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Gracious Conversationalist
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 Posted: Wed May 06, 2009 7:09 am
Private Metaplot-related RP between Rugovin (Graficcha) & Turner-Leigh Jackson (Indubitably)
Location: Downtown Vargash
Time: Vaguely arround midday
Weather: Sunny with the occasional breeze of freshness
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Posted: Wed May 06, 2009 7:30 am
Predatory eyes [a blazing, deep blue, bright against the dark tan of her skin and deep, almost black, brown of her hair] briefly scanned her surroundings as she moved smoothly, easily through the crowd, her brisk stride slowing as she approached her destination and slipped out of the foot-traffic to come to a stand-still outside the entrance of what passed for a post-office.
A pair of sunglasses were slid down from their resting place against her straight hair to cover the odd intensity of her gaze and only a slight brow furrow gave away her displeasure. It was always packed Downtown when the weather was this nice. Sunny, but not quite hot enough for discomfort and dehydration, with a slight cool breeze. Beach weather, if they'd had a beach, and just the time of day for it, too. A little after noon.
The woman, in casual non-descript clothing, neutral in tone, shifted until her back made contact with the side of the building, knowing she had another minute or two to wait before her next assignment would be delivered into her private lock box. In the meantime, she would people watch.
Turner-Leigh Jackson was the type of woman that, while not jaw-dropping upon first examination, grew more and more beautiful each time you looked at her. With a strong jaw, dark brows, and fierce eyes, she wasn't the type those weak of will went for [except in their dreams], and unless she was on a mission, her demeanor wasn't initially encouraging to those attempting a conversation.
Tall, lean, and capable, she was still clearly female, though her clothing was always modest, and generally boyish in type, if not tailoring. Slim, fitted black pants that led into high boots that stopped several inches below her knees, thin suspenders to match, and a light blue, tucked in button-up shirt of tougher fabric.
Behind one ear, near hidden by the dark hair that hit her lower-back, was her vice. A cigarette. Habitual, more than chemical, she often played it, rather than her gun, which she happened to prefer. She slid it free from its place now, slim, calloused fingers maneuvering it in patterns familiar only to herself.
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Gracious Conversationalist
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Posted: Wed May 06, 2009 7:50 am
Not all that ridiculously far away from miss Jackson, another quite nondescript individual was lounging against a grafitti-streaked wall like a common thug.
A rather tall man he was, with a sturdy build that didn't come from living like a couch potato, no. This one you just knew you could expect to lose a few teeth with if you came too close too fast. Wide, dirty double-layered pants, worn out and dusty from living in the 'out there', heavy boots that looked like they weighed enough to crush someone's hand on their own, a plain black jumper with a hoodie that shielded his face from the sun, yup. Not the type you have a pleasant chat with for no good reason.
Not as much aggressive as withdrawn he took up his space, and people didn't bother him. Like a rock in the ocean, the slipstream of people passed him by, dodging aside when they noticed him in their way. With his hands tucked into his pockets, he appeared to be staring at the floor, paying no mind to life revolving around him.
Appearances deceived.
Rugovin was keeping a very keen eye on his surroundings. Pale golden eyes -nothing special in Drente- scanned the perimeter, slowly, controlledly. He had time.
A gaunt adult face, that would have shown a slight pallor if not for the red tan on his cheeks and the tip of his nose from being outdoors most of the time. A strong nose, a sharp gaze, a rugged little unkempt hint of a beard on the tip of his chin. He looked like thirty, forty maybe, or a well-conserved fiftier, but people living in the conditions he appeared to be in tended not to age graciously. It was hard to see in the shadow cast by his hood, but this man had gotten his share of abuse. Small anomalies in his complexion, scars. A once-cut lip, a mark somewhere on his forehead, little scabs of paler skin on the bridge of his nose, cheekbones... Maybe he'd fallen through a window as a child, who knew.
He'd been here for hours, his force of presence enough to keep people at bay, observing, watching. Breathing, living, nothing more. Until not long ago, something had caught his attention. Something he recognised, that made him bristle slightly. If he didn't know better he'd claim it made his hair stand on end quite literally. Still, his slicked-back scruffy dark grey hair prickled in his neck when he saw her.
He'd spent the last while trying to discern why exactly she had attracted his attention, with stealthy glances her way from his choice spot.
From here he couldn't see her weapon, but instinctivey, he tensed up, flexing his shoulder and arm muscles and trying to keep up that illusion of casual-braindeadness.
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Posted: Wed May 06, 2009 8:14 am
Perhaps it was because they had similar natures, perhaps it was because they were both used to trouble, or perhaps it was pure coincidence, but Turner had noticed the male the moment she'd passed him, her eyes quickly scanning and cataloging him in her analytical, strategic mind.
