#but the city isnt named ebbot

[twentydaysofdrabbles]

The Concierge Attends A Meeting (Part 12)

The Continental is housed within an old, old building. One brought to the modern age with all the elegance of an old movie star ageing gracefully. 

But one thing that one cannot do with an old building - make the elevator shafts bigger. At least, not without difficulty. And you never thought you’d have to.

“Shall I take His Highness and Captain Undyne first?” You feel your brows furrow as the massive King of Monsters stuffs himself into the comparatively small elevator along with his bodyguard. You’re not amused. Not in the slightest, not--

No you’re definitely suppressing a smile. 

Fairly successfully, given that both monsters don’t grumble more than is expected from stuffing both of themselves into the lift, or from Papyrus wanting to shove himself in there too.

“NO, WE ARE FINE. COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY FINE.” Oh dear, you should not enjoy seeing poor Papyrus squished between the enormous King Asgore and the broad-shouldered Undyne. Although clearly Sans and Frisk don’t share the same sentiment.

“good thing you’re skinny, boss, otherwise you’d never fit,” Sans snickers from where he stands behind you, not even remotely willing to get into the same elevator. 

I think the lift is at its weight limit. Frisk tugs at your pants and signs, their eyes dancing with glee. 

Sad to say, that is indeed the case. You may have miscalculated how heavy the King and his Captain were. Though Papyrus weighed little, considering he is all bones.

You nod down at the young-but-old human ambassador. “I am afraid that is the case,” you look back up at the three colossal monsters with a mildly concerned expression. “The Manager will receive you at the rooftop terrace, Your Highness.”

“M-much obliged,” the King says with a sheepish smile, rounding his shoulders to make them...only marginally smaller, his head tucked between them so his horns don’t scratch the walls. 

You have to squeeze an arm in to press the right buttons, but press them you do and up goes the elevator after both doors close. 

“didja get a picture?”

A blink. A moment. Then you look down at Frisk who smiles up at you innocently. Sure did.

The smile that quirks up your still lips is not one that you can suppress. “Leverage, Mx Frisk?”

You got it.

“send it to me, that’s hella good blackmail material.”

The elevator takes a while to come back down - perhaps the three monsters had a hard time extricating themselves - but eventually you usher both of them in there. It was your intention to send them up and on their way, leaving you to go back to your post at your counter, but Sans stops you.

“not comin’ with, sweetheart?” he asks, hands in his pockets. Your hand remains on the elevator doors, stopping them from closing. 

“I am not required for your meeting, Mister Sans,” you say with a slight tilt of your head. 

Frisk seems to catch onto Sans’ meaning and makes a small noise, the first that you’ve heard from the young-but-not child. Not that I’m doubting the Manager’s authority in her own hotel, but she might feel better having someone by her side?

You take a moment to stifle the sudden urge to snort. The Manager is not likely to ‘feel better’ having you by her side. But...

“just come up with us. if ya don’t get an order to stay, you can go,” Sans shrugs and leans against the wall, nodding to the elevator door. “you’re holding the lift up, by the way.”

Why that little--

“Very well.” You incline your head to hide the side-eye you give the smug skeleton. The slight heel of your shoes click on the marble floor, the metal sound of the cage door sliding closed, and then the comparatively softer sound of the elevator closing. 

As you stand at the buttons, with Frisk and Sans standing some space apart, you come to the realisation that those three monsters should not have been able to squeeze in here as they did. It is a roomy elevator - of course it is, it’s a luxury hotel, but goodness.

Ding goes the elevator bell. There is a small ruckus as you help to slide the cage door open, drawing the attention of the four others scattered across the tastefully decorated rooftop terrace. 

All around, the glimmering lights of a never-sleeping city twinkle like stars in the dark, the rooftop of the hotel high enough that only the light of the fire and the scattered lamps provide illumination. In the dark of night, the city seems like a different place. As if the hotel stands apart from the rest of reality. Separate. Isolated. A world hidden within a world.

“Mx Frisk, Mister Sans,” the Manager lifts a cup of tea at them from where she lounges on the loveseat next to the fireplace. Then she looks at you, and her smile stretches just a little bit more. “My Heart.” It is a verbal affection. A silent order. 

All the monsters, plus Frisk, stare at you then. 

Sans looks at you with a quizzical expression. ‘My Heart?’ he mouths at you. 

