you can cry your eyes out of your head.

[brogan vassar]

BUT BABY, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE
you can cry again, again, my face is like a mannequin

Am I cursed?

The question had lingered in his mind ever since the meeting was arranged. Brogan wondered what he'd done that was so wrong; that determined this fate. Soon he would have to retrieve anti-depressents, at the very least a spell or potion. Not that he was depressed, he wouldn't let that golden haired, sharp tongued lycaness get that far under his skin. However, being forced to see her again made an uneasy feeling wash over him, clenching stomach and teeth in a sickening anticipation.

His breaths were deep, falsely calming as he trudged. His heavy steps took him past the popular buildings of Diagon Alley, avoiding the comfort that would lie in a more public setting. Although it would have been the sane choice, she was bound to make a scene - and if that were the case, he didn't want any witnesses. Hell, he'd probably get thrown in jail for the way he wanted to treat the woman. There was a vicious, still-there anger bubbling just beneath his serene expression. It wouldn't take long for Tristise to get the best of him, to a point where he'd lose it all - put his hands on her. He'd love to hurt her, and although that should bother him, he was more concerned about the tragic realization that she could hurt him more.

Just letting his mind wander to the unpleasant thoughts of Tristise caused a shiver to race down his spine, disturbed to his core. Brogan was positive the lady did not possess a single kind bone within her body. Since their first meeting it seemed as if his life were consumed by her; he always ran into her, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Whether Tristise was physically present or not, she terrorized him.

His walking had taken him a good distance from safety, and he was now in an unpleasant looking alleyway. It seemed fitting for the daunting task of encountering the demonic lycaness. Brogan prayed and hoped the meeting would go well, and that it would be the last time he'd ever see her. How could two strangers become so viciously intertwined?

Brogan leaned casually against a brick wall, propping a foot on the fixture. He reached a hand into the pocket of his tight fitting jeans, pulling out both a lighter and a smoke. Propping the deadly substance between his lips, he flicked the lighter and silently rejoiced as the burning sensation filled his throat; consuming his insides toxically; bittersweet. It was a disgusting means of coping, but he found himself self-medicating in the most destructive ways. The lighter went back in his pocket, and he adjusted his dress shirt; plain white, unbuttoned to mid-chest and accompanied by a dark vest.

He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, only to deeply exhale. His big blue eyes assessed the way the smoke clouded around him, slowly dissipating into nothingness. He repeated the process to ease his woes, he had been so on edge. Brogan was ready for her - he really was. They'd make a deal, it would be over - he'd never see her again.

[Tristise Rederick]

'Do I really have to see that twit again?' Tristise asked herself as she stood on an empty street corner trying to put off the meeting. She fidgeted a bit, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and passing the small case she had in her grasp from hand to hand. It wasn't like she wasn't stressed enough already, but since that idiot had come into her life she was more stressed than ever. She kind of wanted to rip gaping holes in everyone who spoke to her.

Not to mention that because of him her one mission had turned into two. Hopefully after today it would be done and over with and she could go back to ignoring her family and having nothing to do with them. With any luck at least. She did still have some of that, right? It didn't seem like it since Brogan made the choice to slide into her booth and attempt to talk to her. If he was under stress now too he deserved it. It was his fault they met in the first place.

Somewhere nearby the lycaness picked up the sound of a clock chiming with her acute hearing. She grumbled and started dragging herself toward the meeting point. Her knee high laced boots felt like they were lead, but really it was her feet, not the shoes, causing the problem. Her heels clicked on the cobblestone like a little funeral march or something. Not that she was gonna get kill or something. Please, he was human. What could he do to her? Not much. Still, it was like the death of her sanity having to see him again.

Fitting for her thoughts about the sound of her footsteps, she was dressed from head to toe in black - black leggings, a black off-the-shoulder blouse, and a narrow black leather waist cincher positioned right under her bust acting as a belt. Even the file case she carried was black. As she rounded the corner she spotted him, though from a ways away she had smelled him already. Tristise sighed heavily and then trudge on, over and in front of him. She wrinkled her nose at the disgusting cigarette propped between his lips and added yet another reason to dislike him.

