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Post by Deleted on Nov 22, 2017 7:52:25 GMT -5
A man like Gale Amari had many enemies, and not very many friends. He was someone who involved himself with the mafia, the bratva, the yakuza - but he was a hitman for hire and nothing else. Though he held loyalties to individual people, he did not hold loyalty to the organisations themselves, and as such, he had more enemies than he knew what to do with. There were those he'd stolen from, those he'd killed friends or family of, even those he'd gotten into fights with. As it were, he did not make friends as easily as he made enemies, and it was, perhaps, this little matter that caused him to choose America, of all places.
He was a linguist, let this be known. With a huge variety of languages stored in his mind, there were, naturally, those that he'd shoved aside in favour of more interesting languages. English was one of them. He was not fluent, had not made an effort to remove his accent - all in all, to move to the United States was a little silly. Then again, he'd been other English-speaking places. Ireland, England, New Zealand, Australia; he hadn't struggled there, but he certainly hadn't thrived. Unfortunately, he didn't have much say in the matter, as he wanted to lay low. None of his enemies expected him to go to a country that had a language he disliked. They would often keep track of him when he was in Russia or somewhere in the Middle East, and they'd even track him to Japan or mainland China. It didn't matter where he went, but the enemies he had very rarely suspected English-speaking countries. That was just a fact.
Washington, D.C did not seem like a bad place to go to. Well - the outskirts of it. He'd thought it wouldn't be a bad experience - he was so, so wrong.
"So, let me get this straight," there was a tremble in her voice that suggested she was more amused than she was letting on. "You go to America, and you go to Maryland, which is known for...shellfish?"
"How was I supposed to know?" he ground out softly, as he rummaged around his apartment to find his keys. Where were they? "I didn't exactly research to find out what food was popular here."
"Do you even have an epipen anymore?" Kesi's voice was a little more distant, like she'd pulled away from the phone. He heard a mess of Arabic mumbling, and deduced that it was probably one of the twins. "Keep it on you, lest you die of shellfish. That would really make your trip something."
"Here lays Gale, many enemies, but the biggest one? Shellfish. A mafia couldn't take him down, but a crab sure could."
Kesi's bought of laughter made him smile as he finally snagged his keys and shoved them into his back pocket. Next, he found his cigarettes and lighters, shoved those into his pockets and took a moment to check himself. Phone, wallet...was he missing anything? No. He wasn't on a job, he was exploring. Learning about where he was going to live for the next few months or so, depending on how safe it was for the time being.
Once he was entirely sure he had everything, he headed to the door of his apartment. "I'm going to go now; I'm going to explore and maybe buy something for my place. It's bare and that makes me sad."
"Alright," her laughter died down a little. "Nanu and the twins say hello, and they demand souvenirs."
"I'll bring them the head of their enemies," he said cheerfully, before hanging up and shoving his phone in his pocket along with the rest of his things, and he left without much more of a thought. With his hands in his leather jacket's pockets, he chose to walk rather than take his motorcycle - he needed the exercise, for one. It wasn't that he was out of shape - not at all. He'd been sitting around since he'd arrived in America, and he hadn't taken any opportunities to learn his escape routes, to learn possible shortcuts. Perhaps it said something about his mindset when those were on his mind rather than sightseeing - but to be fair, he wanted to keep his distance from tourist-y things.
It wasn't entirely unexpected for a flower shop to catch his eye. He didn't have any plants in his apartment as of late, and he could really do with some. Aconite, maybe. Some roses. Maybe he could find some potted wisteria, or some forget-me-nots. Either way, his attention was picked up and he entered despite knowing he'd probably spend a fair amount here. That was just how he was. A little bell jingled above his head and an old woman glanced up briefly from behind the counter to acknowledge him (and then watch him cautiously), but his focus wasn't on her. Instead, he moved slowly down the aisle to glance over the plants, trying to pick out ones that complimented each-other in both meanings and colours. Then again - he could just choose them based on how he liked them. There were many opportunities to be had.
