[center][img]https://i.gyazo.com/e8b1b593358097fd0f37cfdc0fc01ae8.gif[/img][/center] [hr] [indent][i]Two days ago in the South Florida region...[/i][/indent] [b]IT RAINED INCESSANTLY[/b], and as the wind howled and scratched against the large skylight of a private fruit processing facility, the sky's tears fattened. As hurricane forces continued to puff up a stirring presence and personified name in national news channels, the citizens of the only tropical region in the continental US prepared to once again deal with nature in their own ways; Young families vacated further inland, officers allayed the traffic piling up, and struggling workers went home early to count their pennies within their tiny apartments. Some older folks seemed to either enjoy, or simply dismiss the uncaring ferocity of the planet, as evidenced by the ornery old men anchoring themselves inside their land-bound boats and the local nut-jobs striding the sidewalks as though they were majestic lords and their flaring umbrellas, their shield and sword. But most of them bared no heed for those not of similar path and creed; For this wide-spread chaos lent shades of invisibility to those with baser aspirations, as it suited their need for criminal subterfuge. Yet the very same boon blinded the alchemist amongst [i]them[/i], for whom the hunt shall end soon. [hr] [b]TRAVIS EYED HIS BROAD-SHOULDERED BETTERS[/b] walking in front of him, their black, expensive three-piece suits contrasting sharply to his dirty street garb of tattered jeans and t-shirt. Not that he cared, nor they. This was a mere business transaction, if even that. He knew to be cautious, for even though they had a strange sense of honor, one simply does not [i]fuck[/i] with the Russian Mafia, especially if the clock was ticking on the local [i]capo[/i]'s time. Oleg Kirillov was a butcher. [i]Literally[/i]. And that was his mindset from the start; that "Ol' Trippy Travis" was merely pulling their chain with this 'catch' of his. The story was odd from the get-go: one of Kirillov's sons spotted two overly suspicious characters in his nightclub last night. It was not a coincidence, as a deal was being made that night. They had to close up shop, and they were pissed. Later that night, Travis called them, as he was one of many [i]eyes[/i]: folks who kept casual watch and reported leads in exchange for food, sex, and drugs; usually the first and last ones. He said he'd found them, and that they were already [i]dead[/i]; Kirillov had almost choked on his [i]pelmeni[/i]. So Travis was directed to take the bodies to one of the fruit processing facilities, which was a front for their actual product: rich cocaine and human trafficking. Needless to say, the young man was nervous as jello on ice. As they walked briskly down the dark hallway lit only by the skylight above, he went over his story in his head once again. But he found his thoughts interrupted by the shorter of the two [i]soldiers[/i]; young Mafia men looking to prove their worth and loyalty. "This better be good, Trav," he growled, to which his taller companion uttered something in Russian. Before Travis could reply, the first one laughed, saying, "[i]Da[/i], and his girl, too." That broke his resolve to say anything. He had a girlfriend. Or at least, an ex. They still saw each other, having left on fairly good terms. The emasculating thought of being convinced that an older, richer man only cared for her well-being renewed the boldness in the pit of his gut. And when the two Russians glanced back at him over their shoulders, he straightened out of his stooping gait, and simply nodded. "I know my history with you guys isn't all that great, but I know a big catch when I see one," Travis confirmed, his spine shivering. "[i]Da[/i], we'll see, motherfuck," the taller one rasped, cracking open the metal, single-pane door of their destination. "After you." Travis slipped past them, their eyes raising the hairs on his neck. The room was a storage for fruit, chilled just enough to work in. Various crates stacked against the walls, their labels faded. The pungent smell of rotting fruit pervaded his nostrils as he eyed the center of the room, where three metal slabs were lifted off the ground by wheels. The furthest one empty, his gaze fell upon two bodies covered by white sheets. The two Russians sidled up next to him, their arms crossed. "Take the sheets off half-way. Both of them," one said, and Travis obliged with haste, keeping his eyes off exposed breasts. They squinted, taking in the details of a large, barrel-chested black man and a black-haired woman, foreign by the looks of her. Not that the fact diminished her beauty, even in death. They were a curious pair to be found together, sharing now a single bullet wound to their heads. The two Russians glanced at each other, perhaps startled that Travis was telling the truth for once. As one opened a portfolio he'd been holding and examining pictures, the other addressed Travis, his tone showing a hint of surprise, and perhaps respect. "You stripped them?" Travis nodded. "Yes, their