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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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 Posted: Fri Oct 29, 2010 6:39 pm
♪ ☼ ☮ ☁ ♫
cнίyøκø dαяℓίηg κøвαyαsнί
ίf тнεяε’s αηyтнίηg тø sαy
ίf тнεяε’s αηyтнίηg тø dø
ίf тнεяε’s αηy øтнεя ωαy
ί’d dø αηyтнίηg føя yøu
 Morning came late, as was not unusual, for Chiyoko Kobayashi. In fact, such odd sleeping habits probably were not unusual for many of the people her age in the big city. She felt her excuse was far better, if not much less believable. She had made her home a hotel that smelled of disinfectant. She'd been staying there for slightly above the usual fee. Two hundred extra a week, was the cost for the man behind the counter to forget that he'd ever seen her there, and to keep her key off the rack. The room was rented, and the spare was lost, was his run-to excuse. Although one had never been required of him.
Chiyoko threw back the blankets that covered her and sat up in bed, stretching her arms straight up. A big yawn escaped her lips, and she let rest on her face a happy smile. Finally, her feet touched the carpeted floor. It was clean, vacuumed until it seemed to assume a sort of softness. She was living the good life, in her opinion. Finally, Chiyoko drew herself completely from the warm confines of her bed, and forced herself to the bathroom where what proceeded was a much hastened version of her morning routine. She brushed her teeth, showered, washed her face, dried her hair, and, depending on the general feeling of the day, straightened or curled it. All of which was done in record breaking time, forty minutes, most of which was spent fussily styling her caramel locks.
Chiyoko was born and raised in America, but it was odd the way people automatically regarded her as a foreigner, or maybe an immigrant. In fact, from the time she was thirteen, she was not even raised by her own Japanese parents, but rather by a man who claimed to be Italian, though also said that it had been so bred out of him that he was, in essence, a mutt. The fluency of her language had not left her, but more and more it took her time to get back into the mindset. She'd had no one to practice on, after all, upon leaving the house of her parents. Chiyoko dressed to be noticed. It was reverse psychology, or at least, that was what she had been taught at thirteen years of age. You'll be remembered, but that's why they won't suspect you.
She'd taken all of Hawk's lessons to heart. Hawk was the man who'd, no pun intended, taken her under his wing from her teen years on. He'd been a father, himself, but that was all of his background that he'd ever shared. In Les Gens, it was bad manners to share anything that came prior to you taking up a new name, and throwing all of your material belongings to the wind. Chiyoko had arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back, running away from her home with her parents, who she believed would never even notice her disappearance. There were posters everywhere, and it had been a hard time for her. That marked the first time she dyed her hair, she started wearing sunglasses and hats, dressing to fade into the crowd, for fear of being spotted. Needless to say, she never was.
Chiyoko was of slightly less than average height, her parents had been surprisingly tall. Her hair was naturally black, but for the longest time she'd been dying it a kind of caramel color that was hard to describe as any particular set color. Her eyes were dark, and her skin unsurprisingly fair. She prided herself on her appearance, and worked hard on it despite her living conditions in a scummy hotel on the "wrong" side of town. It was somewhere between the kind of place that rented by the hour, and the kind of place that you wouldn't swim in their pool. Still, Chiyoko hardly seemed to mind, after all, with the money she had after giving up what had to be for her rent, she had plenty to spend as carelessly as she liked. Being raised by Les Gens meant she had never had to learn to be responsible, at least, not in the ways that society would've demanded of her.
Chiyoko Koyabashi, of course, was not the name that had been placed on the "Missing Persons" reports, but she'd nearly forgotten her name upon taking up her new one. She figured, and was correct in that, she'd never need it again. It was a ghost, not even the person she was anymore. In fact, Rin Sato had been a prim and proper young lady who looked always to her parents to know the manners she was to take up in the setting she was currently in. She always stood up straight, and her smile was small and insincere, she never laughed in front of company, and she was encouraged not to speak unless spoken to. Her parents were proud of the fact that they'd wrung from her every last bit of her personality, and that was why she'd had to leave. Maybe they'd missed her, maybe they hadn't-- Chiyoko had never thought about it, it wouldn't have been so wrong to assume that she didn't care. And why would she? Repeat: she was living her dream.
