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Post by ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧ on Oct 8, 2017 13:19:55 GMT -5
@borderline I summon thee! Not a creative title but there we are  |
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Post by Deleted on Oct 8, 2017 13:25:26 GMT -5
i have been summoned. want me to get up a form for my character? |
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Post by ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧ on Oct 8, 2017 13:26:26 GMT -5
(Sure, I’ll write on up for my charrie x Wait, did we confirm gender pairings?)
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Post by Deleted on Oct 8, 2017 13:37:27 GMT -5
aha, i said that i didn't mind.
here's mine;;
Gale Amari // 34 years old
5'3'' and lean-muscled with a climber's build, Gale doesn't look intimidating. He has light brown skin with a small mole dotting under his left eye, and his tousled, somewhat curly hair is a dark brown in colour with red undertones. He has a slender face with sharp blue-green eyes, and he looks a little younger than he actually is; it's hard to determine his age solely from his looks and how he acts. Gale has a lot of piercings; his tongue is pierced and he has a labret piercing, and the shells of his ears are lined with small black hoops. The right ear has an industrial bar, and both lobes are pierced twice with one plain black stud and a small hoop of labradorite. He also has more than his fair share of scars; his right eyebrow has two through it, he has an 'x' over his cheek and a mark over his jawline to the right, his forearms and hands are riddled with various types of scars as are his thighs and calves. His back is the victim of even more, particularly thin, whip-like scars crisscrossing and marking. He has a shapeless patch of scarring over his lower abdomen and some possible bullet entries on his torso (and even some exits on his back, interrupting the neat lines), and there's some burn scarring on his left hip. His throat is notably scarred and it causes his voice to be softer, though that's not something people tend to pick up on. He's a scarred man, what can he say?
Though he has tattoos, they're very rarely seen. A watercolour forget-me-not tattoo over his left shoulder, his right arm has a tattoo consisting of a red tattered ribbon, a golden skull, a red hibiscus, thorns, a chrysalis and three blue butterflies. There's some meaning there, he supposes. The silhouette of a jackal's head is on the back of his neck, often hidden, and he has the number '2' tattooed onto the inside of his left ankle.
General attire consists of skinny jeans and a pale button-up or a black shirt with plaid over top, he's not too fussy. Black steel-toe boots complete the look. Though the clothes he wears are often long-sleeved, he tends to roll up his sleeves and adorn his arms with bracelets. Braided leather, beaded, seaglass, plain leather straps; they all cover his forearms entirely.
He was brought in under various counts, but his most prominent crime is political assassination.
Gale is Egyptian-Romani, and speaks many languages as a highly skilled linguist. He also has eidetic memory and is a logical-thinking person. Really, it's hard to believe that he'd be into crime at all, but here he is. |
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Post by ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧ on Oct 8, 2017 13:40:06 GMT -5
(Oh yes that’s right O.o I have a go-to called Beatrix for plots like these so I’ll write her up now)
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Post by Deleted on Oct 8, 2017 13:41:25 GMT -5
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Post by ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧ on Oct 8, 2017 14:00:11 GMT -5
Beatrix Dunst // 32 years old
Beatrix - though she prefers Trix (don’t call her Bea or Trixie if you value your life) over her full name, which she considers too stuffy and posh - is a woman of German descent. She stands at around 5’5”, being neither particularly tall nor particularly short, and is very pale, with porcelain skin. She is quite lithe and athletically built. Her hair is a dark auburn tone, so dark that it’s difficult to see the hints of red in it until her hair hits the light. Her face is well defined and a little square-shapes, with prominent cheekbones and a wide jaw, somehow making her face look quite sharp. This sharpness is increased even further by her arched eyebrows and naturally upturned eyes, and the enhanced cupid’s bow of her lips.
