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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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 Posted: Thu Feb 03, 2011 3:38 am
Тнз UηDзяGя0UηD__$$This is your typical big city. It is a place of opportunity, to start a new business, to find love, or to get robbed. Crime wasn't any bigger a problem than for other cities until some 10 odd years ago, an organization came up from the ground. At first it was small things, petty theft, pickpocketing. Those small crimes grew in number, until the public cried out for it to stop.
"Get straight and wait here while I try to find the exit sign"
The organization was created to help those that wouldn't survive otherwise. Runaways, those that are down on their luck. All they demanded was that you give up your old life, and you become someone different. You undergo a physical transformation, and you never use your real name again. The organization renamed you, and they became your family, your only home.
"Keep one eye on the door, keep one eye on the bag"
Those of the organization live on a hundred false names, but their "real" name is the one that they are given. These are known only to others of Les Gens, and they cannot be used in the presence of outsiders. Those of the organization may not seek each other out in public unless in emergency, they may not be seen together when on a job, but at a single glance they can spot each other out as family.
"You're working for the police and the private, the pirates and the pilots"
Les Gens is stronger than it's ever been, and it has the entire city under its thumb. The last little nuisance is the police, who have launched an all new effort to take them down. Someone has to come out on top, and who will it be?
"Fingerprinted waiting for the train"
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Posted: Thu Feb 03, 2011 3:41 am
 xxxxx▄︻┻┳═一xxxxxPost your profiles in the profile thread.xxxxx▄︻┻┳═一xxxxxYou may have more than one character, but make sure you can keep up with them.xxxxx▄︻┻┳═一xxxxxFollow Gaian ToS. Fo' real. Just be decent in general, I promise you haven't forgotten how.xxxxx▄︻┻┳═一xxxxxYou know the Guild rules, follow 'em.xxxxx▄︻┻┳═一xxxxxIf you're gone too long we have the right to kill/ arrest your character and move on without you.xxxxx▄︻┻┳═一xxxxxYou look very nice today, did you do something new to your hair? God, I love you.xxxxx▄︻┻┳═一xxxxxLes Gens/ The Force doesn't encourage violence (Les Gens less so than The Force), but accidents do happen.
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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Posted: Thu Feb 03, 2011 3:43 am
 PM me with ideas for moreLes GensTo be accepted into Les Gens, you must be ushered in by another member.
That member becomes your closest family, but you must have a
surrogate mother or father. Often, they will be or have a relation
to the member that takes you in. These people are responsible
for you until you receive your name, and are given the names of
those you are related to. As a member, you receive a "mailbox",
a place where you will receive your tasks and daily messages.
Often, your task is an amount of money, but sometimes there
are more pressing ones. The amount is due to whatever the
current headquarters are by that evening. More urgent messages
can be found in graffiti, and posters around the city. They will not
call attention to themselves, so you have to keep your eyes open.
Being arrested, or your birth name otherwise coming to light is the
only way to be exiled from the organization, but even exiles usually
have strong loyalties to Les Gens. In death, you receive a small memorial.Drug Dealers
Pick Pockets
Shop Lifters
Burglars
Con ArtistsCopsPlain Clothes
Regular
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Posted: Thu Feb 03, 2011 3:44 am
Les Gens  xx xx The name's Taylor Katie Williams, but they call me RockaBilly. I'm
Twenty-Two years young, and I've got a criminal record. I've killed
a man in the name of Les Gens, and I'd do it again. This has
been my life for Eight years, and I
wouldn't trade it for the world. I've got the esteemed role
of Pickpocket, and most would call me Stubborn. xx xx The name's Vince Aaron Faraday, but they call me Lyric. I'm
Twenty-Three years young, and I've got a criminal record. I've killed
a man in the name of Les Gens, and I'd do it again. This has
been my life for five years, and I
wouldn't trade it for the world. I've got the esteemed role
of Conman, and most would call me brotherly.  xx xx  The name's Nathaniel Ethan Allan , but they call me Gat . I'm
Twenty-Three years young, and I've got a criminal record. I've killed
a man in the name of Les Gens, and I'd do it again. This has
been my life for 7 years, and I
wouldn't trade it for the world. I've got the esteemed role
of Conman , and most would call me analytical . xx  xx  The name's Marie Lynn Freehwart, but they call me Ghost. I'm
Twenty-Two years young, and I've got a criminal record. I've killed
a man in the name of Les Gens, and I'd do it again. This has
been my life for four years, and I
wouldn't trade it for the world. I've got the esteemed role
of Burglar, and most would call me quiet. xx  xx  The name's Delilah Montana Donovan, but they call me Calypso. I'm
twenty-two years young, and I've got a criminal record. I've killed
a man in the name of Les Gens, and I'd do it again. This has
been my life for five years, and I
wouldn't trade it for the world. I've got the esteemed role
of Drug dealer, and most would call me sultry.
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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Posted: Thu Feb 03, 2011 3:45 am
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Posted: Thu Feb 03, 2011 3:47 am
just try and
xxxxxxxstopx
xxus.
