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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Dec 30, 2018 2:59:01 GMT -5
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Dec 30, 2018 13:41:50 GMT -5
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Post by The Blue Adept on Dec 30, 2018 23:35:20 GMT -5
y e e t
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Dec 31, 2018 0:13:21 GMT -5
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Dec 31, 2018 1:05:23 GMT -5
Time to write new starters and once again post the monstrous starter Al has. I pray 4 all u
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jan 1, 2019 1:18:40 GMT -5
Ken "Masuda" Thomas Code Name: Lacuna Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
Masuda wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting when he finally returned home.
It was, after all, quite surprising that the SIS was willing to pull him out of a mission prematurely. Nothing had even remotely begun to go wrong in Portugal, but they had called him back a month early. It had certainly put a wrench in his plans, though it appeared that the plans were void anyways.
Dropping his identity like dead weight, he returned to London on such short notice to face the Chief himself. They'd been unclear in their reasoning for bringing him back, citing something along the lines of it no longer being required. Masuda hadn't really gotten that vibe, and suspected there'd be another agent going in to replace him as soon as possible. It was out of his hands now so there was no use in worrying, but he found himself tense as he was summoned to meet with the Chief.
It had only been a day since he was back in London before he was contacted, and without the chance to rest he was feeling rather exhausted and irritated. He was never one to lash out over his current state, but he quietly speculated about what it might feel like to kick the sh*t out of Chief Lewis given the opportunity.
Sure, they weren't on bad terms. Not on good terms either. To some degree, Masuda suspected Chief Lewis feared him, but did not respect him despite how much he had earned it. It was always quite blatant to him that Lewis favored other agents in terms of being personable with them- he'd never shared anything even remotely amicable with Masuda, in all his time with MI6. Things had been worse ever since Moscow, and Lewis always liked to make it clear how much he didn't like putting Masuda in the field.
Being pulled back from Portugal, Masuda quietly wondered if he was about to be permanently grounded. Personally, he thought he'd been doing quite well for awhile. The incident had been buried deep enough in his mind that he hardly recalled on it even in his free time, the time he allotted himself for mourning. Masuda was playing nice. That was what they wanted, right?
Even so, he was tentative walking into the SIS building, not too far from his own residence. Needing no permission to go as he pleased within most parts of the building, he headed up to the Chief's office without much of a word to any of the passerby aside from a polite hello. His expression dropped to neutral just before he approached the door. Based on the muffled conversation he could make it out, Lewis seemed to be chatting with some of the MI6 officers. In an effort to be polite, Masuda knocked before entering, the conversation not bothering to stop at his intruding.
The other two he recognized- men younger than him, but clearly very personable with the chief. Collins, a tall gangly sort of man that didn't exactly have the most pleasant of personalities, and Bennett, a stout man with a hearty laugh but a biting tongue. They had never properly worked with Masuda on anything so they weren't well acquainted outside of formal meetings.
Chief Lewis took a rushed sip from his glass at the sight of Masuda and shooed the two officers out, both of which shared a smile and a hat tip to Masuda before exiting, their conversation following them out. Lewis' previously entertained expression seemed to falter into one of forced pleasantry. Masuda felt quite the same. "Christ Thomas took you long enough to get here," he grumbled, scrubbing a hand through his hair before setting down his drink and rifling through the mess on his desk. Eventually he pulled out a sealed envelope and tossed it to Masuda. "This has been sitting on my desk long enough."
Masuda reached for the letter tentatively, shooting Lewis a curious look as if the expression on his face could give away anything about its contents. He held it in his hands but made no move to open it. "What is it?"
Lewis had returned to his drink, answering him after a mouthful. "A transfer letter. The United Nations is gathering top agents from around the world for a new sort of organization. And you're going," he replied with an all too casual wave of his hand. "I thought it was bullsh*t at first, but it's legitimate. Got word of it from some friends."
Masuda fought a frown from forming on his face. There were so many things unsettling about what Lewis had just said to him, he had no idea where to even begin. The United Nations? It seemed like a strange plan to come from them, though in the current state of the world, not entirely unfounded. At least the new group seemed to be real. As terrible as Lewis was, he was not known to be a liar.
He decided to simply read the letter for himself, breaking the seal on the envelope and pulling it out. After giving it a thorough read through, he folded it back up and tucked it under his arm. It appeared that everything Lewis had said was true, and more.
"You'll have clean records, and your ties will be cut with MI6. I'm sure this is nothing you're not used to, right? Looks like all that sleeper agent work is finally going to do you well," Lewis added, his words void of any sort of genuine care.
At first, it didn't make much sense. When had Lewis ever considered him a top agent? No matter how skilled he actually was and no matter how much experience he actually had, Lewis would never send him to represent the UK.
Then, it became quite clear to him: they were sending him to die.
Clearly Masuda had been very wrong about having been doing well in light of his past transgressions. Given the opportunity to be rid of him quick and easy, Lewis would undoubtedly take it. Of course Lewis was surely bitter about having to consider Masuda his top agent and to be having him represent the UK, he would no longer be a problem and Lewis would have to put no effort in. He'd be tossed in with the most elite and dangerous agents from around the world. If the missions didn't kill him, one of them was certain to do the job. As if it mattered- he was all but dead to MI6 now anyways.
Masuda did not know what he had expected when he returned home, but it was surely not this.
He let none of his distaste over this show, simply nodding, not bothering to give Lewis the pleasure of eye contact, though the man was hardly looking at him anyways.
"You took your time getting back from Portugal so you'll be leaving for Norway tomorrow. Everything should already be set up for you over there," the man spoke, finally glancing over at the agent. A smile broke out on his face, and Masuda knew this to be the real thing. Lewis held out his hand for a shake, and Masuda took it. "This is goodbye then, Thomas."
"I suppose it is."
Masuda had never seen the Chief happier.
Walking out of the building after collecting his very meager items- mostly practical - he stood on the steps, for the first time in a long time feeling very unsure of himself. It had finally begun to dawn on him what this transfer truly meant. What having his records wiped truly meant. This time was different from when he normally had to become someone else. In this case, it was his own self that suddenly had no meaning. Ken Thomas was nobody. There was not a thing to his name, his real identity that he returned to like a familiar, worn out coat.
Masuda had known for a long time that underneath the layers that there was nothing there. He'd just never been prepared to change that.
He wasn't sure whether or not he felt relieved or panicked. Was this freedom? While still going to work for this Agency, the weight of his record no longer held him in an iron grip as it had for his entire life. The future on the horizon was slipping far out of his view. He had to admit, deep down inside he rather liked it. Unprepared, yes, but willing to try. He was left to be no one else but himself. Or rather, to turn Ken Thomas into someone else. An interesting prospect, albeit a terrifying one.
Returning to his apartment, he was surprised to find Brooke waiting there for him, having already made herself comfortable sipping tea at his dining room table.
Seeing her stirred something in his mind. He had no troubles about leaving when it came to attachments- after all, he no longer had any strong personal connections to anyone. That was, except for Brooke. His guardian, as close as he'd ever get to having a parent, and not even a rather good one. As much as she'd tried to keep her distance from him, Masuda thought of her rather fondly, as much as he was capable. Fondly enough to realize that he was going to miss her.
She'd seen him through many dark times, and done her best to keep him alive. He wondered if he'd ever see her again after this.
He walked inside his apartment quietly, dropping the small box of contents on the table before sitting across from her. It was a long moment before the woman said anything, setting her cup down on the table and looking across at him with her usual collected expression. "I heard about what happened. So I guess it's true then huh? You really are leaving. Actually leaving this time."
