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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 25, 2017 9:54:10 GMT -5
save
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 25, 2017 9:54:29 GMT -5
save
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Post by Deleted on Jul 25, 2017 13:08:13 GMT -5
save
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 25, 2017 14:12:21 GMT -5
You can send the pm to either me or Xander. Idrc, either way, please do not spam with front page with notifs of "I've sent a pm" because yes, I'll see it. And also don't post a character claim until you've been accepted. Tyvm uvu
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Post by Deleted on Jul 25, 2017 19:19:17 GMT -5
he scream
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 26, 2017 5:32:38 GMT -5
bumping for the midnight crowd. will be getting up the starter from hell later
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 26, 2017 16:10:39 GMT -5
join my hell thread. Promise u'll regret nothings.
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 26, 2017 22:27:08 GMT -5
come on now kids, this will be fun through sheer determination, I promise
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 26, 2017 23:50:50 GMT -5
s2g the starter will be coming soon and then y'all will be fearful
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Post by Deleted on Jul 26, 2017 23:53:03 GMT -5
im always fearful dude
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 27, 2017 0:07:45 GMT -5
ur not fearful of me, r u b? I'm softs n just need loves n cuddles. I'm not scaryz. Promises.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 27, 2017 0:37:22 GMT -5
no i could cuddle u all day im scared for al
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 27, 2017 0:49:56 GMT -5
:'D good words
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Post by Deleted on Jul 27, 2017 1:03:46 GMT -5
yuhhhh I'm ready asf for this starter
also I was hoping some other cool cats would wanna join us? they're really gonna miss out, that's for sure
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 27, 2017 1:47:53 GMT -5
yuhhhh I'm ready asf for this starter
also I was hoping some other cool cats would wanna join us? they're really gonna miss out, that's for sure ayy son. Going to try to get up that Xingfu starter later or tomorrow lmao The Al starter is up. No need to try to match lengths. It's wildly long
And heck y eahz. Where r the cool folks at?
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 27, 2017 20:15:45 GMT -5
still gonna bumps this up. don't make me start BOTH missions w/o y'all. I got a third in mind, but like joiners. plz.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 27, 2017 21:13:27 GMT -5
Karameh, Jordan.
Ezekiel couldn't fathom why in God's name--which was an expression he purposefully saved for the most perplexing of situations--he had been hand delivered a memo that he had a phone call with the Prime Minister in half an hour.
And neither could the rest of his comrades. They all stared at the document in his hands, unmistakably official with its golden state seal of the Star of David in the middle, and each of them took a turn to read the briefing over to confirm that he did, in fact, have to take the call. The timing of it couldn't have been any worse; the commando unit was preparing to invade the small desert town, a confirmed hub of PLO activity--it was very possible that the unassuming little place could be their headquarters. The mission was crucial. Villages on the edge of their newly-declared nation were being ravaged, and if they could do considerable enough damage on this camp, they could save the lives of innocents indefinitely.
But, the memo had created an unexpected setback. Ezekiel's men, some younger than him, most older, looked to him with a mix of expressions they were doing their best to hide: concern, confusion, anxiety, all veiled beneath helmets and sunglasses, sunburn and scars. He did their best to console them, offering a reassuring smile and a promise that he would be back in time for their noon launch, but he was just as worried, if not more so than they were. He dismissed himself from the main group and took a truck back with the messenger to their own camp, a dozen or so miles out from Karameh.
Why me? And why now? Were all he could wonder as he concentrated on the unchanging, unreadable landscape around him. The desert, especially locations this remote, were difficult to navigate through, but this time, the driver had fresh tracks to follow in the sand. Landmarks--a windblown, dying tree, a particularly red-colored boulder in the distance--slowly became familiar, and then, in the blink of an eye, a system of moving men in camouflage, more trucks, tents, all revolving like a perfectly oiled machine around a building in the middle, emerged from the sand and rock.
He had about five minuted to spare before his scheduled call, and if not for the anxiety that had twisted itself into an angry, churning knot into his stomach, Ezekiel would have enjoyed the soft chair, carpet underneath his boots, and air conditioning. He'd only been in the building a couple times during their several week long stakeout in the desrt, even though he was technically permitted inside at any time. None of the special treatment settled well in his conscience. "If the rest of my men are outside, I'll be outside with them," he had politely told another general when they were first stationed here.
Other people working the small office must have known about the incoming call, because when the phone in a back room rang, activity ceased. Secretaries holding armfuls of documents stopped in their tracks, murmured conversations went quiet, and so did the click of typewriter keys. The silence that followed was the uneasy kind--one that was thick and heavy, suffocating, even. Then, a mousy-looking woman poked her head around a back office door, her gaze locked on Ezekiel's. "It's for you, Commander Ben-David."
The young man let out a quiet sigh in an attempt to expel some of his anxieties, then stood up, despite his tight throat and dry mouth, and headed to the back room. It was small and mostly empty, with only a small desk, a chair, and a desk lamp, and, curiously enough, lacked windows. So people can't observe, and read lips, was Ezekiel's assumption. After the two exchanged curt smiles, he was handed the phone, and the secretary closed the door behind him with a definitive near-slam. The noise, in his mind, only made things more grave. He sighed once more before raising the phone to his ear.