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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Posted: Thu Feb 03, 2011 5:57 pm
 yøu cαи’т мακε мε
αиd
yøu ωøи’т вяεακ мε
pίcκ pøcκεт Rockabilly Williams as a girl twenty odd years of age, one that no one missed enough to look for. It'd been a long time since that stage of her life. It was hard to believe, considering her winning smile and business smarts. Probably, it was her personality. It'd been a long time since her personality had been in any position to get her in trouble, and because those days were over she no longer put a rein on it. Billy could be many things, all in one moment. More often than not, she was hardheaded and stubborn, even against her own good, sometimes she was flippant, sarcastic, and quick to offense.
Often, though, Billy was friendly, she was conversational and full of quirky jokes and decent conversation pieces. Home for Rockabilly Williams was a hotel that stank of disinfectant. It was clean, but it could be easily imagined dirty. The scent of the day was regret and shame, though Billy had little to feel remorseful of, even in her short twenty-two years. It wasn't her emotional baggage that was stinking up the place.
Billy's things sat in a vintage suitcase beside the door, for a quick getaway. She didn't settle in one place for too long, she didn't like just anyone being able to track her down-- and the people that should be able to find her, were able to find her should they need to. But it was strictly against the rules for anyone of them to be seen together doing anything that could be perceived as organization business. It only made sense, after all, that they were to carefully cover their tracks to avoid any unwanted suspicion.
Sometimes it was hard to worry, though. Les Gens was going stronger than it ever had, at least, in Billy's existence here. It was difficult to remember that they still faced dangers, no matter how insignificant a threat the police seemed to be. What Billy knew, though, was that someone had taken a move of warning. It was stupid, dangerous, even a little inhumane, but part of Billy knew that it was brilliant. It was magnificently well-thought-out, and the one who did it would never be caught. But there would be repercussions. After all, Les Gens was not an organization that promoted violence. But they had to face it, this was their battle field.
Billy stood in the big bathroom mirror, her reflection copied and pasted a million times between the mirror in front of her, and the one behind that served as a closet door. She carefully pulled her fingers through her loose curls, and dusted off her dress. It wasn't hard for her, trying to stay unnoticeable, it was something she'd grown very used to in her time in Les Gens. The hardest part, was not acknowledging those she knew around her. Her extended family. It was difficult not to offer them any more than eye contact.
But it had been a long time since that was a serious problem, and by now it was only a minor problem. Billy stepped out of the bathroom, and picked her purse off of the bed. Her purse was almost comically large, and it faintly reminded her of the bag from Mary Poppins. As if she could pull anything out. But the point of it was to hide things, mostly wallets. She could collect a great deal of cash and wallets in the course of a day, and she hated for it to be obvious, what she was carrying.
A couple blocks away from the hotel room she rented, Billy found herself a virtually empty parking lot in front of a building that seemed to be collapsing into itself. On the edge of the parking lot was a broken down truck, that looked as if it were due to be towed off several decades ago. Billy boldly met it at its grave, and shoved her arm into the window, careful to avoid the glass that had long since been broken. It seemed as if it had taken forever for her to find what she was looking for. A manila envelope graced her with its presence, but she knew better than to open it in a place like this.
She carefully removed the contents and pushed them into her bag, and dropped the envelope back through the window. Message received. Quietly, Billy wished for a more interesting job, rather than the usual amount of money that was due. Her job never grew monotonous, but it seemed significantly less fun when she knew that there were others out on the streets who had been told to distract cops, or mislead detectives.
Billy walked briskly away from the truck, as if abandoning a corpse in the middle of the parking lot. Her next destination was coffee. Sure, she could function without it-- but why would she want to? After that, she promised herself, it was straight to work. Besides, Breakfast was the important meal of the day-- and Billy was sure that her stomach would be none too pleased with missing it.
Billy's dining place of choice was a very modest diner on the corner of two relatively busy streets. That meant that the place was always bustling, which meant it was a good place to lose someone, or happen to let them escape your attention. The waitress walked up to the table that Billy had chosen, and offered her a beaming smile. "Kathy! How are you?" She asked cheerfully. It wasn't her fault that she got Billy's name wrong, everyone did-- and on purpose, too. Billy had a different name to supply to everyone she met. Sometimes it was hard to tell when someone was talking to her, or to someone who was brave enough to give a real name.‘cαusε ί κиøω ί’м α мεss
нε døи’т ωαииα cℓεαи up
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Posted: Thu Feb 03, 2011 8:02 pm
xxxxx♫ ♪xxxlyric
xxxxx♪ ♫xxxconmanLyric flipped through the bills, they were smooth, fluid motions-- well practiced. He counted them and, trusting his initial number, folded them into his wallet. It was getting full, even with his nightly contributions to the organization. Lyric, having forgotten that he had yet to, buttoned and zipped up his pants. He shrugged back into his shirt and started, but didn't quite get around to finishing, buttoning it up. As he bent to pick up his shoes, his free hand plopped his hat atop his head.
Lyric moved quietly out into the hallway of the apartment building, where he slipped back into his shoes. It had been a good morning, the way most were, and he couldn't quite resist the urge to whistle a tune. He whistled a slower, and slightly more possible, variation of Take Five-- an old jazzy number that he'd been particularly fond of, even in his childhood.
