Chapter Text
There was nothing in comparison to that feeling of changing one's trajectory. A nervous, shaken jitter overtaking her usually civil, mild in manner thoughts over the unknown was terrifying, but intoxicating. Leaving her staring at herself dead-eyed in the mirror by her front door, planning out the next nine and a half hours of her life at her new job.
She calculated every conceivable conversion, question, and casual retorted statement she could think of. Muttering intermittently, announcing each side of an imaginary dialogue she was to expect with reception, knowing it to be her first interaction of the day. Even going as far as to practise a series of slightly different smiles, each varying in degree of squint applied to her right eye.
Julia had thought about this day at length, even before the revelation that she had landed the job. It's who she was, a planner, a thinker and sometimes, an over thinker.
Interpol Poitiers, as an Inspector, was her new position after resigning at the National Archive for the Ministry of Culture after eight years as a senior member of the historical team. Her extensive time there spurred the completion of her masters during the early years of her employment.
Her friends, who remained to carry on her legacy, wished her well, truly believing her to be the one and only disciple, destined for greatness beyond the veil that kept them safe behind the sheltered nature of what once was.
She felt complacent about leaving behind her regular duties of maintaining and overseeing the maintenance of the extensive Base Mérimée and Base Palissy for something a little more, paced, grandeur.
At least, that's what her government connection, who was slightly more than an acquaintance but not a full friend, had claimed when they told her about the position of ‘Inspecteur d'Interpol’ that was opening due to an impending retirement one afternoon following the monthly overhead report meeting.
It wasn't a ‘public’ position due to its delicate nature, but still a reputable and advertised position nonetheless, even if only within certain circles. Luckily, working in government, regardless of how distant it may be, affords one a few liberties concerning other employment opportunities. They urged her to put her hand up for it since she had the qualifications, instigated after she inadvertently admitted a tiresome quality to her current work situation, and if to be truly honest, allotment in life. Especially since her last romantic relationship had just fizzled out in an uneventful fashion.
The fervent rush of letting her mind slip into the possibility of doing something so outlandish yet within her wheelhouse, if just outside the door, peeking through the keyhole. She had an associate's degree in criminology, which she paired with her sociology studies as a broadening course, so the far-fetched notion of agreeing with the proposition of allowing another to recommend her name be tossed in the hat didn't seem so distant.
It almost felt, exciting. Distinctly remembering the bewildering rush that rocked her senses and cleared her nostrils while lounging on the couch one night, updating her resume one last time.
Her outside-inside connection humbly obliged in giving the most glowing recommendation she'd ever received once she agreed. Even out shining the one she got that landed her the junior curator position at the Musée d'Orsay. Claiming such a feat just after transferring to France to finish her higher educational endeavour many years prior all thanks to a professor who actually loved their job.
The initial interview with what she learned on the day was a general governmental hiring manager, felt like seconds ago. Despite that dizzying moment in time being two and a half weeks in the past. Now adjusting the lapel of her newly purchased dark navy pant suit in the mirror beside her front door.
She rhythmically slid the pearled pendant along its delicate chain, varying its length as if that tiny detail would make or break her first day, brushing her knuckles across the auburn sweater beneath as she fussed absentmindedly.
It had been a while since she had been required to be dressed in such a business-like manner. This aspect of her new role sparked the realisation at just how languorous she had become with the casual style she had before, residing behind closed doors out of the public eye for almost a decade at her last post.
The only piece of hard information she got after receiving the news she’d been selected for the position of Inspector was a final interview inside the actual Poitiers Interpol building in the city's inner ring. It was a five-minute conversation that she, annoyingly, took the day off for. Spending most of it hovering over one of those padded chairs just about to sit, being told to;
‘Come back next Monday at 8 am and ask for Inspector Moreau, park in the building beside’. And that was it, apart from a loose handshake, a split-second smile and an escort back to the reception to sign out.
Julia had gained more information about the job from the friend who recommended her for the position. But she didn't harbor much ill, she knew enough about Interpol to know what they do and the reason for their discretion. At least, she assumed as much. That was what the person she was to meet, and replace, was tasked to do as part of their eventuating retirement. The only tangible ‘ill’ she did harbor was the prospect of being saddled next to an elderly, French gentleman until she got the hang of things, praying that she might gather her abilities as quickly as possible to strike out on her own, toot suite.
It felt rotten to mull over her disdain for the elderly population as she slipped on a thicker, longer coat, ready to face the chill morning elements. ‘Distain’ was maybe the wrong word, and so was ‘aversion’ but both had muddled her thoughts with the vision of sitting awkwardly on a chair crammed to the side of the desk that wasn't hers just yet Squashing her knees into the closed side as she tried to see what they were doing with no explanation, or worse: Having to run around as their little task rabbit, like their… Assistant.
She shuddered, slipping the long strap of her leather messenger bag filled with all the essentials she thought she might need, making the executive decision to abstain from packing a lunch on the first day, just in case.