His gaze trailed idly over the plants at the bottom - which seemed to be wilting, just a little. He doubted the old woman took much care of them, though they could have been in worse condition. Though it made him pull his brows down.
Eventually, he decided that the flower shop wasn't worth it because it neglected its plants, and he left. The old woman seemed to have fallen asleep. Or died. She possibly could've died, but he didn't care. It was payback from the plants, or something. Hell if he knew - what he did know was that he required caffeine, and so his next stop was at a little independent coffee shop. After getting his latte, he sat at a window table and idly checked through his phone as he waited for it to cool a little, head angled to the side as he kept watch of the few people around him and the door.
Gale knew he was a paranoid man. He slept with his back to the wall and his body facing the entire bedroom, he always checked for exits, he kept one hand firmly over the opening of his glass or mug when he was drinking something (anything) in public. He didn't take risks that he didn't need to; at this point in his life, he didn't even eat out. Wouldn't even pick at food if he was scouting, would just...leave it.
It wasn't that he had too many enemies, it was just that the ones who he did have were rather focused. There were the snipers he'd taken jobs from, who didn't like him on their turf. There were those he'd fought (and won) again, and then there was Alexei. In America, he hoped that it wouldn't matter - any of it. He didn't need to take on jobs, and he could sit here in a calm little coffee shop and hope for the best, could hope that everything would settle. Eventually.
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Post by ᴏᴡʟ on Nov 29, 2017 0:27:58 GMT -5
The words of botany came to him as easily as a drag came to the lips of a smoker. It was boring, some might have said, but so was smoking, if you asked him. On top of that, it was easy, and he could take it all in as effortlessly as others took tobacco between their teeth; not because he loved it or even because liked it, but rather, because he found himself addicted to it all, in a funny sort of way. Enthralled, enveloped, completely ensnared, like a bug between a flytrap’s leaves. It had always been like that, ever since he was a boy- he, the victim of an addiction passed down from his mother’s love of all things blooming. It was unhealthy, grating, nothing to him, but everything to the human drive that kept him going… and to his wallet. Oh, how the world revolved around the wallet.
He had made a bit of a name for himself in the botany business, though not in the traditionally accepted sense. He was more of an herbalist than anything, but if one was to find out what it was that he was studying, then they might not have even called him that. Yes, he’d read countless books that spoke of the beneficial alkaloids contained within a single petal and a fresh green stem, but plants that healed and soothed were not where his interests lead him. In the end, he always found himself with his hands sunk deep into the grounds of his poison garden, among the belladonna and the foxglove. That was where his profit lay, in the ground, and in the pockets of the desperate.
By no means was he a proud man, either. In the thirty-six years of his life, there wasn’t a single thing within his past that stood out to him as glorious or pure, but rather, as common decency bestowed upon others because… well, he simply could; not because he had a drive to do as such, just as he didn’t have a drive to do the opposite. This lack of pride, however- this ambiguity of character- was what his clients saw most clearly in him. This was what they took a hold of, and what they anchored their beliefs to, for in seeing him- a man so outwardly void of moral clarity- they could think themselves better than he, and it was this sense of superiority that gave them the confidence to strike a deal. Of course, sometimes he feared that he was taking advantage of them, in this way, for every single one of them was a customer that he had seen before- not individually, but generally- and every single one of them was just as desperate as the last. Desperation made for foolish thoughts, and he need only to sit in silence, and they’d practically write a contract themselves, pen on paper, toxin in hand… He tried not to think too deeply into it, really. In the end, it all worked out rather well, even if it did leave him feeling a little bit guilty. This time, however, was different, and more than guilty, he simply felt confused. In a way, he was grateful for the feeling, for there was always comfort in the idea that ‘ignorance is bliss,’ but this ignorance was as equally numbing as it was concerning. With nothing but a photo in his pocket and more than a little bit of time on his hands, he had absolutely no idea what he was dealing with this time. His target could be anyone, as could his customers, and in the end, he could only hope that he wasn’t working with something bigger than himself. He made a point of running a small business.