She has her fair share of piercings, namely an eyebrow piercing and several ear piercing. She also has a nose stud and used to have a monroe piercing which has since closed up. Her tattoos are mainly abstract, all shapes in black ink that mean something to Beatrix but might mean something very different to anyone else who looks at her scars. She likes that; abstract tattoos mean people can’t tell what things Beatrix finds meaningful, but Beatrix knows. And the people she might choose to actually tell. She wouldn’t tell many. Some tattoos are interrupted by scars, the black lines slashed through by silvery scars.
Beatrix isn’t the sort of person who even really thinks about clothes. She will just wear anything practical, generally jeans and a tank top or something of that sort. Beatrix will never wear a dress.
Trix is intelligent and unemotional, ruthless, calculated and quiet. She is a no-nonsense kind of girl who won’t take any hesitation and messing around. She isn’t reckless, no, but she simply cannot stand people who sit around and doubt instead of getting things done. Her crime is gang violence and (though they couldn’t really pin it on her) murder.
(Sorry if it’s short or full of typos I’m on mobile)
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Post by Deleted on Oct 8, 2017 14:03:34 GMT -5
it's chill, man. do you want me to start or something? do we need to figure anything else out? |
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Post by ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧ on Oct 8, 2017 14:04:29 GMT -5
(I think we’re pretty much okay unless you have any questions? If not, yeah, it’d be great if you start)
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Post by Deleted on Oct 8, 2017 14:06:57 GMT -5
nope no questions here!
i'll get started momentarily d: |
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Post by ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧ on Oct 8, 2017 14:09:15 GMT -5
(Okay cool ) |
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Post by Deleted on Oct 8, 2017 15:00:42 GMT -5
2012.
His tiny little apartment was not a homely place for whatever holiday he was supposed to be celebrating. It was a quiet time with empty chairs, a time where he decided that he wasn't fooling himself with a glass and just one more, so he drank whiskey straight from the bottle and watched the television with a blank stare. It was his first Winter alone, the first time he had nobody to fall back on. Admittedly, Kesi would be fine with him dropping by - but...she didn't know what had happened. It had happened so quickly, so suddenly. It had been his fault, and now he had to pay the price. A lonely Christmas, or whatever, in a cold place.
Perhaps it was in the state of grief that he did not realise what was happening, that he didn't realise when he was being setup. The job, of course, was simple. It was always simple - he had been a prodigy and he was still technically one; highly skilled for a young age. Rumours went around; he never missed a shot. He never forgot. He was, in all ways, a threat to those who confided in him, a threat to those he got information out of. He had enemies - who didn't? Enemies were a natural part of life, or something like that.
Of course, it was just his luck that his enemies were also playing the part of his allies, pretending and succeeding in worming their way into his life because he didn't care. Whatever sense of preservation he'd had, it vanished with the death of her.
The Winter of 2012 was not a happy one. He would remember it for years to come - as he always did - but this one. This one would strike home, this one would be the first time he actively wanted revenge. He was not a vengeful man, did not think with grudges despite his ability to. It would be oh so easy for him to take things personally, to remember every face of every single person who did him wrong. He did. He just didn't care. See, he was a forgiving man, a kind one. It was what made some hesitant to shove at him, made them overly paranoid. It was during their paranoia that he ended them, their needless preparation thwarted by a cautious man. It was easy to do, easy to make people over-think. These people, however, did not overthink. They knew how to get him in one place, and knew how to have him trapped.
It was in Egypt. God, he'd remember that. In his own goddamn home, in the middle of Cairo. He had been sitting on a rooftop, minding his own business. Wanting a smoke but not bothering because it would give away his position. His spyglass aided him in picking out his target from the crowd, and he tracked the man with an eagle's gaze for some time. The target, as he'd expected, stopped. In a crowd. He'd been warned. The man was American, a politician that he had no care for.
With practiced ease, he aimed. With even more ease, he took the shot. The man was dead within seconds, civilians below screaming. He had not missed. They would be traumatised but, with time, that would pass. Everything passed. His usual routine was to pack up, to make sure he got away. It was, unfortunately, at that moment that he decided to look up. Helicopters often passed by, it was a part of the reason why he had to move so quickly. It looked like, just this once, he hadn't moved fast enough. No matter. He moved fast enough to get back inside and begin his jog downstairs, fast enough to get to the bottom - only to find that there were agents there, too. They were not, in fact, Egyptian.