Masuda had worked so hard to be able to numb himself like this. It was starting to fail. He dropped his gaze down, as if to avoid crying, a thing he wasn't sure he was very capable of lately. He was certain that if he answered her, he'd be giving himself away. It seemed as if she could tell, too. She knew him best, after all. The real Ken.
Brooke clasped her hands around the cup, pursing her lips, clearly contemplating what to say. Both of them were in a state of uncertainty. Now that Masuda was no longer tied to any of the organizations that made him, it seemed strange to be distant to each other, even though he had to continue his work as a spy. She was no longer here to turn him into a weapon, to keep him in line, a perfect tool. Now, they were simply child and guardian, a situation either of them were familiar with.
The silence stretched on, long and painful, before Brooke stood from her seat, smoothing out her blazer and offering him a smile. It warmed him. "How about I help you pack?"
It didn't take long to clear Masuda's belongings out of the apartment, as he didn't own much. Having been used to the routine of leaving possessions behind, whether his or made for his fake identities, he never really brought himself to keep things out of sentimentality. That was, save for a few things. Things that he'd contemplated burning for so long, just to rid himself of the memories that made him so unstable, so full of feeling. The box of photos he was determined to take now that they weren't an active knife in his heart.
It all came down to two small suitcases, which he carried himself to the train station the next morning. Brooke was determined to accompany him, and he made no protest to it. They sat together in comfortable silence as they waited for his train, occasionally exchanging small talk over the morning newspaper, both of them clearly unused to the casualness of it. He liked that she was trying, in a strange way.
When it was finally time to leave, Masuda found a bite of sadness rise up, powerfully so. Instead of fighting it, he let it be. London was his home, and truly a part of him was upset to leave. And, seeing the look on Brooke's face- trying to hard to be neutral and calm, he felt as if ignoring his sadness would be doing her a disservice. As he stood, she also rose, turning to look at him like she wanted to say something.
"I know that it's probably far too late for me to be giving you comforting words. Lord knows I'm unqualified to give them, I know f*ck all. But, I'm proud of you Ken," she spoke, voice firm and unwavering. Masuda wasn't sure if he'd ever heard her say that to him. He was at a loss. And then, in an unforeseen gesture, she pulled him into a short but tight hug, patting him on the back. He'd never gotten one of those from her either. Looking down at her in surprise, his usual clean cut expression wavered a bit, despite the jagged edges of his thoughts clashing harshly against each other. He did not know how to be genuine in this situation.
"Thank you, Brooke."
The woman smiled at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "This is your chance. Be true to yourself out there, alright?"
All he could do was nod, and board the train, sparing Brooke one last wave before he was gone for good.
The train ride was a few days, seeing as MI6 hadn't bothered to give him a plane ride. They really wouldn't fork over any more money for him than they needed to, and he wasn't surprised. The ride there wasn't so bad though, giving him plenty of time to think and prepare for the situation ahead. He'd never been to Norway and was rather interested to finally be visiting- or rather, living there.
The Agency was still a large mystery to him, one that he was determined to pry his way into one way or another. He supposed that would have to wait seeing as this introductory event was only a gala. At the very least he could do his recon work on the other agents and try to give off the right impression first thing.
Finally arriving in Oslo, a driver that had been prepared for him took him to where he'd be living- an apartment, not unlike the one he had back in London, but far more suburban. The hustle and the bustle of the city seemed a thing of the past now. Thanking his driver, he was quick to get settled in his new place, unpacking his meager belongings and preparing his formal wear for the gala event.
By the time the day finally arrived, Masuda had already gotten well acquainted with the surrounding area, and found himself picking up quickly on Norwegian- albeit far from good at it. He was quick to mask his accent around the locals, trying to give them the sense that he was a nobody just looking for a quiet place to retire. They were kind enough in return and he appreciated it, making no push to acquaint himself with them further.
Even though he knew the behavior was no longer required of him, it was instinct to keep his distance, to put on a mask to keep them in the dark. Of course he didn't want them to have any inkling of what he was actually there for, but it wasn't like his past could endanger them anymore. It was funny, in retrospect. Nonetheless, he made no move to act any different than how he'd decided.
Masuda was relived when he finally had to make the drive over the HQ- a ways away, enough to give him some more time to think. Getting himself changed into black-tie appropriate wear- nothing that stood out, of course- he got into his car and made the trip up there. Invitation in tow, there were no problems getting in, and he was at least 10 minutes early. Clearly that didn't mean much as there were many cars dictating multiple agents had deigned to arrive even earlier than him.
The building was definitely extravagant- rivaling even the SIS building, which he always considered to just be a tad too much. All it did was tip him to how powerful the Agency was, or rather how rich. It wasn't a garrish sight at least, and he found himself looking around out of curiosity more than innate obligation to mark down exits and entrances in his mind.
It didn't take him long to find his way to the ballroom, already quite filled with other agents sitting at tables that appeared to have placecards of a sort on them. As he got closer it seemed to be the name of the agency they were representing, so he took his time to find his rightful seat before sitting down, patiently retreating into his mind to mass the time, sparing observation for those that caught his eye.
The Director's appearance finally brought him to attentiveness, and he listened closely in an attempt to pick apart the man's words. He was rather impressed that the Director gave away absolutely nothing- not even his own name. Troublesome, but not an impossible mystery to solve. Masuda would find out more one way or another. He took a patient sip of the wine in front of him as the agents were collectively dismissed to enjoy the gala, and realized that he should probably socialize.
The problem arose that Masuda was not sure just yet how he was going to present himself. Seeing as he had no idea how to be true to himself, as Brooke had suggested (he didn't quite have a self, he suspected), he would just have to go back to playing his game. No doubt these skilled agents would be keen, but he was far too good at keeping up a front. He knew he had to be proactive in figuring out the other agents, so he'd be friendly and make the first move. An easy routine he'd done many times. Twisting the glass in his hands a bit, he turned his head to speak to the person next to him, offering a very believable smile, though not one that reached his eyes. "Fine evening, ain't it?" he offered with a casual air, not bothering to hide his accent for once. It wouldn't help to hide it considering his MI6 origins were displayed clearly in front of him. He extended his hand in first greeting. "I'm Ken, though most just call me Masuda."
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jan 1, 2019 1:43:02 GMT -5
Ken "Masuda" Thomas Code Name: Lacuna Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
Masuda's eyes flicked down briefly to Susumu's placecard after hearing his name, having not paid attention to it before. PSIA, naturally. He was not yet certain whether this would be a blessing or a curse. At least perhaps he had less prejudices than other people from his home country would have- he hadn't the same misgivings about the war, considering his age during the time, despite his direct involvement. His relation with Japan was tumultuous at best. A relic from his past in multiple ways, and an ever present curiosity in the back of his mind that he was certain he'd never get to satisfy. Rather, until now.
Questions hummed in the back of his mind, a constant radio static. They were all useless, mindless things that would only benefit him in a personal way. It was not his place to be asking Susumu about culture, that was for sure. Still, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about it. In time he might have the guts to ask, in a time when he and Susumu were more than strangers, if ever. Masuda's origins were written plainly on his features, and they were exactly so- features. Worn like just another mask.
It was strange now that he thought about it, delivering to this man a Japanese name, one that he felt he hardly owned now. Masuda wasn't exactly his name in the first place, but at the moment it felt far more false than it had ever been. Was Ken even true, either? The uncomfortable distance he had with his roots was laid out now before him and he had trouble deciding how to approach it. So, he decided not to. After all the more interesting thing at the moment was the man beside him.
Immediately, Masuda could tell that Susumu was a secretive person. It was unclear whether this was a symptom of his profession or his personality, but it was there- in the way that he withheld an expression, the knifecut of a smile on his face that was cold and unfeeling, as much as it tried to be otherwise. Masuda found himself a bit entertained to be evenly matched in this regard.