"Prime Minister Eshkol?" His voice was uncharacteristically small, shrunken with nerves, but the man on the other line, if it was indeed the Prime Minister, would have no way of knowing.
"Commander Ben-David," a warm, rich voice replied. It made Ezekiel stiffen; it was, unmistakably so, the voice of a man he only knew on black and white television screens and radio broadcasts. The voice that sounded like rough sunshine, as people liked to say. "I'm glad to have gotten a hold of you. You're a hard one to track, you know that? Sayeret Matkal is so secretive."
"I--yes, sir. It has to be."
There was a pause. ".. You must be wondering why I requested to speak with you. I'll save you some time, then, and get right to the point." The Prime Minister cleared his throat. "We have received a letter from the United Nations this morning. It's an invitation to practically join the UN, to get us registered and recognized--as long as we give up one of our own best and brightest to them."
"That's a wonderful proposition, sir." And really, it was; any kind of international support they could get at the moment would go a long, long way, especially when their immediate neighboring countries wanted them blown off the face of the earth. UN support could change that. Peace could finally be achieved.
His tone turned matter-of-fact. "You're our best and brightest, Ezekiel. We're going to send you to the UN."
The younger man's eyes widened at the statement. "Oh--no, sir, I--I can't," was his initial response, a half-modest, half-utterly shocked jumble of words. "I mean--Prime Minister, there has to be someone more qualified than I am." His mind wandered back to the endless stretch of ruddy orange desert and blue, cloudless sky above it, and his men. I can't leave them.
"I respectfully disagree," he replied. 'I've spoken with your superiors, and every recommendation had your name in it. You've got an excellent success record, you've participated in all kinds of espionage and reconnaissance missions in your career, which was what the UN specified.. You are more than qualified to be our representative." Then, his voice was laced with some kind of humor. "A young nation needs a young representative, no?"
"I..." Ezekiel was at a loss for words. "What does this mean for now?" He asked timidly, mind still on the mission--which began in precisely forty five minutes. He couldn't spare much more time on this call if he wanted a success in the field.
"It means you're being--cut, from the IDF," the Prime Minister began. "Temporarily. You need to be in Norway in five days, and from there, your actions are completely under their jurisdiction. You won't have any contact or involvement with us, until whenever it is they decide to turn you back over to us."
I'm being cut? The words echoed in his mind like gunfire in a closed room. I won't be near Israel? Near my mother? I'll have to leave--for how long? ".. Sir, I don't know if I can do that," he admitted in a voice that now threatened to shake. "We have a crucial mission today--and, if I'm not there to lead it, I don't--"
"Do you realize how selfish you're being, Commander?" The man's voice suddenly turned cold, icier than he'd ever heard it on the news. "This isn't about you, or the mission today. Your deployment to the United Nations has the potential to put Israel on a national map--do you understand?" Now, he sounded more grave than snappish--he was genuine. "You have no choice. We need this. If you truly want to end the slaughter of our people, if you want us to prosper as a nation that God chose for generations to come, you will do this."
Ezekiel was still, mind blank. ".. Yes, Prime Minister." He would question why he even dared to turn down his nation's leader when he replayed this conversation over in his head, when he could be alone with his thoughts, but for now, he didn't know what else he could do. He didn't like this feeling--part of him felt like a pawn. And he was, truthfully, in some world-scale game of Risk. Except, he wasn't playing with his old dorm friends back in school; real lives, real people, were at stake, and real, tangible rewards were within grasp.
He could almost see the old man smile, though he was hundreds of miles away. "Excellent. I've ordered a plane to fly you back to the capitol, where you can pack and prepare for your trip. Remember, your stay is indefinite. Don't be too conservative with your luggage."
"I won't, sir." He paused. "Thank you, sir."
The phone hung up shortly after, and in a daze of commotion and flurry, Ezekiel found himself whisked away to a plane. Just before taking off, he hurriedly handed a secretary a hastily scratched and vague apology to his men, and briefly outlined the tenets of their mission. Instead of enjoying the plane, which was luxurious in all kinds of ways he wasn't accustomed to, he sat glued to a window, gazing out at the arid landscape far beneath him, as if watching from that height could do anything to help.
Jerusalem, Israel.
His first stop after landing from his short flight was to his mother's modest apartment, deep in the city. Even though he paid for it with his handsome Sayeret Matkal wages, out of his own insistence to somehow pay back every pain his mother suffered for his benefit, it wasn't as luxurious as he would have preferred. Rebeka loved the place, though--a newly-built, minimalist high rise, where she had one of the top floors of the building--and always proclaimed over the phone and to her neighbors that her son had given her "a home on top of the world".
And, as always, she was over the moon to see him on his surprise drop-ins. It was one of Ezekiel's favorite things in the world--watching her time-hardened expression brighten, eyes and mouth widening in surprise, and then, always, her same exclamation: "Bni ha'ahu!" My dear son! "Einayim sheli (my eyes), come in, come in." Rebeka graciously accepted the bouquet of flowers her son brought for her, and immediately began searching for a proper vase for them.
