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Futuristic ＯＵＲＯＢＯＲＯＳ.

Characters
Here
birth of venus

birth of venus

𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦﹗
Roleplay Type(s)





















  • intro






























    it's oh so quiet



    Björk


























    THE RENDEVOUS.



    D
    eep in the earth,
    somewhere in England…

    Sprawling structures of concrete spread beneath an unassuming house, spanning into two widespread floors that made up a laboratory. Quiet and cold, each step taken within echoed sharply through its halls with nowhere to go. No relief was found from sound, one was faced with the acute knowledge of their presence and how unnatural it felt as you descended the spiral staircase into each level. One couldn’t shake the feeling of something being held within, watching with every movement echoed.

    Different square rooms held different types of equipment, old storage, workbench and engineering areas, but the largest room of all had been turned into an observational room. It was clear that the room had been used in the past for dream sharing, with multiple plush armchairs once arranged in a circle now pushed to the walls of the room, all but one.

    In the center of a room lay a man spread out across an armchair, long limbs covered in a blanket and arm hooked to an IV drip bag. He was being watched, carefully so, and could feel the weight of the observer’s gaze the moment he slowly blinked awake. In one stiff motion once consciousness was within reach, the body of Timofey sat up and looked directly at the witness through the one way window, fixed with an unnaturally casual smile and pitch black eyes.

    Damn it, Tasya thought to herself. She had only been minutes late to changing his sedation drip – dealing with him awake was too fucking creepy. An acute headache pressed into the sharp edge of bone directly behind her right eye, blooming in pain.

    The fluorescent lights of the lab flickered briefly, between the metronome thuds in her skull. Timofey’s body was sallow under the white lights, all washed out skin, angel pale hair and thumbprint eyebags punctuating his vision. He was poised more casually now, almost as if it were a practiced effort, the set of his shoulders so uncanny. There was nowhere for him to go, hands and feet cuffed to the chair and directly cemented into the floor, and so when Tasya entered the room to change his drip bag, he only sat patiently.

    A chill ran its fingers up the base of her spine, the temperature of the observation room easily a few degrees colder. Tasya avoided the uneasy stare of her brother, only patiently replacing the medicine for his sedation in the continued effort to keep him asleep. Whatever smiled from behind his unyielding stare was not her brother, only wearing his skin. It unnerved her.

    Five days since Tasya had found him. 'Did I find him too late? What if this doesn't work? What else can be done?'

    The doppelganger held his arm aloft as she replaced the tube of his butterfly IV, and gingerly set his arm back down. They did not comment on the way her hands shook, or how she refused to make eye contact, but Timofey did suck in a breath to form words around his tongue the minute the drip began anew.

    “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

    The medicine was quick, not even thirty seconds before his eyes glazed over and slipped closed once more, and Tasya could breathe easier.

    –

    The letters had been sent out on day six.

    Stomach uneasy from the mix of liquor and leftover somnacin, Tasya cursed at herself, sat down at her desk, and looked through everything. All of her contacts, memorized or written, exploring the possibilities and their capabilities. Spread out over her desk was now a week’s worth of a maniac’s notes. Lists of contacts, their known skills, the anatomy of the team and what moving parts were needed where, alongside pages and pages of handwritten accounts of what Tasya witnessed inside of Timofey’s head.

    It had been a long few days, commiserating over the puzzle pieces she knew lurked in Timofey’s psyche – she had spent all hours of the day trying different tactics, dropping into a dream with him as the subject and exploring the raw subconsciousness and memories within. It was too much, too fast, but each new dream gave her a new perspective (at the cost of her waning sanity) at understanding what could be unfolding and where he could be, deep within. His dreams were dense, populated by what she assumed were some of his memories as they overlapped in the structures innately created. But to go so deep into layers upon layers of dreams took bodies, she needed people she could trust reasonably.

    The list had been written on the back of a receipt, and in some positions other names had been crossed out repeatedly before her team was circled, one by one. Trust was a tricky word for the woman; there was trust in a job well done, a reliability to their assets and skills that she was aware of. In this, she had the utmost confidence in her team. But a delicate man required a delicate hand, and the gnawing worry of allowing such a group to enter her brother's mind was a well of guilt that overflowed at the worst of times.

    As the date of their rendezvous approached, Tasya kept busy with house cleaning. If everything went according to plan, which she knew it would, they would be arriving at her home soon after their meeting. Her home was a sprawling eight bedrooms divided into two floors, but with her and her brother's bedrooms occupied, it left six bedrooms for her guests to stake their claim over. She had hired two housekeepers only days before to get the bedrooms ready, and paid them handsomely for their time.

    It wasn’t lost on her, the slap-in-the-face realization that this would be the first time she hosted guests in many, many years.

    Tasya's home was approaching the southern coast of England, only a handful of miles before you were facing the English Channel, with enough acres of land and solitude to reasonably assume she’d spent a lot of money to have her peace and quiet. If the wind was right, you could smell the salt of the sea. Early February left the days washed in grays and blues, overcast skies and drizzling cold rain biting your skin. Tasya enjoyed the quiet – it truly was a relief for her, with such a chaotic life she led. There were times where she wasn’t home for months.

    Inside the house, tall white walls and exposed wooden beams, more spacious than it seemed. Deep colored parquet wooden flooring, and well placed textures, plush area rugs in the living room, a cozy but open kitchen with window sills and hanging planters of green vines but only a table for two. Some areas of the house seemed unused - her kitchen had brand new groceries delivered after months of surviving off of restaurants and fast food, but her deeply plush sectional seemed well loved with blankets and pillows aplenty. Four guest bedrooms occupied the rest of the first floor, and up an angular wooden staircase, the second floor had another living room with the open ceiling and floor to top windows, along with four more bedrooms. Two doors at the end of the hallway were marked with distinct Do Not Disturb signs. Off limits.

    It was a lovingly warm house, if it weren't so empty. The idea of having people in it for once would have been exciting if it were any other occasion. But each step that echoed in her home was a reminder of what waited for her, below. I'll be seeing you soon.

    –

    The day arrived without great fanfare. In the time leading up to the meeting, Tasya had thoroughly dusted her entryway, mopped the floors, arranged the groceries in the kitchen and steeled herself for everything to happen too much and too fast. What little familiarity that was left in Tasya, for a woman so flighty in her own vices with new stories like new coats, was almost drained from her. The slight dishevelment in her hair, the wrinkles in her jacket. The house would not be left unattended in her absence; a trusted colleague was tasked with babysitting for the night. She took a breath, stilled the newfound stutter in her heartbeat, and got to work.

    A few hours ahead of time, Tasya had hailed a taxi and quietly slipped into the warehouse whose address she had listed in the letter.

    The afternoon sun slipped below the horizon as she tittered around nervously in the space, setting up for a civilized meeting. Armed with a leather briefcase, a large totebag, and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, she took her time in setting up a large meeting table for their briefing and carefully organized her notes into different files. A coffee pot and tea kettle adorned a table to the side, small refreshments for their time. Eventually, Tasya poised herself in a chair and poured over her notes, two hours before their meeting time.

    And then came a polite knock. She lifted her hand to check her watch, eyebrows raised at their early arrival. 'Well, let's get started.'

































intro



cast








OUROBOROS.



are you still
dreaming
?








time



8 PM, roughly.







date



feb. 8th.







location



london







status



closed











ic





cs





aes

















♡coded by uxie♡
 



fausto nobrega.





































  • mood



    soured abruptly
















The invitation had not actually been a surprise to Fausto— at least, the fact that it both existed and had been sent to him was not a surprise. It only made sense that if someone as well-versed at dreamsharing as Tasya Kuznetsova needed to call upon the talents of those amongst the industry for personal reasons that Fausto would be one such party. After all, his talents were innumerable, countless in scope and cavernous in their depth. His gaze was sharp both in and out of the untethered depths of the human psyche, able to pick up the difference in the way the shadows flickered in the corner of his periphery and determine, before a blink, whether to fire or to hold. There, too, lay his talents— quick fingers making quick work of whatever projectile was in hand at the moment, as he was never empty-handed as he forged his way through the abyss of unconsciousness, always prepared for the figures that would begin crawling out of the corners, the cracks, even manifesting in midair before him or the team he was saddled with.

The surprise— the real surprise— was that Tasya was reaching out, anyways. Fausto had no frame of reference for what sort of trouble she may have gotten herself in. What sort of crisis had she unleashed upon herself that she would be reaching out to request outside help for a personal matter? What depths of treachery had she managed to stumble upon, what dark pit of depravity had she dipped her toe into, only to be pulled down into the ruinous bottom? He was intrigued by whatever glimpse into the woman he would receive by accepting this invitation, whatever slip of the finger (or psyche) had caused her to become a client rather than a team member, permitting the personal and the professional to mingle in an act that tinged of desperation.

Haughtiness and pride was never far from Fausto’s mind and his mouth curved into a smirk, one corner higher than the other, a glint of teeth between lips. What a fool! he declared to himself. What an idiot! To have fumbled within the space that they occupied so frequently, that they ought to know like the back of their hand, to the point of needing outside help to right the wrong. Hah, an exclamation in the safety of his own mind. Never would he end up in this position, a reassurance that was not needed. Everything was handled cleanly with him, loose ends tied up in a neat bow before being swept away, the blood mopped off elegantly and the casings picked up meticulously to be disposed of elsewhere.

Fausto permitted himself to luxuriate in the knowledge that he had an achievement that Tasya did not, a thin division between the two of them that could be placed down. He had no need for her, not like her need for him, and he hummed to himself as he prepared for the trip; outfits meticulously planned and laid out in order— underwear, pants, socks, shirt, and whatever other layers he so desired; toiletries that slotted into place one after another, jars and bottles that were slathered on in the daytime or the nighttime; paperwork that would let him move across countries with ease; and a small case of weapons that might be needed should this turn into a trap, should he run across anyone who had his face and name carved into their memory in blood splatter.

He arrived early in London, dallying across the city for a day in the cool winter weather, indulging himself in food for a brief snapshot of time, decadent meats and flavorful curries, seafood that tasted fresh with a kiss of the ocean, tarts that did not make lips pucker but instead press together in a silent hum of pleasure. All too soon, however, the hours ticked away, and the sunglasses that were on his face were slowly becoming more of a hindrance than a fashion statement, not that it would encourage him to remove them. Never one to permit something as inconsequential as the turn of the earth to halt him from enjoying himself in the moments that he could, he simply stuck his hands in his pockets and continued to forge ahead to the shop that he was intent on arriving at, one that survived a Turkish delight called tantuni. Stepping inside the small shop, he was greeted with the warm aroma of lamb and spices, and a slow grin spread across his face as he sauntered up to the counter and placed in his to-go order, supposing that he ought to at least pretend to have wanted to come on time.

His luck ran out, however, as he made his way closer and closer to the warehouse, digging into the brown paper bag to pull out his second dinner, wrapped in parchment paper stained with oil that had leaked through the aluminum that was supposed to keep it contained. In one swift motion, he tucked the rest of the bag under his arm and unwrapped his food, raising it to his lips to take a bite, his glasses sliding down his nose as he lowered his head. In that flicker of a moment, he saw another shape— and how he wished he had not recognized it.

Still, he did not halt in his movements, even though there was the deep desire to do so, even though the weight of his gun hidden in the breast pocket of his coat reminded him of one of the options he had to deal with this confrontation, and the knife slid into the waistband of his pant offered yet another out. He ignored both instincts and bit into his tantuni, utilizing a pinkie that had not gotten itself stained to push his glasses back up his nose, peering at the figure before him through his tinted gaze, somehow managing to see through the almost pitch-darkness he was purposefully plunging himself into.

“Oliver,”
he said tightly, voice wound up like a coil, a rubber band ready to snap, a cobra preparing to strike.
“I see that you continue on your fumbling journey after me. Tell me, what corner of London were you meant to be stumbling towards, and how may I deposit you at the doorstep of whatever godforsaken idiot is intent on looking for someone like you?”


































cry for love



백현










♡coded by uxie♡
 
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Béatrice.



The Nurse, O Lord.


















“ 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙮 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣. 𝘿𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙? ”​

― 𝕰𝖒𝖒𝖆 𝕽𝖎𝖈𝖍𝖑𝖊𝖗​
────────────

​
Parchment held itself in reverence, crumpled and smoothed until lines showed the almost fervent need to accept and decline another invitation, another buzzing fly request for skills and reassurance. Rarity, some would plead, pulling names that came together like bones to a family plot; all of it only meant etchings on stone placeholders to an addled mind. She hated how they called to her, a false idol set on cushioned pedestal. It was all because a Lord abandoned a make-believe world, allowed dreamers to run freely in hamster wheels.

A sigh.

Pills spun themselves in a free hand, twirling on hands absent of the callouses of hard work; they were equally weary in the way joints stiffened and popped. Three of the capsules were meant to follow another two and more again in a few hours, fruitless attempts all to wave away the rays of sun blocked behind heavy curtains.

Béa was exhausted. It had been over a day since her last rest and she hardly felt reality around her, grasped at it as she grasped to letter and pill in an absent prayer.

"Claude." A grimace slipped itself out at the sound of trembling in her larynx, pressed lips settling into a hardened line as the rise of a dog's head met the spoken word. Three Irish Wolfhounds made their bed near the chaise she lounged against, eyes blinking in expectation and exasperation if she let the thoughts in. "I'm afraid I must leave you all for a bit, my dears."

