[R] Manhunt : The Agency

[Wintermute]

It had been raining all week.

A blonde girl with smeared mascara tried to scream, her mouth wrapped tightly with silver electrical tape and wrists bound behind her back with black plastic zip ties, she was doubled over in the trunk of a car. It smelled wet in there, like old carpet and petrol, smelled like the kind of nightmare she'd always thought could only happen to somebody who wasn't her.

Another girl, another faceless name on the television.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been in that trunk, still reeling, she remembered a green car running her into a gravel shoulder at the side of an isolated road. She was talking on the phone at the time and he hit her, a sharp, stinging blow to her cheek. He was stronger than she was, smelled like cologne, sweat and cigarettes.

The car slowed down, brake lights filling the trunk with a ghostly red, sound of tyres on gravel and then it was quiet. A door opened but didn't close, the motor purring and then there was the smell of exhaust fumes and she thought for a second that she might suffocate.

The trunk opened.

He looked taller than she remembered, face all long shadows and the glow of a cigarette hung from his mouth, smell of cologne and sweat and he was holding a pistol. A sinister little thing, hammer cocked and he took a long pull on his cigarette, tossed it to the ground and crushed it out with the toe of his shoe.

She tried to scream again, then, a rough hand seizing her by the hair and dragging her out of the trunk.

Her head hit the gorund first, eyes squeezed shut as tears streamed down cheeks stained a dirty blue. He was standing over her, but she couldn't twist her head to look at him, didn't hear the crack-crack-crack as he fired and before she knew it, she was dead.




[+]


The girl that died that night was the daughter of a mafiosi who called New York City home, police didn't find her until three weeks after she'd died.




[+]




Walter was eating when he got the call.

Sat behind a desk in the back room of a radio repair shop.

"Walter." He answered simply, swallowing a big mouthfull of chow mein that came out of a paper carton.

A long silence, he listened to a voice at the other end of the telephone line.

"Where?"

He wiped his mouth with a crumpled serviette, closed the plastic carton.

"I'm on my way."




ooc~ (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=2690&page=3)

[Khronos]

The bar was dark, heavy and thick with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. Men and women sat back in loosened ties and half way buttoned shirts eyes wandering around to the latest Mets game on the television or to their drinks, half empty or half full. A group of three sat together, clenching full glasses with their eyes glued to the televised game.

The blonde had $50 on the Red Soxs. The brunette had $75 on a tied game, overtime. The red head had $50 on the Mets.

It was the 9th inning with the Mets batting. A was man on third, with two outs. The batter had one ball, one strike. The score was 4-4. Joe, the black haired son of a bitch, was starting to count his money with eager satisfaction. The blonde, Marie, was on the edge of the bar stool, painted finger nails to her red lips, her odds of walking home with a full wallet was the slimmest, but damn she needed that money.

"Don't start gathering your winnings yet, Joe. There's still a few more pitches, and all the Mets need is a base run." A thick, Brooklyn accent, loud and almost obnoxious amongst the quieter atmosphere spoke with an educated confidence of years being a loyal Mets fan.

Joe laughed, drowning down the last of his glass. He'd be able to get plenty more after this game. "Yeah and the odds of that are slim. You know the Mets haven't had a good season, Nick."

The carrot top, Nick, turned, cigarette clenched between his teeth and eyed the middle aging man. Sure, he knew the Mets were having a shit season but every dog has his day.

"And the pitch. He swings and it's... it's a hit. Ground ball to left field." All their heads turned simultaneously to the television screen propped on an attachment to the ceiling. All eyes were on the man at third base, hauling ass to home plate. If he made it, the game was over. The next second was a mess of anticipation and a choking of wallets as the runner gave a dramatic slide to home plate.

"Safe! End game: 5-4 Mets."

Nick (a fake name) grinned, pleased as cold, hard cash slid into his palm. "Don't doubt the team, Joe." The red head chuckled with confidence as he slid his gambled wins into his wallet and stood to leave.

"Marie, I'll keep an eye out for you. Next time, let's meet in the nicer part of town." Nick removed the cigarette from his mouth for just enough time to give the blonde a polite smile. She smiled back, not completely pleased with her loss, but able to deal with it nonetheless. Joe, on the other hand, so much closer to victory, felt almost cheated out of what should've been his winnings. He offered Nick no goodbyes as he ordered another beer.

Outside of the bar, the New York City air felt still and cool. The sidewalk was decorated with the usual venders and the occasional homeless man, and, in the distance, one could see the bright lights of Time Square. The red head turned in the opposing direction of the bustling city, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, with his cigarette quickly shortening.

The phone rang, once, twice, before he answered.

"Yankee," was mouthed into the receiver.

