Not that he had plans to do anything truly wrong or dangerous, Miles simply wanted to get a proper ID card with his chosen name on it. Something that more accurately reflected him.
Once upon a time, he’d been a student at Azure Valley Academy as Amal Ahern, but that wasn’t him anymore. His family had kicked him out due to his drug and spending habits (for some reason his police officer father simply couldn’t fathom why his son might enjoy smoking marijuana) and he’d decided that if they didn’t want to claim him, he didn’t want to claim them either.
And so, a high-school drop-out with his GED, he’d worked on finding a name that he felt suited not only his image, but also his personality better. Eventually he’d settled on combining two incredible black superhero characters: Miles Morales and Nick Fury. After settling on Miles Fury, he’d gotten a text from his mother checking in on him and saying she’d left a box of his things at his best friend’s house so that he could pick it up. Because he adores his mother, Miles decided to keep his first name - a name she’d picked for him - as his middle name in his new life.
And thus, Miles A. Fury was born.
Unfortunately, it was far easier to start going by another name than it was to actually change one’s name legally. He’d already put the paperwork through but was stuck waiting on the molasses slow bureaucracy behind approving such requests, a situation that did not please him at all, especially as he wished to put ‘Amal’ behind him as much as possible. So when he’d heard through one of his regular buyers that there was a big guy with an accent selling really top-quality identification cards, he’d jumped at the chance to get his papers early.
Which was why he was waiting for eleven to roll around - he was supposed to take the man’s fee to a coffee shop near the Destiny City University campus that was frequented often by students and wait for him to show up. The fee was a steep one, but that was only because Miles had requested that it actually be able to stand up under scrutiny - if he’d just wanted a run-of-the-mill fake ID to get into a bar, it would only have been seventy-five bucks...but it also wouldn’t have stood up under inspection more strenuous as the sort employed by bored, underpaid bouncers at dive bars.
The alarm on his phone that had been set so that he did not screw up and miss his appointment with the papers guy went off as Miles was putting his sneakers on to go out; skinny denim jeans in a dark wash, Nike brand sneakers, and an orange North Face dome hoodie over a Camp Crystal Lake print T-shirt in blue. He swiped his finger across the screen of his Samsung Galaxy J3 phone to kill the shrill chirping before it drove him batshit and then got to his feet; as soon as he had collected his wallet and deposited it into his back left jean pocket, it would be time to head out.
At the cafe, Miles picked up a white chocolate chip mocha with caramel drizzle and sat himself in one of the two-person tables, facing the entrance so that he’d be easily seen by his contact - and so that he would be able to observe everyone that came into the shop. He’d sent a photograph of himself to the dude (per some very exacting standards so that it would be usable for the identification card) but none had been forthcoming, so their meetup was wholly dependent upon the document maker.
Several customers came and went while Miles jogged his leg and tapped his phone nervously; a few minutes before the hour he decided to check a game he’d not played for months: Pokemon Go. Someone had apparently used a lure recently, as there were several waiting to be captured: a Hoothoot, Growlithe, Natu, Sentret, and a Bulbasaur. He tapped on the Growlithe and made an attempt to make the creature get in a great ball while sipping at his drink noisily. A glance around showed that he was not the only person attempting to play PokeGo while enjoying the coffee shop’s fragrant wares, but Miles wasn’t playing with nearly as much interest as the scone-eating blonde girl or the DCU student in the over-sized school sweater.
The door opened again to admit another customer, a broad shouldered brunet in jeans and a t-shirt that looked like he could bench-press Miles without breaking a sweat. The guy sauntered to the counter, ordered black coffee, and then headed directly for Miles’ table, sliding into the other seat with ease.
“You are Miles.” It wasn’t a question, “We have business.”
Miles was surprised at the accent with it’s rounded vowels, the deep but mellifluous tone so at odds with the harsh, icy expression belonging to the voice. So, he’s not American? I don’t recognize the accent though. He put the mystery of where his contact was from, what accent he spoke in, on backburner - he didn’t want to piss the guy off and he seemed the sort that might be fairly easy to annoy. “I am and we do.”
“Good. You will need to come back to my apartment. My equipment is there.” Pasi hated this part, where he was probably expected to engage in some small talk with someone he wanted to keep at an arm’s length. Normal looking guy, over-shared when he contacted me for this job...but that’s not unusual for Americans. I should be courteous, he is a client...and he’s going for the whole package, so… “You have my fee, yes?” Most of his work in the world of counterfeit identification cards was fairly basic - under-aged kids wanting to buy liquor or get into movies rated above their current age. Anarchy of the mildest sort, really. They didn’t need something that would hold up if they were pulled over and had their information run through the police databases. Miles did.
Granted, it helped that the guy was actually putting the paperwork through to have his name legally changed, so the work Pasi and his cohort - as he was not qualified yet to hack databases the way that would be needed to complete Miles’ request - only had to hold up until the documentation became truly legal. He also wasn’t asking for his birthdate and age to be changed, just his legal name before the notably glacial American Judicial system processed his petition and made the change officially.
He has nice eyes. Came to mind as Pasi watched his curly-haired companion nodding. “Do you want to get going sooner, or do we need to wait to finish coffee?” Although the Finn was doing his best to be politik about whether or not they stayed at the cafe to finish up their beverages, it was quite apparent that his preference was to get up and go sooner rather than later.
Which made sense when one thought about it, no doubt but that Pasi was a busy guy what with being a student (it had been mentioned by the guy that suggested Miles contact him) and all.
“We can go now man, coffee drinks just as well on the go as sitting.” He gestured magnanimously and began to push up from the table, “Oh, hey - man, you got a name?”
The Finn regarded Miles with an inscrutable expression before standing and answering. “Pasi” Though for how much longer that will be my identity, I cannot say. Still, it’s fine if he knows me as Pasi...it’s not like he would be able to also know me as Lauri after I am taken into the Negaverse. Nor would he be able to hunt me down visually, that glamour magic is stupid but also very useful at times. He was doing his best to be at least minimally friendly, after all.
Both men gathered their belongings and beverages before heading out, Pasi leading the way with his more diminutive client trailing slightly after him; it was quite nice for the Finn to not be forced to engage in meaningless drivel as they walked...and Miles seemed to be capable of realizing that walking side-by-side with shoulders touching or whatever just wasn’t the order of the day. Some folks never seemed to get that sort of thing through their heads - it infuriated Pasi when he was forced to not only point out that someone was entirely too close or being too familiar with him only to have them try to throw a guilt trip his way. Or curse words. As though his want for what he felt was a reasonable request for personal space was somehow an affront to the other party’s very <********> but he hated how stupidly tender Americans tended to be. Or maybe it was just...anyone that wasn’t Finnish? Either way, Pasi hated it, hated having to deal with it, with negotiating social niceties in a culture he despised on a good day.
Miles, meanwhile, was keeping his distance because Pasi had an expression that was kind of scary...and because any time he came even a little bit closer the furrow between Pasi’s brows deepened. So the guy liked to have his personal space un-invaded - that was fine. It wasn’t like Miles was there to make friends with the broad-shouldered brunet or anything, this was purely a business transaction. They didn’t have to become bosom buddies, just be civil until the job were completed and Miles had his swanky new ID.
Their unspoken ‘truce’ lasted only as long as it took for Pasi to bring Miles to his apartment and work station, for the required identification card (and faux holographic inserts) to be produced. Once that was over and cash had crossed hands, Pasi had no problem swiftly kicking the other youth out of his space.
Money did only buy so much, after all.
WC: 1,792