Chiyoko dressed comfortably in a pair of dark shorts, a black tank top, and a black knitted sweater whose stitches were so loose it would've been useless in cold weather. On her feet were a pair of black strappy heels. She wore a couple of low-hanging silver necklaces whose pendants were varying, and beyond that, very minimal jewelery. Rather than a purse, she carried her belongings in a gray field bag. She lined the inside of it with thin, though inflexible folders, so that the inside could be filled inconspicuously with whatever goodies the day brought her. The only thing currently there was her own wallet, and from it she slipped two Benjamin's, which she placed in her palm, and held her compact over. What would've made a better cover? A cell phone, though she didn't have one. No one in Les Gens did, it was strictly against the rules. She'd never had one, either, so there was nothing to miss.
Chiyoko made her way to downstairs and to the counter. It was her second rent day, and as expected, Jared Ross was seated there, a newspaper up, and a clipboard facing the other side of the counter. Chiyoko walked in from the hallway that led to the hotel rooms, and closed the lobby door quietly, as though she didn't want to disturb him. He was like a dog, and sat up quickly, ears pricked. Or, they would've been, had they not been hiding somewhere in the cap he always wore. "Mornin'" He greeted her as nonchalantly as he possibly could, under the circumstances that he was about to receive quite a bit of money.
The whole business was extremely paranoid, the way they made the exchange every week, and everything. That was all despite the fact that the security tapes from these weekly mornings were all "lost" sometime between their being made, and being stored. For whatever reason, he was afraid that something was going to go down, and a tape would be required, and in it there would be her and him, exchanging money for his secrecy-- and he would have to string together a great many lies, most of which he was going to inevitably forget. He was the one that demanded this sort of horrible secrecy. The vending machine was always fresh stocked, it seemed like, and Chiyoko was almost positive that it was Jared himself who ate most of its stock.
"Not morning anymore." She corrected him with that cheerful smile of hers as she approached the vending machine and looked through the glass. What she really wanted was a bar of chocolate. Without taking her eyes off of it, as if for fear that it was going to disappear, she asked: "Hey, do you have change for a ten?" He nodded, and even out of her vision she knew that he had. She approached him and dropped her compact on the floor, it thudded on the tile and skidded to a stop in front of Jared. They both bent for it, and made the transfer under the desk. Chiyoko let her have an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry." She told him simply, and stood again. She handed her a ten, and he gave her change, one five and five ones. She returned to the vending machine and watched eagerly as it cranked out her chocolate bar.
With that, she exited the lobby and was out on the street, but not before wishing Jared a nice day. He returned the wish, probably greedily stashing the cash away, but she didn't think over the lost money. There was plenty more where that came from. Chiyoko unwrapped the chocolate bar and took a bite. She didn't treat herself to candy very often, and even felt guilty about that one bar. She should've been eating breakfast, not this. It was small, and she finished it quickly. Well, it wasn't too late for breakfast, was it? Something healthy, she thought decisively, and then it was straight to work. xx xx ❝xxxx pίcκ pøcκεт xxxx❞
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Posted: Sun Oct 31, 2010 5:00 pm
 xxx xxx xxxxxxxxxx» nathaniel ethan allan xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx» gat the conman extraordinaire Last week had marked the eleventh anniversary of Gat's joining of the organization, and dropping his former life and all that had come with it. He liked not having to explain himself, hell, in a way, wasn't that what the whole thing was about? It meant becoming a new person, shedding whatever distasteful skin you'd grown over however many years. He'd left "real" life at fourteen, and he'd never looked bad. Gat's story wasn't exactly one that would cause any major tear shedding, but that hardly made it that happiest he'd ever heard. Yeah, there was worse sure, but it wasn't as if he'd heard them for himself. After all, if there was anything that was made clear to Les Gens, it was that you didn't have to share your story, ever. And most people, they didn't. That meant that, to you, all a person ever was was what they were at that moment, not what they were before Les Gens, because who they were was an entirely different person.