She, smooth, casual, didn't visibly tense, though when he moved, so slightly, it was almost as if she could feel it, her only reaction a deeper furrow of her brow. No, he wouldn't see her weapon, carefully tucked into her boot, despite her license to use it [Jacks was the type to appreciate subtle behavior].
Pushing off from the wall, she turned slightly, facing him with most of her body, though he was several long feet away, to pull open the door of the post office, her blazing eyes seeking to catch his in a quiet threat/challenge before she disappeared inside.
As always, she was calm, collected business, unlocking her post box and removing a small envelope. Inside was a letter, which was simple, discussing nothing more than frivolities, and a pencil. She flicked her gaze over it, digesting its unimportant contents quickly before removing a pencil sharpener from her pocket. The pencil was soon turned to nothing more than shavings, and she gazed at these with seeming apathy before crushing them to nothing in her hands and disposing them in an ashtray nearby. The letter was folded and slid into a pocket, and within two minutes from entering, she was on the street again, every sense searching for her previous observer.
He didn't have the feel of Government to him, but one could never really be sure.
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Gracious Conversationalist
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Posted: Wed May 06, 2009 12:54 pm
Click click.
Feeling he'd been noticed, Rugovin clacked his tongue, producing a sharp noise. He huddled his hands deeper into his baggy pockets, lowered is head to hide a flash of annoyance.
That woman smelled of trouble. Not her scent, her entire being exuded something off-putting, and he did not like that feeling one. Bit. He felt the odd... things on his temples frizz up, and he reached a hand up to scratch himself behind his ear aggravatedly. When he looked back at the woman, he just barely caght he slipping inside the post office.
Now he quite bluntly stared after her, keeping himself immobile, frozen with his hand still in his cap. After thirty seconds he tapped a foot, melted out of the stasis and went back to looking like your common thug. This time the man didn't try to hide his piercing glare at the post office's door though, pale gold from under the hoodie. No more braindead here, people. Her look at him had been impossible to miss.
When she emerged again, his gaze had deepend to a harsh glare. Something about her incensed him, made his blood boil, his veins filled with a familiar rush. It almost hurt, in the most common of ways. Just pain.
Oh come on... he wasn't here to-
Why not. He didn't act according to a plan, that wasn't his intention. Plans were reconstructable. He wouldn't, couldn't risk that.
So if he had no, plan... why not.
Now pretty blatantly fixating her, he raised his head slightly, baring a fang at her in a clearly aggresive grimace. Still, he managed to divert the people around him, and not one ever got closer than a foot to his territory. Again tensing up, there was a subtle shift in his demeanour, his stature. You woke the cat, prodded the croc, lady. And he wants to know why.
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Posted: Wed May 06, 2009 3:58 pm
She smiled, the tugging at the corner's of her pretty, full mouth slight, but definitely there. Never a good sign, really. The fingers went of her right hand came up to unbutton her loose over-shirt subtly as she bent, appearing to stander-by to be adjusting a boot, but really loosening the clasp holding her first gun in place. The second and third were revealed a bit more, if only by the clear holsters now showing against the stark-white of the military-style tanktop she was wearing under the button-up. Still tucked in, it was now open to about her navel, providing the experienced woman with relatively smooth access to the weapons against her ribs.
This, she knew, the man would notice if he was more than a common thug. If he was a common thug, she wouldn't have bothered.
Now though she straightened gracefully, gaze somewhat amused from behind her dark shades as she strode closer, her body already beginning to pump out a mixture of intimidation and attraction. If he had business with her... Operative Jackson preferred to handle such matters without witnesses.
Her strong walk took her right passed where he stood, only two feet away, her deceptively relaxed stance keeping her highly aware of his body location and movements.
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Gracious Conversationalist
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Posted: Thu May 07, 2009 2:40 am
Ohoho... the kitten wants to play.
Rugovin was very well aware of her still open challenge. She was taunting him, and he felt like giving into it, too. There was no rational reason for this to turn into an exchange of growls. Only that nagging, twisting, burning, searing impulse of course, but he still hadn't decided if he wanted to listen to a call of instinct.
Madam, why are you tormenting me with your presence, why do you tempt me to come to meet you and snap your pretty head off your neck?
Rrrrr.
A low, warning snarl. Strange sound, it could be a dog's warning call, the warped sound of an ancient printer, a purr. So quiet he probably hadn't meant for anyone but himself to hear.
Don't come closer missy, I know you're armed, but I'm not harmless either.
But she did come closer.
Stop that.
She was out to get him, even before she'd known he was here. How was that even possible? No, recap.
