Simon Langevin.


A Kalosian name. Well-respected in the business, from the...conversations I've had with your former colleagues.

It is a pleasant evening, the sort in which the cool wind comes down from the mountains to kiss the cherry blossoms, filling the air with a cold, sweet scent evocative of spring. An early frost will cause them to tumble down, resplendence wasted on the smooth river stones and soft black sand, all the ornamental flora chosen specifically to make this place feel like home, even a continent away.

You have an impressive track record. Almost fourteen years in security. First with Bortiforte Industries and then, when they dissolved, Bastidion Protection, Ltd. A sub-company, is it? You don't need to say anything, just nod. I'll be happy to let you know when I require you to speak.

White-rimmed scales of citrine flash beneath the cool, dark currents of the elaborate pond, constructed with aesthetic in mind - the soft sound of water, of the wind in the trees, of the Magikarp as they whisper to the surface, all building on what this place is meant to be. Beauty and control, a place of respite and order and ceremony, in which her old life still lives and breathes.

Now, then. I'd like to talk about the incident at Slateport Mall. I see we're on the same page, finally. That's good. Hoshiko does have her way of instilling the importance of a topic, and while I did promise your delivery unharmed - I've been known to make an exception.

Shioda Yoshiro is hardly dressed for the occasion, her dark shirt-sleeves rolled up to the shoulders to reveal an inordinate amount of traditional tattoos, her fatigue trousers scuffed at one knee from the struggle to secure Langevin in the trunk of her vehicle. Nonetheless, it would be easy to forget by the way that she moves, as easily as Shioda Ai ever did her silks a decade past, as a practiced hand slides the door of the teahouse open, lingers on its hand-painted panels. As she unlaces her boots, leaves them just outside.

Tell me again. You've mentioned names. Tristan Brochard. Henriette De Verley. Laurent Lajoie. Amandine Regnard. Two of those four are- Yes. You understand. Who had access backstage that wasn't security? And you saw Laurent with the box? You're certain. Tell me again. Tell me again. Tell me again. Hoshiko.

Just inside, the tatami floors are neatly swept. Johto porcelain is set atop the tea table with the soft click of wood and ceramic, all its myriad spiderweb fractures repaired in crisp gold. Just inside, a kettle is heating over the low-burning coals, steam only just starting to coil from the maw of its bronzed spout, cast in the semblance of an Arcanine mid-leap.

Now that that's settled. Don't cry. I think we both know you don't deserve to, Simon. Not after all we found in your office. Of course we reviewed them, why wouldn't we? It's sloppy work, saving all your little indecencies like that. I took it rather personally. I suspect your former employers will feel the same, when they have to pay me to destroy them.

Am I with Hattori? You should be so lucky.

Her hands are steady as she pours hot water into a porcelain cup, setting the kettle back down to the side before she transfers the liquid into another cup, then back again, a practiced art meant to cool it to a precise warmth before adding it to tea. A soft peep sounds from a familiar source, a sleek, black Zorua winding up the steps from the garden, Hoshiko's ears askance as footsteps approach.

"Thank you, Hoshiko," is all she intones by way of response. Knelt at the tea table as she transfers the water once more, she tests the warmth of the porcelain only once further before adding it to the tea leaves, the remainder of the preparation easy enough to complete. Then she rises to her feet, moving to greet Elisabeth Fiorelli at the open door panel. With the cursory signal of one hand, her private security is quickly dispersed, leaving them alone for the time being.

"Miss Fiorelli," Yoshiro intones smoothly, dark eyes sweeping over this woman who has proven to have enough collateral to catch her attention, whose connections she is more interested in. Her first impression is that she's even prettier in person, not as wilting by far if the look in her eyes is any indication. Definitively Kalosian in affect, which almost makes her second guess her choice of tea.