Lyric had not always been Lyric, the same way that Ghost hadn't always been Ghost, or Billy Billy. They all knew that about each other, after all, none of them had been born into this life. But Lyric only knew how Lyric became Lyric, the others weren't stories for him to know. His story wasn't even his to share, not anymore. Vince had been dead for a long time, now, a good five years. Lyric had attended the funeral, but from such a distance that he wouldn't be noticed. He'd worn black, and let his hat fall forward as to conceal his face. Vince had hated wearing hats and sunglasses, said they were artificial.
Now, though, Lyric's life was artificial. He lived under a thousand false names, and he lied more than he spoke. He confessed attractions that didn't exist, and made promises he had no intentions of keeping. He started relationships he didn't end, and took that which wasn't his. He was going straight to hell, but at least he was enjoying the ride. He wouldn't have preferred it any other way, though there were plenty that would've objected. Vince had been raised to know, very well, the difference between right and wrong. It was drilled into him, so much so that he was practically a slave to his mother's ideals. Well, no more. According to the record, Vince died in an accident that turned his car into a charred black crisp. Lyric wasn't sure how that had worked out, but he was sure that money had been passed under the table.
Lyric whistled cheerfully all the way down the stairs of the building, and onto the street. It was only halfway down the block that he realized that it might be in his best interest to button up the rest of his shirt. He was by even the highest standards a slob, though he didn't exactly have the best memory or longest attention span.
Breakfast was out of the question. Lyric was already running late, and at this point his fuel was his motivation. He kept an eye out for any new posters or graffiti. There was a war starting, and he would not be left behind in news about it. He had no doubt that some of them would be in awful trouble when it started up, what with the stunts that had been pulled. Lyric stopped at a crumbling apartment complex. The mailboxes sat on the side of the building, the lock visibly broken on one of them. Lyric slid it open and found an envelope taped to the inside.
He pulled it free, and found in it precisely what he was looking for. He replaced the folder where he'd found it, and folded the note in his wallet. A cash amount, and a task? Sure, it was more exciting than some of the days he'd had, but how did they expect him to accomplish all of that? It wasn't as if the organization were working them to death, but with such tension throughout it was hard not to step up the security, they needed to be ready for whatever it was the police threw at them.
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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Posted: Fri Feb 04, 2011 3:35 pm
Homeless was the derogatory. Mostly, because his lack of permanence was his own choice. It was a lifestyle he had claimed his own seven years ago, upon dropping the name Nathaniel and trading it in for something a little more suiting-- Gat. Currently twenty-three, that meant that he had given up his family at only sixteen years of age. Before that, really. But it wasn't something he often discussed, after all, everyone from Les Gens seemed to come from a somewhat sordid past, and they weren't expected to share. In fact, most people preferred not to hear about the past of others.
As soon as you accepted the responsibilities of becoming a part of Les Gens, it was as if you were being born again, a different person. It was corny, sure, but it was true. It had been years since Gat had heard anything about his parents, and while they hadn't been particularly bad people, he preferred it this way. They were separated by a safe difference, and a growing list of crimes. His parents wouldn't be proud of the person he'd become, and so let them think what they would.
Gat stood up stiffly from the bench where he'd been sitting, and idly dusting the cuffs of his jacket, as if dust might've collected there in the time he'd been sitting. It'd felt like forever. Despite their power, Les Gens were in a tough spot. Most people he knew weren't worried, but that was because of their nature. They were laid-back people, that was one reason Les Gens was so well-populated. Most people weren't interested in clocking in and climbing the ladder. It was better, here.
Gat couldn't say he was worried, either, though. While he understood the dangers the organization faced, he was not only sure that they would overcome them, he figured they would come out on top. But this was the time that would determine that future. Someone had messed up, and done something stupid. There was not supposed to be violence in Les Gens, but it was sometimes unavoidable. A politician promised that he would put a stop to the rising crime rate, and that was his mistake. Sure, it was his job, but how would Les Gens handle it?
Their intention was to ignore it, but it became impossible. There was sent some plainclothes guy, asking the wrong questions to people too loyal to give the answers they wanted. It sounded impossible, people being loyal to an organization that was robbing them and their fellow businesses blind, but being arrested meant that you lost your place in Les Gens. Which meant that, when you got out of jail or after your trial, you could not return-- you had to return to the real world. But you never lost your loyalty.
For being undercover, he got himself found pretty quick. And that was where he made his mistake. Someone didn't think ahead, they were rash, and stupid. They got violent. Gat couldn't help it, his eyes fell on a single car in a parking lot. It looked new, and he had no doubt that its license place would pull up some hardworking citizen, but he could imagine it keyed up and scratched, the windows busted, and the smell of decay escaping through every possible hole. He could imagine paramedics, and cops crowded around it, journalists snapping pictures.
And then the headlines, the next day. "Cop killed, Crime out of Control" That would be it. That would thrust everyone into action. The cops would get tougher, there would be cameras in stores, and people would be wary of everyone, then Les Gens would snap down. The rules would get tougher, maybe they would stop accepting altogether, they would tense up like a spring, and wait for the upcoming war to point it at someone. It wouldn't end well. Gat found himself restless. Maybe he was more nervous than he had initially thought.