Ezekiel took a seat on her new couch, noting her painted, manicured nails and toenails in her fine sandals, the silk shawl holding her hair back, and the fine embellishments and sequins in her skirt. It made him happy, fulfilled, that she now got to live this way, after living such a rough existence when the two of them were much younger. She worked hard for the two of them, and he owed her the same. It was only right, after all, even if it wasn't commanded in the Bible for him to treat he well. Rebeka was his sole confidant, often his best friend, his adviser.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing my son?" She asked brightly as she joined him on her couch. Before he could even think about answering, she began her little routine of doting on him. "Look at him--a military man!" The salt-and-pepper haired woman remarked as she felt at the material of his uniform (he didn't have any time to change out of his combat clothing, but it got him the bouquet for free, at least). "You're a handsome man now. No longer a frail little thing--a stalk of broccoli, with all your hair." She toyed with a frizzed lock of his between her fingers.
He shook his head at the memory, laughing, hiding his smile underneath his hand. "My goodness, Ima," was all he could say through his shame. It was true, though; for most of his childhood, and adolescence, Ezekiel was remarkably reminiscent of the vegetable in question. Of course, some of it was due to their malnutrition, since good food was so hard to come by while they fled through the desert together, but in hindsight, now living in near luxury, the image was hilarious.
"So, why are you here?" Rebeka asked again. "I thought you were deployed. Have you come to tell me you have a fiance? God--please! I want grandchildren. I'm getting old."
Again, he shook his head. "No, Ima, I still don't have a fiance," he answered grinning. Ezekiel's smile faltered, dipping into a more serious expression. ".. It is important news, though." He paused, waiting for her expression to flatten. "I have to leave Israel indefinitely."
Her eyes widened. "I--no, no--really? But why?"
"Work," he answered, doing his best to ignore the almost pleading tone his mother took on. "I.. The UN has asked me to work for them as a spy, with the rest of the world's best spies, too, in exchange for protection and benefits for Israel. I had to take the job, Ima. The Prime Minister told me about it earlier, only a couple hours ago."
Rebeka's brow was knotted with worry, but thankfully, she didn't seem like she was on the verge of hysterics. ".. Okay." Her voice was sad. "Where will you be?"
"I don't know for certain, yet. We're meeting in Norway first, though." He paused. "I have to be there in five days."
"Norway! Five days!" She echoed, hands moving to cover her mouth. "I--no, I mean--I'm just so worried for you. And so little time to say goodbye! Here I was, thinking you were going to tell me I ought to expect grandchildren." His mother began to calm, and she lowered her hands, folding them neatly in her lap. "You're a grown man, now, no longer a boy--and that soothes me, only a little. You'll still always be my son, my tinoket."
"I know, Ima, I know." Ezekiel reached for her hand, then squeezed it. "I have to go. But I'll write to you and call as often as I can, alright? I promise."
She was no longer looking at him, but gazing through him in a melancholy sort of way. "You're my good boy," she murmured, sounding half-heartbroken. "My good, handsome boy. Always did well, always made me happy." She reached to caress the side of his face. "You always make me proud. My Ezekiel. Go and do good in Norway, okay?"
He smiled sadly at her. "I will. I promise."
Rebeka smiled back, but then, a moment later, her usual vivaciousness returned to her dark eyes. "If you find your father out there, wherever your missions take you, make sure he meets our Adonai, okay?"
"Ima!" Ezekiel knew she was only half-kidding. He couldn't fathom what it was like to be in her shoes: to have something as precious as rearing a child stolen from her, by a stranger (and a British one, at that, one who was pledged to help patch together a war-torn wasteland), to raise a product of that senselessness and pain. The two barely even looked alike; sure, Ezekiel shared his mother's traditional dark eyes and hair, to an extent, and of course, he had the Middle Eastern nose, but his skin and rest of his features were too Anglo for her. What must it be like to look into that man's face every day, and tell him you love him?
The two spent most of his time remaining in the homeland together. Mother and son walked hand in hand on the packed Jerusalem streets together, visiting landmarks for what could be the last time, either in a while, or ever--both knew it, but it remained unspoken. She bought him treats from street peddlers, like she used to when he was a boy, and Ezekiel took her to fancy dinners. On his last day in the country, she helped him pack what little personal belongings he had into a single suitcase, and tossed in a handmade kippot when she was sure he wasn't looking.
Their last goodbye was tearful, on his mother's end. After all their years spent together--in hiding, fleeing as refugees, celebrating their newfound sanctuary, celebrating safety and opportunity and employment and success--it was finally time for Rebeka and Ezekiel to part ways. She walked him in that fiercely protective way of hers all the way to the door of his small plane, then stood on her toes to kiss him hard on the cheek. And then, he was off, heading towards complete uncertainty. She waved at him for as long as she could see the plane, and he waved back, choked up.
Somewhere, Norway.
To his own surprise, Ezekiel actually slept on the flight to Norway, even though he'd downed several cups of coffee earlier that day. He woke up once wheels hit the runway with a jolt, instinctively reaching for a knife he usually kept under his belt in the military--forgetting for a moment that, for the day and a half leading up to his mystery appointment with whatever 'the Agency' was, that he was a civilian. It was a strange thought to someone so used to a completely different lifestyle to suddenly give it all up.