"Pleasure's all mine," he smiled softly. Matching the man's hard stare with a brief, open look, he glanced down at the glass in his hands, reflection warped in the amber drink. He took a sizable sip, wondering for a moment in the back of his mind how much they'd let him drink of it, before reclining in his seat in an attempt to appear casual and ready to converse, though not eagerly so. The cadence of Susumu's accented voice fell into familiar spots in his mind, easily read, almost nostalgically so. It was oddly satisfying.
Susumu's question had him biting his tongue in an effort not to laugh, letting it show in a wry grin. Oh Susumu, already picking the hard questions. The best part was that the truth didn't even matter, whether he decided to give it to the man or not. Though Susumu came off as cold, he could feel the man's curiosity, and Masuda's favorite thing was giving half truths. It was a careful dance, a beautiful waltz he was quite experienced with. Give just enough to seem genuine, hold just enough to keep them in the dark, always coming back for more. They had just met, but Masuda was already beginning the steps.
Taking another sip, he glanced over at Susumu, grin growing from wry to a bitter amusement. This one was real. "Apparently I was the best, so good they wanted to get rid of me. Though I suspect that might be the same for you," he replied thoughtfully, just the slightest hint of watered down venom in his voice, directed at no one but the man who put him here. He was free and he was grateful, but he suspected he'd never stop feeling used. Seemed to be a running theme in his life lately. Or, always had been.
He returned Susumu's stare this time, heavy and pointed, as if he actually expected an answer from it. Masuda may have thought of himself as an empty, terribly shallow thing, but he liked to assume otherwise for Susumu, as a person that seemed to gravitate towards his usual behavior. Even if Susumu was only full of secrets or lies and nothing else, Masuda wanted to know. Hell, he was off the hook, and he wasn't about to become reckless, but this was his first opportunity to interact with someone that was actually like him. There were so many agents out there, but Susumu didn't have the usual vibe. It was certainly a wavelength he was familiar with.
Despite these thoughts, Masuda wasn't yet ready to display his interest so cleanly. He was content with hiding behind this casual persona, hiding all his sharp parts until he needed them. And then he had to wonder if Susumu could read him- he was dubious, considering his overall expertise in playing as somebody else, even if Susumu was surely a skilled agent. The rational part of him preferred staying hidden, and the other part of him, the one he wasn't so acquainted with, wanted to be found out. Just to see what would happen. Just to see if someone could see a Masuda that he couldn't.
This wasn't the time or place, of course, so he pushed that part of him deep down, in hell probably where it belonged. Masuda wanted to ask more, and deigned to keep himself on track. He downed the rest of his glass in one gulp, placing it carefully onto the table before crossing his arms over his chest, resting his foot on his knee. He tilted his head slightly at Susumu, as if to signal his interest. "I can only hope that you met with better circumstances than me," he hummed, gesturing with a slight flick of his hand to the crowd around them. "You know anyone here? Because I sure as hell don't."
Perhaps that was too easy of conversation, he wasn't certain how Susumu would answer. It seemed unlikely that anyone here would be friends already, though not entirely impossible. It also certainly wasn't a question that an agent wouldn't answer too truthfully either, but Masuda was curious to see what the man would say, even if to just get a better reading on his personality. Truthfully, it was almost embarrassing how badly he wanted to know anything at all.
He smiled and shrugged, another relaxed yet somehow prodding gesture. "I wonder if the locals have caught on to all these foreigners yet. I suppose you and I stick out like sore thumbs."
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Post by Deleted on Jan 1, 2019 2:49:36 GMT -5
starting off 2019 right with the dread of having to write equally long and impressive starters like these.......
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jan 1, 2019 2:58:52 GMT -5
[ start off 2019 living life free knowing u dont have to because lord knows the rest of mine wont be that long- also some of them are reposted from old ineffable back when we had more time and motivation so yeet ]
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jan 1, 2019 4:42:56 GMT -5
shh start off 2k19 having a fun time and just typing whatever the hell u want LMAO
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jan 1, 2019 5:44:51 GMT -5
Also btw since y'all here first u guys can claim what jobs u'd like for which oc bc like lol 'first' amirite? legit go off yeet
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jan 1, 2019 23:25:22 GMT -5
Mihail Varujan Code Name: Hound Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
"Congratulations, Mihail. You've been a full year clean."
The words were not said in celebration, but apathetic relief. Mihail glanced up at the doctor as she passed the test results to him, blinking in silent acceptance. He dipped his head at her in thanks, looking down at the pages as if perhaps she could've been lying. Whilst wholly unfriendly to him, Katerina, at the very least, remained professional. He appreciated that about her, even if it meant dealing with her cold shoulder the rest of the time. He knew her words to be true.
She'd put up with him for the 2 year he'd been a part of the CSS, as frustrating as a case that he was. Often he was unsure whether or not her frustrations came from dealing with the complications of his condition or resenting what he had done as a mercenary. Dealing with the aftermath of the experimental drugs and conditioning used on him certainly wasn't any easier for her than it was for him. He respected her dedication to her job and her oath even as he was certain she would off him given the opportunity.
He offered a small smile to her, and she simply nodded, letting out a short sigh before retrieving something else from her bag. "It's a damn shame though, we've worked hard on getting you back up to speed and now it doesn't even matter," she muttered, passing an envelope to him with the UN's insignia.
Mihail didn't like the sound of that, looking at her warily as he took the envelope from her, pulling out the letter inside with careful fingers. He read it over quickly- maybe too quickly, and dropped the papers against his lap in annoyance. Katrina didn't look too pleased either. He could understand her frustration- the CSS had worked their hardest to make him a proper agent, to decondition him to a normal state. He was doing better than he had in a long time, and the CSS wouldn't be able to reap the benefits. If the UN wanted him and the Chief didn't, that was all there was to it.
Frowning, Mihail pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh before glancing back at Katerina with a questioning look. She returned it with a shrug and dismissive shake of her head. "Look, I don't know the details. Can't, actually. All I know is they're cutting you but I can infer a little," she replied, throwing her hands up in defeat. "You can always ask the Chief, but I doubt he'll have much to say to you."
She was right- Rysinov didn't even like to give him the time of day. It wasn't his decision to let Mihail in as an agent and he liked to make that very clear. If anything, talking to the Chief would just make his day worse. He knew well enough that him being recommended to the Agency was a joke, the opportunity to get Mihail out of his hair that he had been waiting for when he realized Mihail wouldn't be as much use to him as he wanted. It didn't surprise him, but it didn't make him any less frustrated.
Retrieving a pen from his pocket, Mihail flipped the test result page over on his lap and scribbled out a note to Katerina, handing it to her as he rose from his seat. Tell Rysinov next time he wants me gone he should do it himself.
He heard her laugh trail behind him as he walked off, tucking the letter into his coat pocket. He paused to turn and sign to her, something he felt like he hadn't said enough. Thank you.
She shook her head at him and waved him off. "Alright alright, go on now so you can finally stop being a pain in my ass." He could've sworn there was a hint of affection in her voice as she said it. Mihail simply smiled to himself and waved as he pushed his way out of the front doors of the HQ.
Katerina sighed from where she stood. "See you later, Hound."
Mihail's walk home was melancholic, clouded with thoughts and the increasing feeling of fear that was settling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been through the motions of this before, passing hands to others, and it never seemed to work out for him. Moving to the Agency to him meant another risk, he was shaken with the idea of what they could do to him if they wanted to, with the power they held. A part of him just wanted to run, knowing that he was all but erased from CSS databases, there was a chance he could get away with it.
He wanted to run so damn badly. But he didn't. He'd already spent the past two years of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for everything to catch up to him, for the Wolves to snap him in their teeth again, and running never seemed to help quell that feeling. Trusting the Agency was only the lesser of two evils, and he was willing to take them up on it.