shit's in the room to the side," he replied, pointing half-ass directions. "Good boy," he commented, coming forward to look at the black man's face. The other Russian nodded, his eyes returning to the woman's exposed figure. "It is definitely them, [i]da[/i]. Fucking cops got balls," he confirmed. "Got their badges, too," Travis added, pulling two FPD badges out of his pockets and handing them over. "Why the blindfold?" one asked, to which Travis responded quickly as if on cue. "Hey man, I only found them. Gunshots in the head and all, but that guy's eyes were gone. I mean, fucking [i]gone[/i]. Like, a rat ate 'em, I dunno. Or whoever killed them was a--" he spieled, gesturing with his hands. "--[i]Da,[/i] alright, shut the fuck up," the Russian hissed, shaking his head. The other Russian, the one who had confirmed their presence at the nightclub, seemed lost in thought as he stood over the woman, his hands lightly caressing her chest. "They are still warm?" he asked Travis. Glancing repeatedly at the Russian and the woman, Travis managed to answer after clearing his throat, saying, "Well, yeah, only found them 20 minutes ago. I mean, you know?" The Russians glanced at each other, as if they were still in disbelief at this turn of events. They then trained their combined gaze on Travis, nodding at him for some odd reason. But it was all Travis could do to not stare at the two bodies. Finally, the taller one flipped open his cell and started talking to someone in Russian. Only a few minutes passed before he gestured to Travis to follow him and then instructed the shorter Russian to stay and keep watch. The young man took one last glance at the bodies, his face draining of color before turning away. But being the last one to leave, he locked the door... Left to his own devices, the short Russian sneered as he covered up the black man, the plastic rustling gently. Walking over to the woman, he let out a slow exhale and groped her breasts for a moment before lifting up the rest of the plastic to confirm something. Yup. Totally naked. He smiled at the thought of being in complete control. It felt powerful. He quickly darted over to the entrance and glanced out the small window to make sure nobody was out there. He knew he only had about 15 to 20 minutes before the boss would come back with more men and a plan to dispose of the cops. What was wrong with getting a bit more out of his job? She was still warm, after all. Kicking his shoes off, he returned to his dead prey and ripped off the entire plastic sheet. [i]Lovely.[/i] And there was even enough room on the table for him, having thought he'd have to put her on the floor. Turning his back to her, he started undoing his slacks. [indent]. . . A single arm quietly slipped underneath his jaw and seized him like a snake ready to dine. His airway slowly closed within the unrelenting vice. Forced onto his tip toes, the Russian slapped at the arm, flailing and shaking wildly, but to no avail. Sparks began to dance tauntingly at the edge of his vision. He then heard a soft whisper laced with disgust enter his ear. [color=lawngreen]"If I ever see you again, I am [i]ripping[/i] it off,"[/color] [b]Ilana Mhori[/b] warned, and then it was [i]nini[/i] for the little white Russian. His body crumpled onto the floor, his face smacking loudly. The asylum's shoulders sagged, her eyes glazing over slightly as she sighed and then blinked, to clear her vision. The revival medicine in her tooth was bitter, almost... poisonous? No. That couldn't be. But she shivered, fighting the habit to grab for a warm blanket--[i]something[/i]--to cover her up. That plastic sheet did [i]not[/i] insulate well at all. Glancing upwards at the skylight, she knew it would be dark soon, and the idea of waiting in a fruit-rotten, pitch-black ro-- ... ...Her eyes narrowed as her mind digested what almost just happened to her. She swung her legs over to the other side of the metal table, covering her breasts with one arm as she glared at her partner--that black piece of shit that she had always trusted. [color=lawngreen]"Annnnd when, [i]exactly[/i], were you gonna tell me, Ethan? Huh?"[/color] Ilana asked him, her tone almost as angry as it was tired.[/indent] Groaning slightly as he kicked off the sheet, to which his partner rolled her eyes, [b]Ethaniel Baine[/b] slowly rose to a sitting position, as though waking up from a very long slumber in a very uncomfortable bed. He vaguely recalled being addressed, and about what, he wasn't too sure of. Like, their cover wasn't blown, they'd set up the ruse to lure the alchemist out. So everything was fine, and everyone could chill. Well, maybe not [i]that[/i]. He shivered, glancing back over at Ilana, who kept blinking at him and obviously waiting for something, with a look like [i]that[/i]. [color=yellow]"Uh, what? What ya say?"[/color] he croaked, his baritone voice stretching from disuse. [color=lawngreen]"Oh, don't even--"[/color] Ilana stated, sitting back and holding a hand up. [color=yellow]"--No, I mean, what's wrong, baby?"