His hotel, again to his surprise, was much nicer than what he initially expected it to be. Being a modest man, he assumed he would get somewhere nice but inexpensive to stay for the time being, but the taxi driver dropped him off in front of a place that looked like the Plaza Hotel's smaller twin sister--all red velvet carpeting, ornate architecture, oozing luxury of all kinds. When he entered his suite (on the Presidential floor, in fact), he found a plain black, tailor-made, custom suit, shirt, and bow tie waiting on his bed, with a folded card from the Prime Minister himself. And, underneath it was a Norwegian to English translator. You'll need it, the note read in Hebrew. He'd never felt so taken care of in his whole life. In his one permitted day to explore the quaint little surrounding town, Ezekiel made sure to tread lightly, keep his presence subtle, nothing too noticeable; he tied his hair back and dressed in the Western fashion, and did his best to minimize his accent on the rare occasion that he spoke English--thankfully, a handful of locals spoke German, and he communicated brokenly with him on good places to eat and sights to see. For all he knew, parts of Europe could still sympathize with the fallen Fuhrer and that great bloody war of his, and as proud as he was of his heritage, this simply wasn't a safe place to flaunt it openly. It was just what he had to do, nothing more. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with the locals, though, and he could only be thankful for it.
Then, his anxieties culminated on that fateful night--the event of whatever gala he was selected to attend. Ezekiel dressed in his new suit, which fit him handsomely, perfectly, like a glove, and he could only wonder how the Israeli government had his exact measurements on file. What else do they have on me? He wondered as he gathered his necessaries for the evening--and then, the kippot in his suitcase caught his eye. He frowned at it, feeling its guilting fingers begin to tug at his heartstrings. I'm sorry, he thought, not sure who exactly he was apologizing to. I can't. Western looks better. I want to keep my job, and do my country proud. Even if his conscience refused to cooperate and quit in its relentless shaming of him, at least his hair did, and it laid a little flatter on his head.
His drive to wherever this meeting's location was perplexed him. The young man was apparently wrong to think that their host would hold this in some easily accessible location, somewhere attendees could drive to without thinking they made a grave mistake with each turn they took, but after some time driving through the wilderness in the dark, Ezekiel found what seemed like the right place. A well-paved road suddenly emerged from the cracked pavement, and it lead him to a tucked-away gate that he nearly missed. He then offered his invitation and bright grin to a guard standing by the gate, and when it was opened for him, he offered a phrase of Norwegian he assumed was a gesture of thanks, as he read in his manual, but judging by the man's face as he passed him, he must have pronounced something incorrectly and greatly offended him, somehow.
Alright.. Moving on. Any embarrassment from that botched encounter was quickly dashed when he approached the visage of an incredibly impressing building, perhaps even more grand than his own hotel. Ezekiel was awestruck. He even put his foot on the brake of the car for a couple long moments to take it all in, then pulled into an already mostly full parking lot on the side of the manor. The Israeli could only wonder what the inside must look like, and when he did step inside, he wasn't disappointed in the least by the image he'd imagined. It was remarkable, ornate, beautiful--beyond what he'd had the privilege to see many times in his life. It almost made him childlike with his excitement.
But then, he saw a line of equally well-dressed men and women, following each other into what seemed like a ballroom, converted into a dining hall. It snapped him back to attention, and he straightened his posture, brushed out a couple folds in his jacket, and followed after them. Again, it was decorated impeccably, but Ezekiel didn't have much time to admire wide-eyed this time; the room was nearly full, teeming with people just as esteemed in their respective countries as he was, and suddenly, he found himself tense, on guard. A wine glass was handed to him, and his first reaction was a subtle flinch, then he took it graciously.
He found his assigned seat as soon as the Director--whoever he was, since he never gave any indication of self-identification--began to speak. His whole brief address troubled him slightly, but none more so than his last comment. Ezekiel gazed into the crimson depths of his wine glass. I haven't had anything to drink in months, he thought. Might be best to keep it light, especially if I could be working tomorrow.
Then, an unfamiliar voice broke through his thoughts. An older man to his left wore a pleasantly friendly expression, hand extended out to shake. Ezekiel took it, giving it a firm grip and shake, and offered a smile of his own. "Yes, a pleasure indeed," he replied. He could count the number of times he'd been in situations as painfully formal as these on one hand, and they had been more intimate military dinners with people he knew, more or less. All of this was new, and daunting.
"My name is Ezekiel Ben-David," he continued after a moment's pause, holding eye contact with the man at his side. "From Israel, the new country on the Mediterranean. It's an honor we were even invited to participate." He figured at that point he had gone into too much detail. "Ah, what should I call you? And where are you from?"
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Post by Deleted on Jul 27, 2017 21:14:50 GMT -5
wheeeeezes good god, I might as well throw in my firstborn child with that starter. god damn I know you said not to match and I tried not to but??
anyway,, yes people! join this!!
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Post by Deleted on Jul 27, 2017 23:52:04 GMT -5
βIt has been ten years, and yet you have made very little progress.β
βI know.β
βIf you do not talk about the trauma, then you will not recover.β
He did not respond, and Eisa Nazari peered at his patient over his half-moon glasses, thick eyebrows pulled down. Gale did not look him in the eye, nor did he look at him at all, in fact. Instead, he looked at the little potted plant in the corner, wondered how long it would be before he could go home β then again, it was nearing evening; he supposed heβd have to stay with his sister overnight.