Hands shaking by the time he finally reached his shitty apartment, Mihail retrieved his mail and retreated to the relatively safe confines of his living space. Tossing the UN's letter aggressively onto his coffee table, he plopped down on his couch to sort through his mail. Flipping through bills and ads, his fingers paused on a different letter.
He shook his head in disbelief, stomach twisting in anticipation. Somehow she always managed to find his address, one way or another. Mihail tore into Noemi's letter with careful fingers, practically holding his breath. He wasn't sure the last time he had heard from her- he had told her not to contact him anymore, she was better off that way, but Noemi had always been stubborn like that.
The letter was brief, but it was enough. He took his time reading it, a stupid grin on his face the whole time. It was a birthday letter. He had almost entirely forgotten that it was in fact his birthday. Made sense, he always seemed to have the worst luck on those days.
It was bittersweet knowing that it was unlikely he'd ever hear from Noemi again. If she somehow managed to track him to Norway, he'd be more impressed than surprised. He found his eyes watering at the thought and he brushed his tears away, tucking the letter somewhere safe. He was going to take it to Norway with him, at least. He claimed it as his birthday gift.
Packing wasn't much of an issue, considering how few belongings he had that he was any attached to. He'd built his life around being able to run and cut his losses, and that meant living lightly. It all came down to a single suitcase come the day of his flight, and he was grateful for it considering the annoyances taking a plane anywhere.
In a way, Mihail was a bit excited to see Norway, even if he wasn't exactly free, his leash simply passed to new hands. But it would be someplace new and fresh and he'd feel just a little better knowing he was harder to track. It did a bit to quell his anxious thoughts, and he was grateful when he finally made it without any problems.
Finding a place to live wasn't hard- he wasn't picky, comfort didn't matter much to him, just a roof over his head and four walls and a door that locked. Unpacking was even easier. Mihail figured he deserved to feel satisfied with himself when he managed to find a place for everything that made it at least look like a person lived there. He smoked a cigarette on his porch as a pat on his back and took to observing the neighborhood around him. He was comforted by the thought of people living ordinary lives around him.
The day of the gala came far too quick for him. The nerves rose and fell likes waves in his mind as he stepped through the front doors, feeling an awful lot like a mouse caught in a trap. He found himself smoothing his coat down in anxiousness as he took his time looking around, wondering if it was far too early in the night to take refuge in the bathroom. Glad to have arrived a bit early, it was awhile before he finally took his seat, more composed than he had shown up as. With any luck, no one would be the wiser.
Mihail also wondered if it was too early to be pissed off. The Director's speech did nothing for him- told him nothing about the man and that was already a red flag for trust. It didn't surprise him, but it certainly annoyed him. The bad feeling he had only seemed to grow, and he simply hoped that the other agents would be better in that department. He was doubtful, knowing they were all spies who knew better to give more than they received, but he hoped nonetheless. For an ally. An acquaintance. Anything, really. He could learn a thing or two from them at the very least.
He was relieved to hear the voice of the man next to him, and while the sound of the man's accent was enough to make him tense, he turned towards him with an open expression. Naturally he'd be seated next to the Frenchman. His life was one whole mess of a bitter irony. But, he ignored it, and shook the man's hand in return with a nod.
Meeting new people was always a chore. Riding on the assumption the man didn't know any sign language, he swiped a notebook and pen from his pocket and scribbled his name out on it. He wasn't going to bother trying to speak in the hoarse whispered tone he could manage when he knew it would be covered up by the din of the crowd. Mihail turned the notebook towards the man then pointed to him in question of his own identity. He tried for a small smile to accompany it.
How are you? he scribbled as well.
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jan 2, 2019 2:41:48 GMT -5
We're still accepting members btw! Please don't let the walls of text scare you away orz
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jan 2, 2019 23:47:42 GMT -5
Ken "Masuda" Thomas Code Name: Lacuna Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
Perhaps it was rude to amused at Susumu's struggle to converse back at him, but Masuda found himself unable to help it. A small grin seemed to linger on his features as he listened to the man talk, sipping his wine as if they were talking perfect bedside manner. It had been quite some time since he'd been in conversation like this with other spies, and he forgot how fun and interesting it could be, especially when he didn't have much to lose.
There was just something about seeing it from an outside perspective, the way he was certain he had been like at some point. He could tell that Susumu didn't want to tell him much of anything but still wanted to hear what Masuda had to say, and that was fair. It was just chit chat after all, and it appeared that it frustrated the other spy a bit. He wanted more. They always wanted more.
"Damn, that's a rough way to put it," Masuda nodded in response, thinking back on his own termination that could be summed up in a similar fashion. As apathetic as Susumu came off, Masuda could still hear something in the way he said it, the flat tone of his voice that conveyed he was trying hard not to let it upset him. Masuda tilted his head at Susumu at the challenge, expression in agreement. "Perhaps. Though I'm curious to know who is truly happy to be here."
There was a certain thrill to being unrecognizable, a difficult enigma that the average person never pried too deep into. He liked being confusing, enough so that weak-willed folk gave up and smart folk knew better than to try in the first place. He returned Susumu's prying eyes with a smile, as if he were being directly challenged. This time he preferred watching the man try. Masuda wanted him to figure out, as if it would relieve him of the weight he'd been carrying, the secret that he was simply nothing at all.
He had to admit, Susumu was damn good at being closed off, surely the result of rigorous training. And yet, he was also very blunt in a way that Masuda was particularly enjoying. Even if the words were said defectively, his intent was clear. Such short sentences that still held so much weight. He was dying to pry, but he knew better. Types like Susumu would just pull further away if he dug for more right off the bat. So he forced himself to be patient, tapping his fingers against his glass in an idle tic. He wondered silently if the other spies were sharing similar experiences, the push and pull of introduction, the freedom of no strings attached but the lingering traces of instinct still hanging around.
He was almost relieved that there was no one else he knew yet. It was easier to start from the ground up.
Masuda looked at Susumu for a moment at his statement, as if contemplating whether to agree or not. He was a little surprised to hear the admission from the man. "I suppose you're right. Well, can't say I'm disappointed," he hums, choosing instead to distract himself with the food now in front of him, tone purposefully subverting the way Susumu was speaking to him. If Susumu said they were acquaintances, he was going to run with it. "I can see you don't talk much, but that's fine."
He shifted in his seat to sit up a little straighter, knowing he was going to have to treat this interaction with a bit more effort if Susumu was going to push back so hard. He actually laughed at his words, a curious lilt to it that almost sounded fake. Almost. "You think so? Well, I'm not so great with the language yet, and I'm not really a fan of the weather, but my neighbors are nice," he shrugged, willing to give a little more, encouraging Susumu to match him. Masuda pointed his fork in the other spy's direction after taking a bite. "I'm sure you've ducked your head down and gotten through just fine yourself. Do you like it, at least?"
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jan 3, 2019 1:00:15 GMT -5
Mihail Varujan Code Name: Hound Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
Mihail willed the tension from his shoulders, taking in a quiet breath. He was annoyed at himself for folding so easily to the sound of someone's voice, but even Katerina had once chastised him for being so hard on himself. It had only been 2 years, he had to remind himself. 2 years wasn't enough to put him back to normal.
It wasn't as bad the more he listened to the man speak- Alphonse, as he learned. He spoke with a softer, kinder tone, so unlike the sharp inflection Dutoits had. Even his features read in a more friendly way- the spy was shorter than him, but not by much, with a handsome face and elegant look to his overall appearance. It reassured Mihail, though he knew better than to blindly trust him either. He was sure Alphonse was a decorated spy who knew to keep up a good face when it mattered, and stab in the back on order.
