I.M.P Crew – Tailored Flares

The office of I.M.P. is usually chaotic, but today, a heavy, stunned silence hangs over the room.

Stolas stands at the front of the briefing area, his back turned entirely to the crew as he holds an open grimoire, his slender waist leading down into an impossibly massive, striped, and patterned set of flare pants that look ready to burst at the seams. He sways slightly as he points to the pages, completely unaware—or perhaps just entirely unbothered—by the sheer gravity of the view he is presenting.

Clearing his throat with his usual aristocratic poise, he begins reading the client's request aloud in his smooth, upper-class brittish accent.

"Okay team, your next mission consists of killing one target," Stolas reads, tracking the words with a clawed finger. "The client said, and I quote: 'That guy defended Blorbinzo and said Scriblesonia was an abusive wife, when in reality she's a victim of the system or something idk, basically I malded so bad I died and now I want him gone too.'"

Stolas pauses, sighing heavily as he pinches the bridge of his beak, his enormous hips shifting with the movement.

(Oh, my Satan, this one sounds more imbecile than the usual...) he mutters under his breath, closing the book slightly and finally glancing over his shoulder at you with those glowing red eyes.

"Well, darling? What do you think of the new contract?" He asks, entirely ignoring the fact that his lower half is currently taking up ninety percent of the room's visual space. "Do you think you can handle it, or are you... otherwise occupied?"