"Gale Amari," there was something triumphant about the man's tone. "You are very under arrest."
Five years later. 2017.
Being in a blacksite was one thing. Being imprisoned in a blacksite was another. There was a barred-over hole in the wall for a window, and he often found himself staring out at the ocean. Even if he escaped this cell (and he was confident in his patience to do so), there was no way off the island without a helicopter or a boat. He had neither, and could not predict when there would be one. Instead, he listened to the guards make their rounds, yelling at rowdy prisoners.
It wasn't just political assassination that got him into a place like this. Oh, no. The Americans deemed him a severe threat, knew he'd escape from a normal prison. He'd done so before. Also - it seemed they were under the impression that he had information, that he'd give away information. He supposed that was a curse.
This particular day felt different, and he was on-edge. Picking at the edges of his orange jumpsuit, he kept flicking his gaze to the door and back, kept shifting his weight. Finally, finally, a key was pushed into the lock of his door, and a man in a neat suit walked in. There were sunglasses on his head. He was just one of those people, Gale supposed.
"Amari," the man said pleasantly, didn't seem too concerned about the idea of danger - but that would be silly. Gale would be shot dead long before he got his hands around the neck of this man. "You look well, hasn't prison stressed you out? Not a line on your face. You don't look a day over twenty."
"I don't know you," he said. His English was rougher than his other languages, accented. He wasn't fond of the language.
"Ah, you don't," a small smile passed the American's face. Gale didn't know what he was thinking. Didn't care. "I know you, though. Gale Amari, thirty-four years old. Arrested, initially, for the assassination of an American politician, found guilty of possibly hundreds more political assassinations, among other things. Gale's not a very Egyptian name."
Gale raised an eyebrow and waited him to get on with it.
"My name is Scott Black. I'll be your handler, if you agree to the terms and conditions."
"Oh?"
Black smiled lazily and glanced to one of the armed guards behind him before taking a step forward, tilting his head as if to see Gale's face a little more clearly. "I think you'll like the proposition I have for you. You want to be free, yes? Free of this island. I can make that happen, but there's a catch."
There was always a catch, but Gale was willing to listen. He was a patient man. Had to be, for his job. It was like his patience was being tried - but he had a limitless supply.
"You leave this place - with me - and I'll take you to a hidden site," another blacksite, he supposed, "here's the condition. You have to work for us. The government. With a team of agents, and a tracking device, you'll assist in cases and help apprehend high-risk criminals. You have nothing to lose from this but everything to gain."
"A tracking device," Gale tapped his neck, "in here?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
Black faltered, seemed surprised that it was just...that easy. Gale raised a slender eyebrow and gave a half-smile.
"You're right," Gale said. "I don't want to be here. I want to go home, but that won't happen. The next best thing is, at the very least, to be able to act like I'm free. I'm a freelancer, I don't have loyalties, so I have absolutely nothing to lose from f**king with other criminals. Besides," he leaned back, smiled lazily. "You gain more than I do. You get a marksman, my memory, my languages."
"Yes," Black's eyebrow twitched, now, as if his own patience was wearing thin. "How many do you speak?"
"Too many," he gave, as a non-answer, crossing one leg over the other and leaning forward. "You gonna chip me before we leave this island?"
He was right. They chipped him before they left the island; numbed the area, inserted the tracking device, stitched him up. He was given clothes that looked almost exactly like what he'd been wearing the day he'd been caught (they were newer, though; the tears in the knees and thighs were human-made, not natural like his old ones), and he found himself toying with his new bracelets as he watched the blacksite leave him.