He chastised himself for that too. With any luck, there would be no stabbing in the back- they were all supposed to be working together, after all. Mihail wondered if that was even possible with the amount of dangerous people in the room. Chances are they were going to band together out of camaraderie or desperation, or simply tear each other apart. He was no stranger to either outcome.
Mihail appreciated that Alphonse was willing to still engage after his initial communication, and considered himself lucky he was able to write quickly and legibly as the man seemed like a chatter. It was better than the cold-shoulder, that was for sure. Even if he couldn't shoot back fast responses, he always liked conversation in one form another, being involved, being near others that wanted to speak to him. Shifting his posture a bit to loosen up, he resumed scribbling in his notebook, choosing not to look up as Alphonse moved closer.
He almost instinctively leaned away but held steady, glancing at the spy from the corner of his eye, watching him in case he was about to pull something. It was fine, he told himself- Alphonse hadn't tread on his personal boundaries quite yet. He turned his notebook back towards Alphonse, keeping his easy smile on, eyes subtly searching the spy for visual response. It's more quiet than I'm used to, but I think it's very beautiful.
Well at least someone was enjoying themselves. He wondered what kind of life Alphonse lead, what exactly his change of pace was. Being next to skilled spies like this made Mihail as painfully curious as he was wary. They were from all over the world, all kinds of different backgrounds, and all just as skilled as the next. He felt out of place among them, while confident in his abilities, he knew deep down that he was no proper agent, not yet. They were professionals, and he was a novice at best. Unpolished. Good at killing and not much else.
But, he knew people like them, those who held their secrets in a death grip, knowing their power and using it well. It didn't matter how much they outranked him, he could match them on something. He didn't play the game, he'd only observed. He knew the rules well, but played by different motions.
He was determined not to let it show, keeping up his composed demeanor. Mihail was more concerned with making connections, and Alphonse was as good a first choice as any. The spy didn't give off any bad vibes despite Mihail's initial reservations- it was something Mihail had a penchant for picking up on. Elliot had constantly claimed that Mihail could sniff out evil- he thought it was ridiculous, though did rely quite heavily on his gut. Alphonse rang so many alarm bells in his head, but his gut trusted him. Wanted to trust him.
Mihail caught sight Alphonse's lingering gaze as it traveled across the crowd, and knew better than to turn around to seek out the same figure the man was looking for. It would be a shame if he lost Alphonse's attention so quickly, so he held fast. Besides, it was none of his business. Yet. He scribbled quickly. How do you feel about all of this? Do you think it's going to work out? Mihail wasn't too interested in the pleasantries of small talk, far too used to rationing his words where it mattered. Besides, the man's opinions would tell Mihail just as much about him as his favorite color would.
He kept his expression thoughtful, hoping he wasn't stepping too quickly into this conversation. By this point, he hadn't touched his food nor drink. Mihail knew better than to take anything from strangers after all this time. He nudged his silverware aside to give himself more space. There are more people here than I expected.
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jan 3, 2019 23:05:43 GMT -5
Ken "Masuda" Thomas Code Name: Lacuna Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
It seemed that keeping the conversation moving was working out best here, considering Susumu's knack for giving him short, curt answers. That was fine by Masuda- it would only help him solidify an impression on the man, though he prayed it wasn't a bad one. He could see in the subtle shift of Susumu's expression that there was something he was doing that wasn't hitting its mark, so he reeled back just a bit.
Softening his edges just a bit more, Masuda leaned back in his seat, giving his friendly smiles a little more effort, letting a little slack into his persona. Resting his chin in his palm, Masuda did his best to make himself easier to read to Susumu, or at least to make Susumu read him the way he wanted. His voice held less of a mysterious lilt to it and more of a genuine, warm tone.
In a way, it was almost as if he was just trying to get Susumu to like him. The other spy's frown just made him retreat back into his believable falsehoods, because clearly letting anything even remotely true about him show was not working out so well yet. He didn't know too many like Susumu, so well guarded in a way that was forward and present, stopping you in your tracks. He wasn't sure which move to take- be friendlier to goad something out of him, or be honest and see if he reacted better.
Taking an equally generous sip from his glass, Masuda placed it back on the table once it was empty. He was going to need a lot more booze to survive this if other conversations would turn out anything like this one. So many spies all in one place, it was like navigating a maze full of dangerous traps.
He shrugged lightly in response, head tilted in agreement. "I can't imagine many places were to eager to let their best go, either," he hummed, not letting the bitter irony of his words show on his face. "Who knows. maybe this will turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to us."
Masuda's statement was oddly hopeful, flashing Susumu another smile, not about to fold to the difficult manner Susumu spoke in. He wanted to believe so badly that this was the right choice, that he really would get a chance at living a wholly different life than the one he had been tailored for. It was still too early to tell whether this would be a blessing or a curse. Maybe just maybe it would lessen the blow of being tossed out to die. Maybe.
Really, it was fun being able to lean into it a little, especially after having come back from Portugal after some time, there was something satisfying about speaking in his own voice and not having anyone question it. The real truth he was providing Susumu, in all honesty. And the ease it gave him made him a little more willing to enjoy the event, actually laughing at the look Susumu gave him and his words- a light laugh, this time clearly laughing at himself. "Damn, alright. You have me there," he nods, holding his hands up as if in surrender, "but you don't have to be so reluctant to respond, either. I'm just curious about you." After all his theatrics, Masuda made sure those words came off as true as he meant them.
Susumu seemed fine to keep the line drawn at acquaintances, and Masuda was okay with it in equal turn. Attachments were pitfalls of the job, and something he strayed from as much as he could. Holding Susumu at arm's length was going to be easier than he thought. It was a dynamic he didn't mind. It was almost a relief.
Nodding, Masuda dug quietly into his food, absorbing as much of Susumu's words as he could. Every scrap of information the man was willing to spill was like gold with how hard he tried to keep from giving it up. "Ah, that's good. I suppose not hating it as the least once could hope for, yeah?" he agreed. "Won't get as hot as back where you're from though, I'm sure."
Masuda just hoped it didn't have the same awful rainy seasons that Britain did. Portugal had been an interesting change of pace for weather and he was sad to leave it for another chilly climate. He needed to remember to invest in a better coat.
The following question almost stopped him in his tracks. Ah yes, the wait for a question from Susumu's mouth paid off beautifully. Masuda paused, spoon tucked in his mouth in thought. "Hard to really know yet. The man wouldn't even give up his name, can't say I'm much of a fan of being in the dark," he admitted in truth, "But maybe it's for good reason. Some things we're just better off not knowing."
Eventually he shrugged. "What about you?" he asked, though by the look on Susumu's face he already had a hunch.
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jan 4, 2019 0:37:07 GMT -5
Mihail Varujan Code Name: Hound Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
Mihail wasn't sure whether or not Alphonse's relaxed manner was genuine or a farce, finding himself at such a polar opposite to the spectrum of his answers. Where Alphonse was pleased, Mihail was anxious, knowing things peaceful and quiet were warning signs for something bad approaching on the horizon. Getting comfortable meant getting complacent, and that meant getting a bullet in your skull.
He wished to be able to think that way, to enjoy the calm scenery of Norway without thinking about what might be lurking underneath. The idea that it was all going to come crashing down was a feeling he was certain he would never escape from. No matter how he felt, he nodded in response to Alphonse- it wasn't as if his statement was wrong, he just hoped that it would actually work out in his favor this time.
Retrospectively, most things in comparison to his old life were calm, almost easy. Even working for the CSS and undergoing the training and rehabilitation, it was all child's play, as difficult as it was. Mihail had a feeling even if this whole Agency thing erupted into chaos, he'd be left waiting for things to really get nasty. In an odd way, it reassured him. Whatever would happen, he could handle it.
