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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Aug 2, 2017 1:05:28 GMT -5
K I'm thinking a bit more back and forth for general details b4 things get dry. Like a post each or two? IDK and then we can time skip and discuss what they know about each other I can make a chat pg or? Idrc Lmao
Tell me what u guys think about when to time skip bc I'd like to get the first mission rolling n guns a'blazing
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Post by Salted Squid on Aug 2, 2017 1:25:54 GMT -5
I don't even have my starter up yet chill
Whenever you guys decide is fine by me
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Post by Salted Squid on Aug 2, 2017 1:47:53 GMT -5
Washington, D.C
She had not been expecting to be called in to work today. It was Saturday, for one thing. A day of quiet and relaxation. She did not usually go to work on Saturday. She had been at headquarters late Friday night, wrapping up her report for her most recent weekend. Today, she wanted to relax.
For another thing, the DC area had recently been hit by a late snowstorm. Uncharacteristic, for late February. Many snowdrifts were as tall as her waist; all the roads were covered in slush and ice; and the snow was still falling steady. Had been, in fact, since Thursday evening.
She hated it. She was definitely a warm weather type of person. Right now, she would much rather be at home, curled on the couch in front of the fireplace, a cup of cocoa in hand and Cade's strong arms holding her against his chest. She'd rather be sprawled on the living room floor with her daughter Kinsey, engaged in a heated debate over a game of cards, or playing a game of chess with her son Aaron. Something indoors, in the cozy warmth of her own home.
She most certainly did not want to be in her car on the way to the office. But it wasn't like she had much of a choice. A summons to speak with the Director of the CIA was not the sort of thing you ignored.
She'd been in the middle of making breakfast when the call came in, eggs frying in a skillet as she whisked pancake batter in a glass bowl. She'd nearly dropped the bowl in surprise when the telephone rang, then dove to take the reciever from its cradle in time, sliding the bowl onto the counter. It had been the Director's personal secretary, a pleasant woman named Kim.
"Terribly sorry to bother you on your Saturday morning," Kim apologized, sounding less than thrilled to be spending her Saturday in the office. "But Director Karsten wishes to speak with you."
"What about?" She had asked, unable to hide the alarm in her voice. She had, of course, met Karsten before. They were very well acquainted, had brought their families together for dinner on more than one occasion. But never had Karsten summoned her to his office on a Saturday. The fact that he was doing so now made her gut twist with nerves.
"Something about a letter," Kim responded. "From the United Nations. He wouldn't give details, but I could tell this excited him."
Her heart had skipped a few beats, then. Nervous, she twisted the telephone wire around her fingers. Director Karsten wanted to speak to her about a letter from the United Nations?
Well, that's just groovy. It wasn't. But it didn't sound like she had much of a choice. So she had hastily left the matter of breakfast in the hands of a man who may well burn the house down before she returned. She'd showered and dressed in something presentable. Had scraped snow and ice from the windows of her Impala. And she had driven to work, going rather faster than she should have given road conditions, thankful that the poor weather had kept most people indoors.
The headquarters of the CIA had been designed more like a college campus than the center of American intelligence. Less than ten years old, and spectacularly maintained, the building still gleamed like new, the white marble clean enough to take the place of her bathroom mirror and everything else looking like the building's doors had opened yesterday. Usually she would find herself envious of the building's upkeep-- if only she could get her kids to keep their bedrooms this clean-- but today she hardly noticed, far too distracted by Karsten's unusual summons to pay attention.
The Director's suite was on the top floor. By the time she entered, she was panting slightly, sweat beading on her forehead (she had taken the stairs; she had never felt safe in elevators). As she had expected, Karsten sat with his back to the door, gazing out the window at the twinkling, snowy city. Knowing that he would address her when he was ready, she waited, letting the door click softly shut behind her.
Finally, the Director's chair turned. Karsten was older than she, in his mid fifties, with graying hair and gray eyes. His complexion was pale, matching the heather gray suit that he wore and the wire framed spectacles that perched upon his nose. He offered her a smile, though she could tell by his expression that he was preoccupied.