There was no reason to become paranoid. All facts he knew is that they'd attracted each other's attention, in an uncanny unfriendly way. It had been impossible for him to overlook her, with that niggling, teasing, cutting warning signal still livid in a dark corner of his conscience.
Fight or flight, fight or flight.
She could be dangerous to him. The man wasn't too keen on danger, not like this.
Fight or flight.
The woman passed him by, aggravatingly close, alluring, compelling, challenging. Rugovin suppressed another snarl, made that clicking noise again. By now, there was no way to hide the fury in his eyes, all directed at Turner. No doubt, she was alert... but not as openly tense as he was.
Flight.
Not here. Not in all public, not in Vargash. Not with her.
Rugovin kept a tight control, tense enough to almost pull a muscle, forced her to move on, given a shove by the wandering crowd, until he had an opening.
The arrow was released, the bull cut free, the train departed. Kicking off from the wall he'd been leaning against, he launched himself forward, swerved, angled and was in full dash by the time he'd maneuvered through the slipstream of people. His only aim was to get away from here, from her. Of course his behaviour would set her off, she'd most likely follow. But the way he was headed they'd get to a deserted area soon, an industrial reign on the edge of Vargash. Once in the outlands, he was on his terrain. Still, he could idly hope he could outrun her. Not that he made himself any illusions... she had a critical advantage on him: flexibility and low weight.
All Rugovin had going for him was pure horsepower and a nigh inhuman stamina, but when it came to cutting corners, he'd ened up smacking himself into walls more then once. Oh well, he'd chosen strength over speed... Once, he'd been more like her. Once.
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Posted: Thu May 07, 2009 3:02 pm
Too-white teeth flashed in the sun as she felt him make his move, tearing off in the opposite direction, near-bulldozing his way through the crowd. He was strong, that was true, but Turner was all speed and skill. Agility, endurance, and training. She'd be careful not to get too close, as she lacked her blade, and only had a small dagger strapped below the guns in her shirt. Not the ideal, but she hated to leave loose ends. Someone who growled a challenge and ran? She couldn't take the chance that he'd simply come back another day, when her attention was occupied.
The city was hers, though she had plenty experience hunting down rogues on their own turf, and her lithe body was made for the quick maneuvers and sharp turns. She was on the hunt, not bothering to use the awkward path he'd made for himself, knowing he was heading for the Sprawl, she she thought of it.
When they broke from the crowd, from the witnesses other than those like them that kept hidden, to themselves, she felt a gun's familiar weight move smoothly into her left hand. He was ahead of her, sure, and she could probably catch up, but what then?
Best to begin now.
Her blue eyes were cool as she leveled the weapon toward him, skilled fingers squeezing off two bullet intended for his calves. He was clearly dangerous. No mercy was best.
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Gracious Conversationalist
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Posted: Fri May 08, 2009 6:14 am
Oh come on.
Leave me be, I never did anything to you did I? I only let my instincts get the better of me and glared at you like a bowl of pickles in pure acid... Don't be pissy now, kitten.
At least her picking up on the chase confirmed his suspicions that she was indeed of the dangerous kind. He'd never understand what was so fun about hounding after people who just minded their own business.
Okay, maybe he understood, a little. A bit much. Sometimes.
At least he had the way open now. It was easy to plough on through on wide open terrain like this. Sure he made a clear target here -damn those guns, he hated guns- but with some skill he might be able to avoid major damages. Major damages were filed as 'death' or 'incapacitation' in this case.
Gah, he'd hated the downtown, still did. This very sort of situations just didn't occur further up, deeper in the centre. Stupid, foolish, low-life hitmen, don't you people have something better to do then hunt down people who stopped giving a penny for your 'system'? Oh well, he had her on his arse now, no use sulking.
Either he gave it his all to shake her off, or he'd face her head-on and try to bring her down before she did the same to him. Both options had their share of risks and advantages.
As soon as they'd cut away from the crowd, he knew he had no protection from her long-range projectiles anymore. Again the odd feathery .. thingies on his temples bristled up, and he uttered an annoyed growl, glancing around just in time to see her take aim.
Kitten grew claws eh, whoops.
Having quite a few years of experience himself, he took a wild guess at what she was aiming at, and launched himself sideways. Close call, one bullet missed him, the other grazed his leg with a metal-on-metal sound and deflected without leaving a mark on him.
Thank ye gods for wide pants to become stylish, they were ever so handy to conceal his metal protectors. Lower and upper legs, his chest and forearms were all encased in decent-quality armor. It'd saved his life many times over, and it would most likely serve him well again today.
Flitting into a quite narrow alley inbetween two hangars, littered with obstructions, Rugovin plowed on, making full use of his redirected momentum to vault over the first blockade and carry on.