Abiding by the custom of addressing an equal in her father's house, Yoshiro bows in polite greeting, and then steps aside to gesture that the other may enter, "Please take off your shoes." And then, as if they were old acquaintances, "I hope you like gyokuro. It should be steeped by the time we sit down. I thought you may enjoy a brief pleasantry before we discussed business."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

It is second nature for Shioda Yoshiro to watch Elisabeth Fiorelli from above the rim of her teacup, the darkness of her eyes calculating as she takes that first, welcome sip of gyokuro. It always reminds her of home, a taste that calls to mind the sweet, tall grass that stirred in the wind near the river. That summons back a semblance of so much porcelain shattered over old, blood-soaked tatami, noibat wings all whispered velvet in the charred rafters.

"If you find that you enjoy it, I could send you the name of our supplier," Yoshiro muses in a low timbre, a lingering echo of late summer, of long-off violence balanced on the watered steel of her cadence. Gaze meeting Elisabeth's, she confirms, "And yes, my discretion is implied."

Yoshiro clears her throat softly as she sets her teacup down on the table between them, little more than a soft click. Never shifts her eyes, even as she inhales a slow breath that carries with it the scent of freshly steeped tea, of charcoal burning beneath the kettle, a hint of smoke on the cool, fresh air.

Elisabeth Fiorelli is cool and composed. What she recognizes in the crystalline blue of those eyes is this. That it would take far more than her to shake that composure. That Elisabeth Fiorelli is far more than the florist, or the widow, or all the demure weakness in Langevin's tapes. And isn't that a curious thing?

What have you known that is worse than me? is a question that rises unbidden in the base of her skull, one that the Shioda oyabun does not voice. What, that brought you into the Arcanine's den unafraid?

There is a part of her, and she knows that it is Shioda Yoshiro looking back upon Shioda Junya, that sees Elisabeth Fiorelli distinctly now, has a measure of her clear from the Elisabeth Bortiforte on that footage, and understands an indescribable thing. One that she could never put to words, but has her respect nonetheless, a feat in itself.

"We share an unfortunate and personal interest in Simon Langevin," is what she says instead, directly. It is where the pretenses between them begin to fall. "Bastidion Protections was entrusted to keep something of mine safe, and elected to endanger it for profit. You can imagine that I took that quite personally."

"Simon and I have already had our discussion, and he is...largely unharmed," Yoshiro confirms in a smooth cadence, lifting her cup to swirl the dregs of her tea. As she lifts it to take another sip, she blinks once, twice, at the sudden - albeit very soft - plonk of a very small, very pink Cutiefly into it from....was she somewhere on her person? Did she drift in from outside? Has she been in the teahouse this whole time?

"Hello, Anzu."

Summarily setting the cup back down onto the tea table, Yoshiro uses a long-handled spoon to fish the tiny insect out of her matcha and onto a napkin, the conversation diverted for an instant as she chides gently, "There isn't any honey in it, and you can't swim."

Then, to Elisabeth, "Don't mind her."

As casually as anything, the yakuza uses the small square of cloth to lift the little insect, carefully using her thumbs to rather tenderly dry it without harming it as she continues, "I'll be frank. I was hopeful you may be able to connect me with some discrete contacts in Kalos. You are, of course, welcome to decline. We will fulfil our original arrangement, inclusive of any necessary transport, holding, or disposal of Mr. Langevin at your discretion."

A soft, indignant buzz sounds from the folds of the fabric in Yoshiro's hands, requiring a resultant hush, before the newly-dried Cutiefly, looking a bit like a pink dandelion puff, is released onto the tea-table. It toddles across slowly, shaking its little legs like a wet dog, before starting to angle toward Elisabeth and presumably her cup.

"But if you accept, Shioda would...I would owe you a favour, Miss Fiorelli. And I can assure that I don't take such obligations lightly," Yoshiro offers in a clear timbre, lifting her dark eyes from the ambling Cutiefly to meet the florist's, the meaning behind them heavy, serious. "In the meantime..."

What she sets on the table carries perhaps more weight than her gaze or even her meaning, a neatly taped bundle of discs - each scripted with a date, location, and persons present.

"It was found in Langevin's effects. Consider it a gesture of goodwill."

The Bortiforte Industries insignia is left glaring up from the table between them.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