"Agent Markson." He greeted her formally, much to her chagrin. He knew her well enough to address her by her first name. She had insisted, more than once, that he simply call her Skylar. Without waiting for his invitation, she crossed to the chair in front of his desk, taking her seat and crossing her legs in a ladylike manner. Her mother had constantly scolded her about slouching into chairs as a child, correcting her time and time again-- "don't sit like that, child, are you a lady or an animal?" -- so by this point in her life her upright posture came naturally. She crossed her arms loosely, a slightly insolent expression that would have been laughable in a woman of her age and status were it not for the seriousness of the situation.
"Director." Curt. "What's so important that it couldn't wait until Monday?" A pause. "I'm not being cut, am I?" The thought filled her with anxiety, despite the foolishness of it. She was one of the CIA's best operatives, and she knew it. Karsten had no reason to cut her. Still, the thought of losing her job-- and a position that paid well, compared to other job opportunities for a woman in her late thirties-- made her uncomfortable.
Karsten offered her a curt smile. "Not exactly."
From a drawer in his desk, Karsten drew an envelope. She felt her heart skip momentarily, the sight of the seal of the United Nations catching her eye. So Kim hadn't just been yanking her chain, not that she would have any reason to. Taking the envelope, she tore it open, taking out the letter inside and reading it slowly. When she was finished, she looked up at Karsten, emerald eyes piercing into him like daggers. So, she was being cut. Just not for the reasons that she had been expecting.
To tell the truth, she found it a bit satisfying. She had always known that she was one of the best in the agency. To have it confirmed that Karsten felt the same, well, it was good fuel for her already overlarge ego. Not that she'd gloat about it out loud. "So. Where am I going?"
If Karsten was surprised at how quickly she had accepted the UN's offer, he didn't show it. "Norway," he told her, leaning back in his desk chair. "You're to be there on March 2nd. I took the liberty of booking your flight."
"And Cade? The kids?" They were her first priority, of course. The thought of being separated from her family for an indefinite amount of time made her heart ache. The thought of uprooting a pair of kids-- her daughter fourteen, her son nine-- in the middle of the school year made her cringe, though she supposed a new school could be found rather quickly. It would be a headache and a half, but it wasn't impossible.
Karsten shrugged. "I suppose I could book three more tickets. No problem."
She gave a nod, relaxing for the first time since she had arrived. "I suppose this is goodbye, then."
Karsten stood. "It's been an honor," He said, looking awkward. Skylar understood. They were business partners, though they were also friends. There wasn't a standard goodbye for a situation like this, really. So, she shook his hand. He wished her luck. Then she was gone, hurrying back home to clear her desk and prepare to move her family, maybe for good.
--- Undisclosed Location, Norway
As it turned out, moving to a brand new country out of the blue had gone over better than Skylar had expected it to. Cade seemed to have understood the importance of what she was doing and had agreed faster than she would have thought. Kinsey had been harder to convince; she had nearly thrown a fit when she learned that she would have to leave all of her friends behind on such short notice, not that she had much say in the matter. Aaron seemed to have quietly accepted the situation, to her relief.
Norway was a rather nice country, not at all like the States in a refreshing sort of way. And, bonus, it wasn't currently blizzard season, even if the air carried a nice chill to it. The locals were nice and seemed to accept the family quickly; it didn't hurt that many Norweigans spoke English fluently, making conversation more simple. Karsten had made the transition easier as well, arranging for them to rent the small guest house of an elderly couple until they could find a place of their own, on a small farm near the mountains. It was quiet, not at all like the city neighborhood they had just moved from; Skylar knew that she wasn't the only one who tossed and turned that first night, not quite able to fall asleep without the noises they had become accustomed to.
Before long, it was March 2nd, and Skylar found herself preparing for the gala that the Agency had set up. The dress she wore was a new purchase from a boutique in town, a simple yet elegant black tail dress. She put her hair in a bun, dabbed on makeup to conceal those dreaded freckles that refused to fade from her nose and cheekbones despite the fact that a long time had passed since they had made her look cute; now they just made her look young and far more inexperienced than she was. It wasn't an impression she wanted to give, not in a ballroom full of spies from around the world.