It wasn't as if it was unreasonable, his apprehension. Anyone could be a cop, anyone could be the one that could make a mistake, and give away something, anything. That would be it. Gat couldn't afford to lose his life with Les Gens, he had no place else to go, and nothing else to do. He'd spent his life here, and he wasn't willing to go back to the real world with his tail between his legs. Gat shoved his hands into his pockets, and crumpled the note that lied there, waiting.
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Posted: Fri Feb 04, 2011 11:20 pm
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo ▷ ▸ so let go, l e t go Sunlight poured in like cloudy honey through the octagon-shaped window, sending warm, lazy rays across the scarcely decorated apartment of Delilah Montana Donovan, otherwise known as Calypso. Dust sparkled and swayed in the morning light and drifted like will-o’-the-wisps about the room. The majority of the dust—which wasn’t much at all—seemed content with floating about and looking lazily pretty. One speck, however, was caught in a separate draft of air—one heading directly into the finely pointed nose of the apartment’s dark-haired inhabitant. It tickled its way in. The nose twitched once, groggily, and it’s owner rolled over with an incoherent grumble. The nose twitched again then stilled. Calypso awoke with a sneeze, her sulky blue eyes flying open and grumpily glaring at the rafters above her bed.
Her dark make-up from the pervious night was smudged, but, rather than making her look slovenly, merely added to her constant air of careless sexiness. Her eyelids drooped shut and the twenty-two year old drug dealer rolled over in her bed, her blankets treacherously tangled between her legs, and buried her face in a pillow smelling of alluring perfume and sleepiness. No sooner had she made herself comfortable then a tinny buzz rang from her alarm clock. She cursed vehemently and swatted at the devilish, hopping thing. It toppled off her nightstand and clattered to the hardwood floor where it continued to spin and scream. With a resentful purse in her lips, Calypso rose from her bed and kicked the clock, dragging her blankets with her.
She ran a hand through her dark mane of hair and pulled her comforter up around her shoulders before padding groggily into the kitchen. She slammed the cabinets a bit in search of a mug, one hand tightly securing her down cloak, and glanced reluctantly at the sink filled with dirtied mugs and Chinese food containers. She was just about to shakily approach the mess when her eyes snagged on a mug cowering atop the unused refrigerator. Hopping up on her toes, the sleepy-eyed beauty swatted at the thing with her fingertips until it was close enough to properly grab.
She flicked on her Bunsen burner and set a battered teakettle on its surface before sulking away into the bathroom for a shower. The unspeakably hot water washed over her slim frame, sending the previous night’s exploits spiraling down the drain. A resigned little sigh escaped her lips. She was awake, good and proper.
Calypso squeaked the water off with a lazy flick of the wrist, emerged, and swaddled herself in a luxuriously soft towel. She stepped gingerly over the discarded blanket—lying in a heap before the bathroom door—and plucked the teakettle off the burner right before it began to shrilly whistle. She poured the boiling water into the depths of the chipped mug and tossed in a tea bag before slinking off to her bedroom to change.
Calypso reemerged with her hair meticulously mussed and mostly clean eyes. She’d rubbed off the bottomless black eyeshadow from the night before, but contented herself with leaving her liner smudged and sultry. Her outfit was simple and non-descript, though the way she carried it made it hard for her to fade into nothing in a crowd. Her each gesture and movement was naturally magnetic. While this could’ve posed as a problem considering her line of business, Calypso found safety in her face. It was striking, of course, and effortlessly alluring. And while it seemed to capture all eyes in a room, her admirers often found themselves groping blindly through their memories when trying to pull it up again after her departure.
The girl chugged her tea a few minutes too soon and winced as the liquid burned her throat. After placing it among the mountains of dishware in the sink, Calypso grabbed her keys, the garbage, and a light jacket before slipping out of her apartment. She locked her door even though her apartment hardly held anything of worth. Oh, no. She wasn’t stupid. In her line of work, leaving traces of business at home was an incriminating rookie mistake. She’d visit her office after the moon rose and the heavy partiers and rich college kids emerged.
Calypso sauntered out of her endearingly decrepit building, tugging the door shut behind her. She swung the garbage bag—which was truly just a recycled grocer’s bag—carelessly and made her way back into a dead-end side alley. She made a fuss of throwing away her trash while her hand, hidden from the street, pulled a loose brick from the building’s wall. She unfolded her envelope just enough to extract its contents before crinkling it up again and shoving back into dusty hole. She slid the brick back into place and tucked her paper up her sleeve.
