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blindwooferSuspect #6
Suspect Six was relieved, to say the least, when the man greeting him at the entrance easily dismissed the fact that he was quite obviously late. He followed the authoritative figure obediently in silence as he was shown into the police station. So did that mean this was the detective? Probably. That would make the man Logan Colby if he was remembering it correctly. Suspect Six realized he was fidgeting and shoved both hands deep into his pockets to keep himself from appearing nervous as he tossed furtive glances around the unfamiliar environment. Oh how appealing a good smoke sounded just about now.
Once he was finally lead to what appeared to be a sort of debriefing room -a guess which he had concluded based on the several other people sitting in the said room who all were probably as confused as he was- Suspect Six quietly accepted the more isolated of the two seats offered and made no attempt to converse with any of the others. He'd simply rather they get this over with quickly so he could go home. Suddenly, there was a shout from someone else about another kidnapping and the meeting abruptly began.
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Logan Colby, Vincent, Tanya, Janette, Michael... The names floated lazily on a repeated cycle in Suspect Six's head as he tried to memorize them and the faces to which they belonged. He was almost intrigued by the stark differences between himself and the other four accused, in the physical characteristics of course but intellectual ones were automatically unavoidable. Even twins were never the same. Yet something, or rather many things, connected them all enough to be brought in for questioning. What could possibly match him with four other strangers he'd never even met before?
"... we can start." Suspect Six looked up from the floor as he suddenly realized that he was the one being addressed now. With everyone else having already introduced themselves he realized he was the last one left before the meeting really would begin. He cleared his throat and sat up straight in his seat, then looked awkwardly around the room as if he couldn't remember how he got there in the first place.
"Mishka Zholnerovich." Though he always spoke with an American accent, a habit he formed years ago which erased any and all signs of his European lineage for no reason at all other than to make it easier for people to understand him, his Russian accent thickly coated the words as the name rolled of his tongue. To him, that was the only way to say it properly -he hated the sound of it when anyone else unfamiliar with mother tongue tried and failed at pronouncing it. The cadence left as easily as it had arrived as he continued. "But everyone simply calls me Hannibal." Mishka realized he may have just seriously dug his own hole with that last one but it was too late now to take it back. Nicknamed after a cannibalistic serial killer, how coincidental was that? But the deed was done and Mishka decided to stop fretting over it, lest he induce an aneurysm.