Gat had chosen his name with care, being that he had had an obsession with hard-boiled slang as a kid. Gat was gun the way heel was walk, in the general away direction. It was an easy choice for him, though he'd never actually handled a gun with the intentions of firing. Les Gens was subtle enough that no one ended up with weapons, blood shed was not what this was about. That would've made them as bad as all of the people on the outside looking in. Gat had, in the past, come into the possession of firearms, but more often than not it was a personal favor, him getting rid of someone else's, because he had his connections, and he knew where you could get rid of things where no one asked questions.
Pawn shops were this day's ocean, if you weighted it down enough, it would never resurface, or at least, not where it was unwanted. Gat didn't know much about that, hell, he made sure that he didn't have to. He had no interest in violence, past the typical staring into arcade screens and action movie s**t, he had never had intentions of getting his hands dirty, and something about washing the blood off of you sounded grotesque and barbaric to him. No, he preferred his word games. Why would he ever move away from them? He knew his targets well, and he was, like those around him, a master of his trade. There was no reason for him to be looking into a career change. At twenty-five, Gat figured he was the happiest self-sufficient young man in the world, he certainly acted like it, anyway.
Gat was living in an apartment, which was strictly against the rules. Though, the apartment wasn't his. He had a motel room, some ways away, but lately he'd been working an angel-- ahem, an angle. And it was nothing but benefit to him. Gat was shrugging back into his shirt, and dropping his fedora back atop his head, when she stirred in the bed only feet away. He wasn't worried, it was common knowledge to them both that what they had could end any day, any moment. It was a long, drawn out one-night stand. Hell, they'd hardly even exchanged names. She was a beautiful blond in her prime, and her apartment was a wreck. Mostly, that meant things went without being noticed, and one day, maybe she'd wake up and realize what had been happening. She'd give a description, sure, but they'd never find Gat. Not that he was a master of disguises, or anything of the type, but there were just too many people in the city, and they'd give up before even coming close to finding him.
In fact, this would probably be his last visit to the apartment. He'd collected his things and the pockets of the jacket he had draped over his arm was filled to heavy with jewelery. Probably, a lot of it was worth nothing, but there had to be something of value there. What Gat wasn't was a burglar, hell, he had nothing against them, but it was all to plain and simple. Too easy. Now, he was seeing the benefits, because it was just that-- easy. And there was nothing like the thrill of walking out someone's house with something of theirs, while they were snoozing only a couple of feet away. Gat slipped out the door and headed down the stairs, for the exit. He couldn't help the smile that lit up his face, today was going to be great.
Gat was tall and lanky. Usually, his eyes were almost half closed-- he looked tired. His hair was brown-something, and he kept a trimmed beard that kept him looking a little closer to his age. Contrary to theory, his height lent him a kind of awkward grace that he otherwise wouldn't have had, he moved fluidly, and he liked to think of himself as a kind of modern-day Scarlet Pimpernel, what in his cunning and charm-- not so much that he was saving French aristocrats from the guillotine. Gat was of dark olive-esque eyes, and dressed with a kind of formality that made anything else seem silly on him. The fedora, though was trademark, and he had no doubt that it would be the first thing on his description, should the need ever arise. That was why he was extra careful, though, because getting rid of his fedora would mean throwing out a good half of his whole identity, but it would be necessary, if the bulls ever started after him. Shame, that would be. Gat stepped into the pawn shop, smiling cheerfully at the man behind the counter.
There was an unspoken language between them, and the man knew exactly what Gat was, but not who-- no, never who. Gat didn't ask, because it was strictly against the rules, but he was almost positive that back in his day, that man might've been an agent of Les Gens, himself. He certainly had the look of someone who had frequented the presence of criminals. "Morning, sir." Gat greeted the man cheerfully, and he was returned the formality. He approached the counter and his hands delved into the pockets of his jacket, regurgitating handfuls of old-looking jewelery, taken from the very bottom drawers of the girl's jewelery box. She wouldn't miss it for a while, anyway.
The man behind the counter was old, maybe not old, but he was middle-aged. Fifties, or something. He looked like he'd had a hard life, but still managed to enjoy it. He had that air about him, but Gat had no doubts that he'd had a couple of brushes with the law. He looked over the jewelery, making a few off-handed comments. He was speaking absently, entirely to himself, and looked up as if expecting some obviously fake excuse out of Gat. He complied happily, always glad for the opportunity to sharpen his wit and spin of some falsities. "The wife, you know, out with the old, and in with the new."