When she made her way back out onto the main street, bleary-eyed residents were just beginning to emerge. She stuck her hands into her jacket's pockets and let her fingers fold into her sleeve. Her finger tip ran over the folded note, casually feeling the deep-set ridges surrounding her message. It was a number, of that much she was certain. While she tried to identify which number exactly she was brushing her fingers against, a portly hot god vender called out one of her many names. She glanced over her shoulder, pulled from her concentration by her social obligations, and offered him a curt little wave with her free hand before turning on her heel and diving into the rapidly accumulating sea of strangers and commuters. Her stride seemingly aimless and her countenance composed in a careful expression of generic contentment, Calypso made her way throughout the throng, steadily ignoring eagerly squeaking salesmen and shouldering her way past congealed groups of tourists pausing in the street.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo ▷ ▸ 'cause there's beauty in the b r e a k d o w n 
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Posted: Sat Feb 05, 2011 9:06 am
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- but the more you try and qualify. . .cαятεя øωεи ø'dεℓℓ. . .the more it all will pass you by
he's not perfect he's a victim
of his occupation
social insulation
secret intervention
charge him with possession
i just wanna watch him
make and break and beat them -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  Home, for Carter Owen O'Dell, was a small apartment downtown. It was scarcely furnished, and decorated with whatever he'd moved in with. That wasn't to say that the apartment was in poor condition, or that the furnishings it did have were of sub-par quality. The place was simply... functional. That was Carter's life, functional, efficient. He woke to the buzz of an alarm clock, an alarm clock that also displayed a brief glimpse of the weather. Sunny, cool, normal. Next to no chance of rain. He pulled back the white sheets and thin, off white comforter, and walked to the shower. The bathroom was white, pristine, everything in its proper place.
He showered quickly, five minutes tops, and walked back to the bedroom to dress. The bedroom's furnishing consisted of bed, wardrobe, and nightstand. There was a closet of decent size, but it was mostly filled with coats and shoes. Not that he had many coats or shoes. A work coat, and an off-duty coat. His wardrobe consisted mostly of navy blue, and black-- as those were the colors he was expected to wear, not so much off-duty, but it was what he was accustomed to.
Uniform, shoes. They were placed together conveniently, everything organized and easy to find. Carter hung his towel neatly back on the towel rack in the bathroom, and bent to re-lace his shoes, tighter. In the mirror, fogged by the shower, Carter shaved and combed his hair, which was a little long for his occupation, but that was one thing he was adamant about keeping "his way". Carter was of dark, brownish hair, and blue eyes. He was tall, with straight posture and a "business-like" air about him.
He had the street-smarts and the discipline for undercover work, but he was too "regulation". He, only under extreme circumstances, had trouble bending the rules, and he wasn't laid back enough to roll with the punches, or to rub elbows with the various criminals of the city. This he considered over an English muffin, his eyes set straight to the clock. Carter had the discipline of someone ex-military, and he almost was, but the city had always been his home, and it hadn't fallen to him in particular to protect it 'cross seas. Besides, he was the one kid in kindergarten who never changed his mind, when he said "I wanna be a policeman".
Carter's morning routine took precisely a half hour, and then he was in the car, on his way to the station. It was unusually quiet there, where usually it was a haven for the humanity of the various cops that worked there. A place where they often laughed, and sometimes puzzled at cold cases, or ones that were fresh, but yet to be cracked. Everyone there was usually in relatively good humor-- there were two places where cops, momentarily, were not cops. One of them was here, around the water cooler, or in whatever currently served as a break room, another was at home, or, usually those that didn't have family, in a bar.
Carter was set apart from them, in that he never really stopped being a cop. He had a personality, sure, and he could be pleasant to be around-- but there was a sense of duty that soared above all of that, and most of the time it won out in most fights that took place in his head. Humanity versus duty. Or compassion versus duty. Today was no different, though there was some concern that came to mind when he saw that everyone was, more or less, gathered 'round in the office.
A coworker caught his eye and walked to him, meeting him somewhere about halfway before the group. Before Carter could question him, the man lowered his voice and delivered the news. "They found Johnny." It wasn't as if Johnny had been missing. He had been in plain clothes, looking for a way into Les Gens. Johnny was a loud guy, full of personality, and he always drew a little too much attention to himself. What he'd been doing, it seemed like they'd all miscalculated the danger. "Finding Johnny", in itself, wasn't a bad thing, but his tone. It left no question as to how they'd found him-- Dead. "In some hollowed-out car, down on Parker."
Death was always a possibility, in their line of work. Maybe someone angry with something in the past, or someone who hated cops in general, maybe stepping onto the scene of something. Anytime they came to work, they were putting themselves in danger. But it was hard to keep that in idea in mind, when they came to work every day, and most days nothing happened. Johnny's death was something of a surprise, a reminder of what it was that they actually did, and the danger in it. Because Carter was human, he couldn't help but think of his fellow officer's family. How would they cope?
"Did they leave anything for us?" Carter asked, snapping back to his stony persona. By anything, he meant anything. On purpose, or by some mistake. A note, some kind of a warning-- though the death in itself was obviously meant to that effect. Or anything accidental. Finger prints, some evidence of their passage. But before the question had entirely left Carter's lips, the other was shaking his head.
"They took the license plate, the thing was halfway rusted out. There's nothing there." He shook his head in the direction of the boss, Tom, who seemed to be making some kind of speech. Knowing him, it was probably something angry-- something filled with fire. We protect our own, he'd say, and we've got to get the bastards that thought the were proving something to us. Tom was a stickler for cliched speeches, but if it got the job done, then Carter had little to complain about.
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Posted: Thu Feb 10, 2011 5:21 pm
yøu cαи’т мακε мε
αиd
yøu ωøи’т вяεακ мε
pίcκ pøcκεт "Kathy" offered the waitress a beaming smile, one thing that didn't change between the people she knew. She didn't work to make her expressions different, though habits and even small things like the words she often used changed. Billy didn't know different kinds of happy, she couldn't be one of those people that showed too much gum when they smiled, or laughed too deeply, or smiled too much. It wasn't much of a problem, though, people didn't notice how much they noticed facial expressions, and it was one thing that she'd never see in a description of herself.
