to Nabe standing beside him—those overhearing turning to them in shock.

"Third Tier! At her age???" someone questions with his equally surprised friends.

"Holy shit!"

"And me, Though not a caster, I'd say we're equally matched in terms of fighting prowess. This plate system is new to us. Where we come from, we give jobs to thoughts who can handle it, and we can handle it." Marcus asserts, straightening his duster. Though surprised, the attendant stays resolved in her answer.

"I'm very sorry, sir, but I can not give you this job," she says in finality, reaching a definite barrier and a failed speech check; Marcus raises his hands in mock surrender. With a sigh, he steps back and says.

"Welp, fair, I suppose, can't hold it against you. Then if you would: Give us the most difficult request to our rankings, please?" he says kindly, his artificial rugged southern desert charm pouring out. The attendant smiles.

"Yes, of course." she turns and walks away to look through a filing cabinet-looking dresser for his request. 'Ok... Bit of a rocky start, but I got what I needed in the end. Really should learn to read this world's language...' he thinks to himself, waiting patiently, but out of the corner of his eye, a small group approaches him; a dirty blond young man steps forward with a smile and a wave says.

"S'cuse me, sir! Would you like to help us with our job?" Marcus turns to them and tilts his head to the side slightly.

"Go on..." he says slowly, suspicious of the group of randoms walking up to him. His guard raised as he heard what others said of him, and he didn't feel like embarrassing more people today.

"Not here, come with us," he says invitingly; Marcus is skeptical but obliges. Turning to the receptionist who's flipping through files and contracts and snaps to get her attention.

"Nevermind, ma'am, I'll see you another time, have a wonderful day!" he says, doing a small salute and waving as he follows the small group up some stairs and into a small room. It had a long table with a booth and chairs. It seemed like a small meeting room