"High maintenance, eh?" And the man laughed, though it was obvious that they both knew it was an outright lie. The man gave a number, counted out the money, and handed it to Gat. He gladly tucked it into his pocket. Wishing the man a good day, he stepped out and set his eyes on someplace for some coffee and food. He counted back the hours since he'd last had anything to eat, but the numbers got fuzzy sometime around last night. With someone so set on the future, how was he expected to so clearly remember the past?
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Posted: Mon Nov 01, 2010 4:07 pm
 I CAN MAKE YOU BELIEVE I AM WHAT YOU WANT ME TO BE.
Mary-Lynette Chandler.
But they call me "Kam" where I'm from.
Kamereon; Origin: Japanese ; Meaning: Chameleon.
I'm twenty-two years young.
Call me anything but honest.I'M A CON ARTIST, HONEY --I NEVER SAID YOU COULD TRUST MEXOXThe sunlight gleamed through the room, bouncing off of the eggshell walls and blinding the tired, hazel eyes of Kam. Tears that threatened to escape the confines of her sleepy eyes were suppressed just like the grogginess she felt. Her slender fingertips groped around at the white, cotton sheets that felt different to her. They were much nicer than the worn out sheets that she had been used to sleep on. Now that her mind came to realize it, the smell was off about the room as well. Her nose crinkled in dislike as her eyes grew more accustomed to her surroundings. Realization sank in --she wasn't in her own apartment, she was finishing up a job. Kam's head turned to her right and looked over the man that lay in the bed beside her. She knew his name, but that was only because she had gone through his stuff after he had satisfied himself into exhaustion last night. After promptly falling asleep, the brunette belonging to the infamous Les Gens had scoped out the apartment and rounded up the items that could be of use to her but the pickings were slim. If her impression of him was correct, then she knew why the house was so desolate and that was because she was almost certain this was an apartment he had on the side. Y'know, for his lays. Little did he know, that Kam was the one in control here.
Sitting up in the warm bed, she exposed her bare skin to the room temperature which was moderately cold for her liking. With a scowl towards the temperature, she swung her legs out of the bed and began collecting her clothes from the bedroom floor. Putting articles of clothing on as she hunted for her shoes, the brunette gave herself a once-over look in the mirror and combed her fingers through her hair to set the natural waves in place. The man known as Roger didn't mess up her hair too badly during their uneventful and dull romp last night, which benefitted her in the morning. Being a con artist is all about acting right?
After sliding the sleek, black dress back up her silhouette and reaching to the side in order to secure her dress with the zipper, Kam went to the sofa chair and picked up her purse. She slid her heels on and made her way towards the empty dressers where she had stored the goods she had found. Not worrying about whether she made noise or not, she started stuffing the important stuff in her purse, being gentle with the valuable stuff such as the nice watch he wore yesterday at the bar. The wads of cash and the credit cards she had found in his wallet were some of the more malleable things.
Smiling to herself, she glanced up and noticed that the man had woke from his peaceful slumber. The confusion on his face only made her smile grow wider, "Good Morning, Roger dear."
His voice was hoarse with sleep, "Mary-Lynette, what are you doing going through my things?" The look of confusion only heightened to enrage as he saw the brunette close the drawer conspicuously. The poor blonde really didn't realize what was happening? She felt pleased with herself knowing that the ruse of Mary-Lynette Chandler was still as strong as ever. It was comforting knowing that the man wouldn't find anything about this mysterious Ms.Chandler if he were to pry further into her existence.
Kam tossed her hair and turned to face the man, shrugging and taking a sudden and unnecessary interest in fixing the hem of her dress. "I was seeing whether or not there was anything good in there, but I guess all of your nice things are in your actual house." A fake sigh crossed her red-stained lips as her eyes flickered with the anticipation of cornering the mouse.
His instinct was to reach for the cellphone he had left on the bed-side table, but Kam had already dealt with that. The blackberry was sitting nicely in the zippered pocket of her designer purse. "No telephone? You see, normal people usually have a home phone... but I suppose this isn't a normal household, is it?"
