Chapter Text
Soap knows he already stands out in a crowd, always has— with his height, build, and choice of hairstyle. So all he really needs to do is drop a couple thousand on poker, buy a dance or two, and some man in an expensive suit and squeaky shoes is guiding him to a dimmer part of the club, buying him a drink, and asking him what his particular brand of ‘poison’ is.
“It’s unconventional.” Soap tells him, and that’s that.
Then it’s a bit of schmoozing with the slimiest men he’s ever had the displeasure of sharing air with, a fancy cab ride, and before he knows it, Soap is being escorted through the the doors of the wildly exclusive Vernon’s Gentlemen’s Club.
It’s a stylish building. Understated on the outside, dark, ornate, and luxurious on the inside— which is to be expected, being owned and operated by the upstanding and morbidly wealthy Roba family.
Soap takes his time admiring the glittering decor as the front man ushers him through backroom after backroom, down a winding maze of corridors, and finally, with time to spare, into the cleverly tucked-away Application Intake Centre.
The office isn’t quite as big as Soap would’ve imagined, and the woman across the desk looks like she belongs to a different world. She’s short and gaunt, heavy eye bags and freckles covered with a subtle powdering of makeup, dressed up all professional like a stuffy lawyer on television.
She listens carefully as Soap tells her his requirements, his preferences, nodding occasionally and scribbling notes on little slips of paper, seemingly at random. When she talks, her tone is polite but strained.
“Selection in that category is rather limited.” She tells Soap, quickly fishing through a nearby cabinet before sliding a paper-clipped folder towards him. It’s shockingly mundane.
Paper burns easily, Soap supposes. The women continues talking, as if reading from a script.
“Take all the time you need to look them over. If none of them suit your needs, please let me know. I’m sure we can find some other way to accommodate you.”
Under her watch, Soap can’t help but put on a bit of a show of scanning the files, rubbing his chin and nodding thoughtfully as he flicks through them. There’s 7 total— each with a large photo, a price, and a short blurb about the particular candidate’s talents.
He barely spares a glance at images, simply noting that each one features a nude man or woman with some form of face covering— for anonymity, perhaps. The fact that the only names given are novelty pseudonyms lends credence to that theory.
Seeing as Soap himself was instructed to keep his own name private, it’s easy to deduce that this establishment values confidentiality. No surprise there.
The descriptions, at a glimpse, are mostly boring and a little corny, occasionally horrifying. He skims over them with performative interest, and only truly takes heavy account of the numbers.
The lowest value sits right below 6k a night, two more are priced at 19k, with the rest falling somewhere in between. Soap taps the folder and smooths his fingers over the binding, leaning back against his comfortable chair.
“Anything goes?” He asks the woman, already knowing the answer.
“For the most part, yes,” She confirms. “Any exemptions are printed clearly on the form.”
Soap intends to show off, flaunt his standing a little— that’s the whole idea— so it’s really just a choice between the two priciest options.
After a final, cursory once-over of the documents, he turns one forward.
“That one?” The lady asks, frowning.
Soap nods.
“Oh.” she says, looking amused. “He’s not nice, you know.”
An odd thing to say about someone who, at least to this woman’s knowledge, is being sold as an object to be used, Soap thinks. He can’t imagine the average customer would care about whether or not their submissive plaything is nice. But then again, maybe they do.
“That’s fine.” He says, dismissing her input.
The woman’s fingers stutter over the filing cabinet— a subtle thing that Soap’s trained eyes hone in on immediately. Obviously she feels the need to elaborate, even unprompted.
“The Ghost in an acquired taste. He’ll fight you on everything, really.”
Fight him? Soap was already suspicious of the degree of consent he’d be dealing with here— especially considering the extensive list of permitted indecencies. But for this employee to just come out and say it…
Judgemental apprehension must show clear on Soap’s face, because the woman waves a hand at him reassuringly.
“It’s his routine, of course. An act. It’s just that some of our clients have a preference towards that kind of thing, you understand.”
Soap doesn’t understand, but he lets go of the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and settles back in his seat.
“Aye, then. He’s the one.”
“You read the disclaimer…?” She presses one last time, and Soap firmly agrees with a short nod, reaffirming his selection.
Yes, he read the disclaimer.
It’s the very reason Soap chose this particular candidate. After all, he doesn’t want people growing suspicious of his activities, wondering about the state of his newly bought companion after their meetings. He certainly doesn’t want anyone else offing the man before Soap’s done with him.
Repeating this process is a slog Soap would rather avoid.
The disclaimer, scrawled in crude penmanship at the bottom of Ghost’s file-
‘May not be killed under any circumstance’