βI hear that you and Miriam have been getting along?β a change of topic; a welcomed one, too. βShe talks highly of you.β
βShe lends me books,β he said quietly.
βYes, and you talk to her about them?β
βOf course. She wants my insight.β
βYes, she is an excitable child, isnβt she?β the therapist smiled warmly.
Gale didnβt respond, and so that conversation trickled away. He heard the shuffle of paper and a quiet sigh, a soft click as the pen touched the desk. The sofa was comfortable but Gale felt like he didnβt belong, wanted to leave this formal atmosphere as soon as he could. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nazari clasp his hands together and lean forward, saw the tension leave his shoulders. Gale continued to watch carefully as the man watched him in return.
βGale,β his tone was soft, βnobody knows what happened, and you spent months in the hospital. There are side-effects of both that and the experience you had, but if you donβt tell anyone about you experiences, then you have no chance to recover.β
βMaybe Iβm recovering on my own.β
βYou have your sister, do you not?β
βI wonβt drag her into my own mess,β his voice was firm, took on a sharper edge. βKesi has other things to worry about.β
βYou are fearful of being a burden to others?β
βNo. I just donβt think itβs fair for people to have to worry for me.β
βPerhaps they want to. Perhaps they want to help you.β
βThey can help me by respecting my boundaries and not prying into my business. Itβs been an hour.β
Nazari blinked owlishly before his gaze slowly flicked to the clock on the wall. The silence between them was filled with the quiet ticking, and then, after a few moments, the therapist sighed heavily. Yet again, he had gotten nowhere with his patience. Gale wasnβt sure why he even bothered β it was just something that Isa had asked him to do, and he was doing it as a favour. Didnβt mean he had to give any information away. Without waiting to be dismissed, he stood up and gave a sharp-edged smile. He didnβt miss how the other man flinched minutely.
βShould I bother making another appointment?β he asked. Nazari shifted uncomfortably.
βYes, but set it for next month.β
Gale gave a mocking two-fingered salute as he left the room, pausing briefly to talk to the receptionist about his appointment for the next month, and then he left the building. The air was becoming more chill as the sun fell, and clouds dotted the sky. He considered his options β drive home and get there late, or go to Kesiβs, and decided on the latter. Therapy weighed heavily on him, made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. It would be nice to have familiar people around him.
It took only ten minutes to reach the home of his sister, and he fished around in his pocket for the key. Not there. He flicked his mind back to the events of the morning and, unsurprisingly, realised that he had not put the key in his pocket. Okay, then! He knocked three times on the door and waited with his arms crossed, hair tousled by the breeze. He huffed to get it out of his face.
βWho is it?β came the high-pitched voice of one of the twins.
βYour favourite uncle. Heβs here to brood on your roof, steal your fatherβs whiskey and cry.β
βAwesome!β the sound of the lock being unlatched felt loud in the quiet street, and the door swung open to reveal one of the twins. He was pretty sure it was Salem, but it couldβve been Akhom. They were notorious for switching places. βWow! You look terrible!β
βThanks. Itβs a combination of having responsibilities and then failing those responsibilities. Whereβs your mother?β
βTelling papa off?β
βHuh,β Gale gently ushered the boy back into the house and closed and locked the door behind him. The sudden warmth of the house was a nice one, and he watched as Salem-or-Akhom bounced away to his brother. He counted absently on his fingers and mentally prepared himself as Nanu flung herself down the stairs, hair a mess. She all but threw herself at him, locking him into a bear hug that heβd only recently managed to adapt to. After a couple of seconds, he returned the hug and kissed her forehead. βHello. Whatβve you been up to?β
βOh, you know,β she held him for a few more moments before peeling herself away and grinning at him, hands on her hips. βBeating up neighbourhood bullies, pretending to do homework, Iβve started doing the brooding thing that youβve been teaching me to do. Less smoking and drinking, more laying there and thinking about life. It helps.β
βWait until youβre old enough to appreciate whiskey.β
βI will never be old enough to appreciate that and also grandpa will kill me.β
βYes because he needs to chill.β
βGale, no.β
βYou canβt tell me what to do, small human.β
Nanu did not look impressed, but before she could complain about his lack of being a nice person, Kesi appeared from a room in the back, looking particularly pissed off and tired. She paused and frowned as she saw her brother, and then her features settled into a weary smile. Gale returned the smile and raised an eyebrow at her.
βHello, sister of mine. I require your roof.β
βYou have a room here,β she said, sounding mildly accusatory.
βHey, falling asleep on rooftops is the ultimate bad*ss move, what can I say?β
βYou have never and will never be bad*ss, kid.β
Gale put a hand to his heart and smiled as Kesi reached over to ruffle his hair β she paused to make sure he was okay with it, and then did so. His poor hair. He did not watch as Kesiβs husband walked into the living room. Honestly, he did not like nor even pretend to tolerate Ibrahim Kouri, and the feeling was obviously mutual. It was only because Gale had most of the family on his side that he was allowed here (and, he felt, he was probably more welcome than the father of the children was).