She borrowed her landlords' car for the trip, an old clunker of a brand that was apparently not sold in America. The vehicle looked ready to break down on the side of the road at any moment, but she hadn't had time to get one of her own, and most certainly would not have time to get a rental right now. So, shivering (the car lacked a heater), she wove her way through the mountains, along a road that seemed designed to deter uninvited visitors. Finally she pulled in to what seemed to be some sort of castle, the parking lot so full that she had to drive around a few times before she was able to pull into a spot. Quickly she hurried into the building, relieved to find that its interior was warm and comfortable. She was guided to the ballroom by a kind gentleman, where she quickly snagged a glass of wine off a tray. She wasn't a frequent drinker, but after the events of the past week she felt as if she deserved it. Carefully she wove her way through the crowd, heels clicking on the marble floors below her feet as she peered at the cards signifying where each agent should sit. She found hers at a table where she seemed to be the only woman. Oh, joy. Taking her seat, she turned her attention to the man at the front who called himself the Director. He spoke English, to her relief. Once he had finished speaking, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table as she swirled her wine. She cast her gaze around, taking in the faces of the men at the table around her. They all seemed to be talking to each other, which simultaneously annoyed and relieved her. On one hand, she was being ignored. On the other, she didn't have to talk. Leaning back once more, she took a sip of her wine. Ah, well. If someone wanted to engage her, she supposed that they would. For now, she was simply content to lean back and enjoy her drink.
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Post by Salted Squid on Aug 2, 2017 1:48:38 GMT -5
Well, there ya go guys, a starter for me. I feel so accomplished))
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Post by Deleted on Aug 2, 2017 2:15:08 GMT -5
He was finding that he rather liked Xingfu; he was an interesting man who seemed to be rather kind. That was a bonus - Gale enjoyed meeting people who were kind-hearted. He couldn't quite place the other man's age - maybe a few years older? Maybe even in his forties? He couldn't imagine him being much older, but age wasn't really a matter for a colleague, and so he dismissed it after a few moments and smiled at the compliments - he practically lit up.
"I appreciate you saying so," he laughed quietly, "I'm still learning - I haven't had many opportunities to speak it, so this is...a good opportunity," he nodded a little, "my life goal, I think, is to see how many languages I can become fluent in."
A goal that was easier done than most people seemed to realise - most assumed that he was fluent in four or five languages, at most. Gale liked surprising people. They expected him to be a pretty face and nothing more. To be underestimated was good, though; it meant that sizing him up was harder, that figuring out how he was in a fight was damn near impossible. He liked being a mystery and he liked the surprise it gave people when they found out just what he knew - but that was neither here nor there.
Gale nodded a little when Xingfu spoke, tilted his head to the side. "Oh - I don't yell," he smiled faintly, perhaps even apologetically. "So you're lucky there. My voice isn't very strong, and I don't mind that you speak softly. It's better. I'm sensitive to loud voices, so I think we'll be just fine."
Xingfu, so far, had come off as someone considerate and caring, someone that Gale could certainly respect. There was a shroud of mystery around him - but he expected that it was the same for everyone else here. They were, after all, spies. He enjoyed that he was being entertained, though; the other man answered his questions and seemed engaged in the conversation, and that was good. Honestly, he didn't think that it would be this easy to meet a potential friend within the Agency - having friends in a place like this was much better than enemies, and making a friend first would be very helpful. Mainly for the company. He had been nervous about being unable to make friends.
"I'm glad you like it," it was a genuine statement, and Gale flicked his gaze away briefly to take in some of the nameplates. Then he returned his full attention to Xingfu, fully intending to contribute wholly to the conversation. "Oh! Yes. I've found somewhere to live and the local people are patient with me, and they're very kind. I like the scenery too; there's a lake by me," technically, he was the only one there and thus it was somewhat his lake? Wild. "It's very clear. I'm having some problems adapting from the desert temperatures to these cooler ones, but I think I'll get used to it in due time."
He hadn't missed the casual mention of Xingfu's mother. He added, in a quieter tone, "I'd like to get my sister to live here, but she'd much rather stay back in Egypt. She'd also kill me if I didn't go home from time to time."