"I'm doing just great, and how're you?" Billy asked, her voice taking on a faint Southern accent. Kathy had always sounded Southern to her, like someone who grew up milking cows and picking eggs. Billy had no such childhood, but she knew how to put on the act. The waitress was younger than she looked, and it was probably stress that had driven the gray into her hair, and the wrinkles into her face. She seemed to brighten at Billy's question, although the answer was obvious-- things weren't going so great.
Such was the life, in these times, and in an overcrowded place like this. Everyone was being treated unfairly, and everyone was underpaid. At least, that was what it had always seemed like to Billy, who had never actually had to worry about paying rent, or paying her bills on time. She went straight from foster parents to the street, and had at no point ever been on her own. She preferred it that way, really, and she'd always say that her life is better. The waitress poured Billy the cup of coffee she had yet to order, and seemed to almost think about how she intended to phrase what she was to say.
"Well, you know, my brother's getting married." She told Billy excitedly, as if the news might explode out of her if she didn't let it out. Billy held her polite smile, and added in her quick little "that's great" before the waitress continued. "And it looks like my niece, the one I told you about, is going into the exchange program!" Billy's mind calculated up how much that was likely to cost. Ouch.
The waitress was the one that Billy usually had, and she came in often. The woman would've probably called them close acquaintances, maybe even distant friends. But what she didn't know was what she didn't know. For instance, she didn't know that Kathy wasn't her acquaintance's name. Who she thought she knew was Kathy, a twenty-two year old student of the fine arts, who spent her nights passing glasses over a bar. She thought her Kathy lived with a long-time boyfriend in a studio apartment that they hardly seemed to see, they were out so much.
"Oh, that's great! Where's she going?" Because she thought she knew all of this about the girl about the table, she was willing to share, as well. She wasn't exactly an open book, but the covers weren't closed. Billy fed as little information as she could to the people she came in contact with, because she knew the way things could get confused. She could say something different form what she should've. But, sometimes she got carried away. Billy wished herself no other life, but sometimes it was fun to fantasize, and when she was constructing a web of lies, she sometimes made it a little too intricate.
But in Billy's mind, it was all in the name of fun. And things done for fun couldn't be ruined by something so appalling as reality, right? At least, that was what she liked to believe. "France, actually." The waitress sounded almost a little jealous, but Billy couldn't blame her. Why would she want to be here, waitressing, when she could be in France, studying? Billy feigned awe, and mirrored the woman's mild jealousy. That was all it took, and when the waitress snapped out of her momentary daydream she turned back to Billy with the same smile she'd held before. "What can I get you?" She asked, eying the coffee she'd poured as if she'd just realized that Billy hadn't ordered it.
Billy put a hand to the handle of the mug, and didn't spare it a glance, as if to say that she did want it-- which she did. "Can I get a muffin?" She inquired, parting ways with the daily routine. No bagel today, actually, it was muffin's turn to shine. And why not? Billy had done good work, lately, and she felt she deserved a little reward.
The waitress' eyes lit up, first with a kind of excitement, and then regret. "Of course! By the way, Kathy, did you hear about that poor police officer? Horrible, really, they said they found him in an empty parking lot, in his car." From the sound of it, it was almost as if the waitress knew him personally. Billy knew the story all too well, and she knew what it would mean to her and the rest of the organization. They were on high alert, and awaiting orders on whether or not they were going to war. But the answer was already clear.
"That poor man." Billy felt no remorse for the man. She knew it was bad of whoever had done it, but she couldn't help but think that it served him right. After all, it was the risk he took coming into this job, and especially poking around in Les Gen's business. Poke around in places you don't belong, and you might lost a finger. "It's awful that anyone would do that to a man doing his job."
"Have you ever heard of Les Gens?"‘cαusε ί κиøω ί’м α мεss
нε døи’т ωαииα cℓεαи up
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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X x __ compos M E N T i S Captain
Quotable Conversationalist
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Posted: Fri Feb 11, 2011 4:40 pm
xxxxx♫ ♪xxxlyric
xxxxx♪ ♫xxxconmanLyric was an artist, he'd always been one. Maybe that was why he was chosen for things like this. And in broad daylight, but the message needed to be up before the sun set. The pile of papers Lyric held was high, almost comically so. Kids were key. Lyric sat on a bench, practically baking in the heat. He dropped the bench at his side, and drilled his eyes into the cement between his feet until he found what he'd been waiting for. "Mister?" Lyric didn't immediately look up. "Mister, you lost your doggy?"
Lyric looked up, finally, his eyes concealed behind dark glasses, his hat stuffed into his pocket. He didn't look like himself, but that was probably the point. Who stood before him was a kid. A boy. Probably walking home from the bus stop, was his guess. Definitely old enough to know not to talk to strangers, but young enough to do it anyway. "You lost your dog, mister?" The kid asked again, to which Lyric nodded almost reluctantly. The kid was holding one of the papers off of the stack, and Lyric's eyes moved to look over at what remained of the stack.