Gritting her teeth she chose to ignore it, when in fact she wanted to snatch it from him and grind it into his eye as a lesson. "Let's get this over with." The phrase made her feel like a character from a trite drama, but it was so fitting. She wanted nothing more than to get this horribly unsettling meeting over with. She observed his person carefully, stepping forward another few feet so she was within handing distance when they made the exchange. "Just pass my your half of the papers and I'll pass you my half and we'll be done. I can be rid of you, hopefully once and for all. If you fuck this up and I have to do yet another mission for my family I will not hesitate to hunt you down and tear you apart. Slowly and very painfully."

[brogan vassar]

BUT BABY, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE
you can cry again, again, my face is like a mannequin

"I don't trust you," his words were blatant, plain and simple. Two digits stroked his cigarette, prying it from his deliciously plump lips. Staring beneath the mop of his blonde hair, he finally made eye contact.

Brogan had heard her approach first, the sound of her clicking heels reaching his human ears. When she'd stepped in his view he forced back a shudder, and swallowed fear. Yes, Brogan was actually scared of her. As he should be. He wasn't frightened in such a way he'd be reduced to tears, his slight fear was only a normal response to the reality of the situation. She was a lycaness; she was strong. He would never let on that she did scare him, for she was already a master at emasculating him.

Tristise stirred many emotions within him; the fear, the anger, she took him on an emotional roller coaster. And even though Brogan was sure he hated the woman, he couldn't stop himself from appreciating her lithe form. Black on black, she looked like a stunning dominatrix. She kind of was.

However, this didn't stop him from gritting his teeth, and shortly after taking a much appreciated drag from his smoke. "You just assume I will fuck this up, great," he let out a fake laugh, bitter in tone as the toxic substance was pulled, yet again from his mouth. "I am bracing myself for you to simply show off, exchanging the papers and then forcing me to give your own half back. I don't trust you," Brogan wasn't trying to stall the meeting. Any more time with her would give him a rotten headache.

He just, needed to know that he could trust her. And it was hard for him to muster up the trust for someone who was constantly threatening to kill him just because he dared to try and get to know her.

Biggest mistake of his life.
And she wouldn't let him forget it.

[Tristise Rederick]

Tristise couldn't help but smirk as Brogan declared that he didn't trust her. "Aw, such a shame. Here I was trying so hard to get you to too." Or not. She wasn't really trying to do much of anything involving him least of all gain his trust. Of course at the same time it stung to know he seemed to basically lump her in with the rest of her family and their bullshit. She supposed that until she changed her last night that was going to keep happening. She was a Rederick and so she got their reputation, just because of her name.

The young lycaness watched him as he took drags from his cigarette. Even through the thick, unpleasant odor she could sense his apprehension. He knew now just how screwed he was. She could tear him limb from limb if she so chose. As much as she hated the pompous ass killing just wasn't her style and it certainly wasn't her job. If her family wanted him dead they could do it themselves while Tristise wasn't around and preferably without her knowledge. She disapproved, but she might make an exception and support them if they chose to get rid of Brogan.

"You're kind of ridiculous, you know that? I don't even want to fucking be here. I didn't fucking want to be at that office either. I'm forced to though so I just want to make this quick and painless... for me at least. It's a simple exchange. You hold out your piece, I hold out my piece, we take hold of each others pieces, then we let go of ours. I walk away without tearing your head off and we pray to whatever high powers we believe in or whatever the fuck we want to pray to, that we never see each other again." Tristise brought a hand to her hair and ran it through once. She was tempted to repeat the process, but then it would look too much like a stressed or nervous habit. She refused to let him know how much he bothered her in return.