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Post by The Blue Adept on Aug 2, 2017 23:59:45 GMT -5
ARGH i havent had time to reply to anything! ill take care of that ASAP. but im good with a skip after some intro chats
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Post by Deleted on Aug 3, 2017 12:40:02 GMT -5
disclaimer: I've got a starter and a reply to post, but the later half of this week and weekend will be hella crazy for me. we've got company staying in from out of town, on top of my training commitments. just sayin', posts could take a while
also I'm down for a time skip after these couple conversations too.
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Aug 3, 2017 14:15:23 GMT -5
Alrighty, just get up the replies whenever u guys can and we'll timeskip after a few convos to get a feel for relationships and dynamics. Sounds gucci to me.
I'll try to get up my response later when I'm back from eating.
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Post by Salted Squid on Aug 3, 2017 17:13:25 GMT -5
Hello uvu))
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Aug 5, 2017 4:40:46 GMT -5
can y'all plz get a response up soon-ish? :')
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Post by Deleted on Aug 5, 2017 8:42:18 GMT -5
sorry mate, it's been hella weird. mom had to go to urgent care and we've got family staying in from out of town. is tomorrow too late for you? that's then the family leaves
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Post by The Blue Adept on Aug 5, 2017 13:16:46 GMT -5
!! is your mom okay? :c
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Post by Salted Squid on Aug 5, 2017 13:28:57 GMT -5
Hope your mom's ok Viri!))
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Post by Deleted on Aug 5, 2017 15:39:33 GMT -5
Sanjiro Fujioka 30,000 feet above the world.
Despite the sleeping pills he chased down with a couple short glasses of sickly-sweet sake, Sanjiro couldn't find sleep to save his own life. He gazed out of the window of his private plane, watching sparkling cities and people moving along in their cars, heading down freeways and streets like blood trickling through veins. Sure, it was peaceful, and the rare total isolation was nice, but he couldn't help but replay the last important conversation he had over and over again in his restless head. What else was there to do? Read the news, like some kind of commoner?
He knew very well that this invitation, and this mission, were grave. He knew it when a messenger had been sent to his secluded home in the wooded outskirts of the new Hiroshima--which he called more of a shack, really, 'a home in between homes', as his superiors called it--and the little twerp interrupted his morning meditation. But before he could curse the skinny, slight little teenager out for disturbing his peace, Sanjiro read the memo, and his attitude towards the day and his role in the Kenpeitai completely changed. He was in Japan a mere six hours later.
"Is this true?" The young man had asked his superior. Their meetings were so secretive nowadays; after all, they were all members of an organization that legally did not exist. Secret police had been outlawed years ago. They carried no records, no official list of names, nothing. The Americans thought they had done away with the old country when they dropped their mushroom bombs and sat and watched on their island, like a strict babysitter, but they had simply ripped the plant out, leaving roots behind. And those roots grew and flourished the second those GI boots were off the country's throat.
"The UN really wants someone from here to go and participate in--in whatever nonsense they've thought of now?" Sanjiro continued on. His cup of tea sat untouched in front of him, letting off billowing little clouds of steam into the air. "What about the war? And everything that happened? They don't even know about--"
"I know all this," his Director interjected, sighing. He paused, mulling over his words in the uneasy silence between the two, and Sanjiro didn't dare to finish his thought. "I know it's a bit of a stretch, a shot in the dark, perhaps, but.. I was told in the letter that they would negotiate getting a degree of our autonomy back from the Americans." His voice was oddly still, unwavering, calm almost to the point of eerily so.
"You will go," he was told. "You will represent us well and out-compete everyone there. Show them that no other country can possibly compete with us--and prove the Americans wrong." The elderly man, with sagging skin like satin and crow's feet on the edge of both eyes, smiled dryly. "You are the world's best. Show them."
His parting statement certainly did inflate the younger man's ego. It carried him to the plane without much of a second thought, and he couldn't care less about leaving his few friends and parents behind, in all honesty. Truth be told, Sanjiro loved his lifestyle. He loved his job--being the best at something, being able to sneak in and out of the world's most secure places completely undetected, to be able to bring a man twice his weight to his knees with exactly three expertly-placed jabs. And, now he could compete on a global scale? Now it had become a sort of game, and the Japanese only played to win.