Béa's words seemed an annoyance, if anything to the hounds, dilapidated stares echoing back pills dropped into prescribed bottle before again a letter was smoothed. Tasya, an old acquaintance if not a thread bare friend. She was summer grass pulled back by winter, threads Béa had cocked her head before and considered more than once. She was interesting, at the very least. A smile, weathered and marred by jagged skin pulled itself upwards, hoisted in hooks and pulleys to decorate the face Béa forced on, slipping instruments and books into antiquated traveling case.

To England, she'd think, chipper in start to the thought that quickly soured with the headache of travel and departure from cozy apartment to ocean-sided skies.

To the backdrop of a setting sky Béa stood a revenant from olden times, clutched in lace gloves to the weathering handle of the brown bag muffling the tinkle of its contents. Wrapped more in the robes of a Halloween spirit than early thirties woman she stepped with a confidence unfounded, swinging her gait with the weight of her items. A wide-brimmed hat pressed itself down on box-colored curls, shifting in an uncomfortable struggle against the bobblehead motions of weary head.

Purple bags set themselves comfortably beneath greying eyes as a sun slipped even lower and heeled boots clicked in a lonesome pattern along the ground. A warehouse, she mused briefly, huffing in a swinging haul of packed case. As unassuming as the locale was perfect for committing unmentionable acts it had come to irritate the Victorian-styled figure, muttering obscenities and equal scriptures of damnation.

"Oh yes, fly along the world to bleed at my doorstep, Béatrice; have faith that your silly legs will carry you in earnest goodness to my stupidly far away door." No admittance was had to the lack of pronunciation to the address provided, a problem only partially rectified by the obscene earliness Béa prepared herself for. Every job was faced with the stony orbs weaving through spider silk and truth, a motto of an early bird snatched down by nocturnal owl and insomniac dreams.

It was a visage being horridly ruined by a puffing of cheeks and the swaying heft of an overpacked bag.

Half, one, two hours before a marked time and she was setting in an arrogant heft the weight of her journeys at an unassuming door. The brim of a hat slid itself into pinched lace and off from its concealing perch to shake free pressed hair. Skin still set itself in a sickly pale, prickling sweat and labored breaths the only indication of any struggle as knuckles trembled themselves into a fist and knocked once, twice, thrice. Before the door opened she had settled back her shoulders, cement poured over stiffening ligaments until a hat settled itself to hover above brow ridge and shade the eyes peering upwards at an almost amused face.

"Yes, well. My dogs mentioned the weather here was nicer, I suppose we can all bear sins even in bestial form." Blackened brim bobbed as hands wrapped again around a bag handle, pushing away any advances for aide before the robed figure was pushing her way past a host and into a space unfamiliar.

Mother, she had to assume now; there was a mantle to be tossed on and a professionalism kept, if for the sake of herself. The clunk of a bag were the only words Béa would speak beyond a half-hearted 'hello', a flipping cross caught once, then twice in a hand before any refreshments were accepted. Time still remained to be had, one, two, impossible hours.

A leg crossed over another eventually, steaming cup of tea settled between gloved hands as shadowed face stared pointedly towards fly away blonde and frown lines. One sigh, two sips, another uncrossing and crossing of legs. "Your eyes have aged, you know?"

Well, she couldn't be God at everything.











Too Early.





Is This Bloodborne?





Tasya, Open.





















 
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England was a nice change of scenery even if it was only temporary. As Fred walked out of the airport he cursed himself silently for not making better use of his time as a former military man.
No, instead of traversing and exploring a side of the world he had relentlessly protected with a rifle in his hands Fredrik had switched one military service for another.

At the back of his head there was an echo calling out for him, reminding him of the family he'd abandoned yet again. Though as much as his ex-wife insisted Fred did think through these decisions and- as much as it hurt him- his daughters were better off without him, without the weight on his shoulders from brothers gone and without the cascade of blood on his hands.

Fred grunted, forcing the thoughts away as he refocused himself and hailed a cab. The ride to the warehouse was silent and smooth for the former special forces operator had paid extra for the driver to take the smoothest route and to not disturb Fred.

As they drove Fred opened up the Pelican-case in his lap. He offered a quick glance at the rearview mirror which made the driver look away. Fred then carefully pulled out his handgun- a compact Glock 17- and slid it into its concealed holster on his right hip. The two spare magazines followed shortly after. Fredrik closed up the case and adjusted his charcoal grey softshell jacket before pulling up the left sleeve to glance at his hardened Casio-watch. On time, on target.

It wouldn't be long now. Fred closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

*​

The warehouse was just as unimpressive and bland as Fred expected a covert and anonymous meeting place to be. He'd done a lot of special operations while quartered or based in similar buildings, though this one lacked the obvious markers of such a operation like a row identical SUVs with government plates or military police posted on watch outside.

After thanking the cab driver and collecting his large outdoor ruck Fred started to make his way over to the building. Aside from the softshell jacket he was dressed in a red wool shirt, a pair of low-ankle outdoor shoes, reinforced combat pants with a classic US Woodland pattern and a baseball cap with a subdued Swedish flag on it. For all intents and purposes he looked more like an off-duty soldier or like a mercenary.

Old habits die hard.

As Fredrik neared the warehouse he spotted two individuals nearby. One was well-dressed and unknown, the other was a familiar face. Not intending to disturb the two men in their conversation Fred simply nodded towards them.

"Sir," he said, nodding towards the uninown man. He repeated the gesture towards the second man; "Brazzo."

Without another word Fred moved on, making his way to the door... Only to hear voices from inside the warehouse. He frowned slightly and knocked on the door.

Damn, second place.
 
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scroll
Willie





Somewhere, London





Tasya, open





Bea has a bag of rocks please help










Somewhere in London...

Kuznetsova had a sick sense of humor, Willie thought staring at the handwritten note. A simple request to discuss business at an address across town, conspicuously placed in his mailbox. To have set up so close to home of her own behest was categorically threatening, if not the manifestation of a desperation unbecoming of his on-again, off-again employer and, occasionally, friend. The incorrigible realization that those possibilities were not mutually exclusive incited mutiny within the accursed hands below his wrists. He bound the mutinous hand in an iron cage until it rethought its loyalties and considered his own. A business expenditure to move to London brought with it an expectation to hop when Tasya said frog. Willie only wished she had the courtesy to maintain the veneer of professionalism now. A voice mail would not have been half as remiss.

Willie threw on his leathers and stirred the motorcycle to life, grinning at the thought of Tasya's growing vexation for every second of hers which he deliberately wasted. Not a one more than she deserved, Willie decided. A couple minutes to indicate just what he thought about receiving a note instead of a call. Maybe a few more to drive the point home with a the proper emphasis. She could be remarkably bullheaded when confronted with entirely reasonable pushback from him on matters of health, happiness, and timeliness so long as it was not her own at stake. Then again, perhaps not. When she bit someone's head off, there was an unmistakable fervor in those eyes.

Willie pocketed his gauntleted hand and entered Tasya's meeting place. This location did not do much to lend decorum to the reunion. Willie was not certain there was much here beyond a circle of chairs, a woman better suited for an 18th century congregation, and his disheveled benefactor.

"This lacks your usual flourish," said Willie to no one in particular. He did not point fingers, but he hoped he sounded a little surprised and disappointed. Truthfully, he was beginning to sweat if for no particular reason. He did not mind getting into crazy jobs here and there, but this setup suggested unprecedented scope for dreams--Willie's largest operation was a meager five specialists--and he had not packed an overnight bag. He motioned to rise, racing to produce a combination of words that would excuse him long enough to think this through, but Tasya caught his eyes with a silent intensity that would not be redirected until he was firmly seated. Her intensity disappeared within an illimitable despair momentarily, and Willie had to grip his gauntleted hand to keep it silent until Tasya's guests arrived.



♡coded by uxie♡
 
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yananovic borgov





































  • mood



    excited, upbeat

















One left hand thin as bones clutched the colossal ceramic bowl; on the right, titanium coated fingers held wooden chopsticks with ease. Face-deep in the bowl, forceful and wet slurps of mustard shaded ramen noodles serenaded the stall. The fragrant steam covered his glasses in a thermal blanket; blind and too greedy to stuff his stomach with more, more, more. The biting frost was not as harsh in London as it was in New York where even fuzzy coats and layered scarfs could no longer shield from lingering shivers and the tearing of knuckles. Only now – finally taking a breath – Yanan’s face emerged from the bowl as he wiped his mouth with a red napkin.

His eyes stared into the blank space and mind slipped in dissociation while the broth steamed up above from down below.
Printed black paper, tarnished texture which gave him the impression of the lavish expenses for the preparations solely. “Urgently, Tasya Kuznetsova.” the words rolled off his tongue like prayer, like gospel, holy and humbly. Clinging onto the envelope with all he had – weak fingers from hours of Somnacin extractions – Yanan brought it close to his heart. Whatever it was, he thought, whatever it would become.

In thought, the man looked himself up and down leaving space to wonder: Had he dressed unprofessionally? A ripe olive green tracksuit, vintage, a stripe here and there and white sneakers. The plane ride took a good seven hours at least and hence, Yanan relished traveling in comfort and abiding his immaculate senses of bad fashion. He shook off the short lived desire to fit in and paid, the bowl licked clean like a dog’s basin.

The Japanese Ramen restaurant had a narrow entrance without much care put into signage. Inside it had space for almost a dozen people, more than anticipated, which gave Yanan the growing impression the restaurant had the same powers as the Tardis. Oh, London what a place to be.
– This is not vacation, stop acting like it, he told himself and yet his tracksuit pockets were filled with crappy souvenirs of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace. Shameful, he shoved them deeper as if that’d make them disappear.

The chemist set his over-ear headphones on which had rested on his broad shoulders moments ago. Humming along to his lord and savior Sade – Mama been laid off, Papa been laid off, my brother’s been laid off, for more than two years now – Yanan too, was listening to the blues. Between head bops and fingers' taps against his leg, the view of the warehouse broadened in front of him. He did not question the choice of location and did not bother to recheck if he had typed in the correct address.

As he turned the corner, a shaved head under a baseball cap belonged to the frowning face of a man made of bricks. The thought that said man might be here for the same reasons as him, did not occur to Yanan. More so, his brain switched to autopilot while he concentrated on how the handle of the door would feel and what horrendous odor the warehouse could or could not give off and how he’d inhale all of it anyway. Just as the man pressed the handle to enter, Yanan barged in between: "Oh, thank you good Sir!" he smiled and raised his bushy brows. The tall specimen of a chemist – arms spread out like wings – stepped in the middle of the room. "Моя дорогая Тася." My dearest Tasya. "I've missed you so much, I almost stopped smoking." Only now, he pulled off the headphones which draped his neck yet again; tilted and dulled sounds of sophisti-pop still echoed through the silenced warehouse.

♫ Help them to live long
Help them to live life
Help them to smile
Don't let them stay home and listen to the blues ♫

Tasya could not escape the smothering hug, her silvery blonde strands of hair caught against his neck while her cheek pressed against his bony shoulder. He turned around, acknowledging the presence of two other individuals. Only one of them, he faintly recognized, was the woman. What was her name again? A pretty one, that I remember. Ah– "Béatrice, right?" a smile made his eyes wrinkle, his glasses traveled down the bridge of his nose. Yanan gaped at the other presence in the room but his social functions left him at that. Instead, he eyed the delicate gloved hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Steams not as hot as his Ramen pulled themselves up towards the high ceiling. "Wherever that came from, I would care for one as well."

































seoul



Jaysen










♡coded by uxie♡
 











DELPHINE














NARY MORE A FALSENESS . . .





SHENZHEN, CHINA

TWO DAYS AGO

A drunk man sidles up to a woman at a hotel bar. He’s wearing a wedding band. She's wearing a green suit and a white leather glove and sunglasses, and she’s weighing an empty shot glass in her bare right hand, marking its ridge on the pad of her thumb.

"I like your look."

She turns and gives him a look in return. His tailoring makes her want to laugh out loud - he looks like a schoolboy in last year’s uniform. Face scarred from all his prior disappointments. Too young for his big overstretched body.

"What about my look do you like?"

"I like your body."

The barroom is lit red-orange and there are LED screens and paintings every few feet. People used to never carrying physical cash sit around having drinking meetings, unplanned conferences, pre-meetings. It's like an airport terminal - nobody really wants to stay here for too long.

The man's eyes are blue and in this lighting they look like nothing, a non-colour. He tries to find Delphine's eyes under those glasses but they're not to be found. She's brought her eyelids together to hide them, keeping only these thin lines of sight.

"I'm Piotr. And you are…?"

"...Where is Piotr from?"

He makes a face like he's found another person's clothes in his suitcase. But he rolls with it.

"I'm here with some guys from Sony, which is where I work - but I'm from Sweden originally."

"That's crazy."

"It's not that crazy. I don't think it is. I got hired out of my business school, which is in Stockholm. I don't know anything about electro-"

Delphine laughs, shaking her head at him. He looks down at his shirt, thinking for a minute that he spilled something on it, then peers back up at her, at her lips and white teeth.

"I like your mouth."