Suddenly a sickening thought occurred to her. If his family was like her family... was his also influential? What was his job? Would he and his family be likely to mingle with her family in a public, social sphere? Her mouth twisted into a horrified and disgusted sneer. "Say, what is it you and your family do anyway? Professionally. In the public eye. Please tell me you're middle class workers and no one important. Running into you during missions is bad enough, but when I'm already trying my damnedest to act like a proper and well behaved granddaughter I don't need any extra encouragement to ruin that appearance. It's hard enough for me."

"Yes, yes. Make your snide comment about how you're not surprised. Honestly though, it's extremely difficult to pretend I like the people my family entertains - or my family for that matter." She shrugged and shifted the case she held from one hand to the other. "So are we going to do this or not? If not, tell me now so I can go back to my regularly scheduled, more pleasant, activities."

[brogan vassar]

BUT BABY, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE
you can cry again, again, my face is like a mannequin

"Cute," he said, as an entirely sarcastic comment - in response to hers. "Maybe I could trust you if you weren't constantly threatening to kill me... Oh, and nearly ripping my head off just because I tried to make conversation with you. Should I be punished eternally by you for thinking you were pretty and worth getting to know?" Brogan immediately shut up, throwing his cigarette to the ground and swiftly crushing the burning substance. He hadn't meant to utter the last part, for those were his internal thoughts. "On second thought, maybe I should trust you. Because you didn't put on a front. You let me know right away that appearances are disturbingly deceiving..."

She spoke again, in that ever-so-harsh, ever-so-honest way of hers. He wanted to grab her, he wanted to shake her until her insides matched the outside. He wanted her out of his life. The more Tristise spoke, about the simple process... He wanted to grip her arms, force her against the wall to prove his larger body was superior to her small, feminine frame. Never had he imagined laying hands on a woman. But now he wanted to. She wasn't even a woman, so he didn't blame himself for his abusive thoughts. In fact, he would only hurt himself in the process. It repulsed him.

"I think you're ridiculous," he said with a sigh, but then he accompanied it with his infectious, charming smile. He did this at a glance, grabbing his cigarette from the ground and walking it to a nearby garbage can. It was probably the first time he'd smiled at Tristise. Brogan approached her again, closer this time. He searched desperately for something within her, something that would give him hope. At least the beginnings of trust.

But she was wretched, she was.

"Why are you doing something you hate so passionately? You're so strong, physically and mentally. I can't picture you doing anything you didn't want to..." he questioned her, his voice low as he assessed her. Perhaps there was more vulnerability to her than he'd thought. Was it possible he'd written Tristise off too soon? Perhaps her vicious attitude was to protect herself from the harm that closeness brought. But he didn't want to waste his time figuring her out. From what he'd seen... He'd had enough. In fact, he'd had too much.

"In the public eye?" he asked, an amused look on his face. "I am the owner of the Daily Prophet. Will that be a problem?" He allowed his bright blue eyes to travel the length of her face. He chuckled at her worries momentarily. "Afraid you'll run into me again? Why, can't you behave around me?" he raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, let's do it..." he didn't want to face what could happen if he didn't give her the papers. "More pleasant activities? Brogan couldn't help but pry. "Now what might those be?" He proceeded to reach into his pockets, grabbing for that damned piece of paper.

[Tristise Rederick]

{OOC: Allow me to say I just fucking love these two XD Your post had me chuckling quite a bit. They hate each other so much. Possibly more than any of our other characters o.O;; Ok. Replying now.}

Pretty and worth getting to know? Oh, how wrong he was. The poor fool. He needed some work on reading people - clearly. "I'm very pretty, but I won't deny that I'm not worth getting to know. I prefer my privacy, my solitude and thus company rarely finds me pleasant as I'm sure you know so well now. There isn't much to me either. Bad tempered, keeps to herself, enjoys reading and quidditch. Yeah, that about says it all. Appearances are never to be trusted." She shrugged and let out a bitter chuckle.