"I can assure you, I don't know what you mean..." His voice sounding more defensive. Good, she almost had him where she wanted him.
"Oh? I see... excuse me for a moment." She flashed him a white smile before digging into the outside pocket of her purse and pulled out a picture. Her eyes glanced at the toothy grins that smiled back up at her. "I think your kids would agree that this isn't the household they're used to, and what on earth would your wife think about all of this sneaking around? Does she know you have a separate apartment for your... how should I say it? Engagements?" Kam watched him tense up when she mentioned his kids and watched hysteria flood into his eyes as she flashed him the picture of his wife that she had found in his wallet alongside the one of the children. Gotcha.
"What do you want?" That was the million dollar question right there. What did she want? Nothing that Roger could give her, that was for sure. Part of her wanted a more normal life and a completely separate part of her wanted to be the very best she could be in Les Gens. It was her greediness kicking in --she wanted everything and still wanted to be happy. Surely, both of them couldn't be in harmony but she'd try and find a way.
Kam shrugged and ran her fingers along the mahogany dresser's smooth surface, tracing imaginary circles with her fingers nonchalantly. "I don't believe you have anything left that I want. Unless..." Her words were dripping with the tease that she was so good at. The brunette was dangling a string in front of his nose, waiting, waiting for him to bite.
His eyes hardened; waiting. He diverted his eyes; waiting. The tension in his muscles loosened; bite. "Unless what, Mary-Lynette? I'll give it to you if you promise not to expose me to my wife."
"I do believe you're more worried about the press, aren't you, Mr.Claybourne. Now where does that sound so familiar? Aren't you some sort of big-wig business man in these parts?" This game was her forte. Kam knew just what to say to expose the weakness in people, which might classify her as heartless. The brunette preferred to be called good at her job since it was indeed her job to con people. "If you're such a powerful guy then I'm sure you wouldn't mind giving up that lovely stang of yours out there?" The silver mustang in the parking garage across the street was beckoning her. If she decided not to keep it then it would fetch a pretty penny.
Weakness. "Of course not... as long as you keep this quiet."
"You have my word." Irony. Nobody has the right to Kam's word.
Muttering some offensive words, Roger Claybourne rolled out of bed and picked up his pants from last night and rooted around in his pockets. With a frown forming on his face, he looked up to the sly smile that plastered Kam. She cocked her one eyebrow before leaning her weight on one leg, letting the keys to his Mustang jingle around in her purse. "Y'know Rog, you're sort of cute when you're all flustered."
With that, she blew him a kiss and crossed the room to the door leading out of the apartment. With a satisfied sigh, she quickly made her way down the stairs and onto the street below where she tossed her dark brown locks and looked up to the window where she knew Roger would be standing. As if he were still loosing the game, he proved the brunette right by watching her leave the apartment with a scowl on his face. With the keys in her manicured hands, she spun them around her finger tauntingly before crossing the street and entering the parking garage.
She wasn't worried that he'd squeal. Even if he did, it wouldn't be the first time that Kam had evaded the fuzz.
With a smile, she handed the keys to the parking attendant and he fetched her new, beautiful Mustang. Kam had a weakness for cars because so many people had a weakness for them. Cars were always a great way to end a job. Handing the attendant a tip from Roger's wallet, she sat in the lovely, leather seat and turning the key in the ignition. The stang roared to life and as she took off, classic rock blared through the speakers. At least the man had a good sense of taste in music.
She couldn't say the same about his taste in women.
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Posted: Fri Nov 12, 2010 6:11 pm
♪ ☼ ☮ ☁ ♫
cнίyøκø dαяℓίηg κøвαyαsнί
ίf тнεяε’s αηyтнίηg тø sαy
ίf тнεяε’s αηyтнίηg тø dø
ίf тнεяε’s αηy øтнεя ωαy
ί’d dø αηyтнίηg føя yøu
Sure, there was always time for breakfast. Most important meal of the day! Chiyoko put on her usual sunny smile as she started the walk toward the diner where she intended to have breakfast. It was a place familiar to her, that was crowded enough where she could not be wasted special attention on, but she was often recognized by the usual waitresses. She left generous tips, paid in cash, but was never unfriendly. Most places she went, there wasn't a single complaint against her to be found.