He thinks he can hear her give him a short final laugh at this, almost out of politeness, and then she half-stands to arch over the bar and call out

"Excuse me!"

The woman at the bar is halfway between them and the other end. It takes a second for her to make her way down to them.

Delphine drops the shot glass from a fingerclaw. "Two more of these. With lime."

The woman at the bar has been dealing with her for an hour already so she just takes the glass and doesn't say anything.

"I like your ski-"

"And you're not from Sweden."

"What?"

"Because I know these things."

Somewhere inside Piotr’s mind there's a pinch of regret. He doesn't necessarily want to be having this conversation. But he's horny and his wife isn't here and he doesn't want to start anew with someone else. He could groan just imagining the effort. It took him several minutes to psych himself up for this.

"I'm Tasya," and she offers her white glove for him to shake on.

His mood is raised quite high at this for the instant it takes to return her hand, but then when it’s time to smile the only one he can offer her is a cuckolded one.

"Are you hungry?"

"No, why? Or, uh, I m-"

"Oh, I just thought I heard your stomach growling."

The woman at the bar arrives with two tequila shots. Delphine takes them, sucks both limes and does both shots. Piotr’s knees go straight and his feet fall off the sides of the barstool. His posture deflates.

"Are you here for the convention?"

He sits up off of his new elbow-slump and searches for something in the room that would corrobate the reality of this question: "Is there a convention?"

"I guess I should be asking you that."

"Are you here for… the…?"

She tenses herself up in a hunch, tries to do his accent: "'Is there a convention?'"

"...What is that?"

"What I do for work. I’m a professional accent coach."

"Accent coach?"

"'Accent coach?'"

There’s a long dry pause.

"For a few years now. Well, in a sense."

"...Yeah."

"Was a week at work, here, and then…"

"...And then…?"

"Tomorrow, eleven. In the morning."

"...Yeah."

"You’ve been to London."

She’s basically pulled him back to sobriety at this point. "...No, I’ve… Well, almost, once, but-"

"Oh, yes, Peter."

It’s not even the right name but his dick throbs to life. Like he has a chance finally. It’s like she’s cast a spell on him.

She takes four-hundred yuan worth of bills out of her wallet and places them under both shot glasses. Then she swings out and stands and wanders for the door to the lobby.

He gets up and follows her a few steps.

“So, can we, uh…” but then it’s like, oh, this is pathetic and you're an idiot, idiot.

She stops and turns around and, mercifully, blessedly, doesn’t give him anything that says that. But she does say: "...You should go eat, schoolboy," and she’s gone.

***

Later she’s in her eighth-floor room in a white robe, cross-legged on the bed, running a lotioned hand up and down her left thigh. The TV is loud enough to blend with her speech, and she’s speaking -

"...and she was laughing so hard about it that she tripped and she fell, I mean she really tripped and she fell, off the treadmill into just this heap, and it was so silly. There was a man there and I think he was part of the staff…"

There’s no one else there. Her phone is in a bag somewhere, turned off.

"...and the taxi I took from the airport, he turns the car on… yes, yes… and then we’re driving and get out onto the expressway, and the car starts smoking. I am not joking with you now. The car starts smoking. And he turns on the windshield wipers…"

No opened food plastics, no laundry, no sheets on the floor. In the morning she will get ready and make the beds and take all her things and when room service arrives they will question briefly whether anyone was there at all. Not even a smell, not even a hair on the pillow. Not even the warmth of a person’s body, of their movements through a room, that stays when they’re gone. Not a warmth. Maybe something else.

"...and I open it and it’s Tasya Kuznetsova writing about she wants to give me four million euros. Can you believe that? No way she likes me that much. I’m sort of expecting her to be there kidnapped, there’s a guy with a gun, he hits me over the head, bla bla bla" - and then to some form of rebuttal within her - "no, I’m doing it. Because, well, oooo, four million euro, what if poor Tasya needs my help? As a human being, not just whatever we are, you know? Ha, human being. Ha. But yes. And, but, no, it is ha. It is very ha. It's kind of silly - I thought I might have become, what, black-listed, after, well, you know, she could’ve heard something. From someone that we know, or someone that we don’t know. Not that we know the people who we know, really, but, anyway, people say anything about me."

Delphine uncrosses her legs to kneel, takes the remote and mutes the TV. She watches the actors on a Mandarin drama argue so importantly in the silence now. Their faces are scarred with all their prior disappointments - but purposefully. There’s a heinous design to the lives of the silent men and women here. Their lives are full, their controversies real. They’re aware of everything they need be aware of. They’re beautiful and they’re painfully present.

She’s going to be riding a motorcycle tomorrow. She thinks very hard about that. Stares focusedly at the unoccupied corner behind the TV stand.

People say anything about me.

And then as if responding to sounds or voices only she can hear, she shuts the TV off and quickly burrows under the covers. Like a little girl feigning sleep.

***

LONDON, ENGLAND

TODAY

The very cynically self-diagnosed center of her disease.

Delphine pretends to hate London. She’s waiting for someone to look at her and do some improv with their shoulders or eyebrows and be like “oh, come on, nary more a falseness ever been spake,” or something, “you love London.”

The truth is she only likes London. If that. She nibbles on the idea of London from time to time.

The sky is leaden, heavy-to-fall with cloud - because of course, you'd have to be so fucking stupid, it’s London - and halfway from Heathrow to Jer’s flat it starts to suggest rainfall. She hears other passengers talking about whether it’s going to freeze that night.

There are so many cars parked along Jer’s street that the bus has to stop in the middle of the street to let Delphine off. She steps down onto the sidewalk and then down this back-alley crowded with bicycles, sheet metal, a half-stripped washing machine.

Jer’s spare backdoor key is where it’s always been, jammed in the brickwork behind weeds, and she kneels and takes it out with a slender searching hand and stands and uses it on the door. She goes through into Jer’s kitchen.

The flat is mostly dark - it’s midday in February and the blinds are drawn. The kitchen is strewn with old takeaway trash and dishes and boxes of…

No, she won’t bother.

It smells like shame and indigestion. Like the feeling of indigestion. She’s never really liked Jer all that much.

There’s a dance of blue light that’s coming from another room, and Delphine walks around a corner and down the hallway towards it.

The hallway splits off onto another and passing it she is ambushed suddenly by a man there with a big black gun in his hand. He racks it, taking a step forward. and then he immediately steps back, as if he’d trapped a cat’s tail underfoot.

“Oh, feck. Come on.”

Jer is somewhat shorter than Delphine and could use new socks, new shampoo, a pair of clippers. There’s something about him that’s like a disgraced court jester. Beyond the obvious outrage there’s a drop of real poison in his voice when he talks to her.

“Ye could’ve fecking announced yerself.”

Delphine migrates to the den and Jer follows her. There’s a set of curtains that weren’t there before. They make xylophonic, banded light on the floor.

“So… what? Yer gonna break into my flat because…?”

Delphine wraps her arms around herself and does a spin around on the ball of one foot, facing him and then not facing him, then facing him again, then-

“Ye brought a mood with ye and ye wanted to show me? Picked it up on the road?”

She sticks out one of her hands and does a begging, clapping motion with it.

“What? Yer bike?”

"How are you? Oh, it’s been…"

“Feck’s sake, lass,” and then he starts back to that blue-illuminated backroom -

"You know, sometimes I think back to the window seat, the lights…"

- he falls out of view shaking his head -

"...something you said about twenty-pound curry, or… no, the difference between twenty-pound curry, and ten-pound c-"

When he returns he takes her hand forcefully, squeezes the keyring into her palm. Hoping it will leave an impression there, finally, judging by his face.

“Keep them this time.”

She looks down at him, not saying anything, just grinning solicitously at him.

“Break into my flat again and I will shoot ye.”

"Oh, excuse my manners," like it’s just occurred to her to say so, "Just dreadful. Just dreadful."

“Do you hear what I’m telling ye, girl?”

She brushes dandruff off his shoulder. "You should go and get out and see the city! I’m here for a few days at least - we could-"

“Get out.”

She spins around him, moving for the door with emphasised nimbleness. "Be playful as you like to, it’s not like you never ever wanted me here."

“Breaks into my fecking flat.”

"You left your key!"

“That’s for me to feck- get the feck out!”

"You left your key outside. Someone could have taken it," and she leaves his key on the inch of clear space on his kitchen table.

“GET THE FECK OUT!”

"Send me out into the big city, no map, no directions even, I'm unable to navigate t-"

"Right between yer fecking shitting eyes-"

"Goodbye!"

***

At speed on a bike through the less-policed streets of London, the winter rain is rapier-point sharp. Oh to die sliced-through by a February afternoon… then she gets to the corner, where it joins the main road, and she assumes the pace of regular traffic. Normal. Sensible. Just another commuter. She pouts under her helmet like a really bad actress.

The warehouse appears to her with little trouble - hard to miss a warehouse sitting in the middle of a major city like this. Night soon, the sky has darkened so that the rain looks almost white against it, like flicked paint or like spit.

There’s already a motorcycle parked on the street nearby so she parks tandem to it, dismounts, removes her helmet and shakes out her long blonde hair. She fixes her eyes: there’s a door closing behind someone or other and there are two men standing having a conversation that does not appear altogether-

Oh, wait.

Oh, wait.

As Delphine walks past Fausto Nobrega and Oliver Brazzos she lets this deep laughter break the surface. It sounds elated, almost masculine, and she pins her eyes shut, the inner corners of her brows rising upward.

Then there’s a bald bearded man standing in front of the warehouse door, his features arranged in a certain…

Well. She touches him on the arm - “Hello, can we…? Thanks,” - and leads him, with a seriousness and almost a gallantry, through the door ahead of them.

Entering the warehouse Delphine ruffles the long leather overcoat she’s wearing, the wet from outside shimmering off of her starlike for a moment. She takes inventory: there’s the bald bearded man she doesn’t know and a younger leathered man she doesn’t know and a younger tracksuited man she doesn’t know and a box-curled lady she does not know. All these strangers. Making her feel like a first-yearer. And there’s Tasya. And there’s a lapse in whatever this is, so that she’s joining, not interrupting. Or…

“There are some really ugly men standing outside. I hope they are not here for this.”

No, she’s interrupting. Somehow.
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ROLE
Forger


LOCATION
Warehouse, London


INTERACTIONS
Fausto ( FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace ), Oliver ( Steve Jobs Steve Jobs ), Fredrik ( Viper Actual Viper Actual ), Tasya ( birth of venus birth of venus ), Béatrice ( cavitea cavitea ), Willy ( myl myl ), Yanan ( mangomilk mangomilk ).
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Oliver Brazzos






It's not that he was trying to be late, but that he simply wanted to maximize his time off between gigs. It also didn't help that it was Tasya of all people pestering him for an utterly impossible task.

Petty, stubborn, pretentious Tasya Kuznetsova who kept stuffing letters into his P.O. Box, in his actual mailbox, and then his deliveries . Despite his numerous rejections, she never wavered and even went so far as to send some twink to hand deliver an envelope containing the exact same note as all the others. Perhaps the most unhinged part of the whole affair was the fact that each letter had been handwritten, the lines varying ever so slightly from copy to copy.

Had she not heard of a copier? Or was she just that determined to wear him down? Nonetheless, Oliver finally caved after a bad acid trip left him huddled in a corner with a pile of unopened mail. He played it off as doing her a favor out of the goodness of his own heart, but mostly, he wanted the money.

Three days after accepting the job, he picked up a gig in Nova Scotia where he'd net himself another hundred thousand dollars and one in France dine with the CEO for some start up for Bluetooth sneakers. It wouldn't be until the night before the meeting that he finally landed in London and it wouldn't be till late evening that he overcame the jet lag. It wouldn't be another thirty minutes before he took the bus to the edge of London with a cup of coffee and a briefcase in the other.

Once he got to his stop, he gave the driver a short thanks and sauntered over to the warehouse, zigzagging every so often to ensure he wasn't being followed. Though the building was hidden, there was no guarantee that he might run into some old enemies or worse...

...co-workers.

"Oh-ho, Fausto! Fancy meetin' you here!" Oliver exclaimed, turning his heel to face his former co-worker and fuck buddy. The man hadn't changed one bit in all the years they worked together save for a new change of clothes.

He was just as attractive as the first time they met and just as caustic as the last time he left. It was a stretch to say that they were just co-workers but patently false to say that their relationship was more than a fun way to pass the time. Oliver understood of course, all good things had to come to an end (and he wasn't exactly the most stable person to be around), but did he have to be so hostile about it? He hid the annoyance beneath a smile, taking a long sip from his coffee before answering.

"I just so happen to have a job here and-" he paused to wave at Fred, "-Fredrik! Nice to see ya!"

He was a good man, that Fred. Never complained. Never went rogue. He certainly never judged him for doing a line before a job.

Getting back to the topic at hand, he pulled a folded note from his front pocket and flashed it at Fausto with a shrug. "Judging by your presence, it looks like we might be working together again."





/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 



fausto nobrega.





































  • mood



    hidden behind words and sunglasses
















The relationship that Fausto and Oliver had forged had existed in a liminal space, somewhere outside of the other dalliances that he so frequently picked up on the job, the bells and whistles that he would hang on for others cast aside. In some ways, it was perhaps the closest he had gotten to genuine connection in quite some time. There was an agreement between the two of them of what they meant to one another and what they were seeking for the brief hours that they were together and indeed, if Fausto were to calculate the total amount of time they had spent in one another’s intimate company (and he had not made any attempt to do so at any point in time, and no one would be able to root out the factoid in his head), it would probably fall short of a full day. Still— there was a weight there for him, a sense of something there that had at one point or another been a sort of pillar or light or what-have-you that he could expect and rely on.