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Posted: Sat May 16, 2009 9:45 am
Yes, she prefered the open space, but that was simply for target practice. Turner-Leigh was quite used to working in tight spaces. She just didn't like the idea of getting too close to him. The speed and skill with which he'd jumped those barriers told her a thing or two about his raw strength, and that metallic sound was just what she needed to hear.
A frown. Better to learn about his hidden defenses from afar, rather than when it was too late. She would claw his underbelly out from him, much like the feline she was in his thoughts.
Still, as the attractive woman scaled the rusting metallic structures, taking the high ground, her blazing eyes near-mechanically scanned debris, tracking his movements.
He had an odd feel to him. A familiar one. It wasn't like the officials and officers she'd been killing the last few decades, no. It was like her old allies and enemies.
A brow crease.
Wouldn't that be interesting?
She spoke, her voice a throaty, low sound that she knew he would hear, brought to his ears by the wind. She would take a gamble.
"It's been awhile, friend. Foolish, for them to think you were all gone. I knew you were just biding your time." Her words, of course, weren't directed to him as an individual.
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Gracious Conversationalist
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Posted: Sat May 16, 2009 10:17 am
It was a good thing he couldn't read her thoughts as well as hear her voice, for Vin would most likely have given her an exasparated lecture on how to not jump to conclusions. On the other hand, his own first impression of her hadn't been too far off.
Get away from me will you... I'm not, seriously NOT in the mood for this, I had other plans.
"What...?!" he briefly glanced up over his shoulder, still going at that breakneck speed and vaulting over yet another obstacle.
"Woman, I have no idea who the hell you are, leave me alone!" he barked out, his voice slipping over the highest pitches just slightly and derailing into a dry rasp. ... and I don't have any ******** friends like you!
That last he decided no to add, wary of sounding like a whiny teenager as well as needing to spare his breath when he kicked off and took a sharp turn away from the building she had chosen as her upper ground, into another narrow alley between two hangars. Just as he flicked back into the shade, something clicked in him though. If she knew... if she'd found out, somehow...
He couldn't risk letting her live. Attention back on the path before him, Rugovin's demeanour shifted slightly, into a frantically calculating madness. He HAD to find out what she knew, how much. And if the balance leaned towards 'too much'...
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Posted: Sat May 16, 2009 10:28 am
"It's Jackson, boy."
Not woman, lady, or any variation thereof. Almost idly sliding the gun back up, she fluidly squeezed off another few rounds into the ally, more to irritate him and jumble his thoughts before he disappeared under cover again.
... The moment he did disappear, though, she was off like a bullet in the other direction, back toward where she came, leaping from her high perch and landing as perfectly as one could, to sprint back toward the city. It would be of interest to see how long it took him to realize she was no longer hunting him.
He had piqued her interest, and if they dragged this out now... One of them would probably have to die. She'd prefer to go to one of her homes and dig up what she could on him [she assumed she wouldn't find much of substance, if anything at all], or what he could be.
She didn't actually know anything. Yet.
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Gracious Conversationalist
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Posted: Sat May 16, 2009 11:34 am
When the brief flare of bullets passed him by, Rugovin did duck clear as much as he could, but indeed found it to be more of an annoyance this time then an actual attempt to bring him down. Small mercy.
Wait, she'd actually listened, that Jackson person? What did HE care about her name, for now she appeared to be off his back. Still wary of some sort of trick or ambush, he kept on going though, until he was safely out on the wasteland. From here he could finally get a clearer survey of his surroundings, and conclude he wasn't being followed anymore. Nobody had reacted to the sound of the shooting either.
Only once there was silence did he calm down somewhat, his grey feathers laying low against his temples again.
Alright now... think this over. If she recognised something.. That wasn't just any human, that was a hunter, a predator. He couldn't tell her age, he knew visuals weren't a thing to go by here in Drente, not with her folk. Uncertainty, yet another uncontrollable constant in his equation.
Damn.
If he really wanted to know, and he NEEDED to know how much she'd found out in this brief encounter, he'd have to seek her out again... On the other hand, he had no idea if it hdn't been entirely his fault for setting her off, and she might've mistaken him for someone e-... Mistaken, hah. Fact remained, if he faced her again he might really blow it up.
Choices, choices.
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Posted: Sat May 16, 2009 11:43 am
Turner made sure to slide her gun away, carefully buttoning her shirt back up as she slowed, merging into the city crowds with ease and heading for one of her quieter, subtle flats. It was a simple studio, one to lay low in, for research or when she'd just completed a mission.
She'd name-dropped on purpose, so that they'd be able to find each other again some way, since she doubted she'd ever dig anything up on him.
That frown touched her pouty lips again as she secured the door behind herself, her feet carrying her to where she knew some interesting, old, old files were.
Time to do some memory-searching.
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