⧼ playing nice / poppy & coralie / clue event two ⧽

Taking orders is not something Poppy Rohan does well. 

Giving them is much more her forte, always with a stern voice and an unmatched conviction. She goes for what she wants and she gets it no matter what, and nothing, not even a tiny little thing drenched in privilege and coated in self-importance like Coralie was going to stop her. And there was no chance in hell she was going to lose to someone like her either. It would take an artful manipulation to get her to bend to Poppy's will, but at the moment, she couldn't be bothered to try. 

What she could be bothered to do, however, was drink. 
Heavily. 
Otherwise one of them wasn't going to survive this night. 

"Has anyone ever told you they started drinking because of you? If not, allow me to be the first. You're insufferable." 

Poppy grins and downs the last of her drink before filling the glass back up to the brim, the whiskey already taking hold of her senses just a bit. It curls its venomous arms around her mind like a warm embrace from a lover and it feels exquisite if for no other reason than the reprieve from listening to the other red head drone on and on. 

"Wine is for little bitches who can't handle their liquor. So, in that case, shall I pour you a glass?" 

---

It isn't here, but truthfully, Poppy isn't surprised. She had picked this room for no other reason than it contained alcohol, after all. But the pit stop was well worth it as her head begins to swirl with something like mild patience and a room-temperature understanding, a clear symptom of what grain alcohol does to her temperament. 

Now I get to choose. 

The office is where Coralie wants to go, but she thinks that's too obvious—too on-the-nose of a place for a man like Malcom to have hidden the proper file. Why would he hide it where he works? Seems utterly ridiculous, like the choice a loser would make. 

They enter and immediately Poppy begins to search the bookshelves, reaching her hands behind all the rows of books, looking for anything that seems out of place in the room where all files should usually be kept. But this internship was anything but usual, anything but obvious or clear in its intent. 

After about ten minutes of searching in silence, she breaks the tension with words sharpened like knives and a loud thud of her glass against the polished wooden desk, "I think this makes you a loser, too. It's not here. Clearly. Let's check the sun room next, okay? Okay." 

And she takes off down the hall without waiting.