βWell,β he grinned, βIβm off to brood.β
βHave fun,β Kesi laughed quietly, βitβs behind the rice.β
He grinned at his sister and wandered into the kitchen, using the counter to heave himself up so that he could reach behind the rice and grab the bottle of whiskey. It was unopened. He was definitely going to upset Ibrahim to the best of his abilities. He wandered past the twins and walked up the stairs and past the second floor, up some more stairs and then onto the roof. There was more of a breeze now, pushing his hair back from his face as he sat down and dangled his legs from the edge, opening the bottle and taking a long swig. With his free hand, he found his packet of cigarettes and took one out with his lighter, lighting it and taking a long drag. Almost immediately, he could feel the tension leave his body, and he only felt tired.
And yet, it seemed, that things were too peaceful. Though it only felt like ten minutes, it had probably been closer to two hours (as the sun was long gone) when the door to the roof opened and Kesi stepped out, kneeling next to him.
βYour boss called me,β she said, tone cautious. He glanced to her from the corner of his eye. He waited for her to continue. βHe β well, he also paid a visit,β she produced a letter that had rather obviously been open before and offered it to him. Gale took it. βHe said that you have little say in the matter, and that you should take it. I donβt know what that means. Do you want me to leave you alone?β
βMm,β he responded, and she did so.
Once he was sure that his sister was gone, he flicked up the opening of the letter and pulled out the paper from within. He flicked his gaze over the words; they were in English, he noted with mild amusement. Something about the United Nations wanting the Mukhabarat to partake in some elite agency for spies, something more about databases being shared, and all forβ¦their best spy. He squinted at the words for a few moments before pulling another piece of paper β this one in standard Arabic and clearly written by the Director of the Mukhabarat β and reading that over, too. When he was finished reading, he stood up and headed downstairs (leaving the whiskey on the roof; Ibrahim would find it eventually, albeit almost empty), and tapped the door of Kesiβs study lightly.
βI need to use your phone,β he told her when she poked her head out and, with something like amusement, she left him to it. He dialled the number he knew by heart and waited as it rung. The Director would pick up; he always did.
βHello, Amari,β he said once he finally picked up, tone polite.
βHello! It feels rather like youβre throwing me to the dogs,β his own tone was pleasant, but the words were sharp. He stared at the picture on Kesiβs desk; his own family, minus his mother. Kesi was a baby and he was a toddler. It was a sight to behold. βWhy me?β
βYouβre bored here, youβre tearing up people for fun, youβre rather like a feral animal. A fox being introduced to the indoors, I suppose,β the man was amused, Gale could tell. βDid you not say β and this is a quote β βfight me like a man, sh*tlord?β to Daher?β
βYes, because he was being a sh*tlord.β
βIt would be unacceptable if I did not understand,β he continued without paying much heed to Galeβs own words. βBut you are intelligent and bored because none of our missions are dangerous nor are they clever enough for you. You see yourself as above us all so you treat us like toys β no, donβt reply, I understand,β he clearly did not, Gale thought bitterly, but he did not speak. βI think that the Agency would be good for you.β
βGood for you to keep your position,β Gale said mutinously. His boss did not respond for a few moments.
βMarch the 2nd, Amari,β he said, as if he hadnβt heard, βin return, your connection to the Jackals will be removed from all databases. It will be as if the younger version of you, legally, did not exist. Weβll even give your hospital records to the Agency and have it removed from medical databases.β
βNo more therapy?β
βIsa has your best interests in hearts and I think you should listen to him, but you do not need to continue if you do not wish to, when you are in Norway.β
βNorway.β
βYes. I know, you donβt speak Norwegian, but I know that youβll be fluent within a month.β
βWell β maybe a little longer.β
βYou speak nearly twenty languages, boy, do not be humble.β
βAnd yet you say Iβm the one who thinks Iβm above you all.β
The Director laughed.
βI will miss you, Amari, but youβll enjoy it with the Agency. People will match your wit and your intelligence and you will find yourself being more than just a translator when thereβs nothing more for you to do,β his tone had softened considerably. Gale sighed.
βAlright,β he said, βIβll do it.β
Arriving in Norway was not exactly an exciting affair; heβd said farewell to Kesi and had promised to try to keep in touch (try being the keyword, which she had smacked his arm for), and she had seen him off with a smile and a wave. Nanu had cried and Gale had promised to visit her and bring back souvenirs for her if he could. It wasnβt like he was leaving the entire world; he was just going to live in Norway. For work. Heβd visit Egypt when he could. That was just how it was.
His new house was a cabin near a crisp lake; it was in the middle of nowhere, had a balcony, and that was the closest he could get to the flat rooftops in the city. He liked it. It was quiet and clean and he could sit outside in the night and read, though the temperature was lower than he was used to, but he adjusted quickly and found himself warming up to oversized sweaters (and the fact that his scarf was actually more functional, now).
Norway, he decided, was nice.
Nearly everybody could speak English, which was less nice. Eventually, the people in the town nearest his house realised they could speak Norwegian at him and explain to him what he didnβt know, andβ¦well, he had to admit, he was picking up Norwegian quickly.