It took them a day and a half to get from the old prison blacksite to the new place where he'd be working. It seemed, from conversation around him, that they wanted Gale blindfolded - but it didn't make sense, if they were just going to set him up in an apartment nearby, expect him to come into work every day. They even gave him identification. It was weird, being treated like an agent. That said, it took a criminal to catch a criminal. He knew that he, himself, had been caught by his employers working with intelligence agencies of some description - his locations were rarely known, scouted by himself so thoroughly that it was impossible to ambush him. He'd been unlucky. They had likely moved into position after he had set up. He still dwelt on that day, more for his own stupidity than anything else. Oh well.
He glanced up at Black as they headed into the building, got a glare in response. The handler, it seemed, did not want to be a handler, but he was there to handle Gale.
"You were talking, before," he glanced forward, "there's going to be another?"
"Yes," Black sighed softly, seemingly not surprised by Gale's eavesdropping. "Beatrix Dunst. She'll have her own handler, and you'll both be working together to catch the criminals given to you as well as supply information. You know her?"
"No. What's she in for?"
"From what I know? Gang violence."
Gale paused and considered this for a moment, before shrugging and shaking his head. He didn't deal with gangs. Anything less than a drug cartel, he wasn't bothered. The big guns employed him, the mafia, the bratva, the yakuza. If someone employed Gale Amari, they had money and sense. Not the people who'd betrayed him, but he didn't care about that. If he found them or was told to capture them, then he would. No big deal. Working with another wouldn't be an issue, so he didn't care too much. Instead, he absently touched a finger to the gauze and bandages over his neck - they'd put the chip closer to the back, probably to avoid the existing scar tissue.
They eventually entered a rather open room - a board at the back held pictures, a few desks and computers dotted around in a semi-haphazard way. It wasn't unorganised, but it wasn't as clean and orderly as an office. Felt kind of nice, actually. There were only a few agents here and there, and he had no doubt that they were working on this sort of job - whatever it would be called. Criminal rehabilitation? Criminal cahoots? They weren't informants, they were working with and for these people. Ah, whatever.
"Come on," Black jerked his head to a room towards the back, "you can meet Dunst in there, and we'll brief you both on your first mission."
"Exciting stuff," Gale said dryly, ignoring the dark glance he was given. The two entered the backroom - which held another evidence board. Though...no, he supposed it was a briefing board, or something. He angled his head to the side and looked at it briefly, before taking a seat as he was instructed to. Black stood with his back to the wall. There was one other seat in the room, and he supposed that was for the other criminal. Awesome. This was a great day. He'd gotten out of prison and had a job and a home all in one. They'd probably expected him to require more bribing but really, Gale wasn't loyal to anyone but himself. Not after five years in a blacksite prison.
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Post by ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧ on Oct 8, 2017 15:43:08 GMT -5
(I’m still on mobile so this will take a while and probably be short haha x bear with me)
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Post by ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧ on Oct 8, 2017 16:35:07 GMT -5
It was January 2013 and a young woman was being shoved to the floor. Her long dark hair, which shone a little red in the moonlight coming through the windows of the abandoned warehouse that had been her current base of operations, had come loose in an apparent scuffle and fell to the middle of her back. She had been forced to her knees and then even closer to the floor as an officer restrained her and handcuffed her, the cool metal encircling her wrists as her face touched the floor, her cheeks grazing it.
Satisfied, the officers pulled Beatrix Dunst to her feet and pulled her out from the dusty warehouse into the night. The air changed from the must, heavy air of fhe warehouse to the cool, crisp winter air.
The other members of her gang would follow.
She’d been involved in groups like this ever since she was a teenager - people from her neighbourhood didn’t often turn out to be anything else. Her neighbourhood had been slap-bang in the middle of a gang war, on the borders of two rival groups. You picked a side or you became collateral damage. You were more protected if you joined a gang, and that was the sad truth of it. And no matter what they made you do, you just had to keep telling yourself so. Otherwise the guilt would eat you up and you’d lose yourself.
She’d met a boy in one of these gangs, and they’d become a power couple, systematically getting rid of everyone in their way until they led their gang. Sometimes they manipulated troublesome members and set themselves against one another. Sometimes it was outright cold-blooded murder. It didn’t matter. They were equally terrible, to be honest.