He opted for the friendlier route than the truthful one. They do say living in a beautiful place is supposed to be healing. He wondered if that was intentional on the Agency's part. Or perhaps it was even meant to be a distraction.
Glancing over at Alphonse, Mihail realized quickly it might look odd that he left his food untouched. He paused his writing to pick at his food, but still made no move to eat it. He was doubtful that there had been any tampering done to it, yet he couldn't bring himself to eat it, even with the spy beside him digging in to no ill effect. It wasn't as if he had anyone to ask to try his plate for him, so he kept his gaze down as he scooped the food around carefully, in a manner to appear interested.
It also gave him a moment to appraise the room, watching as the other spies conversed around them, the sound of their voices quickly filling up the background with noise. He turned his food over, keeping careful note of the conversations he could hear, and the ones he could see by reading lips. It was all so deceptively casual, he was almost disappointed there was nothing of interest to hear yet.
There was an advantage to being quiet, able to fade into the crowd to just listen, observe. He had a feeling that was going to be hard here.
He turned his attention back towards Alphonse, listening to his reply with clear interest, eyes constantly reading his body language. There were no tells that he was telling anything other than the truth, but it was hard to tell. He found himself agreeing with the man's opinion- he certainly was an eloquent speaker. Mihail had a feeling that Alphonse had a knack for talking his way out of almost anything.
The information was particularly telling, too. Of Alphonse's experience, that was. Mihail hadn't had too much run in with official business like the United Nations- not when he had spent most of his life working under the table. He had never been in the favor of an entity like the UN, and he found it strange to be on the other side ever since the CSS got a hold of him. Clearly Alphonse was the opposite.
Struck by Alphonse's gaze, Mihail turned back to his notebook, mulling over his response carefully. He wanted to be honest enough, but he also didn't want his opinions broadcast so easily. He scribbled his next response in French, knowing the other spy to be able to understand it, and for it to be harder for anyone but those at their table to read it at first glance. I don't like it. The vagueness bothers me- the Director and Agency alike. It can't mean anything good.
He scribbled quickly, wishing he had brought more paper had he known he'd actually be conversing much. If they valued us any, then they wouldn't keep us in the dark. How else can there be trust?
Beginning to frown at his own responses, Mihail scribbled out what he was going to say next, instead choosing to stray the topic away from potentially dissenting opinions. If the Agency wanted his loyalty, they were going to have to work a little harder for it.
Have you worked with the UN before, Alphonse? He wrote instead, hoping to keep it friendly by adding the man's name and not make it seem as if he were interrogating him. Mihail didn't have much to lose when it came to being curious. He also hoped he was spelling it right.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 6, 2019 0:54:29 GMT -5
August Decker Code Name: Hammer Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
Getting to see the world without her was, in a word, bizarre. In a few other words, it was cruel and depressing, and every second he spent away from the States deepened the sense of betrayal that clung to his chest so tightly, so unyieldingly, even after all this time had passed.
All the young man could think about as he ambled his way through the picturesque waterfront streets, without much purpose or drive to his wanderings at all, was that she would have loved to take in all the sights he had the privilege to see. She would have called the opportunity to travel here for work business, shady and clandestine and potentially life-threatening as it was, something to be thankful for. Juliet had that way at looking at things. Ever the optimist, always wearing an effortlessly fantastic million-dollar smile, August hadn't realized how much responsibility for his own outlook on the life they shared that she bore bravely, gladly, on her slight, narrow frame. He never understood how she could manage to always drink life to the lees with the profession that they both shared, but she embraced it wholeheartedly.
Some part of him always knew that pursuing a relationship with a woman with whom he shared his livelihood would become a devastating, and completely avoidable, mistake at some point. But, the naive pair convinced themselves that, somehow, they were special, and the alarmingly short life expectancy of so many agents just like them would miraculously pass them by. It was an easy dream to believe in, with her constant gentle reminder and gentle touch. The awful, unreasonably expensive, cramped apartment they shared with each other in Virginia transformed overnight into the most welcoming and homey place he'd ever had the blessing of being able to call his own. She always livened it up, in her naturally matronly way: an organic freshly cut bouquet of flowers from the farmer's market, a baking tray dotted with cooling homemade blueberry scones, a brand-new groovy record from the shop across the street with warm eyes that beckoned for him to twirl and dip her to the rhythm in their living room.
He could never wrap his mind around how a person like her landed alongside him in the Special Activities Division. Standing at just over five feet and four inches tall and the willowy, graceful and sure-footed build of a gymnast (she had competed in the Ivy League, on the University of Pennsylvania's team, which is how they first started on their journey together), and with an absolutely adorable splash of freckles across her cheeks, she had absolutely no natural means of intimidating anyone, not to mention the types of thugs they went after in this shared business. So it turned out, her image combined with the miracle switch she could flip with her demeanor and personality proved to be just the kind of jarring juxtaposition the Central Intelligence Agency loved. Juliet aced the physical tests, with her natural dexterity and agility on the courses (they found themselves competing against each other constantly for the better times and evaluations) and was near impossible to land a punch on; he liked to joke that she was so thin that if she turned sideways, she'd disappear into thin air, like a piece of paper.
She was incredibly talented at her job. Surprisingly unshakable and unrelenting, she could make men twice her height and three times her weight cry in interrogations. With everything the CIA taught her, from combat and pressure points to the languages she mastered quickly, Juliet blossomed into the perfect covert operation agent: demure, unsuspecting, and absolutely lethal. August had tried at first to not fret for her when she was sent away for weeks, sometimes months at a time on missions, and then later that turned to a healthy jealousy when she got selected for more sensitive tasks than he did. Nevertheless, they worked hundreds or thousands of miles apart at a time, but always found ways to correspond in secret, whether it be through a telephone call that the other let ring for exactly four rings, or an indecipherable string of Morse code that appeared to mean nothing to the hotel concierge that received it, but with a simple language they'd designed themselves, translated to some silly phrase.
Luck had its way of running out at just the worst time, though. It always did. August was a fool for not seeing it sooner than it had happened. The couple had just discovered they had gotten pregnant when they were both sent to Vietnam for a top secret mission to offer emergency tactical and covert support to the crumbling democratic government in the South. Sh-t had hit the fan almost the second their boots touched the ground, that cursed, bloody soil, and she and half of their group had been killed in action when the Viet Cong ambushed them offering aid to a local ransacked village. When news of the incident reached the United States, which it did rather quickly, the leashes on the remaining agents were yanked back home quicker than they could even make sense of all the carnage they'd seen there.
The Central Intelligence Agency left the love of his life's body to float down a filthy river in a country filled with the coldest, hardest people he ever encountered, where it would be devoured by whatever the hell lived in the dark, unfathomable corners of the jungle, as far as could be from home or love of any kind.
That incident marked the beginning of the end of his relationship with the Special Activities Division. His supervisors failed to understand his unending anguish over the event, and instead of answering his questions of why exactly they were fighting in a civil dispute among the Vietnamese people when they ought to just let history sort itself out as it wants to, and of why they couldn't at least make an attempt to find her body and bring it home, like they did for every stupid soldier they gave a helmet and machine gun, they referred August out to countless therapists and psychologists that tried to convince him that everything that happened over there (he had to call himself a veteran, for secrecy's sake, and only gave vague generalities about the mission) wasn't his fault, which, of course, he couldn't accept. Accept it or not, he was the man, the more physically capable of the two, and as her fiancee, he could have done something to change the outcome.
