[center][hr][url=https://fontmeme.com/cool-fonts/][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/171210/ec82ff83bed1b5364f94dab3b09e89f3.png[/img][/url][hr][color=B22222][h3]Centre Point - Friday Evening[/h3]
[sup][@PrinceAlexus], [@valckyriie], [@RoccanIronclad], [@Rabidporcupine] and anyone present[/sup][/color][hr][/center]
Alas, the officer was left to his own devices for a time. He had spent several weeks in the Cartel, submersing himself into his role as a "pussy musclehead" as Mickey had put it. It wasn't an insult but a label given to all the goons hired by the Delossantos Cartel. They were thugs for hire, you didn't mean much to the Cartel until you proved your loyalty. Again, it was the perfect cover for Jamal to take, being one of the bigger officers in the force. [color=IndianRed][i]'Doesn't mean I have to like it.'[/i][/color] he thought bitterly, feeling the evening winter chill crawl up his spine. And he really didn't. Changing from one of the more respected (albeit a bit more unknown) officers in his department to becoming a no life goon was not an easy transition to make. But he had done it, over a period of two months he practised everything from accent to movement to even small things like stance. He couldn't have his Pakistani accent come through at all in his English and it would be suspicious if a no-good thug like him could speak fluent Urdu. It would be simply out of place. He taught himself to talk, walk and swear like he was a native from the complexes. He had to, he would be strung up and lit up like a Christmas bonfire if he was ever caught working for the police undercover. A death that befell on too many of his comrades.

Jamal crossed his arms, trying to subtly keep warmth. He saw his companions doing the same thing from the corner of his eye, one was shivering uncontrollably. [color=IndianRed]"Fuckin' suits ain't even thermal."[/color] He muttered under his breath, keeping a clear accent. He would never be caught breaking character, he was too paranoid for it. Even in his thoughts, he forced himself to think in English rather than his native Urdu. He had totally submerged into character and he passively thought about whether he was going too far. He dismissed the thought. This was for the mission, for taking a down a greedy woman who thought exploiting innocents and trafficking drugs was a way to power. If he reminded himself that, he wouldn't become dysfunctional. [i]Dysfunctional.[/i] That was the term police used when an undercover cop went too deep in their second lives or even going turncoat. Apparently there were problems with keeping a secret life behind your loved one's backs and holding a fake character for months. Sometimes undercover operations lasted for over a year, lasting psychological effects would then plague that unfortunate officer for the rest of their life. He had to do things quickly and efficiently or risk becoming the bad guy he wanted to stop. He grabbed an orange seemingly out of nowhere from his suit, peeling it and popping a few pieces in his mouth before throwing the rest behind his back. Oranges would keep him sane.

Forcing himself to focused, Jamal chewed on the delicious fruit of Gods as he surveyed the unfurling scenes before him. The first noteworthy observation he could make was the mayoral staff staring at him and looking very disappointed. He smiled sharply, a threatening glint in his eye as he locked eyes with one of the politicians. The portly man cowered away, turning around to speak to one of the officers near the huddle. The fake thug wondered for a second whether these officers were aware of his presence but decided they most likely didn't. The only people who knew that there was even an undercover cop present were a select few police officers from his department, the Police Chief and the mayor himself. And only the Police Chief knew what he looked like, for confidentiality reasons of course. The group of politicians seemed to talk in hushed tones and no matter what he did, he couldn't hear what they were talking about. [color=IndianRed][i]'Probably complaining on how we're ruining their beloved party'[/i][/color] He noted, seeing the clear faces of distress and complaints.