Of course, at this point in the narrative, one might have found themselves curious as to what this ‘business’ of his was, and who he even claimed himself to be. Well, to put it simply, he was Marion Webb, and Marion Webb- thirty-six and six-foot-three- was a killer.
While that all sounds very sinister and malignant in nature- which really, it was- Marion would have to say that his method of choice was an altogether humble one. Using only what his garden could provide him with, the man had made an on-and-off living for himself by growing and administering poisons to the highest bidder. Occasionally, he dealt with things of a more psychedelic and addictive nature, but the trouble that followed such business was not often worth the money it brought in, and so he often left that side of his garden unattended. So, ultimately, he settled with poisons, and each year- perhaps once, twice, or three times- he would take up a job to use it.
He called this time ‘growing season,’ even if he wasn’t speaking of a season at all. While coined by the agricultural community, yes, Marion had grown to use the term sparingly and lovingly, using it more to describe a mood of his, rather than a time or state of year. Growing season was the period in which he actually felt up to the job at hand- when he felt that he was finally capable of handling such delicately illegal activities. It didn’t come around often, as Marion wasn’t often up for much of anything, but when it did, it was always at odd hours and sporadic times. This time, it was later in the year, which couldn’t have been worse for him. It was cold- or at least, as cold as you could get when straddling the border of the southern US. He would have to grow his crops indoors, where the shadows collected like mildew in the corners of the room, and the air pushed through the vents with nothing but a rattle and the scent of burning dust… but that wasn’t all too bad, he sometimes thought. Sometimes, growing indoors gave him a sense of escapism that he found no-where else in the world. There, among careful rows of deadly plants, he could pretend that he was nothing more than a lover of his craft, cultivating flowers for their beauty, rather than for the heart attacks that they might later cause.
None of that really mattered though, as was his belief in many things. He had not the time for thoughts of idle distractions or blossoms over poisons. Instead, he had to focus on the matter at hand- the matter that was Gale Amari.
Gale Amari who was surprisingly short.
For someone with a bit of a bounty upon their head, Marion had to say that the man didn’t look much like the type to instill vengeance into the hearts of others. Perhaps he was just looking at it all wrong, taking in appearance before personality, but the image of his target exiting a florist’s shop certainly didn’t help to alter this idea he’d formed. He was short, and aside from the pale streaks of scarring that lined his skin, Marion couldn’t say that there was all too much much to set Gale apart from any other person of good or bad intentions. Of course, he knew better than to judge these things so early on, and so he instead focused on what it was that he was doing… which is probably a good thing to do in any situation, really. Life tips from Marion Webb.
Within his hands, the crinkling of dusty newspaper was almost as bad as the burning upon his wrist. He’d never liked reading the paper, as it never told of anything pleasant, and the fact that he’d had to spend good and honest money on such a depressing thing was enough to make him wince. He supposed that it was worth it, as it gave him an excuse to look inconspicuous as he studied Gale from across the street and out of the corner of his eye... Still, he refused to be happy about it, even if he had the most random streak of good luck to support it all.
To be quite honest, he hadn’t expected to spot Gale that day. He hadn’t even been looking for him- or at least not religiously. While yes, he still found himself haunting the areas in which his clients had said that the man was rumored to frequent, dawdling was quite different than actively searching every face for a set of pale eyes and a crossing of scars. He certainly hadn’t been doing the latter when he’d finally seen his face- in fact, he’d only intended to check out a local florist’s shop that he’d seen in passing one day, and as it turned out, Gale Amari had apparently had the same idea, which was both pleasing and utterly nerve-racking. For one thing, he hardly felt prepared to begin the task ahead of him, but at the same time, he supposed that it’d be nice to get it all over with. He didn’t particularly like doing what he did, and every extra minute he spent luring someone to death by asphyxiation, cardiac arrest, or who knows what else… well, it was a rather trying process, as you could imagine. It brought to mind the question why he even bothered with it all.