The dull excitement of winning, in whatever way he could, finally allowed him to drift off into a gray haze of drug-induced sleep, smiling subtly to himself as his eyes closed.
Somewhere, Norway.
Even though locations such as this were so romanticized in all kinds of literature, magazines and films--the idyllic Western European town, quaint and charming, with its canals and cobblestoned streets--the young man thought it was a little pathetic, in his snobbish high taste. All he saw were the old buildings with immense cracks running down their sides, stray cats lurking by cafe tables, and incompetent hotel staff, and it only confirmed that the Empire of the Sun was indeed better than this.
Sanjiro didn't much appreciate the change in scenery. It was just all so different than what he had been ingrained to love and revere back home, that he couldn't truly find much in it to appreciate. Most of his days leading up to the fateful night in which he was supposed to attend some kind of gala were spent in his hotel room, trying to sleep off the time difference--and it only added to his growing irritation with this whole situation. His dream would to just be given a mission, dropped off at a location, and do his assigned task however many times, and then be released.
He didn't like the idea of attending a gala. The young man repeated the thought over and over again as he was driven to whatever secret location it was being held at. Sanjiro certainly wasn't here to make friends or establish any meaningful connections; the only connection he needed was his organization's name, and the implied force behind it should get him everything he could possibly ever need. So why be forced to mingle with other spies? The only thing he could think of that kept his expression remotely enthused was the possibility of sweet-talking whoever oversaw this whole operation, and made all those lofty promises in the letter.
He strolled into the dining hall with a certain air of both nonchalance and superiority; his shoulders were effortlessly held back in perfect posture, and he walked with the calm, secure self-assuredness of a cat. But Sanjiro's eyes were sharp, actively scanning name tags and pressed collars and ball gowns around him, and when a glass of red wine was pushed into his hand, he continued his perusal over the edge of the thin artisanal glass.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 5, 2017 15:52:50 GMT -5
she's definitely better than the other day, but still a little shaky. it's been.. interesting, having company stay over with her in this condition. I'm McFreakin stressed so anyway. idk when I'll get the second reply out, but I hope my excuse is decent enough to buy me some time
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Aug 5, 2017 17:48:21 GMT -5
I'm sorry about your mom man, I haven't been online. Had I been, tbqh, I would have told u no rush. Anyways, don't worry too much about typing a response to me. I can wait. Hopefully everything clears up and your mom gets better!
Also, Aviva, you should probably get Skylar to interact with Viri's kid
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Post by Salted Squid on Aug 5, 2017 18:29:29 GMT -5
LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ yup, that was my plan tbh. I just got home from work so I'll get to work on a reply as soon as I'm able))
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Post by Salted Squid on Aug 6, 2017 15:45:07 GMT -5
As she leaned back, sipping on her glass of wine, Skylar allowed her gaze to travel around the rather large ballroom, taking in the other agents that sat and stood around the room, some gauging the other agents, as she was, others talking in pairs or small groups. There seemed to be a bit over one hundred agents, each from a different country, she supposed. Bits and pieces of conversation reached her ears, some in English, others in languages she didn't know. She didn't stop to listen in, instead allowing her attention to bounce among those closest to her, hearing the words but taking in few details.
It wasn't long, however-- much sooner than she would have liked-- before her glass ran empty but for a small red sip at the bottom. She stared at the glass in distaste, her thin fingers toying with the stem. She had never been much of a drinker; usually just socially, when Cade would take her for dinner, or on special occasions, and even then she didn't drink much-- usually just a glass, maybe two if the situation called for it. She disliked the sensation of overdrinking, of being impaired. She would rather keep a clear head, especially when those around her did not. Even so, she felt the urge to drink another, perhaps to ease the tension in her shoulders, the result of being surrounded by people who could be either friend or foe, many of them capable of being deadly.
At the thought of this, a contemptuous sneer made its way across her lips. An agent would have to be a complete moron, she decided, to attempt anything drastic tonight, with so many other spies packed in the ballroom like sardines. And she highly doubted that any spy deemed good enough to make it into this room at all was stupid enough to disagree.
