Trash Diving [Calliope, Laylah]

Most people envisioned Calliope's apartment like her office—astutely decorated with bland colors with the occasional high-contrast splash of color, sharp furniture that was honestly uncomfortable for long periods of time, and expensive and pointless modern art. They would be as wrong as the newspapers declaring Dewey Defeats Truman. Calliope had a public appearance she kept up to a T. She didn't let that slip at all. She couldn't. At home, that all disappeared. She was a slob at best. Empty wine bottles were hidden between still-packed moving boxes. Clothes were wadded and thrown into a pile, and what didn't go into the monthly dry cleaning was just thrown out and bought again new. The one thing that saved her from a truly disgusting place was the lack of fast food containers—her savior at home was her General Electric dishwasher.

This was also why no one was ever invited to visit her. It would just be too much work to clean up, and she was already tired from her job with the Vandenreich. And normally, she would be at the office at this hour. She'd be looming over someone with a smile and a hidden insult as they displayed incompetence before her. That was a normal day. Today, Calliope had left something important back home. At her old job, she'd never take work home. Here she had no choice but to work at home occasionally.

Cursing, Calliope found her keys and "unlocked" the door. She hadn't noticed it was already unlocked. She slipped inside before anyone dare get a peek, and flipped the lightswitch on. Only two of the three lights in the living room came on. She'd have to get the maintenance guy here. Again. Dreadful. She began searching around the Barca Lounge she normally relaxed in, trying to find the manilla envelope. "Where the hell did I put it..." Calliope hadn't noticed the intruder just yet...

Calliope struggled to find that folder. It was getting beyond annoying and into the realm of frustration. After that would be anger. Before she started throwing things out of the way, she put on her thinking cap. Something was off, and she could now see that. The empty, lipstick-stained glass she was drinking from last night wasn't there. It was... By the bed! She hadn't relaxed in the Barca lounge. She had read it in bed and...

Calliope entered the bedroom, and then eyed a clean-carved path. Her groggy morning self was doing her a favor she guessed. She still couldn't get all the way down, so instead she just crouched down where she thought she might have placed it—and where it may have slid away."Now where did you go... Ah-ha, there we g—" She barely touched the folder and as she returned to grab it, her hand touched... a hand?! "What the shit?!" Calliope retracted her hand like a snake bit it. She pulled out one of her self-defense SMGs. "I'd recommend you getting out now because otherwise, your life insurance will be paying for my new bedding~"

Well, if Calliope were into women, the one slinking out from under her bed would definitely be her type. There was just enough elegance there to even be tempting, but alas, Calliope was as straight as her home was filthy. She stepped back, allowing the woman to fully exit from under the bed. This at least gave Calliope a reason to file a new bed as a business expense. "Home security upgrades" sure sounds a lot like "new bedroom suite" right about now.

Calliope didn't put the compact firearm away. The barrel was no longer pointed at the hottest monster under a bed one could imagine, but it was still ready to be raised. "Well, as you can see, I definitely didn't hire you. I think that much might be a bit obvious by the state of disarray my moving has caused. Now the question is, who did hire you..."

Calliope took a moment to eye Laylah up and down with a more scrutinizing eye. Something was off, and she couldn't quite place it. "You're definitely not someone found prowling on street corners, I'll give you that. But you also aren't quite refined for someone with a private list of exclusive clients that you only add to with an invite from a prior contact." Calliope had effectively just called Laylah a middle-class whore mostly to see how she'd react. "So, did this 'client' pay up front or was it more a cash-on-delivery thing? I'm not quite sure how... Oh, what's the proper word now, right—escorts," her voice dripped with sarcasm, "like yourself charge."

Bingo. Hint one. Calliope had done one thing very well. Most mail was directed to one of three P.O. boxes. Very, very few people had her direct address—and she knew each of them by heart. Only one would have matched that description, and it was a good ruse. The only problem was that she didn't have Calliope's new address yet. Only her personal secretary and the new Grandmaster had been personally informed of the new address—but she was sure that Emil knew as well.

Either way, this was going to be interesting. She'd play along for now. "So, this isn't your first time being 'pranked?' You may wish a change in profession if that's the case. Gullibility gets the vulnerable killed—or worse." She spoke like a young snake—threats leaking like venom. "Of course, if you've already been paid, then I might as well take advantage of your services... Ah! I know what to do. As you can see, my new house hasn't quite been unpacked. I think a good cleaning is in order, no?"

"Ho? How much did they pay you for some... quality time with me?" Calliope knew her place was bad, but c'mon. It wasn't that bad! ...was it? It was a bit worse than normal, sure, but that was just moving debris. "But if you've been paid for on my account, I will make sure my prankster does get their money's worth." Her thin smile had the same menace as a shark's. "If you won't clean, can you cook?" She didn't know what all was in her fridge. She wouldn't pressure Laylah into anything too strenuous, of course.