Skimming through the lines of bold black ink displayed on the newspaper’s face, Marion was hardly even reading as he watched Gale from his peripherals. Apparently dissatisfied with the florist’s selection, he’d left with empty hands before making his way down the street, and yet still, Marion made not a single attempt to shadow him. Instead, he kept himself planted by the newspaper box he’d moments ago sought out, his weight leaned idly upon one hip, while the burning of his wrist sent alarm bells ringing loudly within his head. Truly, it was a stupid injury, or rather, reaction; a bit of milkbush sap, smeared by accident upon his skin while he’d trimmed the plant to size. It was nothing but a houseplant he kept by the door- nothing to cause alarm, and certainly not enough to warrant suspicion, but damn, was it enough to sour his mood, and especially when he was forced to wait around while Amari over there made his way into a stupid little coffee shop, as if he had nothing better to do… which he probably didn’t.
I have to spend more money now, don’t I? Yeah, I do. Damn it… Well alright, let’s get this over with then.
- - - The smell of coffee was, and always had been, far more enticing than the actual drink itself, if you asked Marion. Where the scent was strong, the taste was often weak, and in the end, the amount of sweeteners that it took to make the liquid tolerable enough for consumption was near ridiculous. For heaven’s sake, there was more foam and creamer than actual coffee in whatever it was that he’d just ordered, but even then, that toxic bite of caffeinated hate still hit him like a punch in the face. It was all a waste of good money, truly, and not at all worth the lack of sleep he was to later experience. Really, why did Gale have to wander into a coffee shop, of all places? Oh, whatever- he was just being childish, which was really not a good thing. He couldn’t afford to be childish now, and he knew that, but still, the frown that creased his lips persisted, for everything in his cup was just far too sweet, yet far too bitter at the same time. That, and his wrist didn’t help... and the fact that he didn’t know how to approach Gale just then really didn’t help.
Oh, Marion, you stupid recluse…! This is why you should try and be more sociable, but no! You just want to hide in your house with all your plants, like the miserable little hermit you are! You don’t know how to say ‘hello,’ but you know how to poison a man in twenty different fashions, so really, you’re nailing the whole ‘interacting with the outside world’ aspect of life. Good job! You should write a book on your success!
“Sir?”
Blinking the hazel of his eyes, he snapped to attention. Across from him, the woman at the register held a wad of faded dollar bills in one of her manicured hands, while her lips pulled tight around her teeth in a wary looking grimace. His response came promptly.
“Uh--…”
“Your change…?” She lifted an arched brow.
“Oh- right. Um… Keep it. Thank you.”
Shifting away from the counter, his wallet feeling just a bit lighter than it had before, he nearly scoffed at himself for what he was doing. There was Gale, in the very same building as him, and he intended to approach him... Really, how stupid was he?
Usually, he would never even dream of getting so close to a target- it was as good as signing your own death warrant, as he'd learned the first time. It was risky- clumsy, by anyone's standard- and in ages past, he might have even laughed at the sudden flippancy that had apparently plagued him. This year, however, no such laughter came to greet his thoughts... This year, he wondered if it even mattered if he was caught. It was a dangerous idea to entertain, and yet it filled him like a deep breath, before leaving him in a sweep of air, again and again.
Did he even care?
He pondered this as he cracked open the lid of his cup, and peered at the contents inside- all froth and creamer, sweet enough to choke him. That wouldn't be a bad way to go, really; not a bad way at all... but it needed more...
"Sugar..."
Lifting his head, he feigned a searching eye, his towering form leaning to-and-fro. There was Gale's table, a bit ahead and to the right of him, and then, directly in his path, a woman with a cellphone practically glued to the side of her dyed blond head. It was the perfect set up, honestly, and he'd have been a fool not to take advantage of it. So, as if the station that held the sugar and the straws had caught his attention, he let out an enlightened 'ah,' before making his way forward.