August Decker handed in his letter of resignation three weeks after returning from Vietnam without any prior notice. It was then, that very same day, to be exact, when he was contacted via mail by some organization he'd only heard rumors about: The Agency. Because he had absolutely nothing to lose at this point besides his life, which he would have gladly, desperately traded for just one more second of hers, and a dingy, horrendously empty one bedroom apartment, he left for Norway once he collected his last paycheck from the United States government. He realized on the seemingly endless plane trip over the Atlantic that the two of them were, despite everything they'd been lead to believe about their lives and roles from their years of training he could now recognize was just lightly gilded brainwashing, just cheap, meaningless pawns in a game they were too small to even begin to understand. And he was done with it.
Even if this "Agency," whatever the hell it was, was just another manifestation of bureaucratic corruption and secrets and madness that he'd seen in the CIA, he didn't know what other career options to consider with the training and experience he had. It wasn't like August could just transition to ordinary civilian life after everything he'd seen--few people in his field ever did so successfully when they approached retiring age--which put his hard-earned degrees to waste. He would never bring himself to beg for work again from the CIA, and the likelihood of them taking him back after he chose to leave was as close to zero as something could get. August's decision to fly overseas was the most uncharacteristically shortsighted thing he ever got himself into.
He sat at a quaint, boutique-style cafe right on the edge of the water in a table meant for two, on a beautifully breezy and pleasant spring evening, picking at the local cuisine with disinterest, staring miserably at a sunset no painter could have even hoped to replicate. This was a place the two had some interest in honeymooning to, he recalled sadly. When his almost annoyingly too attentive waiter approached his table again to check on him, he flashed a freshly opened bottle of wine from where it was tucked just under the crook of his arm.
"No, thanks," August told him flatly, dismissively. The last thing he needed was a dramatic and potentially life-threatening relapse in a country he barely knew, on-call with an organization he knew next to nothing about, with no resources who he could look up in a phone book to help him out in case his unfortunate condition landed him in a hospital. When the waiter opened his mouth to protest--he couldn't blame him for trying to sell him a glass or two in good conscience, since he knew it was just his job to do so--he rudely beat him to the chase. "I said, no thank you." He watched the man, absurd-looking in his tuxedo, slink away guiltily like a dog that had been kicked, and once he disappeared back into the restaurant, he left his plate half-finished and paid, leaving a generous tip behind out of mild guilt.
The American couldn't find it in himself to be too kind anymore. It just demanded too much out of him.
- - After only managing a light breakfast of two cups of black coffee and some fruit, his stomach too tied up in knots to want to eat anything else, August made his way slowly and deliberately to the Agency headquarters, which was much more remote than he could have imagined: the CIA main building was visible and readily accessible by the public, though it prided itself on a somewhat transparent government. As he maneuvered his rental car through sharp-turning roads, August couldn't help but wonder whether or not he was following the right instructions to these headquarters.
He was dressed immaculately for tonight's event, sporting a classic black tuxedo, white shirt, and black bowtie. Even though the young man was apprehensive to actually have to interact with people just as qualified, if not more qualified, as he was, it didn't show on the surface: he was stone-faced and neutral-looking, as always, as the CIA had instilled in him to appear as, with broad shoulders thrown back in a subtle sign of seeming confident and at ease. Appearances were going to matter more here than they perhaps ever did in his life. He was going to be sized up just as he was going to assess those around him, scrutinizing every detail in sight: a set of chewed-down fingernails, a wrinkled dress shirt, a tic, a stutter, anything. August tried his best to seal all the cracks he could.
Part of him knew that the spotlight was going to be on him during this event, though, to a degree. Even if he'd so conveniently resigned his position before being offered this position (he couldn't help but wonder how coincidental it was, on second thought), August was still representing the United States of America in the midst of a global and fearsome cold war where his country was one of the key players. Maybe it was arrogant to assume anyone cared, or expect prejudice or bias in some small, intangible ways from the opposing belligerents. He hadn't gotten this far from neglecting all cautious thought, though--it may be good to tread lightly and speak softly, no big stick needed just yet.
Inside the headquarters, August was surrounded by a sea unfamiliar faces dressed just as well as he was. He was suddenly at a loss of action. No doubt he ought to make some contact with someone he may be working with sometime soon, yes, but--how to begin? Who would he single out of the crowd? From the way people were speaking to each other, it seemed as if some agents had long-standing relationships, perhaps through allied countries or working on joint missions, God knows what. Regardless of what familiarity these people had among themselves though, the young man was strangely determined to not project himself as an outsider. Strictly from an image and strategy standpoint. He wasn't here to make friends.
Thankfully, when he was about to approach a vaguely dark-skinned looking man to initiate some conversation, the Director began his brief monologue to the agents. August craned his neck upwards, listening, scrutinizing. Though he wasn't exactly surprised to be introduced to and lead by another panel of aged white men, it made him keenly aware of how young he was in this pool of fellow experts; he allowed himself a cursory glance in his immediate surroundings, and even if he may not have been the youngest person in the building, he didn't doubt his outlier status. That could be another source of--something. Distrust? Scrutiny from other parties? Just another thing to be aware of. It made him want to try that much harder to project himself right.
Two things rang clear in his head after the Director dismissed himself and disappeared into the crowd: one, the fact that his introduction was vague and that he hadn't even permitted the lot of them a name besides his title, and, two, the word drunk. Being hungover for a seven a.m. meeting time wasn't something he worried about at all, but this whole avoidance thing was getting ridiculous, in his mind. As a waiter balancing delicate champagne flutes on a tray, he opened his mouth to ask for one, but then cut himself off before he could go down that inevitable path. Juliet wouldn't have it. He loathed the thought of her somehow seeing what a mess he'd become after she passed on.
Better not, he told himself. Not when the stakes are this high. I have too much to lose here. He could only imagine what the reprimands would be for making an absolute fool of himself on the proving ground of his newest job.
Thankfully, someone just next to him had been bold enough to break the ice. When he turned to face the speaker, he was met with the agreeable visage of a shorter, thinner man than he was, and in all the stupid, mysterious ways that masculinity worked, the young man felt immediately more secure with the encounter. Nothing about this man was off-putting, though, and he felt inclined to engage with him: his voice was nearly indistinguishable from the murmur of the crowd around them, and something about the way he spoke indicated that he was choosing his words very deliberately, though not in an ostentatious way. A faint accent lined his voice. He's trying very hard, August realized. English isn't his most comfortable language.
With that in mind, he offered Yu a faint smile in return. "You're not intruding at all," he answered--voice warmer than it usually was, but perhaps not as bright as the other man's. "I'm Decker, August Decker. It's nice to meet you." He extended his hand out for the older man to shake, again, feeling strangely aware of his age in comparison.
"I--ah." He'd never been particularly great at the nuances of conversation, or, at least, not without some help from Jack Daniel: this was forced, maybe not as easily as he wanted it to come. August glanced down at Yu's plaque--it read MPS. China. Hm. "You're with the MPS--you must be from China, yes? How do you like Norway, then?" He swallowed. It was the best he could do.
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jan 9, 2019 1:59:35 GMT -5
Bump! This is still open for joining btw!
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Post by Deleted on Jan 9, 2019 23:06:55 GMT -5
hey blue, my next piece of writing is gonna be a starter for sabyne. can i pair her with esther?
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jan 10, 2019 19:40:44 GMT -5
Y'all think I should make a playlist for this rp?? A disc chat??? AN ART PAGE???
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Post by The Blue Adept on Jan 10, 2019 21:48:39 GMT -5
yes u sure can!!
do it.....feed the rp
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jan 10, 2019 21:57:24 GMT -5
Looks like there's no choice... gotta make All of those things-
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Jan 15, 2019 6:17:27 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Jan 17, 2019 17:14:08 GMT -5
casual bump as i work on my reply
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Post by Deleted on Jan 20, 2019 0:13:51 GMT -5
Sabyne Levitsky Code Name: Avant Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
In short, the young agent was utterly devastated to be discharged from the KGB.