Feeling considerably more comfortable, she rose to her feet, draining the last small sip of her wine. Slipping the strap of her small purse over her arm, she moved from her table, continuing her perusal of the room as she searched for a butler and, by extension, more wine. She walked with a gait that oozed confidence, grateful to the heels that lifted her head up an inch and a half or so higher than usual, though secretly she found herself envying the men and their flat-footed loafers that looked considerably more comfortable than her own footwear. She somehow doubted that they would be going home to nurse sore feet after tonight's events.
Wine, as it turned out, was not difficult to find. She hardly made it two yards from her seat before she was offered a glass. She accepted it with gratitude, giving the young man a small smile. How exciting this must be for him, she thought, to be serving beverages to many of the best spies the world has to offer. Or maybe he was nervous. She didn't linger long enough to tell.
Rather than returning to her seat, Skylar decided to move outward, intending to make a circuit of the outer wall. She made her way through the crowd, weaving her way effortlessly around bodies clad in suits and ballgowns. It was during her rounds that a single man caught her attention. She wasn't sure what it was about him that she noticed first; perhaps it was the confidence with which he held himself, standing tall and proud among his peers.
Well, okay. Maybe not tall-- he was a good inch shorter than she was. But still, he had gotten her attention for the moment. Deciding that she'd eventually have to talk to other people anyway, she began to make her way towards the man, swiftly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"You sure look like you're enjoying yourself this evening," she started, sidling up from behind the gentleman and slipping in front to peer up at his face. He was younger than she had expected, and good looking too, though not exactly her type. Nevertheless, she flashed him a smile, inviting him to engage. It would sure be embarrassing if he refused.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 7, 2017 12:12:52 GMT -5
Ezekiel Ben-David The young Israeli almost felt foolish for voicing such concerns. Part of him, his more rational militant half, less affected by whims and nuances, knew how ridiculous his spoken thoughts must have sounded to a much older, more experienced gentleman--and he could see the beginnings of a doubting expression form on his face. Nevertheless, though, the gesture of touch was more than welcome on his end of things; Ezekiel was plenty used to claps on the chest and shoulders, being a military man, and he dealt them out to plenty of others.
For a moment, a fleeting one, passing like the brief wisp of smoke on a blown out candlewick, Ezekiel felt somewhat parented. How could he not, with the gentle statement of wrong, followed by a more correct statement on the way things were now? He didn't even mind that the other man knew a little bit more about the anxieties that plagued him, much less that he was wrong. Alphonse's gesture and even the slightly changed cadence of his voice seemed nearly fatherly to him. And it was something he wasn't much used to coming from an older man; reassurance from a mother was quite a different thing, as was any kind of dialogue with his superiors in the army.
He could have children, the young man silently mused as he nodded along and listened. He's certainly of age. But something about the other told him that, for whatever reason, he was not a family man, so he didn't dwell on the thought for much longer. Could he imagine this man having a soft enough private half to kiss a wife or a child? There was no telling. Ezekiel doubted it, though, but he barely knew him. Perhaps that would change--perhaps he'd never speak with him again in his entire life. Only time would tell.
"I understand," the young man began, setting down his still mostly-full glass of red wine down on the table, not too far from his name placard. Though he would have disagreed that he and Alphonse looked unassuming to the average citizen, he didn't voice it. "I really doubt that anyone now would start anything violent, like you said, but I--ah, it's still different. Perhaps I'm just paranoid, or something, but I do get strange looks here and there." It then occurred to Ezekiel that he was conversing on the subject with a Frenchman, perhaps one of the most privileged races on the Earth, in his mind. He won't really get it. No use in rambling on.
He dismissed his statement with a soft shrug, choosing to keep the air positive instead. "I'm just blessed to have been chosen to come to Norway, no less," he remarked, managing a kinder look. That much was the truth for him, though; the opportunities that presented themselves here were endless, and readily available--all he had to do was excellent work, and all kinds of protection and alliances for his beloved country would simply fall in his lap. Or, that was the idea his Prime Minister put in his head, and he believed it wholeheartedly.