He called her ridiculous and smiled. There was something about that smile that utterly repulsed her. Her lips curled and her nose wrinkled. She watched as he disposed of his cigarette, that expression frozen on her face for a moment. Honestly, it could have been described as a charming smile, but Tristise had never been one for charm. Acting charming or being around people acting charming. Charm was all about lies, fronts, trickery. Charm was a cover evil, ruthless people used to gain status, influence, popularity. It was what her family used to all but rule Wizarding Britain and it was all fake. Her family was a bunch of killers and liars and theives. So it was no surprise she practically allergic to charm.

Of course, now she was really no better than them. In fact, day by day she was becoming more and more like them than even she realized. Once the realization hit her she'd surely do something... foolish to say the least. For now she was living in blissful ignorance, still believing she was nothing like her family. She wasn't a murderer or a thief (by choice) or a liar or... generally horrible.

Brogan questioned her motives for obeying orders and she smiled bitterly, glancing away down the deserted alley. She focused her attention near her feet as her gaze wandered back. "I am strong physically and mentally. More than a match for most of my family; however, I would be foolish if I believed they would fight fair should I disobey orders. They're Redericks after all. They win by any means. Not only that, but there are reasons I prefer to stay in the... indifferent graces of my family. I would not say good. I don't need my family to like me. I just need them to not care whether I'm around or not." Her mind was on her siblings and in part her grandfather. She was the only hope her younger siblings had of not partaking in the family business. She could influence her grandfather to keep them out of it... to a degree. Or she could take their missions to keep their hands clean if she had to. She'd prefer not to, but if push came to shove, better her than them.

On top of that if her grandfather's favorite was cast out it wouldn't cast an ideal light on Adair. No doubt there would be rebellion in the ranks and he would be overthrown as the head of the family. Her father would most likely take over or... heaven forbid - Uncle Leonard. While she disapproved of the family business, at least it maintained some dignity and some restraint with her grandfather at the reins. Without him the family would fall into the deepest of gutters. The family name would be filth. That would ruin her as well as her siblings and any hope for a 'normal' future would be crushed. As normal as a Rederick child could ever hope to have anyway.

"Daily Prophet owner? Oh, Lord. Just... wonderful." She was likely to see him again. He ran the paper the majority of Wizarding Britain read which meant he controlled something very precious to the Rederick family. Their reputation and means of spreading it. Her family would no doubt invite him to functions and keep a close eye on him. As if the fact his family was in the same business didn't already put them at odds.

He changed the subject, wanting to move on with business. She was starting to open her briefcase when he asked what activities she found more pleasant. She unlatched the lid and slipped a hand inside, gripping the paper, but not pulling it out until she finished answering, "Reading mostly. Thought I might practice quidditch a bit as well if you must know. Then, while it may not really be a pleasant activity, I would certainly find it more pleasant than seeing you any day... I have to start applying for jobs so I can save money to move out." She could just ask her grandfather for the money, but of course - her stubbornness prevailed and she refused to be indebted to her family, even her grandfather.

Tristise pulled out her half of the paper and held it out to him formally. 'This is simple... so please, just let this go smoothly,' she thought with a mental sigh.

[brogan vassar]

BUT BABY, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE
you can cry again, again, my face is like a mannequin

Every action, every word was laced with a bitter sarcasm when it came to Tristise. He had lost the will to be genuine with her, and even if he seemed to regard her on a human level, there was still something missing in the way he addressed her. It was all a mockery of what could have been, a fake scenario of 'getting along'. However, this method seemed to work for the pair, as they were nearly having an adult conversation. Brogan almost found himself impressed with her sudden compliance.

But he wouldn't let his guard now.

"At least we agree on something," he said, letting out a breath. He leaned against the nearby wall, observing her from the new-found distance. Her words about herself made him wonder, though. She seemed ever-so-confident, yet she had said nothing positive about herself. It was almost like she hated herself as much as he hated her. But he couldn't be sure. And as stated before, he wasn't going to get into that with her. "With such a low opinion of yourself, I'd hate to know what you think of others..." he couldn't help but let the thoughts slip past his lips.

Did she... intrigue him?