That sentiment could no longer be found in his mind either, long ground to dust and scattered. Whatever softening edges that Fausto had carefully let himself mold had sharpened themselves again, and they were present here in the cutting frown, in the piercing gaze that shot down to the awful, awful two-toned shoes Oliver was wearing, all the way up to his equally terrifying coiffed hair. The frown shifted into a grimace, the left side of his lip curling upwards in vague dislike at the knowledge he held of the man before him having some sort of substance thrumming through his veins, which could be the only explanation for the atrocity that he had decided to dress himself up as.

Fausto turned to squint at the figure that was being gestured to, a man that he had not seen before, with a bald head and a shaggy looking beard— unpleasant to brush up against, no doubt. The grimace intensified itself when he spotted a far more familiar figure appear— as tall as him, with eyes a touch too hollow for his liking. He could hear the words spilling out of her mouth that made him want to recoil rather than lean into them. There was a gaze that was a step behind her mouth which was a step in front of her voice which was a hair’s breadth from her movement— an amalgamation that he did not want to untangle, a set of twists and turns that he would much rather let decompose and drip away into whatever sewage system would take away that level of unpleasantness from him. She presented a far worse prospect than Oliver did, and so with one last disdainful gaze tossed to the absolute gaudy display he had made himself, he remarked,
“I would say it seems that my job will be relegated to hauling your decrepit ass around to ensure it doesn’t get itself trapped somewhere your bones can’t quite recall how to squeeze out from,”
and made his way towards the same door that Delphine had disappeared into.

Kicking open the door just as it was swinging close behind the other, as his hands were very busy cramming the last bites of his post-dinner snack into his mouth, somehow not dripping any of the excess grease onto his clothing or even further down his hand, he took a quick survey of the room— though his gaze did not quite meet the back of Delphine’s frame.

I should ask for a raise, he thought darkly to himself as he took in the scene— Béa, wrapped up as tightly as her curls were these days, glimmers of personhood swept away by duty, and he was grateful that his eyes and the flickers of his gaze could be hidden behind the dark, tinted frames he wore; Willie, a waste of a distraction, an entity that was unfortunately, firmly useful and useless in equal turns— a role more than a person in Fausto’s mind, the landline that he had to sigh and pick up every now and again; Tasya herself, with poise that he did not think quite fit her, given the invitation he had been sent. His ruminations on her would have to be paused for a flash of a second, as there was a much more welcomed face currently stationed near her, a snatch of distraction and relief, a potential human being rather than a piece of the job or a not-quite-forgotten regret.

“Yanan, of course,”
Fausto crowed, moving forward and past the other figures in the room, wiping his fingers clean one last time as he did so. He stopped just short of the other man, and his gaze was still razor sharp, but the edge had been changed, a snort escaping from him as he took in the tracksuit that the other wore.
“It is with great fortune that I must inform you that we have been so blessed,”
resentment leaked all over the word as he said it, his mouth chewing on the word for a moment longer than necessary,
“to find ourselves with the walking paint scraper that is Oliver, and thus your own,”
he gestured vaguely at Yanan’s state of dress,
“is far less grating on the senses. Not that you’ve ever been grating on the senses,”
he added casually, the grin returning to his lips, a sliver of tongue teasing over teeth.

His focus landed once more on Tasya now that he had positioned himself appropriately towards the only person who he had any true interest in speaking to. He tilted his head, eyes roving over her figure, her form, lingering on creases that he would say were out of line. A distant hum emerged from him before his mouth opened and he spoke, words delicate and careful, aimed precariously and precisely as if drawn like the gun that settled on his hip,
“I see you’ve truly found yourself in quite the rut if you’ve called upon me to wrangle such a sorry lot. Save for you,”
he couldn’t help adding to Yanan, a line that was drawn that could hopefully be hook and sinker, too. He turned back to Tasya in the next second without pause, a practiced move,
“I would hope that after all these years, if you would so like my expertise, I would be able to offer you some names that might not grate so harshly on the nerves and the sensibilities.”


































cry for love



백현










♡coded by uxie♡
 
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Just as the man pressed the handle to enter, Yanan barged in between: "Oh, thank you good Sir!"
Click to expand...
Well. She touches him on the arm - “Hello, can we…? Thanks,” - and leads him, with a seriousness and almost a gallantry, through the door ahead of them.
Click to expand...

Fred barely caught the sound of approaching people and only managed to catch a brief glimpse of the man in a tracksuit squeezing past him through the doorway and into the warehouse.
Sighing, Fred frowned ever so slightly as the man had almost made him drop the military hardcase in his hand.

Just then a lady appeared out of nowhere, grabbed him and led him through the doorway with the grace of a ballerina. Fredrik's expression softened slightly.

"Thanks," he said.

Just then the door was kicked open behind him, revealing the man that had been chatting with Brazzo. Immediately the man announced his presence by speaking aloud, adressing several of the people inside. Rolling his eyes, Fred took the opportunity to put down the hardcase on the cold concrete floor followed by removing hid backpack, placing it neatly next to the onyx black weapons case.

"...quite the rut if you’ve called upon me to wrangle such a sorry lot.”
Click to expand...

As the man continued to ramble Fredrik removed his baseball cap, swept back his long-gone hair and walked past the loudmouth directly towards Tasya, the client.

"Ma'am," he said, offering both a curt nod and his hand. It was worn, scarred and weathered just like the rest of him, though not because of exhaustion but because of long and plentiful hours of hard work out in the field.

In a way Fredrik felt a bit misplaced standing among the others inside the room. Standing at a tall one hundred and ninety five centimeters with a muscular build, weathered looks and dressed in a mix of military and outdoor clothing he looked like the polar opposite of the others- especially the loudmouth.

Fredrik continued; "Fredrik Nordkvist, at your service." His English was near-perfect, showing only a light scandinavian accent whenever he spoke a vocal which was slightly dragged out in its pronounciation.
 
ziva chan
the forger
the warehouse
like a cat about to pounce
drippin'
interactions

everyone, tasya birth of venus birth of venus , fausto FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace , bea cavitea cavitea
The pristine white letter had sat in Ziva's mailbox like an omen, though of what she was uncertain. The only way to find out was to open the letter, one perfectly manicured nail slipping under the envelope and tearing it clean through. What lay inside brought a cheshire grin to the forger's face, a once in a lifetime opportunity had landed on her doorstep. And above all things, Ziva was an opportunist.

It wasn't that Ziva particularly enjoyed others suffering, it was just that their pain typically opened doors for her that were usually tightly sealed shut. Morality wasn't something near or dear to her heart, guilt didn't crush her with its never ending weight, taking advantage of a person in need was simply business. Nothing personal. In fact, the Forger quite liked Tasya as an associate. She was one of the best in the business, which had earned her the respect of many dreamsharers across the globe, Ziva included. Which was exactly why to be owed a favor by Tasya Kuznetsova was a canary in the cats mouth.

Giddier than she likely should've been, Ziva prepared for the mission briefing in a state of money induced mania. Dollar signs were her love language, the one hard truth she'd been raised on was that her worth was in how much money she brought home to her father. Even now, countries away, he would praise her when he learned of a job well done, her name whispered like a curse in the seediest of hellholes and back alleyways. From a poor, scrappy little thief to a world renowned dreamsharer, Ziva had done well for herself by capitalizing on the misery of others.

Whatever mess Tasya had gotten herself into, no matter how poor their odds or desperate the situation, Ziva would thrash and claw and climb her way to a successful mission. Desperation was a cruel mistress that the forger had both fucked and been fucked over by, it had taught her how to repress her own emotions and hide behind a facade, to be anyone else but herself. If this whole dreamsharing thing didn't work out, she could make a killing in Las Vegas.

With no one at home and no stability to hold down, Ziva didn't need to prepare much for this contextless mission. She could never return to this townhome again, a ghost without a tomb, and no one would notice except the stray cats that frequented her yard for food. A suitcase had been her only home since she was born, never in one place for too long, no roots to ensnare her. There was nothing of sentimental value to her besides her talisman, always tucked tightly at the bottom of her go bag. Loneliness was freedom, or so she told herself.

The morning of felt akin to waking up on one's birthday, knowing that there was a shiny present waiting for you, though you'd have to be patient until the time arrived. London was a dreary city, too much rain and not enough seasoned food for her liking. To pass the time, the former art thief visited the nearby museums, gauging what could be worth stealing and what was likely a fake. Grifting was a delicate art form, and if it were respected as such Ziva would be hung in the Louvre beside the Mona Lisa.

Greedy hands riffled through passing pockets, a surgeon removing vital organs with exact precision so as not to make a mess. Slipping into the crowd and dancing past security guards and cameras alike, thieving was an intense tango that Ziva could do with eyes shut. Abandoning her former work for dreamsharing had been like hitting the jackpot for the Forger, but that didn't mean she didn't enjoy a good grift with her own face every now and again.