Then it had become an internal war as gang members began to oppose Beatrix and her boyfriend, Duke. It was survival of the fittest and it had only been Beatrix’s manipulation skills and her infelligence that had kept her alive where Duke died. She had been forced to harden her heart, to watch him be torn apart by her gang and turn a blind eye to it, all while keeping her leadership position.
But as the young Beatrix, in her late twenties, was rushed away by armed officers, she knew it was a fall from grace. Her life was pretty much over, especially if they linked all of the murders to her.
—————
It was nearly nearly five years later now. Beatrix hadn’t officially been charged with the murders, but everyone really knew she’d committed them. They just didn't have the evidence. Which was why she was in maximum security, having spent all of her time in solitary confinement. Most of it, anyway.
She was seated on the edge of her bed as she usually was, listening to the sounds of the prisoners around her, some of whom had gone mad and some of whom were just rowdy. Either way there was a lot of screaming, crying and swearing.
She was different now. She’s cut her hair so it was now pretty much a pixie cut. She’d aged a little bit it was hardly down to stress or anything. She’d stipped stressing herself a long time ago. There was no point in fighting useless battles.
Her grey eyes had been trained on the ground until she heard footsteps moving along the corridor. A quick glance at the position of shadows on the floor of her cell told her it wasn’t a patrol time or a mealtime. So what was going on? A new prisoner? The unit was packed as it was, surely not?
That was when the footsteps stopped outside her door.
She heard keys jangling as someone entered the room. A guard had entered the room and was preceded by a very serious looking man in a suit. Great. This could only mean bad things
“Dunst,” the suited man began “we need to talk.”
“Whatever it is,” the woman sighed “I didn’t do it.”
She was always the person getting blamed whenever there was trouble in the prison.
“Ah, well, actually, you haven’t done anything. I’m Ben Hunter, I’m going to be your handler.”
“My handler? I don’t known you.”
“Yes, well. I’ve read your file. A gang member and a murderess. Got involved at only fifteen.”
“I’m not a murderess. No evidence. No conviction.”
“I’m not here to nitpick, inmate. Everyone knows you’ve killed, you’re just too damn good at hiding it. I’m here because I have a proposition.”
“Oh, well, fire away, I suppose” she responded
“Well, because of our best efforts to lock away some of the biggest nuisances on our streets, the most dangerous criminals in the country, we’re in a situation which I can only describe as a power vacuum. Newer, equally dangerous but a lot more innovative, criminals are sweeping the country. We need your help to arrest some of these dangerous criminals. You’ll work with a team of agents and we’ll need to give you a tracking device.”
“So let me get this straight. You want me to help you guys clear up a mess you created? You’ve created some kind of generation of new criminals that you want me to help you get rid of? What do I get in exchange?”
“A pop af freedom? A few years off your sentence? It all depends on how hard you work here, inmate. We need you. You’ll be working with another criminal, a very dangerous smiper named Gale Amari, imprisoned for political assassination. Very intelligent, highly skilled, but a lone wolf when it comes to his work. Hired by mafia and yakuza but never a part of them. We need you. A smooth-talker, someone who understands the group mentality of criminals, someone who’s been right in the thick of it and knows how they think. You get out of here for a while, maybe permanently if you do well, and you get an apartment and something to do. You’ve been in this room for years, don’t you want a change?”
“A tracking chip, you say?” Beatrix asked with a smile.
She wanted in.
“Yeah. We’ll do it nice and quickly before we leave.”
———-
This was how Beatrix Dunst found herself with a freshly bandaged neck, in a tanktop and jeans like she’d worn all the time before her arrest, sitting down opposite a man with the same bandages on his neck, about the same age as her, but then he could be a bit older or a bit younger. Hard to tell.
“Gale Amari?” she said out of politeness - she knew they both knew who the ofher was - “I’m Trix Dunst.”