The paper was white, crisp. It featured a picture of a dog, not any dog in particular, and the word "lost" in bolded letters at the top. It featured a "name", a phone number, an address, and a cash reward. With all of this information, any good Les Gens member would be able to figure out an address between the combination of numbers and letters that would translate into a place. The new hideout of the organization, who was forced to move frequently to keep suspicions from rising.
"I'm sorry. I can help you put up posters, if you want." That was what the kid offered, and Lyric feigned surprise, though that was what he wanted. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend the time to put up the posters himself, he just didn't want them to be so easily tracked back to him. If anyone happened to see him put them up, or anything. It was on the very slim chance that the police realized its origins as coming from the organization that had been working so hard to stay hidden.
"I can't ask you to do that." Lyric responded, shaking his head. "Shouldn't you get home?" He asked, looking back miserably at his feet. He messed with his sunglasses, they were uncomfortable-- alien to him, and he was simply trying to get them to sit more comfortably. A lot of expression was evident in a person's eyes, and Lyric felt that if he covered them, his lies wouldn't be nearly as compelling.
"Please, mister? Just a few, and I'll go home. Promise." Who raised their kids this way? To talk randomly to stranger, offer to do small tasks for them that required them to be away from home longer than necessary, maybe talking to more strangers? Lyric thought of himself at that age, but the truth was-- he hadn't been so different. His parents wouldn't have noticed if he were out too late, often he got home long before they were even thinking about their home. It wasn't as if they were neglectful, Lyric wanted for very little as a child. He snapped himself out of that thought and nodded reluctantly at the child, handing him a small stack of the fliers.
When he was that age, Lyric hadn't been his name. His name had been Vince. Vince Faraday. It wasn't hard to remember, but it wasn't always easy to forget. He'd been a completely different person when he'd been Vince, and whether that was just because of how many years had passed or because of the changes Les Gens had drilled into him, he wasn't sure he would ever know. The people in the organization had had a profound effect on him, despite the fact that his own immediate family was no longer in existence, at least, for the most part.
Lyric left what of the fliers he couldn't convince kids to pass around on the bench, and he made his way to an alley he was sure most of his brethren would pass through at some part of their day. he was amazed at the progress in his tasks he'd made already, soon it would only be down to the money he would need, but he was already in the negatives. The copies, and what he'd needed for this task-- it all cost money. That was probably why his number had been so low.
Lyric dropped the duffel bag at his feet and examined his canvas with a kind of tiredness, he knew what this job entailed. He knew it meant that he would not leave this spot, at least for a while, and that it needed to be perfect-- it needed to convey the exact message he'd been sent with. From his pocket, he withdrew the note out of the morning's envelope. He reread it, his mind already cranking out the image he would need.
The colors meant urgent. The sharp angles and shapes meant mandatory. The message itself was a time. In all, the message read as: mandatory meeting in new HQ; not good news. Everyone probably knew this was coming, everyone knew what it regarded, and most people knew already that they would be moving. This only made it official. What had likely been on everyone's minds was really going to happen: they were going to war with their biggest enemy yet, the police department of the city, who would not be paid off or scared away. Sure, Les Gens was strong, but could it outlast what was supposed to have supreme authority within the boundaries of the city?
When Lyric had finished, he dropped the cans in the nearest trash, and put on his jacket from the duffel bag. He dropped his sunglasses inside, and pulled his hat back onto his head. The duffel bag was lost behind a restaurant, in a dumpster that smelled so foul he wouldn't have been surprised if, in a day or two, the cops would fish out a corpse. Where to first? Well, there was money to be made, so Lyric made his first move down to the pawn shop.
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Posted: Fri Feb 11, 2011 10:51 pm
≤ Suddenly I know I'm not sleeping ≥  While the light from the morning sun might bother a normal person’s eyes when they first awoke, it didn’t have the same effect on Ghost. She was used to being up before the sun and watching it rise. It was something that came with her job. Although, what she did didn’t really count as a job to her. It was really her playing her part for Les Gens. Everyone had their own part. It’s the reason everything worked out so well.
Ghost was rarely ever tired. She seemed to be able to function with very little sleep. It was a good thing and probably the reason she was picked for her job. It would require her to either be up at night or during the day. Sometimes they switched around so she would have one job at night and another the next day. That was when the few hours of sleep she had really helped. Ghost wasn’t one to complain either. She mostly kept silent about things and just let everyone else talk. She was known, or rather unknown, for blending into the background.
There was one thing that Ghost loved and that was the sunrise. She had no idea why she would sit and watch it. It simply just made her happy. There was no logical reason for it. Of course, if her job didn’t give her the time to watch the beautiful moment, she would just miss it. She knew that Les Gens came before anything else. Still, when she had the moments to savor the experience it always lifted her spirits.
Feeling the bright morning sun against her skin gave her a slight energy as she walked down the street. Her eyes were ever vigilant for the little clue that would give her the knowledge of what her new assignment would be. It was never the same thing twice. At first, it was hard to train her eyes to catch these clues, but with time Ghost was able to pick them out without too much trouble.