The sun had set long before Ziva finished her meal off with a bottle of merlot, sorting through her newest prizes under the table to decide what was worth keeping and what would earn her a nice price at the market. According to one of the five new watches she'd fastened around her wrist, if she didn't hurry, she would be late to the mission brief, though the time of others wasn't generally something she respected. One of the cards she'd swiped on the street earlier paid for her meal, and then she was on her way to the designated meetup, layers of freshly pickpocketed necklaces dripping from her neck.

~~~~

"Hello, darlings." Fashionably late and decked out with her latest bounty, Ziva arrived with a shit-eating grin upon her red stained lips. No falter, no hesitation, not even a flicker changes her features, mask perfectly in place as she spots unfortunately familiar faces. A ghost dressed up as a childhood friend, though neither of them could be categorized as having a childhood, a steaming mug distorting her hardened features. Someone who knows more about the forger than she should. And Fausto, that bastard.

It means nothing to her, they mean nothing to her. Shame, insecurity, doubt; all emotions that Ziva doesn't allow herself to have. Nothing bothers the forger, for that would mean acknowledging weakness. Metal clinks like golden rain against her bronze skin as she walks, one heeled boot moving just close enough to step pointedly on the bastard's foot, gracefully stepping over his other foot as it extended to trip her. A waltz that only the two of them know, a contest to see who will buckle first. Unphased, arms spread wide to wrap Tasya in a hug much more familiar than they actually are. Warm lips meet cold cheeks as Ziva greets the architect with two overly familiar kisses, sliding a silver plated bracelet onto her wrist as she does.

"A little gift, for you." She winked, making the split second decision that Bea would be the least unpleasant to sit next to out of her current options. Draping herself against the chair like a haphazardly thrown silk scarf, Ziva assessed everyone from the corner of her eyes, making note of who she knew and did not. Whatever Tasya had gotten herself into, it must've been serious to warrant a crew this large. Oh well, Ziva quite enjoyed a challenge.

coded by natasha.
 
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scroll








THE ARCHITECT.



TASYA.













mood

Tense and cold.











outfit

Beige trenchcoat, black turtleneck and slacks.











location

A warehouse somewhere in London.











interactions

Everyone.
















Everybody was arriving, some far too early, some quite late, but there would be no typical harsh quips of the tongue nor any of her usual sarcasm. Tasya was a ghost of a woman, an echo of what once was, and she was painfully reminded of it with each familiar face that joined her in the warehouse. Flickers of memories, reminders of her past selves that she put on for each and every one, but also of what they had truly seen of her. Raw and uninhibited, a self that was shoved deep down, something she didn’t want to be seen or touched any longer. No matter the organization of her files, exchanged niceties and gourmet coffee, she could barely conceal the grief that painted her face. It’s bad, and it’ll only get worse.

There were voices outside, echoes of familiarity only separated by a door. Her hackles raised in anticipation.

Tick, tick, tick.

Tasya lifted her arm after the hour mark to check her watch, brewing in her own anxieties. Across the table sat the anachronism of a woman who had arrived at the doorstep like the Grim Reaper herself ready for the reaping, hours early to the affair. She had plied her with delicate cups of tea and small conversation, but not much else. Blonde lashes blinked at the comment about her age, not truly meaning anything by it. It was true - Tasya was older, years of sedatives and alcohol and somnacin had begun to line her hooded eyes. She simply hummed in response and pushed a fly-away hair away from her forehead.
“I suppose you’re right. You’re looking better than I am these days, Béatrice.”
The woman spoke from behind the rim of her teacup, watching the Nurse through her eyelashes. It was another truth left to hang in the air. Béatrice did in fact look well, and had barely aged a day since they had last seen one another.

"I hope your dogs are well. Recently adopted two of my own, and the energy is endless, my goodness."
This was the difficult part, maintaining that veneer, an impulse as to not crack. 'I refuse to call her Mother. I’ve always hated that alias.' Her smile was less a gentle movement of relief and more of the reopening of a wound.

Tick, tick, tick.

The time of the meeting had gotten much, much closer in the quiet air of anticipation she shared with Béa. An hour was spent scribbling feverishly through her notes, annotations shoved into the margins of maps as she continued to work on structures until her vision went cross eyed. As much as the woman wanted to throw on her sunglasses, a habit of hiding that she had done for years now, it was too dim inside to justify it and much too late in the day. Her face felt exposed, eyebrows knit as Tasya poured over possible plans. Three levels of dreams, dozens of buildings, hidden loops, mazes, too much. Her phone pinged with a reminder, and Tasya quickly shot a text to their second architect, a man whose purpose was not needed just yet at their meeting but would be met hopefully by the next day. ‘Status?’ is all the text read before she tucked away the device.

The sound of their next arrival was announced by the rumble of a motorcycle, and soon a familiar face, one of the only ones Tasya was truly relieved to see. She had long since left her seat, eyes too tired to continue pouring over architectural blueprints, and stood perched near the coffee table instead like a carrion bird waiting for prey. For a woman of such focused confidence, there was always a specter of doubt that lingered. After months of radio silence and static, the way Tasya had spent nearly a year severing her connections from others and forcing herself into solitude, there was a lingering regret and worry that maybe, just maybe, nobody would come and help. Willie was greeted with a nod and a shrug, her jaw too tense to try and make small conversation. It was true; her gatherings were typically held in her house, echoes of weekend long parties and empty liquor bottles. But this was meant to be strictly professional. She just hoped the coffee she had drank masked the waft of liquor on her breath, the weight of a silver flask weighing heavy in the breast pocket of her trench coat.

Money was a great motivator, it seemed. So far every single invitation had been answered. ‘слава богу,’ She thought, ‘thank god’.

There was a ruckus at the door, at least three folks now arriving at once. Before she could blink Tasya watched as Yananovic arrived, all smiles and even entering with his own cinematic music. She had begun to raise a hand to shake his, and instead found herself wrapped in his bear hug, a strong grip of titanium and lean muscle.
“Oof-”
It caught her off guard, the telltale smell of food and chemicals flooding her, and her hands hovered over his back for a beat before she gingerly returned the favor.
“Моя маленькая лягушка. Спасибо что пришли.”
The blonde spoke quietly but with a pang of affection, angling her head up just to reach his ear. ‘My little frog, thank you for coming.’

She extricated herself gently before he could attempt another bear hug, and ushered him over to where Béatrice now diligently made tea for their new arrivals. She didn’t even need to ask, which was…surprisingly nice. The help was appreciated. Maybe this could work.

Delphine’s arrival was marked by the drizzle of dew drops, sweeping long hair and a creeping sense of decay that Tasya could never shake when they were near. Her presence was a question and an answer, eyes focused on all of the things she couldn’t ever wrap her head around, skin like daffodils and hair too. A lying mouth, another mirror or another disaster? They’d find out soon enough. Tasya almost laughed at her remark. She knew exactly who was outside now.
“Yes, they’ll be joining us soon enough.”


The meeting was becoming quite the crowd. Apprehension creaked through her joints, a stillness that couldn’t be shaken as she stood and waited, arms crossed and brow pensive. Each new arrival was offered tea and ushered into their seats, slowly filling out the meeting table with a precise number of seats for those invited. Eyes were on her at every moment now, curiosity piqued and questions unanswered. She walked a thin line between reassurance and tension; some of her colleagues were to be trusted, some offered comfort, others offered questions.

There was Oliver as well, pink as a flamingo and smooth in all the ways Fausto was not. In her head, she reminded herself to talk to their extractor later, to explore every option of what could be done, for at the present moment that grating man was etching a notch into her endless patience. Their extractor was their most valuable asset, and she’d be willing to pay him double the labeled price if it meant he would agree to work for her. Desperation, admiration, obligation. She looked forward to working with him again, but her attention was torn. Fausto’s arrival only steps ahead of the older gentleman had her tilting her head, the slope of her neck revealing the twitch of a muscle.

Cold eyes followed Fausto’s every move as he announced his pompous arrival, stilling her tongue as to not snap at his words and his attitude. ‘He didn’t have to come, but he did. Of course he did. Just to rub it in my face.’ She didn’t miss the little nudge at Yanan, eyes narrowing as she watched his scrutinizing gaze peruse her, and she lifted her chin to meet his view.

There would always be a dead body in their backseat, one they never got to bury.

Her eyes offered no peek into her mind, no emotion to be offered except frigid indifference and a reflection of his own image. A beat passed, a stressed twitch of her brow, before she spoke in a tone akin to one calming down a toddler.
“Those names would do me no good. You came, didn’t you? Take a seat.”
A dismissal, a digit digging into an old wound. She didn’t allow herself the satisfaction of seeing his reaction, stepping aside instead to shake the hand of their other pragmatist.

People were always questions, never answers. That was the sentiment that lingered when she greeted Fredrik with a professional handshake. His hands were rough to the point that Tasya almost winced, almost surprised, but pragmatists were another breed entirely compared to the delicate work of architects. So much of their combat training was forged in reality, versus her expertise could only ever be practiced in the realm of dreams. He was all business, and for once she could greatly appreciate that, given the complicated state of her colleagues.
“Tasya Kuznetsova, though I’m sure you already knew that. Please take a seat or help yourself to our refreshments, as we’ll be starting shortly.”


Only a few more, Tasya thought as she turned around to straighten out her paperwork. Dark eyes glanced at the face of her watch. Tick, tick, tick.

Suddenly, there was another presence in her personal space and Tasya received her second unexpected hug of the day. God damn, Ziva could be a breath of fresh air. Painted lips greeted her with a quick kiss on both cheeks, and Tasya’s brain barely caught up with her body to return the greeting in a delayed motion. The smell of too-ripe cherries, gourmand perfume, and cold silver flooded her nose before she realized the gift Ziva had slid onto her wrist.
“You really didn’t have to, my dear.”
She responded in earnest, lashes fluttering as she examined her wrist, delicate metal and diamonds glinting under the fluorescents. Obviously stolen, as it didn’t entirely suit Ziva’s tastes, but she didn’t take it off. ‘Don’t let her distract you. Focus.’


It was time to begin. Tasya stood at the head of the grand table, threw her arms wide and clapped once, the noise echoing throughout the gutted interior of the warehouse to quell any small talk that had cropped up between colleagues. Her hands remained clasped, tension forcibly leaving her form as she threw on poise like a new suit.

“Before we begin, I want to take a moment to thank everyone for being here on such short notice. We will be discussing a delicate matter, and I unfortunately do not have the luxury of time on my side.”
She spoke, circling the table like a bird of prey as she handed out a folder to each individual.
“As many of you saw in my letter, I am humbly requesting your help for an extraction job. You will each be paid a handsome sum of four million dollars if the mission is successful. Please turn your attention to the screen before opening your files.”


She finished her rounds before standing before the head of the table once more. From a drawer underneath, the woman retrieved a large tablet. Taps filled the quiet air before live video footage flickered to the screen, and Tasya held it up in full view for each participant to witness.

The live feed was a clear view of Timofey, strapped to the same very chair as she had seen him only that morning. It was obvious to those less familiar with Tasya that he was not only her family, he was her twin, sedated and asleep in an observational room of a laboratory. Her gaze did not waver.

“Ten days ago during a dreamshare operation, Timofey Kuznetsov was of sound mind and sound body, working as a point-man for a typical extraction gig. I have little details of what the job entailed, but the job does not matter. What matters is that my brother never woke up.”
She began to explain, neck muscles tense as she spoke around the grief lodged in her throat.
“He never woke up, and instead suffered a grand mal seizure. I found him and took him to the hospital, of course, and treated accordingly. But after two days of uncharacteristic and erratic behavior, this happened.”


She swiped from the live feed to a recorded video, the time stamp reading only seven days ago. It was the same laboratory, with Tasya perched in a chair and her brother in that very armchair that would eventually become his prison. To the left of the frame was their client, and to the right sat Timofey.

-

“What’s your name?”
Tasya asked, face aloof behind a clipboard and sunglasses.

“Which one?”
The man answered her question with his own.
“Andrei Ivanov? Timur Baladin? I have several.”


Tasya straightened her glasses, stiff.
“Your birth name, then.”


The man smiled now, a palpable tension in the room. Tasya shifted in her seat, uncomfortable in the silence, unsure if she was predator or prey.

“Timofey Kuznetsov,”
he answered, moving his head in an odd staccato of a nod.
“You already know that. Aren’t you my sister? You are supposed to know that.”


The blonde continued, scribbling onto her clipboard.
“Mm, I’m not so sure. Am I your sister? Are you really Timofey?”
She prodded, almost taunting.
“If you were, you could prove it.”


“You know I am.”


“What’s our mother’s name? Where did we grow up together? How many people have you killed?”


“Anya. We grew up in St. Petersburg. And no- no! I never killed anyone.”


Tasya smiled and shook her head, but there was no gratification to the movement.

“You’re wrong.”


A beat. His face was nearly red, chest heaving like a caged animal. Before Tasya could resume her line of questioning, the small medical table between them was thrown aside in a rage, and the body of Timofey lunged at his sister in a mad scramble.

-

The video was cut short before it displayed the murder attempt. Tasya laid the tablet down flat to instead reach up to the knit fabric of the black turtleneck beneath her jacket, pulling it down to show splotches of bruised yellows and greens.

“He tried to kill me. Twice, actually.”
She explained, almost too nonchalant.
“I believe due to the dreamsharing job he did, multiple shades have somehow dislodged themselves from my brother’s psyche, and one of them has seized control of his body. Whatever’s inside him right now, it is not him. Believe me, I checked. I’ve dropped into his head on multiple occasions, I’ve witnessed them firsthand. I believe he is inside somewhere, but a job of this magnitude means I need the best dreamers money can buy.”


Tasya readjusted her turtleneck as she spoke, discomfort evident underneath false appearances.

“You can imagine how delicate of a situation this must be, but I am requesting your skills and your services. A job of this size demands that we drop at least two, if not three levels into Timofey’s psyche. He’s in there, and I’m proposing we extract him in order to reverse the levels of dreams and drop the primary shade, or hopefully all of his shades, into Limbo.”


She waved a hand at their files now, and opened her own copy.
“In each of your files I have included a thorough list of information for you to study. Timofey’s criminal file, a brief timeline of his life, as well as detailed plans on how exactly we will approach this. I’m proposing we use level one as our homebase due to its stability and I’ve quadruple-checked – it’s shade free. His shades are only seen as you delve deeper into level two. The shades have become a mental security, if you will, building their own fortress in an attempt to keep Timofey inside.”


Tasya leaned against the table now with both hands splayed wide, desperation lining her silhouette.