The officer turned away from the podium and looked across the crowd of civilians. It seemed as though most of them were mostly unaware of their presence except for a select few. An elderly man and the blonde girl he previously looked at were taking glances at him. The old man's sharp eyes startled him for a second before he smiled, the same threatening glint in his eyes. In his head, his mind churned. Did these people know the Cartel? The girl dressed elegantly and the pair seemed well off. Few of the middle class were even aware of gangs being present in Sol City. It was that picturesque image that the police were keen on keeping. Only those poor enough to live in the apartment complexes, downtrodden suburbs or projects had any idea of the Sol Underground. Again, he tried to pique his ears to their conversation but he could only hear tidbits of what sounded like... Russian? Rival gang? He didn't know if the Russian Mafia took a claim in his Sol City and ignored the foreboding feeling in his stomach as he stared at the elder man. The woman didn't seem too threatening but that man... [color=IndianRed][i]'That man has seen some serious shit.'[/i][/color] He put his speculations aside, keeping that sinister smile plastered on his face. It wouldn't do o be distracted if there were rival gangs present, one as dangerous as the Russian Mafia.

The sounds of crunching footsteps and the cardboard grinding on cardboard averted his eyes away from the pair. Weren't there three of them? That thought was quickly wiped away as he looked at the sight before him. Jamal Jamali was known for his dislike of excess, unnecessary humour. Such a serious personality had birthed a discomfort for... [i]theatrical[/i] comedy. He wasn't sure if the sight before him was even real. [color=IndianRed]"What the actual fuck?"[/color]

A homeless man entered Centre Point, dressed in the ugliest suit Jamal had ever seen. It didn't even qualify as a suit in his eyes. It was cardboard! It was grotesque, a sting to his eyes. He had to repress the immediate frown that came to his face as he looked at the monstrosity. It was too... brown. Boxy. It was like the man was carrying his house as clothing. Was this some sort of joke? He was getting embarrassed for the man! He was familiar, one of the several homeless men he had seen when riding with the Cartel directly after his recruitment. He seemed scared to enter the party, as if aware of his own attire, not that Jamal paid much attention to the man himself. He was far too transfixed by the outfit. It was a mockery, a malformation of proper etiquette and common decency. The undercover officer had to remind himself that he was [i]undercover[/i]. It wouldn't do if he broke character for this... imbecile. He saw one of his compatriots shaking with mirth as they saw the man, going as far as let out barking laughter before covering his mouth. Did this count as humour? Was this what ruffians found funny? He kept his steely gaze and planted his feet firmly on the ground. He wouldn't confront the mutation. Yet.

The half-Pakistani averted his eyes to prevent the embarrassment that he felt for the man. He noted another man in a finer, more gentlemanly suit walk up to the two Russians he had been staring at. Now where was that second girl? He swore he could have seen two of them taking a picture of themselves. He started walking, peering into the crowd. He had to find her, he couldn't have a possible gang member out of his sight. He walked with a swagger, pushing some unaware partygoers out of his way, some quite roughly. He towered over most of them, he was quite a tall man with a large bulk. He had even pushed the cardboard man and some drunkards away, ignoring several attempts at conversation. He saw the girl, or rather, she saw him.

A pale blonde girl, who couldn't have been more than five feet tall, accompanied a brunette who was even shorter. He raised one eyebrow in rare surprise as the girl spoke in a clipped tone.

[i][color=f6989d]If you work for those Perfect Posse fools, please tell miss Olympus sends her regards. I do belive they managed to settle there issues... Eventually...  [/color][/i]

Jamal crossed his bulging arms and looked down at her, a bemused smile on his face. These people were starting to make a simple job into something much more complicated. He wanted to find her, not confront her. This made his job a lot harder. He snorted, keeping his character up. God he hated talking but acting made it easier. [color=IndianRed]"Lady, I have no idea who the Perfect Pussies are. I don't know who you or yo' companion,"[/color] he paused, eyes flicking pointedly to the brunette next to her [color=IndianRed]"work for. The word Olympus doesn't mean jack shit to me unless you're talking 'bout some Percy Jackson shit. I work for Delossantos princess, I ain't no Perfect Pussy and I don't have no issue."[/color] He tapped the patch on his arm, flexing slightly for effect. He grinned at her, showing rows white glistening teeth. Maybe throwing out the name of the cartel leader could elicit some sort of reaction.

But [i]Olympus[/i]? That wasn't a Russian name. He was missing something here. He had to find out who these people were.