Ezekiel folded his hands neatly on the tablecloth--weathered hands, ones that bore myriad scars of their own, both old and brow and new and pink. "How do you like it here? From what little I know, it's a little more like France than it is like Jerusalem." His dark eyes sparkled in the low light with a hint of humor, but in all honesty, he couldn't imagine France being that different. Europe was so much smaller than the Middle East, after all.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 7, 2017 12:33:41 GMT -5
Sanjiro Fujioka The young man stood still as stone, leaning comfortably against an ornate marble pillar, sipping daintily from his glass as he watched the revolving crowd. For a second, he thought both his antisocial behavior and eyes that were beginning to get sore were about to pay off for him, as he caught a glimpse of that mysterious Director--definitely one of the oldest men in the reception, if not the oldest, and resolved to push his way politely through the others to talk to him. Sanjiro already had a transcript of how their ideal conversation would go in his head--beginning with Good evening, sir, how are you? and ending with Of course, we all want the Americans off our backs. Thank you, sir.
But, of course, his first inconvenience of the night had to come to him just as he resolved to do something of any real importance. A soft, feminine voice rang in his ear, louder and more discernible from the collective hum of conversation around them. He sighed softly to himself, then let his gaze leave the Director's silhouette to address whoever it was that began a conversation with him--and when Sanjiro promptly assessed her lack of accent and features, he had to fight valiantly to curb back his immediate response--a curled lip of disgust, a raised brow, an offensive smirk.
Of course--of course. No doubt an American, well, perhaps a Canadian, but he'd find out quite quickly which of the two she represented. He knew both countries were protective and proud of their own separate identities, more so Americans than the others. But something about her did strike him as being from the land of the free, but he couldn't quite name it.
It was only fitting, though, that an American would impede his progress to get actual work done here. Perhaps that was just a defining trait of that whole race, that whole country, for that matter. As much as he wanted to dismiss her, to tell her to mind her own goddamn business and put her nose back where it belonged, out of other countries' business, this was a social affair, and Sanjiro knew he couldn't just be rude. But these were mind games, and he was particularly adept at them. The Japanese were good at most things, in his opinion.
He forced a tight but mostly friendly smile at her comment. "I must be good at my job, then," he remarked back, his speech just the slightest bit accented, "Because I would rather be anywhere else than here." Sanjiro paused, watching for a reaction, and hoping for a sympathetic one on her end. "Social events--galas, aren't my favorite kinds of events. I don't enjoy small talk much." Usually he didn't like to overshare, but in the business of deception, one had to in order to get someone else exactly where they wanted them.
Sanjiro lifted his glass to his lips and took a sip of the wine, then rested it comfortably again in a relaxed grip. The young man then furrowed his brow lightly at the woman, feigning some sort of curiosity. "Say--you're Western, aren't you?" He began nonchalantly. "Which country are you from, then?"
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Post by The Blue Adept on Aug 8, 2017 0:31:02 GMT -5
Rook nodded in response, thinking for a moment if he'd heard it before. "My name is Paige Leroux, though most call me Rook," he introduced with a handshake. "The pleasure is all mine. It's quite a relief actually, I was certain I would be spending this evening in confusion." There wasn't much that Rook could tell from Jem just by appearance, but he assumed that was because they were all alike in the way that they could anyone they wanted. Although being older did mean that Jem had more years of experience over him, which was something he considered as he spared a glance at the rest of the room.
As dangerous as everyone was in prospect, the room melted into a more casual atmosphere as conversation broke out. It seemed that every agent knew better than to start something in a room of other agents more than capable of shutting it down. At the same time it also started to feel like being at the scene of some sort of mystery murder, with a secret lying behind some closed door, room full of animals hungry for information. Rook silently wondered how good of an idea this was now that it coming to fruition, a real tangible thing that he was apart of and in the middle of.
Maybe the Agency would fall apart, crushed by its own weight, or it'd become the most dangerous undercover powerhouse the world would ever know. The thought would be more terrifying if the idea of a bunch of agents getting drunk weren't so entertaining.