“I’ve already drafted the layout of each level. We’ll be splitting into two primary teams, I must emphasize perhaps the greatest danger of this mission. Limbo is a very real possibility here. A simple sleep will not give us enough time to dive so deep, we will all be sedated and I am not exaggerating when I say – he may be my brother, but he is a dangerous career criminal with more bodies than real life connections. His shades are extremely violent, defensive, and are determined to keep control of his body. His psyche is fractured, and we will need to become acquainted with a basic understanding of who he is and what makes him tick in order to reach him.”


The bruises on her throat throbbed as she spoke, and Tasya stood up straight to cross her arms and drag a hand over her tired brow.

“If anybody wants to back out, now is the time to do so.”
She said with weight, before continuing.

“This operation will take a minimum of three days, depending on how quickly we are able to organize. It will be conducted in my personal laboratory, to ensure privacy, of course. For those traveling abroad, I am happy to offer accommodations in my own home and have more than enough room to house each of you individually. If you’d prefer local comforts, I will pay for your hotels.

Tomorrow at noon, we will reconvene at my house and you may all have a firsthand look at Timofey. Poke him, question him, anything you need to know beforehand, or perhaps to confirm the situation with your own eyes, whatever you want. But the sooner we can begin, the better. Are there any questions?”



♡coded by uxie♡
 
Last edited:












Béatrice.



The Nurse, O Lord.


















“ 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙮 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣. 𝘿𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙? ”​

― 𝕰𝖒𝖒𝖆 𝕽𝖎𝖈𝖍𝖑𝖊𝖗​
────────────

​
Béa sat as a grim would, hands encircling a warmth unwelcoming of the chill she carried, eyes watching from binoculars far away as familiar faces appeared in ghosts before her. Elsewhere a cross burned and made its weight known and she bit back the desperation of muscles to not toss it and reassure. 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢, it couldn't and it was medicine she'd swallow with a face concealing the bitter taste as even the fresh air of music and tracksuit took her hardly from internal thoughts.

"𝗬𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗶𝗰, 𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗮 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗿𝘆." She finally returned the name after letting seconds pass, slipping whispered croaks into passing tea, a smile curling gently towards the skyscraper form. "𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝗱 𝗱𝗼 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝘆 𝗺𝘆 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝗜'𝘃𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵. 𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝗹𝘀𝗲, 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗲." Lips pinched themselves, a flash of manicured teeth and shallow pool demand before her hands went on, passing tea to the remnants of the group as they made entrances of all sorts into the room.

A cup and nod to Fredrick, a passing glance to those she didn't know and one she saw in a dream. It was customary, a standard greeting and equal evaluation of those in the group until plastic flamingo and strolling velvet alike appeared, fashionably late in jaunty steps counted in threes. Scent was familiar first, choking in the path of a woman clutched at cups of tea.

Fausto was there and Béa was simply not prepared, even as a fuss of motion placed a cup before him, simplified smile pressed in machine efficiency. "𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂." His attention wouldn't be hers, focused so quickly on Yanan she was grateful for the truth of rumors, hurried steps taking away the Nurse to a fussing figure.

If venom could crawl into the eyes it was directed at Tasya then, a momentary life breathed to blown-out candles before a façade fell again, draping funeral shroud over despairing features. Busied hands kept her from retching as Aphrodite to a worm. Her abdomen competed on itself, clandestine in the harrowing cries it made at distant laughter and the smell of bleach and cherry. Elsewhere she could dig into dirt and find a lockbox of what was, rusted and ruined with word never spoken. A thief stole a glance towards shaded eyes and the nausea returned.

He was a memory in the kindest way, the cruel disappointment to child with ice cream fallen to the floor and a lied promise for more. Paper-wrapped sweets felt heavier in the zipped pocket of a bag she cradled close to her abdomen, sickening in their meaning as salivating Pavlovian tests. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙛𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧.

A tear was made in the fabric of corneas to force her gaze away, settling from uncomfortable hands to knuckles and chewed fingertips on others. They were skeletons she had salted, gas she had sprinkled and a knife that shattered the mirror of a convent and saw her dragged from the halls, screaming.

Her spine ached in a shiver and she gripped in salvation at the files offered by stalking marrow. A seat was retaken and her shoulders sunk in the lowering bar of the tasks laid before them. Multiple levels, sedation, injury potential abounded and with injury under sedation ...

𝙇𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙤. 𝙇𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙤. 𝙇𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙤.

So many words spilled over the next few minutes, tumbling in the panicked stillness of a person pushed to the ledge of a skyscraper and desperate to grab hold of objects nearby. Time would settle itself for later, an opportunity to push on the buttons forming the robotic shell of a woman battered by the one she trusted. A scar tugging down lips burned in solidarity memory; only for a moment, though. It was bleak with the crisp of papers and a screen displaying a nightmare consuming real flesh.

𝙇𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙤. They were two syllables that stuck out to the Nurse, syllables that slid bones around her neck and tightened with each ticking clock hand, every stolen breath. Limbo. There hung a spider, an artist dangling on the threads that made up Limbo, the translucent silk that smoke-filled mirrors waded through, pulling along the ends. Her intimacy lingered with the realm in a way unbecoming of one unmarried.

Curls didn't move as her lips pushed internal questions around the boundaries of her mind, relishing in a pause of the room before the sigh of a withering accountant pushed the file onto table. Tea was picked up again, the chill of hours disappointing the hands that sought warmth. ""𝗜 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗻'𝘁 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗺 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝗺𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗿." There was no direction to her speech, collapsing on the middle of the table before grey eyes swirled on faces and brought up a nearly signature smile, blossomed and fake. "𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗲𝗮, 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲?"













Get Me Away.





Is This Bloodborne?





Yanan, Fausto, Tasya.





















 
“Tasya Kuznetsova, though I’m sure you already knew that. Please take a seat or help yourself to our refreshments, as we’ll be starting shortly.”
Click to expand...

Fred nodded. "Yes ma'am, sure do. I just hope I'll meet your expectations-" he glanced at the others "-and those of the team."

That being said Fredrik excused himself, passing by Béatrice, collecting a cup of tea while also greeting the woman with a stern yet curt nod. "Miss Lavigne-Monet," he said, knowing that not greeting her by her self-given title and moniker would annoy her slightly.

Having met before on a previous job Fredrik maintained a strictly professional relationship with the woman. In a way he both respected and feared her, for she was as laser-focused as him on getting the job done. Unfortunately she was also as silent as a wolf on the prowl, leaving Fred with a lot of questions yet to be answered.

With these questions came a level of distrust as well. It didn't help that their previous job together had been... Difficult.

Now, as Fred seated himself next to the man with the steel gauntlet, the ex-soldier took a careful sip from his tea and allowed its warmth to settle within his body. It was a welcome comfort- especially in such a cold and barren locale as the warehouse- though like most things in life it was fleeting and temporary.

When Tasya's briefing commenced Fred produced a notebook and and a hardened military-grade bullpoint pen which he used to scribble down quick notes. From his own perspective as a more tactically-oriented member of the team knowledge of the enemy composition, numbers and overall strength was vital to ensuring a smooth operation.

In a way his role didn't differ much from his former line of work where similar briefings proved intel paramount to the safety of his team, security of the mission and- last but not least- mission success.

Should Tasya ask for it Fredrik would tear down Timofey's defenses the same way he'd kicked in doors in Afghanistan and Mali.

I just hope that the rest of the team are up for this.

"Are there any questions?”
Click to expand...

Fred was quick to raise his hand, looking up from his notes. "With the team operating in two smaller squads I presume we'll have some form of contingency plan in the even that one team needs to do double-back to reinforce the other? Or are we operating without any backup?"
 










scroll
Willie Sprake





Warehouse





Tasya, open; Fred mentioned





Troubled disposition










"𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗲𝗮, 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲?"

The Mother's smile flowed as freely as honey out of a foulbrood's hive. External youth belied the fathomless wefts of time that wove her personality into something which should not have been. Had her past defined this façade, or was this the inevitability of untold age?

"With the team operating in two smaller squads I presume we'll have some form of contingency plan in the even that one team needs to do double-back to reinforce the other? Or are we operating without any backup?"
The soldier seated adjacent asked Tasya, who looked half-prepared to collapse on the spot.

"That would be my role in all this,"
began Willie, scrubbing any trace of the mission's dourness from his face with an unfortunately clammy palm.
"I'll be Tethering you all back and forth. Think of it as limited teleportation. When you make the call, I jump as many problem-solvers as we have available to your location. So long as one person stays behind, I can probably get everyone back to the forward position with limited risk."
With a heavy tone, he nearly muttered the last,
"I'll need to convene with everyone privately to gain the insight necessary to perform my role. It isn't effective if I don't know you fairly well."
The amount of bristling in the crowd did not give the vote of confidence he dared not hope for.
"How much time have we been allocated for preparations, Tasya?"


Willie slumped in his chair enough to scrape together a respite after all eyes were off of him. Dreaming attracted fractured folk running from reality. He was no exception, Willie reminded himself. The job would end when Timofey was restored, but his endured until the Mother was made to answer a few questions, too. Gottverdammich, but she was the spitting image of Silke with her hair dyed that brightly. Squeezing his gauntlet tightly, very tightly, Willie stared at Béatrice too long by half until he could bear the prisoner's rattling no longer--an impermissible threat built up around the eyes, but he would not let his face betray him too--and smoothed his unprepossessing features into gentle apathy.



♡coded by uxie♡
 



yananovic borgov





































  • mood



    pulled in. like a fish.

















Yanan had forgotten the way Béatrice formed her words and how her accent swayed; almost spectral. He admitted that sometimes her talk was challenging to grasp. This, he confessed only to himself. "You'd do well to refer to me by my moniker until I've decided to like you enough. Let me know if you need anything else, dearie."
– "Ah-" he exhaled. A bolt of electricity sparked the sides of his temples and Yanan remembered.
"My apologies, ...mother. It's a pleasure to see your friendly face again." His lips curved but the hairs on the chemist’s arms fought against the urge to stand up. The term Mother was the very bane of his existence, a spelling error in his application, the gray hair on his scalp that kept coming back, the break of heart when his first love dumped his love letters in the river of Newa, St. Petersburg. He couldn’t tell if it was the influence of her ordaining voice or his own understanding of social interaction, but he pulled the headphones from his shoulders and turned the music off. Sade no longer echoed through the warehouse.

Béa– Mother passed him a cup of fragrant tea and his hands – one warm one cold – clutched it with learned comfort. "Thank you kindly."
– "Yanan, of course." And just like this another silhouette ignited the room for a man in black dimmed it once again. Interrupted from his greetings to Béatrice, his face lit up all the same at the sight of a face that was no longer a stranger’s. "The one and only," he commented. "I didn’t expect someone like yourself in this round, Fausto. I am growing more fond you are, by the minute though," he smiled as Fausto invaded his personal space to take in his spectacular tracksuit and comment on it. If anything, it was an ode to motherland Russia. Instead of rising to Fausto’s frisky provocations, Yanan kept silent as the corners of his mouth dragged themselves down while they remained clearly smiling: the chemist’s true recognition value. Maybe it was victory enough for Fausto, but a verbal reaction, he didn’t score just yet. Had he grown a bit taller? More mature even? The last he could not truthfully believe after this interaction.

For now he seated himself and let the fabric of his tracksuit scrunch audibly with each movement. More people made their entrances but Yanan had to recognize no one else and hence, he did not engage in any introductions for the time being. Soon enough, the very reason for his journey was to be revealed. Yanan had refrained from reaching out to Tasya beforehand. He was sure enough it was a matter important enough and as the light of the projector flickered against the surface of his glasses, Timofey Kuznetsov’s face, dull and hostile, was a mere host to its virus. Chilling.

Hearing about the attempts of murder, he grew worried. The motion of Tasya's hands adjusting her turtleneck, a delicate but visible bruise hidden behind a few millimeters of cloth. His fingers fumbled with the files and opened them only after Tasya’s permission.

"A job of this size demands that we drop at least two, if not three levels into Timofey’s psyche."
He noted her words which made him look up from the files and huff out a dim whistle. Drop three levels, phew.
At the same time, he concluded, it would be difficult to drop three, but he has worked cases in which he let clients drop four. Of course it had been highly unprofessional of him to allow it but he had a reputation to live up to. Yanan had to admit, this right here, sent shivers down his spine. Questions rose and so did hands, but Yanan felt he was given too much input at once and used the time to sort information in the right brackets.

He let her words relapse in his head; going backwards to recover what was left behind.
"I’m proposing we use level one as our homebase due to its stability..," Tasya mentioned as only one of many important sentences.

Stability.

The word lingered heavy on his shoulders. The very thing that kept him from standing tall and proud next to Tasya, instead he took the seat in front of her – looking up to her like he always did, always will? Architects and their divine details went hand in hand and constancy was the clouds they emerged from. Cloud for cloud they climbed, while he still waited for his own cloud to manifest. Too thin, it allowed no chase after the architects. Instead, he was stuck with the things on the ground; chemicals all over. While Yanan was confident he could pull any job, now insecurities crept inside his chest where they waited to haunt him at a later time.

"You want to drop two levels at least, Three if necessary. I am assuming you need your chemists by your side?" He could already tell by the crook of her lips and the posture of her brows, it was a yes. And despite his so called 'preferences' he could already hear his response Then I shall join.


































seoul



Jaysen










♡coded by uxie♡
 



fausto nobrega.





































  • mood



    grimly haunted, determined
















Fausto turned his head to spot Ziva, the tentative expression on his face hardening into something far sharper. His head straightened up, his lips pursed closed, and he didn’t move his foot out in time— either one, really, the one that ought to have been out of the way of forger’s footfall, or the one that he had tilted upwards in an attempt to cause her to fall.