The commute was shorter than expected, leaving her car in the multi-tiered parking lot beside the office. And since it was a shared space between all the adjacent buildings and owned by a property manager, there was a surprisingly hefty visitors' toll on arrival. Apparently, she’d get a ‘discount’ once all her ‘paperwork’ had gone through, distinctly remembering the peak in the HR representative's voice, as though it was something to look forward to.
It was 7.45 am, on the dot, dwelling in a piercingly acute silence as her windscreen slowly fogged, squeezing her thumbs, deep in her thoughts, whispering to herself in the review mirror.
She was early, rather than late, which was what she preferred, taking the plunge into the blistering cold to make her way around to the front of the building, the sun making itself known, cracking over horizon, sadly lacking little to no warmth. If only she could have achieved her new employment deeper into the spring season.
Julia had passed the building numerous times before, just classing it as any other government office littered amongst the inner city. But now, an unnerving sense of trepidation swelled in her chest as she, for the first time ever, turned onto the path that led into the edifice, carefully scaling the stone steps with jagged breaths, folding her coat across her body tightly.
It had always seemed like a lovely, yet quiet building from the outside, the first time she had been here for her final interview was for a brief blimp. Modern enough with its floor-to-ceiling windows for the ground floor, yet maintaining its stoned features from its preceded life as an artifact of simpler, arguably archaic times. And now, instead of walking or driving past it on her way to anywhere else, she was to venture inside.
The heavy glass doors creaked open, stepping inside to a warmer interior to her immediate relief, letting go of the thick metal handle as a security guard dressed in light blue caught her eye. He looked at her up and down, not moving from his spot beside the waiting area for the general public. The expanse was empty, the faint clacking from a keyboard tucked behind the marble formation of the reception she sought. It was significantly quieter than the last time she had been here.
The door finally closed itself behind her with a thump, sealing the warm air safely inside as she made for the only high surface in the area, spying another guard by a set of elevators to the back. She had to admit her lapse in observations in the degree of security, the lack of others around to assist in their blend into the scenery was noticeable, two more scattered about.
The cresting morning sun mixed with the white tiles, almost blinding in their glow, mixing distinctly with a hint of general disinfectant that hung in the air to an almost overwhelming degree, feeling as if she’d just missed the janitorial staff mopping the floors ready for the day.
Everything echoed, the slight heel to her shoes, the intermittent typing and even the distant idle hum of the printer she eyed just behind the small wall that hid the receptionist's tools from prying glances.
“Bonjour Madame-” Julia spoke, garnering immediate and sudden attention from the women behind the only real noise in the area, who was different from last time.
“Bonjour, Welcome to Interpol Poitiers. Madame, is there anything I can help you with? Do note that visitors are only permitted after nine thirty am with an appointment.”
She spoke smoothly, feminine yet deep, accent hardly French by an inch. It took her by surprise, just as it did the first time she was here, licking her lips to remind herself of the script she had planned.
“Je suis Julia Argent, j'ai été informée par les RH que je devais me présenter à la réception pour mon premier jour.”
Julia felt herself slightly lift to her toes, pressing the balls of her feet deeper into her shoes. The woman's brow rose, noticing her lacquered lips curl into a smile. She suddenly felt foolish, speaking to someone in French when they had just spoken to her in English, her autopilot slightly off.
“Bien sûr, l'amour-” She was an older woman, streaks of grey painting the black in her hair pulled tightly atop in a clean bun, long golden cross earrings sparkling in the sun's rays. Her blouse was emerald green, ruffled at the ends with a metallic quality. Playing perfectly off the gold jewellery adorning her figure, just right for her mature age.
“I shall need you to sign in with appropriate identification so I can begin the form for your permanent ID card, Miss Argent. I am Mrs Alphonsine Ancar. Bienvenue à Interpol.” A clipboard with a partially filled document appeared from a bedazzled hand, embellished with a red polish finishing the spectacle with diamond and gold rings and bangles.
Julia would have almost felt embarrassed to raise her own if it were not for her foresight to receive a manicure the previous day, mostly to distract her nerves with something nice to look at attached to her body, a shield to stop herself from picking at their edges in trepidation.
She obliged, digging down into her satchel for her driver's license, handing it over as a pen magically manifested itself, thanks to Mrs Ancar. Julia filled in the missing items, transcribing her signature and name across the document as her license was photocopied. Such a process was considerably dated for such a place, finalising her the last signature a the bottom of the page.
“And who is requesting you? Miss Argent?” Mrs Ancar asked, Julia presuming they’d already know such information, believing they were prepared for her arrival on this day.
“I am here for Inspector Moreau, as I am to be superseding him in regards to his retirement.” She answered, deciding to answer back in English rather than French.