Chiyoko stepped up to the door and leaned forward to pull it open, only to find the door far to light. She walked straight into a fellow patron who apologized quickly, offered her a bit of a grin, and walked on. She muttered her dazed response, and he was gone before she could thank him for buying her lunch-- of course, it wouldn't have made much sense to him, anyway, considering that he didn't yet know what great favor he'd done her.
The wallet was brown leather, filled with tipping money. It was getting easier for them to track stolen identities, and credit cards-- that was why Chiyoko did away with them, that didn't mean she destroyed them, they usually still ended up stolen, simply by someone with far less prowess. Hell, let them be caught, she couldn't be bothered. She stepped into the crowded dining room and slipped the cards out of the wallet, setting them on the counter beside the register, where no one was currently stationed. She raised a hand in a wave to a passing waitress, one who was familiar to her as Sarah, a hard working single mom, with two kids and too many bills to pay. She always looked tired, but she was never without the best smile she could manage despite her exhaustion.
Chiyoko took a seat by the window, and slipped the wallet into her purse, before setting that in the seat beside her. She didn't have to look at the menu, and it was likely that the waitress didn't have to ask her what she wanted, but it was all a matter of routine-- a formality, even. While it took longer, there was no sense in upsetting the way that things were meant to be.
"Good morning, dear, what'll you be having?" She asked, through she was already scratching down Chiyoko's order. She was always one step ahead, trying to remain as on top of things as possible, saving time. She had just finished looping the 'l' in bagel when she turned a smile on the young woman, trying not to look impatient, though it was pasted all over her face.
"Just a coffee and a bagel, thanks." The waitress was just turning to leave, with a quick nod of her head, when Chiyoko stopped her with only a couple of words. "Did you get a hair cut? It looks great, I almost didn't recognize you coming in." The girl's smile was radiant, and sincere. Chiyoko didn't like passing in and out of other people's lives, being only an ordinary moment, and then disappearing unnoticed. Though that was the way that life in Les Gens demanded of her, she wasn't willing to give it up, she liked being remember, and she'd found that this was the easiest way to do it without risking anything to important.
"You noticed? Thanks!" With that, she disappeared with her little notepad back in the direction of the kitchen, walking with a new air of confidence. Yup, this day would not go unmarked by another person touched by the grace that was Chiyoko Kobayashi, better known as Darling Pick-Pocket of the Les Gens.
Though, really, Chiyoko wasn't quite so vain as all of that, hell, her ego was only as big as it needed to be for her to keep up her graceful presence and feeling of cool confidence. Sometimes, it was too easy to get a big head, when it seemed like you were the smartest person in the city, above the law, and certainly above the targets that you seemed to tackle with only the greatest of ease. It wasn't an attitude that Les Gens approved of, but that didn't mean it didn't happen. Chiyoko could name a dozen names of men and women whose success got into their head, and they ended up dead.
Her coffee arrived on a black plastic tray, and was placed before her steaming from a coffee cup that advertised some local shop only a couple blocks away. Her bagel was on a white plate, seated beside individual containers of butter and jelly. Chiyoko thanked the waitress, and set about the hard decisions that had placed themselves before her. How much creamer? How much sugar? Grape or strawberry jelly? Cut the bagel in half, or not?
Despite the large amount of stalling she seemed to be doing, Darling loved her job. Hell, she lived for her job. Serving the Les Gens was the greatest thing she thought she could ever do with her life, and she had absolutely no regrets. Stealing straight out of people's pockets had a kind of great scandalous satisfaction to it, she felt like Robin Hood, almost, liberating money from people who otherwise would've used it to buy material things they didn't need. It was only around Christmas that she slacked off, maybe resorting a little more to shoplifting, hell, she didn't mind stealing from corporations, but the idea of stealing the money a parent would use to buy a kid that one toy nearly broke the poor girl's heart.xxxx❝xxxx pίcκ pøcκεт xxxx❞
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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Posted: Sat Nov 13, 2010 6:08 am
||The name's >> Anya Kia Hartstraite, Undercover Detective||
||You have the right to remain silent.||  Her thin body twisted up in the once-crisp sheets, dampening her pillowcase with sweat. Panting, she woke with a start, tumbling over the side of her bed. “s**t,” she cursed, untangling herself from the twisted sheet and setting it in a bunch beside her. She sat still for awhile to catch her breath. That same nightmare.