Damn, he thought to himself, the wince suppressed under years of practice, and he turned away as Ziva swept Tasya up in a rush of movement, familiar and over the top, a flutter of chaos that made a nerve at the bottom of his skull twitch, a sharp tension that threatened to leech into his shoulders (a stray thought about ghosts, old haunts, and the graveyard that he was surrounding himself with. Dead ends and false beginnings, chapters that were never closed but instead burned alive). That too was kept under the same calm veneer that he had cultivated over the years, his gaze returning to Yanan, a faint tug at the edge of his mouth smoothing out across his face as the two of them took a seat at the table, his shades still firmly in place— armor, protection, against whatever might be lurking in a formerly familiar gaze.

There was a stumble, of course, and it felt like a stark warning, a raven cawing in the distance, a docile dog chewing off its own leg in panic at something that he could not quite see yet. A cup of tea, offered by a voice that was almost familiar, a lingering of roses and patchouli that used to surround him— Stop that, he chided himself internally as fingers reached out to curl around the handle, no words of thanks offered from lips that had betrayed them both so long ago anyways. (She’s wearing gloves now, a stray thought, a haphazard observation, a mind still trained to gravitate towards her, piece her out of a crowd and follow golden curls— stop that, stop that, stop that.) He took a sip— delicately sweet, quickly followed by the taste of ash, of bitter regrets and mistakes.

He gave up on trying to drink it and instead turned his head to survey the others that he had been lined up against, finding two faces that were not nearly as familiar as all the old haunts that were trying to dig their claws into the smooth surface that he presented. The one closer to him was moderately familiar, a tether, if he recalled correctly— Willie, only recalled because the nickname “Free Willy” had been one that he had been delighted to utilize; the one afterwards— completely blank. Whoever that was, Fausto did not know and whatever task he was supposed to perform was even further from his mind, something he did not like. Who was he— why was he here— why had Tasya called him? What was her relationship to him, what were the corners of the earth that they had shared with one another? An itch to know, a roaming wonder of what he could possibly mean to her, and Fausto popped his elbow up on the table, shaded eyes turning to catch the eye of the other man, a smile meant to test the waters (present, but not ludicrously so, an open-ended ask for an exchange of expressions, an ask of an acknowledgement from the other) thrown his way.

More ghosts were settling into their seats (was he perhaps attending his own funeral? His own wake? Faces that he knew through flecks of blood and flesh from corpses lying between them, behind them, faces that he knew from the dim lamp in a bedroom and through the crack of the door as it closed— was he the specter, passing through lives, or were they simply flowing through his?) and he turned his attention to Tasya as she made her way around the room, providing a folder that Fausto did not glance at, his chair swiveling to follow her footsteps, a hidden gaze trained on her instead, trying to pick out the pieces she may be offering through her words. Terms were being strung together, terms that he was not sure he would associate with her— humbly requesting, as if there was a decision for them all here, as if they could choose to stay or leave.

(He would never leave. Old blood had seeped beneath both their fingernails, a permanent stain and reminder that he could not sever himself from her. She ought to know that, too— it was probably why she had asked.)

The elbow went back onto the table, a hand cupping his chin to prop it up as he fixed his gaze on the screen. The image of Timofey threw him off— he was supposed to have dinner with the man at some point, as far as he understood. Whether or not Timofey had meant the offer as a real one, well. Fausto would take advantage of it all the same, taking the invitation with both hands and finding whatever opening he could, stretching it out for as long as he needed to get a chance.

There was no visible reaction from him as he watched the scene unfold, but there was a sudden weight in his chest, a mounting pressure that boiled down to a simple statement: Fuck.

Hidden eyes darted to Tasya’s form, to the bruises, and the statement repeated itself over and over again, a cog that turned the wheels in his head faster and faster and faster— another sweep of the room done without moving his head, this time to examine the figures less as ghosts and more as the puzzle pieces that he realized she had put together— a pair of expert forgers, ruthless and efficient (and frightening— not that such an admittance would be found even amongst his own dreamscape), their own identities as quick to shift and be discarded as those that they may shrug on for a job; a nurse, should the real threat of limbo open up its maw to swallow them whole (and she always returned home in time for dinner— even if it was a touch cold sometimes); a tether to draw them all back if need be (Fausto should speak with him, probably call him something other than the name of a whale to see what sorts of tactics he had up his sleeve); an extractor that could fucking dig (a little too deep, a little too much, finding the corner that Fausto had not glued shut quite yet and slipping in); and a chemist whose endless, boundless intrigue had saved their asses more than fucking once.

That left the new man as the open-ended question, someone who he did not quite understand yet, who he did not quite know yet. What was his purpose, what rounded edges and sharp corners did he bring here? Another chemist perhaps, someone to monitor them as they went down? Or perhaps he was the other architect— the notes he was jotting down seemed to indicate a sense of thoroughness that would lend to such a practice.

The raised hand nearly elicited a laugh from Fausto, reminding him of grade school and a teacher’s pet. His question was interesting to say the least— what it made him was still murky but it was sharpening to be someone tactical— had she requested him for more firepower? He ought to be offended that Tasya gave thought to such a concept, that he would not be prepared for an operation that might be a touch larger than usual. The duel forgers were perhaps out of the norm, but he had functioned with groups this large before as the singular pragmatist, utilizing concepts that could only be dreamed up to ensure the safety of the group.

The question was being answered by Willie, next to Fausto, though he did not turn to acknowledge the man, his gaze focused still on Tasya.

The temptation to goad was present, the temptation to ask her if she knew how fucked they were, if she truly thought that her millions could buy back a mind that had scattered completely and utterly in the depths of what Fausto could only imagine was an endless pit. But—

“Three days is a terribly long time,”
Fausto said, a grin in his voice, wielded like a blade to be pointed at Tasya’s neck.
“I say we not dilly-dally too much. Some of us are in fact busy. If everyone is good little boys and girls and reads their homework,”
the grin was real now, all teeth and condescension,
“we ought to get started tomorrow evening once everyone who wants to poke about a vacant lot is done.”


































cry for love



백현










♡coded by uxie♡
 











DELPHINE














FOR THE PEOPLE IN THIS ROOM WHO NEED IT . . .




“Yes, they’ll be joining us soon enough.”

And Delphine can only shake her head at that.

The kind of entrance she anticipated she’d be making right now has fallen dead on the floor. The interior of this warehouse strikes her as quarantine more than anything else, with Tasya as the sufferer of some imminently infectious nervous disease. Everything hooded with the darkness of her brow. Side table in darkness, pot and kettle in darkness. This long meeting table under direct light yet somehow barely visible. And everyone’s talking to each other.

She removes her coat and hangs it on one of the also-shaded racks beside the front door. Her ensemble: block-heel leather boots, wide-legged black trousers, leather harness banding her stomach & shoulders… deep blue buttoned blouse that she’s undoing the top button of. And the white glove on her left - once black, something else before that, getting, even as she’d feign not seeing it somehow: perilously close to an always, a habit, evidence of life. She doesn't think about it.

She stands there and watches. Would wonder if she’s being watched too but the wonder is gone. That’s fine. She makes purchase of that. Sheds her skin -

Nobrega: So many words from his dog mouth! As usual!

Elsewhere: So many hugs.

…Ziva Chan is here!

Stepping overfoot. (And if it was someone she didn’t know or have animus with, she would applaud them openly. But it’s Ziva Chan.)

Woman with curls of steam around her face.

("More tea, anyone?")

Making her way slowly around in a half-circle, then back and forth again, Del listens, takes out the extracts of sentences, smoothes them between her fingers until the memory of what’s being said is pressed perfectly to them, an oil. A pitiful narcotic not without its charms.

Fredrik Nordkvist. ‘Yanan’ - little frog. Lavigne-Monet - Mother. Béatrice?

She shops and dances in her own utopia. Thinks more about what she could be. About who it would benefit her to be now. For this.

Whatever this is.

Everyone’s at the table now. With beehive intent. Maybe they’re about to know.

“Please turn your attention to the screen before opening your files.”

Del opens her file an inch and then snaps it closed right away.

“What matters is that my brother never woke up.”

Speakers somewhere in the room hiss to life. She imagines a Delphine ten years younger jumping at this. So fearful and joyous she might have been. Such a seeker, maybe.

“What’s your name?”

“Which one?”

By watching the video, a change occurs within Delphine.

“Are you really Timofey?”

It’s a process not altogether intended. It's an adaptation to a new wilderness, almost essential.

“You know I am.”

She can feel herself getting low and bristly and mean. She grins narrowly, not showing her teeth, only her upper gumline, which, pardon you, is well-loved.

“You’re wrong.”

Clattering metal, then the woman from the video pulls down the neck of her sweater and shows off her new tattoos, places where human sickness has kissed her, and she talks some more

“If anyone wants to back out, now is the time to do so,”

- and then they can finally peer at those files they were given, which is something that Delphine does not do at all timidly.

And it says ‘petty larceny, assault… conspiracy to commit murder… (ooo!) …unstable, and extremely violent,’ and then there’s questions from the gallery, and then some little nerd:

“I am assuming you need your chemists by your side?”

Leather touches face. Her eyes go back in her head, aghast. This the little frog. The little baby. Needs her to tell him he’s her favourite little boy. Some vile remark sleeps on her tongue, but no, she’s a professional. Aspiring to be.

And then Fausto Nobrega opens up with more inconsequential shit, to no one’s shock whatsoever, and it’s like: these people. This fucking job. She sees herself, her life, from outside the glass here. It's like she’s looking at animals and she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care about saving this man, or about the bruises he gave that woman, their little family now severed, or about…

“Questions,” she hears herself say. “I have a few. Hi, Tasya. First one. You want to rescue Timofey from his own mind, bring him back to his faculties. Sure. But you make it sound like there might not be a whole… to be taken out, yes? Putting those pieces together, that could take more than what any of us could do. All resources and talent combined. Chemists at your side or not. And it could take terribly longer than three days,” and she casts her eyes darkly at Yanan, then Fausto, here, “...without you, at least. We’re trusting that you appeal to him. Your… emotional connection, your sibling connection. We’re walking on coals that you can get to him. So, for the people in this room who need it, can you give a better argument to that?”



MOOD
Misplaced retaliation.


LOCATION
Warehouse, Islington, London.


TAGS
Tasya ( birth of venus birth of venus ), Yanan (mentioned) ( mangomilk mangomilk ), Fausto (mentioned) ( FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace ); everyone (open).
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THE ARCHITECT.



TASYA.













mood

Borderline regret.











outfit

Beige trenchcoat, black turtleneck and slacks.











location

A warehouse somewhere in London.











interactions

Everyone.
















Tension rippled across her shoulders and back, prickling needles of hot pain that had not ceased for nearly two weeks. Stress hung from her frame as plain as her clothes, but the continued attempt at presenting a professional appearance had not ceased. Asking for help felt a cousin to groveling for the woman, teeth grit as she outlined the details of the mission, a muscle twitching in her jaw. There were too many eyes on her at once, incessant questions that were necessary - of course they were necessary, with the gravity of such a mission - but all she truly wanted to do was go home and sleep. Dreams had evaded her for months now, only sporadic flashes of color and psychedelics echoing behind the hollows of her eyes, circadian rhythms thrown to the wind. Too much alcohol, too much somnacin, too many regrets scrutinized her face and her form much in the way she had upon first meetings.

Did the suffering ever mean anything? Tasya could feel a pang of hunger echo through her body, a remnant from days spent kneeling in fasting and prayer. Where is your fate, and who delivers it to you?

Tasya didn't believe in destiny, but she did believe in karma. The gathering she had brought unto herself, pushed to her limits and unsure of who to trust, felt like a cosmic sneer from Him, a bellied laugh at yet more kneeled suffering. Well trained, her face remained aloof, nodding along as questions arose. It would all be worth it, in the end. Shame ran hot through her veins at the thought that she couldn't save her own brother herself, and therefore debased herself before her colleagues, but what else was there to be done?

Vaguely, she wondered if hiring strangers would have been more efficient.

"I would hope you haven't assembled a team of cowards before you, my dear."


That was enough to earn a small huff, barely a laugh from Tasya.
"I should hope so. You certainly are no coward."
She responded in turn. The offer for tea was tempting, but met with no response. Her body ached to sit down.

Fredrik's raised hand should have been a bit funny, but amidst all of the...personal toils between old colleagues, she continued to find his professionalism a breath of fresh air. She nodded, ready to respond, but Willie beat her to the punch. A hand rose to sweep stray silvery hairs away, newfound greys beginning to mingle in camouflage with white blonde, before opening her mouth to confirm.

"Mr. Sprake is correct,"
A small cruelty of professionalism, a pointedly averted gaze,
"A Tether is a valuable asset, if utilized correctly then we'll be able to act as each other's backups on the fly. We have about three days to prepare, I want to ensure that everyone is thoroughly familiar with our plans upon entering, the layout of our teams and auxiliary help, and each layer."


"...I am assuming you need your chemists by your side?"


Another nod in response. Her head panged with tension.
"Yes we will, and you will not be working solo, Yananovic. Unfortunately some of our colleagues are not present at this meeting due to delayed flights, but we will be a team of twelve overall. One extractor, two architects, including myself. Two chemists, two pragmatists, a tether, a nurse, and three forgers. Godspeed if that isn't enough for this job."


It took a great amount of willpower to not roll her eyes at Fausto's words. Instead, a low sigh escaped her lips along with a small shake of the head. Cruelty reared an ugly head once more.
"Rushing into this is precisely how we'll all end up killed, or worse, dropped slack jaw and brain dead into Limbo. You, of all people, should understand that as a pragmatist."
Her eyes narrowed, and quickly turned away in yet another dismissal.

And now there was Delphine, sharp-eyed and keen to peruse the file like a SkyMall magazine. The harness strapped across her torso would have earned an appreciative look in any other circumstance. At the very least, Tasya could appreciate the way she cut to the chase, dug into the meat of the carcass to ask what others avoided.

"You're right."
Tasya rubbed a thin hand along the corners of her mouth, over her jawline, mind pouring over her questions before carefully responding.
"Why would I organize this, if not for our emotional connection? Hemorrhaging millions of dollars for a man I could care less about? No, no. Despite the details listed in your files, despite all of the warnings of how unstable he is, Timofey is still my twin. It may seem an exaggeration but we know each other far more than anyone else walking this earth. Those fragments I spoke about, that is what I believe manifested into those shades. Shades can be tricky, but with enough resilience, can be resolved. And I'm not taking a backseat on this mission, I will be the architect and that grants me the ability to organize those scattered memories of his neatly into reachable locations. I can access him. I just...need assistance."


