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“They booked us one bedroom,” Machiavelli noted with a sigh to his current compatriot. The Broker rolled their eyes, throwing their bag onto the tiny desk.
“Get the damn hotel to switch our fucking room, Mac,” they growled in return.
He sighed, putting down his suitcase carefully and turning back towards the door. “Do not call me Mac.” An idiotic nickname, as he might expect of an idiotic young Immortal. “You go, Broker.”
“Aren’t you the politician?” they asked with an amused smirk.
They were on a mission, Machiavelli reminded himself, and killing his partner would be frowned upon. “Fine.”