Anya brushed it off. It wasn’t as if it was really even a nightmare; she couldn’t remember it. All she remembered was dark, a feeling of panic, and waking up in a cold sweat. It had gone on for a few days now, but she figured that she had nothing to worry about. It would run its course eventually.
Stumbling into the cramped bathroom in her teeny apartment, Anya began to start her day. Yeah, she lived in a pretty slummy apartment for a cop, but that’s what you got when you were single and undercover. She didn’t mind much – she was used to the slums already. She didn’t come from a broken home or anything – actually, Anya’s parents were both from high-end bloodlines. Her father was a doctor that had gone into the army about four years ago, and her mother was a smart investor and reported the local weather in her hometown. They were proper and loving, but they weren’t so adept at handling their rambunctious teenage daughter. So as much as she loved them, Anya left at sixteen to backpack through Europe, without more than a few basic necessities and the clothes on her back. With her adventurous spirit and a few friends along the way, she hiked through Italy, France, and even Germany – her father’s birthplace. She learned how to live on her own, and more importantly, how to take care of herself.
Anya brushed her teeth and pulled a comb through her short, black hair. Recently, she had dyed the underside of it hot pink, and the strands shone through the black at erratic intervals. Uniqueness was one of her prides, although she didn’t get to exercise it much, especially on the job. Her clothes laid on her nightstand, selected and set out the night before. She took her time getting dressed, pulling on a close-fitting monochromatic-striped blouse and loose black jeans. With more thought, she grabbed her favorite hot pink cropped jacket to add to her ensemble. Anya was one for standing out, but for the purpose of her job was always made to blend in. On days like this, however, she decided it best to follow her passion. After all, today was one of her rare days off. She had to take advantage of the morning.
And taking advantage also meant enjoying it. Opening the refrigerator, she frowned upon her discovery… or rather, a lack of discovery for decent food. “I’ll go down to the café,” she mused aloud. Why not splurge on breakfast? Today felt like it was going to be a good day. Anyways, tomorrow she was back to work again, and she wouldn’t get another vacation in awhile.
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The morning was brisk and not too hot, either. Anya cruised down the sidewalk with a bounce to her step, a dog-tag flapping gently along her neck. The choker had been a present from a friend… a close friend. She couldn’t say she knew his real name, because he never shared too much about himself. He called himself Aeus. They met on accident, bumping into one another in an alley back in Italy. He wasn’t Italian, but he spoke the language with a fluency that had startled her at the time, and she was instantly dazzled by him. He helped her find her way around the country, and traveled with her back to the States. He was a loyal friend, and taught her most of the tricks she knew, and her way around the streets. I was so young then, she thought, not breaking her stride. Three years it’s been… They became close despite the secrecy of Aeus’ own life, and were never apart. He had wanted so much more than a friendship, she had known that – but he never voiced the opinion, happy staying silently faithful by her side as her travelling companion. It wasn’t until the day she told him that she had made deputy officer that she saw a glimmer into Aeus’ private life. Although she couldn’t say she knew enough about him to know if he had a record or was into anything illegal, Anya knew something was wrong, because he had reacted very negatively to the news. The day after she found out that she was on the force, he came to her with news of him leaving.
How long?
I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I will come back.
Promise?
I promise.
And he gave her the collar that same day. The dog-tag was engraved with symbols she didn’t understand; he said that it was something he had wanted to say to her, but couldn’t just yet. So she held on to that promise as wore his necklace every day, though with each passing year she had less and less hope, she never gave up.
Anya reached the café, less bouncy from mulling over the thoughts in her head. I need to eat, get my mind off things. She ordered coffee and a large pastry with strawberry filling and took a seat by the entrance. There she began one of her favorite pastimes: people-watching.||No one is above the law.||
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