Help seemed too unguarded of a word, but it soured her tongue just the same. It was obvious, the desperate sense in which she needed each individual's help. Tasya stood up straight once more, rolling her shoulders in the tiniest effort to abate her strained muscles.

"Are there any other questions? Whatever you are wondering about, please do share."




♡coded by uxie♡
 







Oliver Brazzos



  • .



"Fausto, if there's one thing I'm good at, it's getting in and out of tight spots," Oliver quipped, earning nothing more than another venomous look from the pragmatist..

Oh to be young and bitter again, the Aussie sighed as he followed the last two team members into the warehouse.

Tasya was already inside, the sleeplessness evident on her face. On any other job he might have teased her for her lack of polish, but he didn't speak ill of the dead. She was a ghost of the architect who spun spires from her imagination;the image of the Tasmanian devil dragging him to the warehouse was replaced by a grieving woman begging for help.

It reminded him too much of his old self.

Oliver took his seat in the back, rifling through the files he'd been given. There were a lot of familiar faces here, most of whom he'd worked with in the past. Yannan, Fred, and Yuri were all great souls, but Fausto and Delphine...not so much. Though they were both experts in their field, he could think of fifty better dreamsharers with five hundred percent less venom. That was nothing to say of the other people he was less familiar with. He'd only heard of Beatrice, Mother, and Ziva, though the former's reputation preceded her. Everyone wanted to get their two cents in and every wasted second was one he'd be charging Tasya once they could speak in private.

Vaguely, he wondered if hiring strangers would have been more efficient.

Were it up to him, he would have limited the team to five or six agreeable dreamwalkers, but what was the point of a job if not to spend it on your loved one? Were he in Taysa's place he might have found himself asking the same of his team. Timofrey being alive, even his current form, was a step above Darius whose body was six feet under.

More than that, he was at peace with the fact that he'd be the designated babysitter.

"Well, that's a rallying cry if I've ever heard one," Oliver finally piped in, "now personally, I think this is a fool's errand. But and this is a big but..."

He paused. Did he have a "but?" He expected that there was one other sucker who would back up Tasya's cause, but he supposed he could charge her for this as well.

"It's not impossible. I've heard tales of an extractor who rescued someone from limbo ten years ago."

Standing up, Oliver walked to the front and faced the rest of the team with a smile.

"Assuming he was even half as good as me, we'll drag Timmy back whether he likes it or not."



/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.
 
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"That would be my role in all this,"
began Willie, scrubbing any trace of the mission's dourness from his face with an unfortunately clammy palm.
Click to expand...

Glancing at the man next to him whom had spoken before Tasya could, Fred offered a curt nod and continued to scribble down notes.
When conversation began to surface the topic of how many levels the team would go down into Fred continued to make notes while also offering a hand towards the man next to him.

"Fredrik Nordkvist, pragmatist." He then glanced past the man towards Loudmouth who was smiling at him. It looked anything but genuine though and gave Fred the impression of a big cat smiling at its wounded prey.

Unsure what to do Fred simply offered the man a swift nod before refocusing his attention on the current discussion. When he had been part of the test group formed by his country's military intelligence service they hadn't been talking about levels but rather different tiers, picturing the defenses of ones mind as a castle with layers of ring-shaped walls around it.

Granted, that test group had been recruited and trained to assault and seize valuable intelligence directly from the mind of others. It was quite different from the private sector's dreamsharing scene, both in good and bad ways.

The discussion continued with one of the ladies presenting some valid questions. Fred listened for an answer, ready to write it down, though he did sense that things were starting to feel a bit tense in the room.

Before he could ponder more on any eventual concerns Tasya spoke up, offering an explanation while also revealing that she'd have a very hands-on approach, participating directly.

Always liked a client that aren't afraid of a little wetwork. Speaks of a good character, personal attachments or not.

With Brazzo then joining in to more or less re-affirm that the mission was indeed doable Fred nodded approvingly. The man might have one too many distractions in his life- not to mention vices- but he got the job done.

And that was all Fred needed to know. He collapsed his notebook suddenly and loudly.

"When do we start?" He asked, looking directly at Tasya with a steely and determined gaze.
 











DELPHINE














FOR THE PEOPLE IN THIS ROOM WHO (CONT.) . . .




As Fredrik says the word "start" Delphine wheezes, a hoarse issue from her diaphragm - it's like what you'd imagine, on your worst nights, a voiceless calf being branded would sound like.

She leans further forward in her chair to accommodate this, legs uncrossing, ungloved hand rising to cover the gape of her mouth. Then she pants a bit as if expelling bad air, clears her throat, returns to her previous position.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm shghg-" and she shuts up the laugh through her teeth, rolls her eyes in irritation with herself, with everything really, "okay, okay, okay. I'm done. The other question I had, it’s… this is a lot to take in, right? With a lot of risk. A lot of risk. So, are there, so to say, little bags of gifts to be given at the end if this doesn't go our way? You know, for like-"

She points at Fredrik. "...His kids? Or, is this just the casino and we're cashing in?"



MOOD
Silly.


LOCATION
Warehouse, Islington, London.


TAGS
Tasya ( birth of venus birth of venus ), Fredrik ( Viper Actual Viper Actual ); everyone (open).
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day one

SOMETIME IN THE EVENING...




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The meeting had ended with little fanfare or more shared words, simply information as to her home address and arrangements for any cars to be sent. Tasya gave tense handshakes and tense smiles, physically restraining herself from rolling her eye's at Delphine's latest flavor of psychopathy. "Need I remind you the payout is four million dollars?" It wasn't only a reminder to her, but to the entire group. High risk, high reward.

Echoes of a flicking lighter attempted to fill the now empty void left in the air. Once again, the realization that her home would be hosting far more people than it ever had in her history of ownership washed over her. The noises of the meeting, boisterous arrivals and loud conversation, would soon echo in her own halls. She almost wanted to be excited. Almost. Her choice in team seemed questionable at the moment, but her mind had played out dozens, if not hundreds of possibilities of the mission and how it could play out. This, a team of trusted individuals, was the safest bet in her eyes.

The taxi left her at the front gates of the property, and Tasya trekked the midnight path to her front doors. Her silver flask was turned skyward, glinting off the moon as she finished the last drops of liquor in preparation for the day to come. There would be no rest for the wicked, no respite during her midnight vigil over her sleeping brother. The preparations had been made, yet she was barely graced with more than four hours of sleep.

-

The morning of went according to plan, more or less.

Awake by 7 A.M., the early hours of the day were spent as the ever gracious host, Tasya gracefully coordinating new arrivals to take their pick of either an upstairs or ground floor room. It was such a strange departure from how her time at home had been spent in, well. Months. The mansion was bumbling with movement and noise, with the house's staff arranging breakfast and refreshments for the guests, escorting luggage to their corresponding rooms, and chaperoning their slumbering client downstairs as well. Shades affixed, dressed in an impeccably ironed black dress shirt and pencil skirt, her appearance was a meticulous mirage to try and look less...stressed. She was trying her best, though occasionally disappeared for a half hour at a time, in desperate need of a smoke break.

The moment everyone was fed and watered, sufficiently settled in, rolls of paper and various files were spread out over the dining table. Each individual had a different task, and coordinate she did, as well as explaining her various blueprints and drafts for each dream level.

The golden hour came and went alongside dinner, afternoon sun dipping behind the horizon and ushering in the grey-blue light of the evening. The closer the night lurked, the more Tasya began to check her watch, itching for a reason to retire to her bedroom for the evening and breathe.






♡coded by uxie♡


 
Doing his best to ignore that final part of the woman's question, Fred shifted his focus back to Tasya. Indeed, there were four million reasons not to overthink things too much. That and the fact that only quitters thought about mission failure.

Once the gathering concluded and the group dispersed Fred checked in at a local hotel. It was cheap, cramped and noisy. One might think that the lack of privacy and amenities might reflect poorly on the overall rating of the establishment though in Fred's case he relished in the noise, the chaos and the disorder.

He was an expert at finding quiet and, indirectly, focus within such noise. Complete silence brought with it thoughts and memories- often bad- whereas the sound of others, both good and bad, brought with something to focus on.

Something to analyze.

*​

Once the morning came Fred checked himself out at the earliest hour. Another stranger and another foreigner briefly passing by, going unnoticed by the lady at the front desk staring into her phone.

A short trip later he found himself at the house of his employer which would also serve as the quarters for the team. It was remote, abnormally large and- in Fred's opinion- a bit too isolated. Granted, the building had the tactical advantage of having multiple exits, a distinct height advantage, high-end security systems and terrain that'd make foot pursuits both dangerous and taxing.

Politely declining the help of Tasya's staff Fred carried his own gear into a room on the ground floor that allowed him to access multiple routes out of the building with ease. Hopefully any would-be roommates would be the silent kind but just in case Fred did have his meditative sounds with him to help him ease into sleep.

Tasya's second briefing as well as the planning that followed reminded Fred of times good and bad out in the field. There was something familiar and soothing about spending hours upon hours drawing up the perfect plan. He'd done it multiple times in the past, staring at structural blueprints, equipment lists, satellite imagery and enemy dossiers for hours on end to perfect a plan that would then be executed within the span of thirty minutes- sometimes even less.

In a way it brought with him a sense of nostalgia which in turn brought with him a deep calm and focus, despite being surrounded by strangers.

Eventually, as the sunset drew close, Fred announced that he'd go outside for a bit. With permission from Tasya he set up a small terrain range on the property within sight-line of the house itself. Being as complex as means allowed Fred had scouted an animal trail- most likely deer based on the narrowness of it- which he'd placed about fifteen paper targets around at various places.

The shooter would have to follow the trail and engage targets that were both out in the open and partially obscured, either behind rocks or trees. At the same time the shooter would be encouraged to move dynamically, switching weapon depending on the range while also moving between their own cover.

Fred had already tried the range once and now he came jogging out of the woods with active ear defenders on his head, a pair of low-profile range glasses and a minimalistic-vest and rifle clinging to his torso. He made sure that his rifle was on safe before nodding towards Willie- Gauntlet- and Fausto- Loudmouth.

Once he was level with the two men he gripped his rifle and adjusted the sling, placing the weapon on his back, before tapping Willie on the shoulder just as he produced a stopwatch from one of the vest pouches. He glanced at Fausto, making sure the man wasn't about to do anything arrogant or stupid, before positioning himself on Willie's left side to avoid any stray brass.

"Shooter ready?" He asked, raising the stopwatch into the air while staring at Willie.
 
béatrice.
❝ Look back, and smile on perils past. ❞
mood
you, now?
outfit
x.
location
an upstairs bedroom.
interactions
willie myl myl , fausto FloatingAroundSpace FloatingAroundSpace , briefly yanan.

Béa was tired, a weeping, withering, wilting willow tree with roots extending in untrimmed misery to the lawns of others. She was an invasive species, at least within the home of Willie Sprake. Somewhere in the echoing expanse of a broken mind she knew he could spray all the poison of the world on her and it wouldn’t heal the way her knees knocked in an uncomfortable seat on a comfortable couch.

She didn’t belong here, and it was felt in every motion shared between her and the German man who fussed like she was a withering skeleton peering in on the home she had broken apart. “Will,” she started, fingering at the helmet he had given her, “Are you sure we can’t take a car?”

“It won’t ruin your hair.” He dismissed it as a matter of fact. “Not much, anyway.” Willie shot a grin back in Béa’s direction and offered an article of leather gear. She took it in hesitation, fingering along the worn leather in a distraction from the obscene cheeriness. “Jacket is required.”

“Right.” A sigh trickled, steamed the air between them like an iron to the many wrinkles she felt forming on her skin before she slipped the too-large coat on and stood from her perch on the couch. “I suppose we better arrive sooner than later.” Perhaps before fox eyes could see the sin she felt she was committing.

Her arms wrapped around a body in a way they didn’t want to on the ride over, hems and haws leaving in tones like grass susurrating underfoot. A prayer may have made peace with the wind as they eventually pulled up to the unmissable force of a mansion, storming eyes pitifully watching windows as the mechanical monster rumbled to a halt and she stumbled off. Fingers reached for her and she let nausea boil up, shrugging off the attempt as quickly as she shrugged off a skin that didn’t belong to her.

Too late, it seemed, a thought she barely registered as the German grabbed swiftly at a book-laden bag and caught at the coat he had given her. “I insist,” He said and she desperately wished he wouldn’t.

“Will, please don’t; you know how I –” Béa’s complaints fell on stubborn ears, a smile of a gentleman offered and pushed under skin that recoiled at the persistence. Her feet were her only audible complaint then, crunching on the ground in a fuss behind the stubborn idol. Through pushed doors they went in an orbit of one another until a gloved hand pulled along a handle and gave the firmest ‘Shoo!’ wheezing lungs could push out.

“I’ll see you later, Will,” Hesitation bit at her lip in the brief farewell, another sigh held back before a quipped “Thank you for letting me stay the night.”

Béa would offer a smile, cracked and fading as the friendship she felt weary to restore, more weary to even consider. It was peaceful in her head to assume her morning could go further, without the hitches of relationships past. Foolish, considering the expanse of her reputation simply in the role of the job. More foolish, knowing that curls whispered to at night wandered in a leisurely gait somewhere around the halls of Tasya and Timofrey.

A man, one she could only assume worked for the icy blonde, seemed to point her down towards a flight of stairs, nodding in grievances she wasn’t sure should exist. One step dragged into another, the weight of a bag she refused to relinquish slowing pace enough until the agony of her arms fell underneath the agony of a past.

In a glance, he was there.

Tall, dark, a broken beauty she had stared too fondly at in the days of sun-soaked curtains and whispers that weaved in the centimeters between hearts. He had burned her as all things of great beauty seemed fond to do, a scar she couldn’t wear as outwardly as the one that dragged down the corner of her lips. And, as with all others, it seemed, he had walked away.

As with all others, like the chemist he spoke to and let eyes trail over in a way Béa only could have noticed by staring at him in turn. And she was, in the moment, letting slip a stare, uncertain and unreturned as she smiled briefly to the men, bobbing her head in the shakiest acknowledgement of “Pardon me, gentlemen.”

She left as briefly as the three words offered, dragging along the bag to an open door that eventually beckoned her into the respite of sliding a back along the wall in a thump that rattled her bones.

“Merde.”

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */
© weldherwings.
 
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