No, that wasn't it. He despised her, he could still feel the sensations, uneasy within. He felt no emotion for her, other than a well-developed hatred, and if anything maybe a pity. If she wanted to spend her life alone, so be it. He sure as hell wouldn't accompany her. In fact, he couldn't wait to move on from this repetitive horror of constantly running into her.

He assessed her words, through half-lidded eyes he observed her stunning features whilst she spoke. "Interesting... Makes sense though. Why did you have to go on a mission, anyway? Of course it would end up being the one place that I needed to go too..." the last part was muttered, yet still intentionally clear enough for her to hear. Brogan hadn't wanted to get so deeply into his family business either. It was only unfortunate fate that landed him in his position. And he certainly had to buck up to take over, to have the elder participaters respect him. This was, however still a process. He'd been beaten up a few times, yes... But he attempted to remain level-headed.

"Does that mean I'm going to run into you again?" he asked, eyes widening as he absorbed in the reality of her words. Clearly, her response indicated this would not be their final meeting. He felt his disgust to the idea come in shivers up his back, an unease in his gut. Just when he thought he was rid of her...

Brogan brought a hand to his forehead, slowly easing away the growing pain with his fingertips. Right, back to the task at hand. She, surprisingly, answered his question. "You didn't strike me as the type to read... Isn't that... a... calm activity?" From what he'd witnessed, Tristise wasn't the calm type. Now quidditch, he could see her doing that. Releasing her aggressions, punishing her teamates, destroying the other team, straddling her broom... Wait, what? Straddling her broom? He had to grit his teeth, just narrowly escaping the path that train of thought would take him on.

"A job, huh? You could always come work for me, if you're so fond of reading you must be able to write..." Of course, he raised his eyebrows and this was clearly a joke. Imagine her, in an office not far from him at the Daily Prophet? Him having to train her, to work with her... Yes, he said the statement sarcastically before knowing how the reality of that theory would affect him. Not good. Even just picturing it made him shudder.

Brogan's ocean-blue eyes assessed her paper, though he couldn't clearly see the half. "Let me see it first, please?" he tried to use his nice manners, asking her to hold out the paper more precisely for him so he could ensure it was the real half. Brogan hesitantly pulled out his half, letting it rest at his side as he waited for her proof.

Brogan wouldn't let her play him.

{Haha, I am growing to like them more and more. Yay! I like making people laugh. That would be quite intense if they hated each other more than Mortimer + Teleristy or Devante + Kalir!}

[Tristise Rederick]

Tristise's lips twisted into a smirk, "Oh, you're quite mistaken. I think very highly of myself, but I'm not blind to my actions or desires. I know I dislike people and prefer - no, desperately want - my distance. I don't find that a flaw, just a natural truth." Perhaps she fibbed a bit. There was very little natural about that truth, but it was a truth nonetheless.
"My opinion of others is based upon a similar observance of said others. I admit though, the less I see of people the more I like them."

If he thought it a shame, pitiful, or at all a sad existence to live life alone then so be it. For Tristise she'd be content to never see another speaking creature for the rest of her life. Rabbits, squirrels, other animals - fine. Ones who spoke and lied, ruined her plans, got in her way - she could definitely do without. Brogan for instance? Yes, definitely Brogan.

She sighed when he asked about the mission and waved her hand dismissively, "My family affairs have little to nothing to do with you, Mister Inquisitive. It's unfortunate the mission included an encounter with you, I agree; however, I'm not about to explain why I was on that mission to a reporter or the owner of a paper. Whatever it is you are. The last thing I need is my family's business plastered across the pages of the Daily Prophet and regardless of if you plan to do it or not I tend to disbelieve anyone in the field of reporting. Liars, exaggerators, and snoops all of them. Rotten people."