"I'm sorry--what?" She demanded of her father, who had so conveniently, so coincidentally been her overseeing advisor. Even if Sabyne was known for her unique personality among her fellow dancers and agents alike, known not to be easily pushed around or manipulated, she was above all an obedient Soviet citizen: she couldn't raise her voice to authority if her life depended on it, but this was different than the usual circumstances. "Vladik, there must be a way out of this. I can't just--leave, not the Party. No."
Her father arched his eyebrows in surprise, but said nothing to address the outburst: if she had been one of his normal employees, he could have had her tried in court for failing to address him by his proper title, but he could sympathize with her outrage. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do to keep you here," he explained across the wide mahogany desk from her. The lights were low, blinds drawn, safely out of sight from others in his department. "This is far out of our jurisdiction, Agent. I've read you this letter, and you need to join The Agency."
She folded her willowy arms across her chest, staring down her superior with a gaze full of daggers. "Explain it to me more simply, then. You owe me that much, Comrade. I do hope you know what you're asking of me."
The two of them knew she'd been indoctrinated in the Party ideology since practically her first breath, never having to leave, never switching allegiances or ideals for the sake of even a demonstration, and Sabyne was invited to travel West, and God knows where else in the world. She'd never had a thought outside a mission briefing that traveled through the Iron Curtain, let alone reach the Berlin Wall. She was content with who she was and where she was, who she was working for and all the simple comforts that security offered her, and this was daunting, put plainly.
That great dark wooden table creaked as Vladik leaned over it. "Many would consider this invitation an honor," he said gently, "And I would agree. Refusal to join this Agency would be seen as a great mark against our wonderful Republic, and we--it cannot happen. We must send someone." The older man sighed. "Our sources across the ocean say that the Americans have sent an agent, as have the rest of their allies. We must as well. This is bigger than you. I hope you come to realize your place in this."
"And why me?" Sabyne pressed on indignantly. "Why not one of the more seasoned servants to the state? I've had experience, of course, but not like some of the other agents in the State. You know this, Comrade."
There was a sparkle of tenderness and pride in his dark eyes. "Because I know how I raised you." His voice carried a paternal softness that hadn't surfaced since his daughter was much, much younger. It caught her heartstrings, against all her anger and fear and deep uncertainty. "With the help of many others, and the good graces of the Party, you have been proven time and again to be the model spy. We have made it such." He was being a good, humble Soviet citizen, evident in the way he spoke; the credit was all Vladik's, and they both knew it. "There is no one better."
She was working hard to a smile that plumped her flushed cheeks and nearly went from ear to ear, but it wouldn't bury itself. Her father's words were brief, and sparing, as his manner of speech had always been, so Sabyne was touched that he even took the lengths to get so emotional with her. They regarded each other only for a few long moments, then broke the unbearable eye contact elsewhere--to the floor, to the edge of a painting of their esteemed leader, to the elaborate threading of the carpet underneath their fine chairs. The air was thick.
Finally, Vladik stood up, clearing his throat as he extended his hand out to the young woman. "Prove your loyalty one more time," he urged.
Sabyne took his hand in hers, shaking it once, firmly. "I will."
- - Norway was so, so strange. There was a certain kind of watchfulness and carefulness of speech that the young woman had long grown used to back in Moscow, but none of that attention to the slightest detail existed in the West. It took her by surprise every time a seemingly good, law-abiding citizen did something treasonous: a barista muttering a discontented sentence about the current President, a wild pack of teenagers picking up trash tabloids from a corner magazine market, a small crowd of drunken friends yelling and cursing all kinds of nonsense with simple joy and glee.
She thought it all obnoxious and dangerous, though the looming sense of someone swooping in to handle the insurrection in the middle of the night, leaving the offender's name, face, image, footsteps, and history lost to time was never fulfilled. Sabyne would see the same faces the very next day--the hotel barista called her a regular and memorized her order for tips, and the groups of friends returned to the streets on weekend nights. It bewildered her how clumsy these Norwegian citizens were, but she did her best to blend in plainly, as far under the radar as she could. And, with the exception of the coffee shop, it worked. She was transient, just a withdrawn hotel guest.
But she spent those few days in her hotel both adjusting to the time difference and perfecting her craft. Sabyne brushed up on her English (all her languages besides her native tongue, to be exact), and picking up conversational Norwegian from the television channels and hotel pamphlets. With her background in German, and training in learning languages efficiently, it wasn't terribly difficult, but all the was preparing for was the inevitable exchanges with security guards and rental car vendors when she was going to have to make her way to the Agency headquarters.
When that day finally came, she spoke calmly and professionally. albeit slowly, and after handing the salesman her crowns--so strange in her hand compared to the rubles she'd grown so accustomed to using--Sabyne left the dealership with a car, her own little sporty looking thing. She was privately very pleased with it. If she had a partner or a supervisor from the Motherland, she would've been chastised for her flashiness, but part of her knew she had a certain freedom in this country, and another part of her knew that this mysterious Agency would be watching out for her. That alone was comforting. She could have a little fun if she wanted to.
The young woman arrived to the welcome reception in style--her hair was tied up simply and elegantly in a homemade updo, her makeup was done conservatively, but her dress was a stunner, by all standards. It was a gorgeous crimson red piece that hugged her frame closely, with a deep, plunging neckline and sleeves that sat comfortably just off her toned shoulders--yet another personal treat, though she quickly came to realize that she wasn't the only one looking so impressive for this event. Of course she wasn't. What was she thinking? This night was a proving ground of sorts, and it seemed as if she was going to pass the visual test.
But, just as Sabyne reached up with her arm to tuck in a bobby pin that threatened to slip out of her hair, she bumped the wine glass of a nearby stranger just about her height. "My goodness," she exclaimed, eyes wide. "My apologies, sir. I do hope your drink didn't spill on your suit--wine is a terrible stain to get out."
The man she'd disturbed was, to her luck, a fellow agent (why wouldn't he be?) from a British colony of sorts--she couldn't discern the small image of the flag from off the top of her head, but she recognized his agency's name. Australia? There really were representatives here from every corner of the globe. "My name is Sabyne, by the way," she sheepishly continued, "What a terrible introduction this has been. Can I get you a napkin, perhaps?"
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Feb 22, 2019 17:59:06 GMT -5
The boys are back in town. Casual bump since we're still in dire need of members
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Post by Deleted on Feb 26, 2019 22:28:29 GMT -5
los boys are back i will reply! once i finish another one first since i've kept them waiting for over a month? and perhaps before chemistry finishes me but that could be any day now
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Post by ππππππππ on Mar 13, 2019 1:44:20 GMT -5
okay i have worked up the courage in my sleep-deprived state to ask to join this after watching it since y'all reposted it lmao it looks beautiful, big fan of your work 'cause you peeps seem so cool and i love spies and i made a character and i've almost finished a starter bc i admire all y'alls' writing so much and i just. phew. i would like to join if you'll have me. if not i take no offense to anything ever lmao
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Post by LβEΜα΄Κα΄Ι΄Ι’α΄Κ on Mar 13, 2019 2:29:11 GMT -5
okay i have worked up the courage in my sleep-deprived state to ask to join this after watching it since y'all reposted it lmao it looks beautiful, big fan of your work 'cause you peeps seem so cool and i love spies and i made a character and i've almost finished a starter bc i admire all y'alls' writing so much and i just. phew. i would like to join if you'll have me. if not i take no offense to anything ever lmao Oh shit hell yeah man, join us >:D I'm absolutely hyped to see why you bring to the table <3 And don't worry about anything, we're like... slow typers. or slow motivators. Idk man, yolo. we take forever to respond to things, essentially LUL
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