The receptionist drew in a pouted breath at what she assumed was her real English accent, with her received pronunciation, despite her French surname, cocking her head to the side as her jovially long earrings chimed pleasantly with her movement as did her golden clump of bangles. It was a normal thing Julia had come accustomed to, living here for the last ten years and having such a last name in comparison to the voice she had grown up from her birthplace. Plus, her physical features to boot.
Mrs Ancar continued to look over Julia for a moment longer than she had wanted, squinting her eyes in thought as if her simple statement was incoherent or worse, incorrect, glancing briefly at her computer, clicking the mouse around a few times. Her mouth opened, then closed, drawing in a breath before clicking the acrylic tips of her nails together in conclusion to her thoughts, reconnecting her gaze back to Julia's now more worried appearance.
“Mr Moreau has been out of the office on leave for the last two months-” She clarified, sliding the sign-in sheet Julia had given her signature off from the small ledge back down to her level.
“And he’s not coming back, remercier jésus.” Her eyes flew to the ceiling as she placed Julia's license back into her care with a crisp flick onto the polished stone from her manicured, ruby red nail.
“So I can not fathom why, au nom de Dieu, they would tell you, to ask for his misérable, vil petit bonhomme.”
Julia felt her jaw clench and her back stiffen as she carefully reclaimed her license, parting her lips in a state of bafflement at the comments she heard slip from the receptionist's mouth, and the critical new information now just being received into her frontal lobe. It felt as though she should not have heard that snarky comment about a co-worker, but Mrs Ancar made it perfectly clear that she was to hear it. Before Julia could say anything back, the woman picked up her desk phone, sticking it to her ear, cradling it with her shoulder as she flipped the printout of Julia’s license from the copier beside her, bangles chiming along pleasantly.
“It seems that there was a, slight miscommunication, but you are in luck, tourterelle.” She huffed, glancing back up at Julia, changing her expression to a sweetened smile, just for her and her alone.
“I will call Inspector Devineaux for you, mon chéri, he’s far more agreeable, intense oui, but a jeune homme sympathique, and importantly, still works here.”
Her more English way of pronunciation had completely faded, dialling a known series of numbers across the pad as she continued her duties despite the side step in the vague plan Julia had been given days prior.
“And you were going to meet him anyway, it is impossible to not.-” She was cut off as the person in which she spoke of, answered the call, straightening her posture and nulling her tone.
“Monsieur Devineaux, vous avez ici la nouvelle recrue, Mlle Argent, qui attend une escorte…” She paused, jaw falling as she listened.
“S'ils ne vous l'ont pas dit, pourquoi me le diraient-ils ? Elle est ici maintenant.” Her softness lowered into a snapped flurry, spinning her chair 90° to the side to avoid Julia’s attention.
“Je ne sais pas pourquoi vous êtes surpris, vous avez de la chance qu'ils vous aient dit quoi que ce soit.” She spoke quickly, Julia only just catching it as she turned her cheek back to her, giving a smile despite the harshness in her voice.
Without another word spoken, Mrs Ancar slapped the phone back into its hold, brushing her hands together with a humph.
She took in a deep breath, dusting a hand gingerly across the top of her greying hair that she had pulled tight atop her head, jingling her various effects.
“He will be down shortly.” Her voice returned back to the scripted, well-manicured English iteration, as she gestured with a smile for Julia to take a seat in the waiting area that she passed on the way in.
She obliged, flattening her lips with a flutter of her eyes, turning back to spy the aforementioned seats, now drowning in a yellowed glow from the morning rays. Slowly, she made her way over, sitting carefully in a chair, swiping her coat beneath her as she sat, glancing out to the silent scene. Mrs Ancar eventually began typing disjointedly away, the top of her bun the only visible part of her seen over the raised counter.
A depth had been added to today that she wasn't ready for. She’d spent so long preparing for one set of events to eventuate, and now they were kaput, and apparently, never going to happen. According to what she could gather, this, Inspector Moreau, whom she was replacing, had gone on leave, or had been on leave for the last two months.
There was a noticeably massive gap in communication between all levels in this establishment, making her mouth water in such a way that had her try and keep her shoulder square. A sinking feeling set in, stroking her hands across the smooth strap of her bag, letting out a shuddered breath. There was a small inkling that this, mess, was all a sign that this was a mistake. It was almost as if the universe was telling her that she was never meant to be here. Her place hadn't even been set yet, no one was expecting her and the individual she was meant to be ‘gaining the ropes’ from was, non-existent and a horrible blight upon society. She had no clue whatsoever who this Monsure Devineaux was, and the loose notion that he was a ‘nice young man’ meant nothing to her apart from being saved from the prospect of being some elderly man’s lackey, and suffering through that pungent old man's musk.
A stark ding jumped her from within the craggy recesses of her mind, sending a sharp breath in through her nose. She looked up and beyond, watching the sliver of an elevator door slowly shift open, and then close. Muffled steps turned into echoed, heavy clomps, the figure of a man coming into view and rounding for the reception.