It was true that if she hated anyone more than her family it was those who wrote articles about her family or anything for that matter. She firmly believed the papers were for gossip mongers and designed as a way to control the populace by fear. Fear of others, fear of being reported on, fear of whatever new big bad was out there - IF one was out there. Honestly? Life was too short already for most to worry about the stuff in silly papers. Unfortunately it was all anyone else in the world seemed to care about. Meaning, if her family showed up in the papers it was months before she heard the end of it. Whispers, questions, accusations - it was no wonder she hated her family. If not because they lied and cheated and killed and... what not, than because they attracted the most annoying people in the world.

"I pray we don't see each other ever again; however, if I'm forced to a family event that you're invited to, we're bound to run into each other again. That's why I'm trying to get a job and move out so I'll be required to attend less often with any luck. Not because of running into you, but just having to attend in general. Avoiding an encounter with you is a bonus." She shrugged and shook her head slightly with a sigh. "As for my activities, I can do calm. I prefer calm. Just because I'm a bit hot tempered with insufferable people doesn't mean I can't be calm or enjoy calm activities."

He offered her a job at the Daily Prophet working for him and she snorted. Granted he was only being sarcastic for sure, but the thought... it was preposterous. She briefly had a glimpse of her dressed as a secretary - black pencil skirt, white button down neatly tucked into it, hair up with a pen or pencil tucked in her bun, leaning against his desk taking notes as he rambled (as she figured he was apt to do) his daily schedule and tasks off. If actually faced with such a situation she'd probably punch him for being long winded and tiresome. Or saying something lewd. She guessed he was probably the type. She glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow. Yes, definitely the type.

"I'm quite capable of writing, yes, but I do believe it's in both our interests if I just forgot you made even that sarcastic offer. Nothing good could come of us working in the same office. I'd probably wring your neck within the first hour." She chuckled half-heartedly.

He asked to see her half of the paper more clearly and she rolled her eyes. "Has anyone ever told you you're awfully paranoid? I understand you distrust me and likewise I distrust you, but I want this over with. I don't want you making a stink because I cheated you on this exchange and one thing I do trust is that even though you're a pompous, arrogant bastard you're not stupid enough to cheat me," She gave him a meaningful stare and then extended her half of the paper while putting out her other hand for his, "Just take it and give me your half so I can go home."

[brogan vassar]

BUT BABY, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE, I DON'T CARE
you can cry again, again, my face is like a mannequin

"Ugh, I should have known," he said with an exasperated laugh. Yes, he could laugh in spite of their mutual dislike. At least they were being somewhat civil, he observed. That was quite a big step compared to her threatening to kill him or trying. He didn't believe for one second that they would get along, but he appreciated her mild amount of insults and her lack of degrading.

It allowed him to breathe, exhaling for what seemed like the first time since he'd known he had to meet up with her once again. Brogan was not pleased that a woman could have so much control over the state of his sanity. He didn't know why he allowed Tristise so much control, he should have maintained his cool and ignored her bitchtastic remarks. "I guess I agree with you, I'd be content to be locked away in a room and never talk to anyone. But unfortunately for me I was born into a family full of appearances and dealing with many people," The disgust in his voice was clear. He had never intended to take over the family business let alone be part of it. But as the surviving son he had no choice. Brogan was always one to do something to the best of his abilities, regardless of his opinion.

He couldn't help but laugh at her description of a reporter. He could care less, he didn't even consider himself one. He just sat there and listened to everyone complain. "You're smart. I suppose... But I don't write anything, I simply sit there and listen to them complain. My job is a cover, not a passion," he shrugged at her attempt to insult him and his business alike. Brogan was determined to show her that she no longer effected him... Even if she did. But Tristise didn't need to know the extent of which she made him uneasy.

"Well I wish you very much luck with moving out," this, was of course said in response to the fact that he wouldn't have to encounter her again. That was the last thing he wanted. "It still astounds me. I can't picture you sitting and reading a book... I can picture you throwing a book at someone's head, or ripping it to shreds...." he gave her a confused look, still trying to picture the wild lycaness enjoying calm activities. Then again, he didn't really know her. But her personality was strong enough he felt he did.