It all worked out better than he'd hoped, and in the end, that was both a good and bad thing.
As he'd suspected, the woman he'd spied hadn't even bothered stopping when her shoulder clipped his- or rather his lower arm, and a bit of his chest. She was significantly shorter than he, but still large enough to cause a stumble, of which he carried then to the table to his right. Then, as if on schedule, his leg had hit the chair, and the coffee, with it's loose lid, had dropped explosively onto the table.
That day, he learned that hot coffee really burned when it came into contact with skin that was already burning.
With a stifled yelp, he'd retracted his limb in towards his person, then watched with stunned "horror" as the steaming liquid went rushing towards Gale's side of the table. He watched it dive over the side, heard and felt it dribble onto his shoes, and in general, the sound of everyone in the shop coming to an observant halt.
His face flushed red.
Even if it was planned, the whole situation was still painfully embarrassing.
"Oh, my God..." The initial reaction.
"Oh, my God!" The realization.
Kicking himself into gear, Marion had no trouble then playing the part of some unfortunately clumsy man. With a hand clapping quickly across his mouth, he was like a dart of nerves as he suddenly fluttered about the table, his mouth moving with words he didn't bother thinking about. 'Sorry,' 'oh, God,' 'I'm so sorry.' Things of the such. It was all a very well put together act, and one he might have prided himself on, had it not been for the pain that scorched it's way across his wrist.
"Uh- no- sorry, um--... Please- please, wait here a moment-! I'll get nap-napkins!"
Lurching away from the table, it was like watching the red sea part before him as he jogged quickly to the counter, if not to only further the appearance of some poor, scatterbrained fellow with a bit too much coffee spattering his clothes. The baristas there directed him quickly to the station, where he eagerly snatched up a thick pad of scratchy brown papers. When he made his way back, he began the process of dabbing at his clothes, and tripping his way through the crowd.
What an utter wreck he could turn himself into. Truly, it was impressive... or at least, he'd say so.
"I'm so sorry- truly. Here, let me... clean this up some... God, why'd I do that-?"
Although he knew it would do nothing, he immediately slapped half of the stack onto the mess of a table. It promptly turned into a sopping clump of thick brown paper, and upon seeing this, he let the pain above his hand grace the corner of his eyes with a line of tears that did not fall. He was, after all, hoping to take advantage of everything at hand; even the product of an allergic reaction. Maybe it was overkill, but he rolled with it, and so without a word, he held the remaining napkins out in Gale's direction.
All that money wasted...
Thus, the true reason why he could have shed tears then.
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Post by Deleted on Nov 30, 2017 11:22:27 GMT -5
Even while absent, he was still there. He could, to be quite honest, look as if he were entirely gone, as if nothing were in his brain and as if he were a completely vacant being. There could be nothing; no light in his eyes, no expression upon his face. And then, when approached - a quick flick of his eyes, a small quirk upwards of his mouth, and a knowing look. It was as if he were saying caught you, even when it was just someone checking to see if he was okay. Every little movement around him seemed to trigger a quick little glance; it were as if everything around him were a threat, and he simply had to find out how much of a threat it was.
The naturally trusting kind were not the type to pick up anything off about him. He was quiet and he was polite, he knew his manners and he did not lie. To them, he was just one of them, another friendly face. To those who did not trust as easily, however, he was perhaps an oddity. Someone who's actions didn't quite line up, as if he had some other motivation behind his gentle nature. For Gale himself, he knew that he had no other motivation. He just wanted to be a good person.
If good people were murderers, then he was doing brilliantly.
To be honest, despite his kind nature, Gale was not a good man. Morally or otherwise. He did not care for the law, and if it was his life or someone else's, he'd choose his. He was not a saviour and he would not sacrifice himself; he knew how to keep himself alive, for the most part. His well-being was one of his main concerns.