Of course, everyone originally being from their own departments meant that each and every agent was already unpredictable- there was no amount of friendly coworker small talk that could get them familiar with each in a short enough amount of time to work properly together. The rules were different and he'd have to bend around them get things done. He'd been plunged into similar situations and every time he found himself a little curious for the challenge. As much of a hassle it would be, it was also rather refreshing.
A clean slate, they'd called it, and he was feeling it now in this very large room full of strangers. It was a comforting sense of invisibility, but impractical. Rook fiddled with his own placecard idly as he faced Jem, running his fingers along the edges as if they were sharp. The desire to know more about the others in this room was more pressing than blending in, a curious look in his eye as tilted his head. "How's Britain been? Haven't heard much from over there, all of the interesting stuff is happening in America right now," he joked lightly, tapping the card on the table.
It was always interesting hearing what was going on in other countries, knowing the drama would eventually worm its way to him one way or another. It was more palatable as dinner conversation than over gunfire, and more useful to him now than ever before. He was tentative dealing with someone from MI6, but it took everything in him from asking a load of questions in an inappropriately excited manner. Rook kept his expression as calm as usual, but his attention was obviously caught.
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Post by The Blue Adept on Aug 8, 2017 0:31:58 GMT -5
sorry for the wait! its a little shorter than i would've liked but I'd rather not keep u any longer.
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Post by Salted Squid on Aug 17, 2017 19:19:11 GMT -5
Sorry that a reply has taken me so long! I've been working on trying to figure out how to word my response. I promise I'll try to get something up later tonight!))
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Post by Deleted on Aug 18, 2017 22:51:14 GMT -5
Ezekiel Ben-David
The young man listened with a genuine thoughtful expression as Alphonse spoke, hanging onto his every word attentively; it was a little more than simply what he'd been taught in the Israeli Defense Forces, to maintain eye contact, to sit up straight and turn one's shoulders towards the speaker, to show good body language in general. Something in the older gentleman's voice caused him to really want to pay attention, out of a pure-hearted kind of curiosity to learn whatever he could from someone with more experience than he had.
"Mm." Ezekiel raised an eyebrow, then lifted his wine glass to his lips and took a slow, deliberate sip. Of course it was nice to be understood, or at least to hear so--he wouldn't believe for a moment that the Frenchman had been through a fraction of his experiences, even at his age--but the advice at the end really was quite a bit of knowledge. He considered it seriously. All the things he had seen certainly made him paranoid, to this day, and he wouldn't deny it. He couldn't, really; even his own mother sometimes mentioned how often he quite literally looked over his shoulder, how he turned over things people had said to him over and over again in his mind.
He swallowed his sip, then toyed with the glass in his hand, swirling his glass idly. "That's good advice," he replied in a murmuring tone. It really was--there was nothing forced or overly enthusiastic in his voice. The Israeli's expression had gone serious in the course of his thought, temporarily taking off the mask of half-feigned agreeability in the course of the rest of their small talk. Maybe if he truly could take it, something in his life would change for the better. He was still young enough to take a different turn, to perhaps improve on an already successful career. "Thank you."
But then, the subject changed to a lighter topic, and Ezekiel's mood lifted and lightened as a result. His naturally cheerful disposition caught up with him again, and he couldn't help but smile when Alphonse broke into a light laughter. For him, any kind of laughter or smiling was contagious--he couldn't not feel the same way when others around him were happy in any way. In a faraway corner of his mind, the young man heard the echo of his mother calling him her 'little, pure-hearted motek' as they shared a smile from ear to ear. "Thank you," he repeated, again, taking the praise.
Ezekiel nodded attentively as the other man spoke, then cut in once he was given a turn. "It is very scenic here, yes," he echoed. "And I do like it. It's quite a welcome change from the desert, and the dry heat--I was just stationed in Jordan," he briefly explained. He paused, tucking a stray frizzed ringlet of dark hair behind an ear. "It's beautiful. Different, but lovely." His smile turned a touch bashful as he continued. "And I'm staying in the nicest hotel I've ever seen."
He drummed his long fingers on the tablecloth, hesitating a moment before elaborating more; once prompted, the kid was rather talkative. "But the food is taking a while to get used to. It's, ah--nothing at all like home." The young man laughed lightly. "It's good, though, like you said. It's just all so new."
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