To which you do not respond. Your back is straight, your shoulders level, your posture perfect and proper as you stride to the Manager’s side to stand behind her sofa, hands folded over your belly. 

Ignoring Sans look, all of their looks, you take up the teapot and offer it to the Manager silently. She turns her head up at you, smiles that secret smile that you take to mean that all is well, and nods. “Would any of you care for a drink as well?” The question is directed to the rest.

For a brief moment, there is no noise but for the sound of you bustling around and bringing drinks and offering serviettes. Though soon enough, even the King tires of the propriety of it all.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet us,” he speaks regally as expected of one of his station. “I deeply appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule.”

The Manager crosses her legs, teacup gracefully held in the fingers of one hand. “But of course,” she purrs, not even batting an eyelash at the overtures. “It would be remiss of me not to extend a welcome to those who are interested in becoming a member of the Continental.” Then she gestures with her teacup to all of King Asgore. “Even more so to those who so newly call our city home.”

Undyne stiffens where she stands behind King Asgore, her fins fluffing like a cat’s hackles. And yet she stays silent, and so do you, despite how your hands drop to your sides in readiness.

“Not just the Continental, Miss, but the--”

“High Table,” the Manager interjects before King Asgore could complete his sentence, completely unrepentant at the slight. It seems the King takes it in his stride, despite that. “I’m aware.”

He inclines his great, horned head. “Yes, the High Table. The ultimate authority of the criminal underworld.” Thick fingers lace together between his thighs, the expensive fabric of his suit straining at his biceps. “And by extension, the Surface. Feared and respected by all, to sit at the Table is to rule the world.”

A glint of understanding tints the Manager’s eyes. Your chin tips down slightly in disappointment. 

“Ah, power,” she purrs, finishing the last dregs of her tea. The porcelain cup hits its saucer with a gentle clink, freeing her hands. “Well, though the Continental shares ties to the High Table, I do not have a seat. No manager does.” Her palm faces upright in a gesture of ‘what can you do?’. “As management, I agree to the rules of the High Table. But the High Table agrees to our rules in turn. A...symbiotic relationship, one can say.”

Uncrossing and crossing her legs again, the Manager tilts her head to the side, eyeing the King carefully. “You want protection for you and yours. This world is too much like the one you know so well, and you know the one place you will find such strength is in the ruling council.” 

From the way the King exhales slowly, you know the Manager hit her mark. The bovine monster seems to consider her words, the way he stares briefly into space indicating that he is thinking. His entourage, too, remains quiet. 

Frisk, bless that young-old thing, pads forward to sit at a couch adjacent to both rulers. In the middle. An ambassador, truly.

You’re saying there’s no real way to get a seat at the High Table.

The Manager follows their hands carefully. “I’m saying that no one earns a seat at the High Table. Not so easily, not without blood. Or stepping on toes. Or making powerful, powerful enemies. You gain little from trying to ease your way into that world using my reputation.” Smiling coyly, the Manager leans her cheek on a fist, “They say that to attract a spirit is to call their name. To attract a devil is to stir their interest.”

A long finger dances up to painted lips, pressing against them in a universal gesture of silence. “Be careful what you wake, gentlemonsters. What stirs will take, and take, and take, until you have naught left to give. And when you have nothing, they will take you.”

Silence reigns for a heartbeat. Then two. 

Your hands ache.

“I thank you for your counsel,” the King says at last, his observant, uncomfortably warm eyes lock with the Manager’s. 

The Manager inclines her head. “That’s not to say I cannot grant you membership to the Continental,” she says, gesturing to them with the same hand she had leaned on. “You might find it helps you, or hinders you. Either way, I offer a gateway into the world you wish to enter. Whether you find what you seek, or we sweep up the dusted remains of your Family, is still unknown.” 

A wink, then. “Welcome to our beautiful city, gentlemonsters.”

With her piece said, the woman reaches over to pour herself some tea; you do not move to help, your eyes still locked on the monsters while the Manager’s attention is divided. Or rather, just Sans.

Sans who looks like he wants to grind his teeth so badly. Sans who looks up at you with a question in his eyes. Sans who looks disappointed by the shake of your head. 

As much as the Continental had an understanding with the High Table, it still sits under the Table. Serving the Table. If the Table thought that the Manager was making a move against them, plotting to take more power...

No, that would not end well. 

Best to stay neutral. 

You had learned the hard way what it was like to stand against an unstoppable force.