March 2nd rolled around too quickly.
The place itself was fancy and the guards talked about Gale in their native tongue, ignorant to the fact that he (partially) understood. Something about Arabs. Something extremely racist. He smiled at them pleasantly and did not miss that they tried not to touch his hand as they checked the letter he presented, and then they waved him in quickly.
He raised an eyebrow at how extravagant everything was, but tried not to be in awe of it as he found a parking spot and parked there neatly, exiting and locking his car. He walked towards the building, glad heβd dressed up a little; a neat silvery-grey silk vest accompanied his button-up shirt and neat slacks, but he hadnβt put a suit jacket on. He hated them. He would rather be mildly cold.
Gale was only slightly early; he was seated quickly and he listened to the Director carefully, taking in the words carefully. He would not forget; he was incapable, and so he smiled to himself and looked down at his glass of wine absently. Well. This was a thing β social gatherings had never been his forte.
To his right, he heard a man speak to another, glanced briefly and had to do a double-take. Nope. Older; possibly in his fifties. It was tempting to go over and ask, but he realised that the man next to him was engaged in a conversation with another, and so he left it.
Just when heβd gotten a decent conversation starter in his mind. Ah. Whatever. He didnβt care enough. Maybe, just maybe, if he focused really hard on his wine and just listened, nobody would notice him. Hell β people had already passed him without even glance.
Gale had always been good at being invisible.
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 28, 2017 0:46:32 GMT -5
I'm lazy, what can I says. I write better responses in future. Still gots to get that Xingfu starter up orz
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Post by Deleted on Jul 29, 2017 2:39:16 GMT -5
Some strange, vague feeling the young man couldn't quite identify settled over him as he engaged in a more in-depth conversation with the man to his left, and it made the air of the space they sat in just that much more eerie. Ezekiel couldn't name it. At first, he was quite comfortable--he was his usual outgoing self, perhaps bordering on just too talkative, but the Director had said this was a social occasion, after all--and at ease, due to the fact that this man was indeed older. The Frenchman seemed to radiate something almost paternal. But then he spoke, in a voice that betrayed the scars on his face, and suddenly, he became a grizzled survivor in Ezekiel's dark eyes.
His curious gaze couldn't help but wander to the scars on this man's face--now named Alphonse Fournier, something unmistakably French, and matched the name printed onto his name card--as he spoke. It wasn't any kind of judging, since Ezekiel knew he had many of his own that drew concerned gazes when he wasn't wearing sleeves or a shirt, but the fact that what seemed like knife scars marred the man's face disturbed him. Who could have done such a thing--and so many times, too? They looked deliberate--not meant to kill or injure, but to maim. He couldn't imagine bringing himself to attack someone in that way. But then, a second thought occurred to him: Why would someone want to? It settled strangely in his stomach, and suddenly, his previous desire to take from one of the waiters with trays of hors d'oeurves was gone.
A private clandestine service. The young Israeli furrowed his brow at the statement and glanced to Alphonse's placard, and sure enough, an organization's name that he did not recognize graced the space under his name. "Ah, interesting. I didn't know where S.A.F.E. was from--that makes more sense now," he remarked, tone light. Perhaps the Prime Minister hadn't told him everything, or perhaps the UN hadn't disclosed that more representatives than just the countries of the world would be recruited to join the Agency. Ezekiel couldn't help but wonder at that point how many others in their ball gowns and tuxedos, mingling together like it was nothing, were like Alphonse. Even though there was no way he would be able to tell simply from observing them, he did glance across the table, eyeing another pair involved in their own separate conversation, thinking.
Alphonse's question snapped him back again to their conversation, and he turned to face him once more, alert and attentive, as if a superior had snapped his fingers at him. He then noticed the other man was sipping from his glass, casually, normally, and it made Ezekiel realize he still hadn't touched his. All kinds of doubt and guilt filled his mind as he raised the glass to his own lips. You don't know if it's kosher--it probably isn't. What are you thinking? The red wine--he wasn't the most experienced drinker, so he couldn't tell which type it was from just a sip--didn't go down his throat smoothly, and he had to hold back a light grimace at its taste. Still wasn't his thing, really, even though he had been told he would grow into it.
Ezekiel shrugged at the older man's last suggestion. "Of course it wasn't.. Easy," he began, still trying to swallow that tart and bitter taste out of his mouth. "I didn't have a choice. I mean, you can't just turn down the Prime Minister, can you?" A light smile tugged up the corners of his mouth, but his expression was still intangibly sad; his mind was elsewhere, still stuck in the desert and sweltering heat and sun more intense than he'd ever felt, with men who would die for him in an instant, and he would have done the same thing. Local newspapers didn't cover events in the Middle East, and he was dying to know what happened on their crucial mission in Jordan the day he was cut.
"But I'm here for more of a--a strategical purpose." For a moment, the young man stumbled on his English; as fluent as he'd grown in college, and later in the military, his accent was still thick, and from time to time, it was hard to think of the right word on the fly. Still, though, he felt comfortable speaking to Alphonse--who else better to talk to than another man sworn to secrecy? What could he possibly do? "My country needs the most help it can get. Finances, military, alliances, anything. It's, ah, hard to sleep at night when your immediate neighbors want you off the face of the Earth." Ezekiel managed a dry, humorless smile. "If my being here can put us on a map, make us internationally recognized.. That's why I'm here."