≡ Hello I'm still here ≡ All that's left of y e s t e r d a y ≡
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Posted: Sat Feb 12, 2011 7:16 am
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- but the more you try and qualify. . .cαятεя øωεи ø'dεℓℓ. . .the more it all will pass you by
he's not perfect he's a victim
of his occupation
social insulation
secret intervention
charge him with possession
i just wanna watch him
make and break and beat them ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Carter had to check it out, the place where they'd found Johnny, but something else caught his interest. A flier. It wasn't so much the flier, as the amount of them that he had found. Sure, someone would advertise a lost dog with as many as they could find, but he'd already found several littering the sidewalk, and too many stuck to walls and lamp posts. He pulled one down and flipped it over, as if searching for clues of its origins on the back. It looked like any other hurriedly done poster, but the address wasn't one that seemed familiar.
Carter carefully folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket, for no reason other than to look up the address at the soonest opportunity. A glance ahead almost made him want to throw the flier away-- a kid. The kid couldn't have been older than twelve or so, posting up replicas of the flier every couple of feet. With a kind of childlike persistence that seemed almost comical, he was pasting up advertisements of his lost dog. Carter might've asked him about it, had he not remembered his prior commitment.
Johnny's death had no doubt shaken the city, and made them realize what a threat this organization-- if there even was one, really was. Always, the stories of Les Gens had been floating around, whispered rumor of an organization that lived entirely under false names, in abandoned buildings, and in the crumbling skeleton of the historical city. There was always a sort of mystery to it that made it appealing, maybe some people even rooted for the criminals-- it was an absurd idea, but Carter could see where the interest might root.
If anything, Johnny's death had been for the good for the investigation, considering that this would awaken people to the realization that these criminals cannot be romanticized, not when, in reality, they are killers at heart. Also, this would spur the department into action, real action. They would start to take these people seriously, there would be gusto behind the attempts to track down those behind even the smallest of crimes. That was the way it was supposed to be, but so often enthusiasm for putting even petty criminals to justice was lost. At least, now, they felt like they were doing what they did for good reason.
The parking lot was empty, taped off. It was clean, though, the car had been removed, but rust-- or what Carter hoped was rust, stained the concrete. A warehouse stood behind the parking lot, it was easy to see why it had taken so long to discover. No one had any real reason to go back this far into the depths of the dying city, this was the disease from where criminals stemmed. If they were to find the organization, it would be somewhere around here. Carter stepped over the tape, and walked the length of the parking lot, his eyes on windows.
The buildings were all gutted long ago, left to decay until the city could find something to do with them, waiting for someone to take up the space. Some of them had they huge, steel skeletons showing, but most of them simply looked empty and abandoned. There was no sign of life from any of them, and though it was what Carter had expected, it was still unsettling. The parking lot was faded, more gray than black, and more cracked than whole. The car that Johnny had been found in was not his own, but rather one that had been planted there-- for reasons that couldn't be guessed.
The car was a shell, rusted and torn free from its basic luxuries. Seats, the radio-- anything that could've been removed had, including the license plate. The thing was old, but not antique. It could've been reported stolen years ago, and not missed, and nothing said that it had even come from this city. A dead end this early was a nightmare to the department, but they hadn't been given a lot in even just the beginning of this.
Carter's eyes were driven to a wall, splattered with paint of fiery, attention-gathering colors. He crossed back over the parking lot, and ducked under the tape as he approached it. It was fresh, beads of various colors still drooling down the brick wall. He'd seen similar graffiti, but it didn't look like the usual "tags". The letters seemed jumbled, unreadable. Carter made note of it, but moved along. Carter pulled his phone from his pocket-- it was a basic thing, Carter was never one to go beyond the most basic of things.
He dialed, and on the second ring was rewarded with a voice on the other end. "O'dell? What can I do for you?" There was a faint tone of jealousy to his voice. Probably, he was only peeved that Carter was on the streets while he was stuck doing paper work. But the jealous wasn't terrible deep rooted, this was only a rare occurrence, and one that would only have to be tolerated for a short time. Carter pulled the flier from his pocket, its certain mystery alluded him, and it was frustrating.
"Could you do a search on an address for me? And a number?" Carter didn't have time to return to the office, but the message of the flier irritated him-- he'd always been a sore loser. And he refused to wait for the prize in the bottom of his cereal box. Carter rattled off the phone number and the address, thanked his paperwork-shackled friend, and hung up. The sound of metal rattling prevailed over the usual buzz of the city, and Carter was moving on it fast. Cans. Paint cans. They were some off brand, probably cheap, but matched the familiar colors of the graffiti.
Carter was taking leaps forward, but it was as if his quarry were always just a little bit faster. He was snapped, though, out of his train of thought by the radio. "Carter?" The department hadn't completely abandoned code, but most of the time, it was easier not to. Plenty of places already had, but it was reserved for more serious crimes, to avoid trampling on whatever delicate feelings of victims and their families. "Robbery on 42nd, can you head over?"
"Will do." Carter responded, already heading in that direction. Forty-second was, obviously, a residential area, mostly apartments. Probably, someone forgot to lock up. Carter was sure it would be easy enough, safe enough to set on the back burner, Johnny was more important to the department, though they couldn't afford to completely ignore anything.
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