A to-the-point introduction. She didn’t like to make thing too complcated.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 8, 2017 19:25:54 GMT -5
His elbow rested idly on the table, his chin against his hand. The area that had been numbed off was no longer numb (it had had plenty of time to settle), but he wasn't particularly sensitive to pain and so he didn't pay it much mind. He'd only keep the gauze patch on because it stopped the stitches from getting stuck to his clothes or something, whatever.
Gale's gaze flicked up lazily as a woman entered. He flicked his gaze to Black, before he exhaled slowly through his nose and turned his gaze on the other criminal. If she had done time for gang violence, it...well. It didn't make her bad. Maybe she was amazing at her job - but it meant she was equipped to deal with gangs and not the higher powers. Hers was a violent world where his was calm and efficient. He was used to politics and a noose around his neck every day. Dealing with Godfathers and Kingpins and god knew what else, that was the sh*t he was used to. He'd learned to talk quickly because if he couldn't sell his work, then he wasn't going to live.
Hell, he had missed that. There had been instances where he'd considered making an escape - but what was it worth? Being thrown in another blacksite prison, being executed? As far as the world knew, Gale Amari had just dropped off the radar. He was prone to doing that, he doubted people had noticed. Maybe his main clients were more concerned, but they had snipers on their payroll, didn't always need a freelancer aside from work that couldn't be connected to them at any costs. He had taken their blow, had ended up somewhere where they should've been and the armed guards had taunted him, had told him that he had the right to be angry and get revenge if he got out. Logically, he knew he could do that. But he didn't think in grudges or in revenge, he thought logically. Decided he'd choose who'd be an asset and who wouldn't be.
The young man tipped his head to acknowledge Dunst's appearance, though he had made that conclusion himself. He shifted his weight a little and glanced back at the door. Then, he flicked his gaze back to the woman.
"A pleasure to meet you," he said softly. "I hope for us to be able to accomplish great things."
He heard Black snort and glanced to his handler from the corner of his eye, but his attention was quickly drawn by a neatly-dressed woman entering with a remote in her hand. She clicked it and a screen above the case board flickered on.
"Greetings," she said, glancing to them both, "you both know why you're here, of course, so I'll make this quick. My name is Ellen Karter, I'm the leading investigator for this task force. Both of you will be under my command while you serve your time working for us. Any questions? No? Good."
Karter didn't even wait a moment before flicking to a slideshow.
"At present, we're investigating a man named Ivan Navitski. He's a Belarusian criminal who's recently come onto American soils - for what reason, we don't know. What we do know is that we have enough to charge and deport him, it's just a matter of finding him. Navitski is a conman, and not only that, he supplies firearms to both freelancers and gangs," Karter smiled, "it should be right up your lanes to find him and bring him in."
"He doesn't speak English, how are you supposed to communicate with him?" Gale crossed his arms and leaned back absently.
"We have someone who speaks Belarusian, it's part of his deal," her gaze hardened briefly, before she flicked to another picture of Navitski; this time in front of a hotel. "We have reason to believe he's staying here. Any input?"
"I used to have the man on speed dial," until, admittedly, a deal had gone sideways - but they'd both escaped, so he supposed there was no harm done. "He's easy for me to get in contact with, just a matter of you being efficient."
"We've tried his numbers, even his cover number and his home number. No answer. His wife doesn't know where he is, his daughter doesn't care," the woman leaned against the podium behind her and crossed her arms. "I'm sure you two can find him."
Gale lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. He doubted that Navitski was staying at the hotel - doubted the man was staying in any hotel. It was easier to call on friends in times of need, easier to hide in houses and even move to homelessness if it meant keeping locations a secret. That said, he had been in contact with Navitski in harder times, so he could only hope that he was still trusted.
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Post by ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧ on Oct 10, 2017 14:33:45 GMT -5
Hey I promise I haven’t forgotten about you I’m just super busy)
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Post by Deleted on Oct 10, 2017 22:49:36 GMT -5
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Dec 4, 2024 9:47:53 GMT -5
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