He laughed at her snarky remark, even to his sarcasm. She was correct, there would be nothing good about her working for him. But what if she was his personal assistant? The thought popped in his head, and he had to force down the wicked smile that commenced. Brogan liked the idea of having Tristise under him. In fact, it would be the best revenge. Her having to grin through whatever task he told her to do, or whatever he said. He almost wished this were the case... Other than her possibly killing him... But he too could picture her in a black pencil skirt. Brogan would tell her to go fetch him coffee, to take notes for him, to complete the tasks he had no desire to do. And he could picture her, in her tight pencil skirt, smiling and saying "Yes, boss."

How perfect would that be?

Brogan could drop a pen, just so that she'd have to pick it up...

He snapped back to the present quickly, realizing his fantasy of her being under him were becoming much to literal. Clearly, he liked abusive women... He was disappointed in himself, couldn't her rotten personality mask anything pretty about her? Anyway, he mostly hated her. He did hate her. And the only reason he would consider her working for him would so that he could give her a taste of his own medicine. But of course, she would be complaining through the whole process... Brogan would never be able to put up with her.

"You've given me every reason to be 'paranoid', Tristise..." he said, looking at her with a frown. "I guess I'll believe you want this over with. Fine," he scoffed at her added insults. He raised his piece of the paper, bringing it to her extended hand as he, in turn, reached for her paper. His fingers grasped it, and as he released his half he took hers. Brogan shoved it in his pocket, looking her face up and down.

"So we're good to go? Hope I never see you again?" in spite of his words he smiled, just slightly. It wasn't genuine.

[Tristise Rederick]

Appearances, conversation, falseness, lying - oh, I'm sorry. Redericks don't lie. They fabricate the truth." She snorted and rolled her eyes - dainty was not her middle name. "I thoroughly can't stand you, Mister Vassar, but I do believe I understand where you're coming from and you should be able to relate, at least on a scattering of points, with me. What, with the fact we both come from... organized families."

It was weird thinking they had points in common. They could in some limited ways relate to one another. Tristise scanned the blond man before her and sneered at the thought. He went on to claim his job was a cover, not a passion and her sneer turned into a smirk. "Of course it is. No wonder you're such a miserable bastard." She 'tsk tsk'-ed and shook her head as if pitying him. "I suppose though, some people don't have a choice. We've all got to do things we don't want to do sometimes. Some of us... more often than others."

For example, Tris' whole life was something she didn't want to do. Living with her family, going on missions, speaking with her parents... Not to mention most recently her mother sat her down for a 'chat' wherein she essentially told Tristise that her grandfather and father thought it best if she took a job at the Ministry. They thought it would be good if she got some real work experience. Really, they just wanted as many Redericks in the Ministry as they could manage. They wanted the family in positions of influence and power. Tristise was not their pawn though. She wasn't about to work along side her father and siblings if she could help it. She'd go to work for Brogan at the Daily Prophet before she worked at the Ministry! That alone should speak volumes as to her feelings on the matter.

"I wouldn't rip a book to shreds. It'd be a waste of a book, paper, a tree... Besides, what did the book ever do to me? What good would it do me to rip it apart? Throw it... well, yes, I might. I'm more likely to pick up something heavier though that will do more damage." The lycaness shrugged nonchalantly. "I actually really like reading and calm activities. I wouldn't say I prefer them, but I do like them. It's much easier to understand if I don't happen to hate you. I'm usually a lot calmer. Indifferent really. Callous. But nonetheless - calmer."

Brogan held out his paper and she took it in her grasp, holding firmly as he released it and shoved her piece into his pocket. She neatly tucked his piece into her briefcase and secured the fastenings of the bag. "Most definitely, Mister Vassar. Merlin help us if we meet again." She gave him a tight, business smile and then turned on her heel and stalked off down the street, glad to have washed her hands of the insufferable man. She had his piece of the information, she could hand it over to her grandfather and let him do with what he wished. Then she could go back to her job hunting, move out, and be done with the nuisances of her family and life as a Rederick with any luck.

Sadly, Tristise never had much of that.