[/color] [color=lawngreen]"Seriously. You don't, I mean, you didn't even watch what he...?"[/color] [color=yellow]"He...? My red lines be all mixed, so I mean, I watched, but what, did he try stab you?"[/color] [color=lawngreen]"S-stab me? [sub]Is that what you said?[/sub] Oh, well, YEAH, he almost [i]stabbed[/i] me, you know..."[/color] Ilana replied with a huff. Ethan was quiet. They were already dead, as far as the Mafia knew. Why would they stab them? Mutilation didn't fit the profile, at least not at the lower ranks. Plus, his oculars had already looked through her, examining the Russian, looking for a knife. The guy was armed with a single gun, but that was it. [color=yellow]"There ain't no knife. Whatchu talkin' about, Taj,"[/color] Ethan smirked at her, the nickname almost setting her off. [color=lawngreen][i]'Taj.'[/i][/color] Ilana closed her eyes. [color=lawngreen]"I- ... okay, never mind. Forget it."[/color] [color=yellow]"No, c'mon tell me. Hell, something got ya goin', I ain't blind... well, I mean--"[/color] [color=lawngreen]"It's fine, I'm sorry. I just..."[/color] [color=yellow]"Saaaay it."[/color] [color=lawngreen]"He almost [i]raped[/i] me,"[/color] Ilana stated flatly, pressing her legs together. Once again, Ethan was quiet. Frozen almost, you might say. Given the function of the room, of course, that'd be natural. But no, his mind was in a state of shock. And [i]hilarity[/i]. Not that he didn't care about Ilana, or her plight, or what women in general had to put up with. Far from it. Rape was bad. But forgetting some basic protocol about asylums while undercover? He cleared his throat. [color=yellow]"Illa, I wasn't about t'break character, 'kay? Thought you had it all handled, you know? 'sides, you could've jes' [i]telepathed[/i] me, I'd gone all zombie-fuck on him. No sweating it, baby. Know whut I'm sayin'?"[/color] he asked, slipping off the table and groaning at the odd sensation of his ass simply having [i]feeling[/i] again. [indent]Ilana's mouth hung loose, the revelation of Ethan's plan leaving her speechless. It was kind of sweet, in his own way, too. But she had nothing to say now. He was right, and she'd basically overreacted. And maybe had taken her anger out on him as well. It was easy to blame a man nowadays. [color=lawngreen][i]'God... that fake-death pill made me dumb or something. ... Wait, I'm not dumb.'[/i][/color] She nodded, slipping off the table and stiffly walking over to his side. [color=lawngreen]"Yeah, yer right. Anyway, let's get the hell out of here,"[/color] she quipped, still holding her jiggling breasts with one arm. Ethan hummed his agreement and was already at the door, looking through the thin walls with his ocular implants. She kept a respectful distance (about 5-feet), given their nakedness. Of course, they'd been in even worse situations before, without clothes. And you'd think after 7 years all shyness and inhibitions would been chiseled away, given their intimate asylum link. Younger teams didn't realize just how strongly the link affected them: it either brought them closer together or further apart. There was no ifs or buts about it. But some really basic human behaviors were hard to erase. Speaking of which... while she waited for him to say something, a flush filled her cheeks, forcing her to turn away to stare at a boring crate. It was hard to face him fully without her gaze being tugged southwards to what resembled a child's arm holding an apple. [color=lawngreen]"Well? Let's go. Where's our stuff?"[/color] Ilana asked quickly, noticing Ethan had placed his hands on his hips. [color=lawngreen][i]'Uh oh.'[/i][/color] [color=yellow]"Yeah, um, in the room next door, I can see it. No probs there, but um..."[/color] he replied, his mouth forming to an o shape, like when he had something she wasn't going to like hearing. [color=lawngreen]"What's... wrong?" [/color] [color=yellow]"Door's locked."[/color] [color=lawngreen]"What? The door's..."[/color] [color=yellow]"Locked."[/color] [color=lawngreen]"It's locked."[/color] [color=yellow]"Yeh."[/color] [color=lawngreen]"...fuck."[/color] [color=yellow]"Yeh."[/color] [color=lawngreen]"And we're on our alch-fast,"[/color] Ilana realized out loud, something neither of them were willing to break. [color=yellow]"Yeh."[/color] [color=lawngreen]"..."[/color] Silence consuming them, the two veteran asylums stared out of the small-window pane in the metal door. The hallway was empty, and so were their minds, thus allowing them to comprehend the full extent of the situation. They were locked in a malfunctioning freezer, with rotten fruit, no clothes, weapons and gear out of reach, and were fasting from alchemy use. And a short-tempered [i]capo[/i] known for butchering cops was on his way with several young men, one of which may actually be their target. An alchemist known as the [i]Body Painter[/i]. And their source locked the door on them. [color=yellow]"Goddamnit, Trav,"[/color] Ethan whispered, half-chuckling as he shook his head.[/indent] [url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3162867][[u]Next Post[/u]][/url]