There were things in his life that he had to care about. The dogs, for the most part; if he didn't return to them, then they'd have no-one they trusted left, they'd never be able to run properly again. It was the little things that kept him going, that gave him motivation for each and every day. Once he was done here, once he'd lost the heat, then he could go to Alaska and chill there for a while. Perhaps afterwards he could go to France and relax there for a while - he'd not been in Paris for some years now, and it was always fun to see what had changed. Yeah. Once he was done here, there were many things he could do; the world was his oyster. Or, uh...something not shellfish-based.
As he sipped on his coffee, he took note of the tension he felt. It was the sort of...prickling sensation at the back of his neck, a warning that told him something - or someone - is watching you. His instincts were not often wrong; as a solo-running sniper, he couldn't afford to be wrong. It was a matter of whether or not he trusted his instincts. Sometimes it was...hard to trust them. With severe paranoia, sometimes something as simple as a bad day could have him thinking he was being followed when he wasn't, or it could make him think that even the little old grandma dawdling at the side of the road was plotting to kill him. It was not fun, but he had to deal with it as it was - it was a natural, ingrained fear at this point.
text from: Nanu there's seven hours between us, right?
text to: Nanu y do u wanna know
text from: Nanu curiosity, mostly. also the twins asked and now i gotta know bc im the biggest and smartest and strongest, duh.
text to: Nanu ya. 7 hrs between us.
The lack of response told him that the kid had probably been dragged away to help Kesi make food, or something along those lines. Perhaps she'd been dragged into a family game session. Either way, she stopped texting him and so he finally shoved his phone into his pocket, taking a quick sip of his drink and deeming it...not bad, but not the best. He didn't know what he'd expected - maybe he could invest in a coffee machine, or something. He swirled the drink around in his cup before deciding it was a lost cause, and so he set the cup down and dropped his hands into his lap. He wanted to move soon, though he wasn't sure where he was going to go. Back to his apartment to play games? God, that sounded nice. He tilted his head to the side a little and watched the world go by.
Something in his brain told him watch, and he flicked his gaze to a tall man who'd just bumped into a woman. It was almost predictable, like some sort of script - though he supposed that was just paranoia - as the man's drink dropped to his table. Gale's reflexes were a quick thing as he moved - but not quite quick enough to avoid some (though not much) of the hot liquid from splashing at him. He would've been fine had this not been the one day he'd decided to wear ripped jeans. He cursed his fashion sense, but it wasn't that bad. He moved away from the table and flicked his gaze down to the mess. Oh dear, he thought, and glanced up to the tall man. He seemed like the sort to do this on a regular basis; but then again, he knew better than to judge by appearances. He angled his head to the side as the man bumbled (and it certainly was bumbling) away to get napkins, and he glanced back down to the mess.
"Ah - shukrān," his mind blanked temporarily, and he squinted. Then, with gentle motions, he shook his head and took a step back from the other man. He did not accept the napkins. "It is okay," he told the man with mild amusement. "You didn't get much on me, so..."
Gale's gaze flicked back down to the table. Ah, it seemed to be a bit of a mess; but at least the napkins were sopping up the mess. He exhaled softly and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did this have to happen to him of all the people? The coffee shop wasn't exactly empty; in fact, a few of the curious bystanders were just watching instead of helping - perhaps because they wanted to laugh at the tall man who'd just spilt coffee. That was probably it. He exhaled slowly and, after a few moments, he gave a gentle smile.
"Don't worry." his tone was soft, and he put his hands in his back pockets. "It was just an accident. I'm sorry about your drink, however. Would you like me to get you another one?"
Curse his need to be kind, but he supposed he had the extra money on him. It was, perhaps, a little strange to offer to buy the man who'd just nearly scalded him another drink; but he looked like he was fairly upset about the situation, and...well. The coffee here was expensive, so there were many reasons to cry. He sighed softly. "Are you okay, by the way?"
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