He gestured with his glass, notably not taking a second sip, towards the other man. "How about yourself? Why are you here?" He was asking merely for the sake of conversation, not for any sort of information gathering purpose--his voice was soft, genuine, expression at ease and posture comfortable.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 29, 2017 2:39:58 GMT -5
"better response" my butt, man. believe me your post was fine lmao
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Post by Deleted on Jul 30, 2017 4:54:37 GMT -5
Content to sit with his own thoughts, Gale found himself simply listening to idle conversation - but most of it escaped him. Vague words here and there, and he couldn't get his mind away from the fact that someone so similar to Camille was here; then again, he supposed, people looked alike. He highly doubted it was a relative, but he wasn't quite sure. It made him frown thoughtfully as he took a small sip of wine. It was expensive and he knew that - but he didn't really care for it. When he got to his cabin, he could just relax with some whiskey, or something like that. Something harder and something that would give him an hour extra rest, perhaps. That would be rather nice.
The background noise to his thoughts was appreciated, he supposed. He liked his silence - but sometimes it was overwhelming. Murmurs between different people was a thing that he didn't mind.
When a man spoke to him, he tilted his head to look at the other and gave a faint smile. Yu Xingfu - this man was the representative of China, then? He hoped he wasn't wrong. For a couple of moments, he didn't respond - trying to flick his thoughts from his memories and plans towards the present situation was something more difficult than most would think. He leaned back in his seat a little and exhaled slowly.
"Greetings," he said quietly, "my name is Gale Amari. You are not intruding at all - do not worry."
He winced a little. His English was, for the most part, unused; he lived where tourists did not frequent, and he did not often visit places that spoke English primarily. He'd never liked the language - it was awkward for no reason, wasn't pronounced as it was spelt. Though he detected an accent with this man, he was painfully aware of how thick his own was; how he was rather sure he was pronouncing words incorrectly. What a good start to the day. Perhaps he should've practiced, but he'd been under the impression that it would be more global than this - actually, f*ck it.
"You don't speak Mandarin by any chance, do you?" he asked, voice soft as his eyebrows furrowed a little, "I am, eh...English is not one of my stronger languages."
Gale was pretty confident he'd placed the name, at least, correctly. If he hadn't, well, then. F*ck. He could deal with the repercussions of that if it turned out that the man did not, in fact, speak Mandarin. It was just a chance he was willing to take, at this point. Making good impressions was something he liked, but hell if it wasn't difficult. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered. Yu Xingfu seemed nice enough already; Gale liked his voice. It wasn't overwhelming or loud. Really, he found himself hoping that he could get into his good books.
If Kesi had been here (or if she ever somehow found out about his problems with English), then she would probably push him into focusing more on pronunciation. While, with most of his languages, he often practiced aloud and with those who spoke the language (Cairo was a good place for it; so were the places he often got sent to), he had never found himself giving a damn about the supposedly international language that was English. He'd never really practiced pronunciation, and thus he never lost the accent. While he knew it made him easy to place (and likely easy to misread as unintelligent), he found himself not quite giving a damn. As long as he said words in the right order (vaguely) and as long as he didn't screw himself over by saying the wrong thing, then he would count it as a win. Probably.
One hand moved to fuss with the hem of his silk vest as he was overcome with mild anxiety. He would've liked to turn this down, now that he really thought about it. He had been bored to high hell at the Mukhabarat, but at least he'd been comfortable there. He was entirely out of his comfort zone and he couldn't stop bouncing his leg (as subtle as it was). He didn't like this, but he'd adjust. He supposed.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 30, 2017 4:54:54 GMT -5
the trash man has given a trash response
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jul 30, 2017 20:43:29 GMT -5
ok first of all?? how dare u make such beautiful looking rps all the time always second of all,,,intimidating,,but tempting
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 30, 2017 20:44:46 GMT -5
ok first of all?? how dare u make such beautiful looking rps all the time always second of all,,,intimidating,,but tempting my rps r just lame my dude, but tempting.
100% tempting, 0% intimidating. Let me tempt u, join my flock. I will taint u with the spoi ways. -flutters handkerchief in the air-
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jul 30, 2017 20:46:40 GMT -5
'lame' yeah okay sure
are u kidding?? u see all those words up there. thats a lot but forreal like u know im weak af
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Post by Deleted on Jul 30, 2017 20:58:21 GMT -5
ok first of all?? how dare u make such beautiful looking rps all the time always second of all,,,intimidating,,but tempting J O I N U S
wow that wasn't intimidating at all heh, yikes
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 30, 2017 20:59:28 GMT -5
'lame' yeah okay sure are u kidding?? u see all those words up there. thats a lotbut forreal like u know im weak af mmmm, lame is my middle name my dude.
n lmao trust my dude I'm lazy. I put word limits n then I'm like "never going to stick to them" bc I'm trash. Except when I get inspired Then I just word vomit ;p
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jul 30, 2017 21:00:01 GMT -5
'm so lazy. my. responses r lazy. -shrugs- whateves :"D
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