[Jill the Ripper]

my best friend is a butcher, he has sixteen knives.



She whispered that she wanted him before she blew his brains out.

The hotel room was dark, lit in pools of light from the city below, the balcony doors open. With the sound of the traffic, the general nightlife outside there was no worry; as her target touched her, ran his lips over her collarbone, November slipped her hand under the pillow, pulling out a sleek colt. With one hand she ran her fingers over his back, careful not to leave claw marks, and with the other lifted the gun to his temple.

He didn't notice. He was wrapped up in her velvet scent, the smoothness of her skin, the curve of her breasts. They never noticed, she thought, and with a low, aching purr she whispered, "I want you." and pulled the trigger.

The silencer made a whisper of the bullet, and his blood splattered up in a neat jet and November let him slump against her, trying to ignore the smell of the smoking wound.

She rolled him off her and sat up, smoothing long, dark hair back, empty but pleased the job was over.

Her cell vibrated just as she slipped her clingy black dress on and November almost ignored it, but didn't, taking the call on the balcony. "Yes?"

November listened to the details, her heart hardening. "Yes." She promised. "I'll be there."

That was all either needed, and the call ended with a swift click, November closing her sleek little phone, keeping her fist around it.

There was no time to lose and November grabbed her coat, disappearing from that hotel like the ghost she'd been trained to be.




November didn't know if it was luck or fate that saw her arrive first there at that pit-stop just outside the city, but she didn't question it. He'd been here, alright. The gravel was turned up and there was a cigarette butt thrown aside, and November fancied that she could smell him on the air still, but of course, she couldn't.

And there was blood. Only a little, but warm enough to tell the assassin that he'd been here not too long ago.

Where would he have taken the body, that was the only question. November had never been good with hiding hers, she preferred to leave them out for someone else to clean, but they were all different, all had their own methods.

Headlights flashed, a car slowing down, pulling near, and the woman realized that she had company. Of course the Agency would've stacked their cards - November was foolish for even thinking for a second that she would be alone on this, and she tilted her head up and narrowed smokey eyes at the driver who'd just joined her. "You're late." She said irritably. "He's already ahead of us."

[Shekinah]

With a towel that was hanging around her neck, she weapt the sweat of off her forehead.It was a lazy afternoon at the gym and the punching bag she had been hitting around for quite some time, was ending the last of its swirls. There weren't that many others in the gym, but a look around told her that at least a trainer and his pupil, someone who seemed to be a real promise in the boxing world, another woman and boys that seemed to be friends were there.

Nei walked over to a bench where she had dropped her bag and rummaged through it until she found the water bottle she was searching for. The gulp she took made he feel refreshed and when she put the bottle down she let out a sigh, one that told her the training was done with for today and that she had done good, but she also wished she could stay a bit longer. But the man that used to train her in the good old days, had always told her that even though sport is a good thing, there's also something like sporting too much. Besides, she didn't want to end up like those sport freaks you saw every now and then. She was happy with what she did and that was good enough for her. Working out three times a week made her feel satisfied and energetic.

'Hey you,' a voice from behind her suddenly said.

Nei turned around and saw Nick standing there. 'Look...,' he said and the look in his eyes told her he was about to tell her how he felt about the other night.
But Nei shook her head. 'I don't care, Nick. You screw up.'

'Let me at least explain!'

'Why? So that you can tell me how everything wasn't your fault?'

'No, of course not...'

'Then there's nothing to explain, is there?,' Nei asked impatiently. She planted her hands in her sides and looked at him with an annoyed look in her eyes. God, why does he have to make a story out of something that isn't even worth to put in more than two sentences?

Nick didn't answer and Nei shook her head again. 'Well, I think that makes everything clear enough.'

'But Nei, can't we...'

But as Nick wanted to speak his mind, Nei's phone started to ring. A theme from a movie could be heard coming out of her bag and she unzipped it to retreive her cell.

'What?,' she said and she walked away, leaving Nick behind with all his useless words. The voice on the other end of the line told her about details that would make her forget about the very existence of Nick in split seconds. By the time she had left the gym, the phone was put back into her bag again and a vague smile could be seen on her lips.

Time for action.

[Flex]

It was unbearably hot; a stifling heat wave swept through the city--people wiped at their brows as they drove, lane after lane--chock-a-block full of cars. They were like fish in glass bottles--crammed, side-by-side, in a city so laden with pollution and toxic that it was almost impossible to breathe.

“…And that is how it’s done,” the girl drawled, her voice somewhat distorted as she was upside down, perfecting a handstand; pale, white, feminine arms, fingers stretched-out on the pavement. She was speaking to a group of children; well, three children, to be exact--they stood before her, shrinking back into the shadows before cautiously crawling back towards her; their eyes widening in awe.

The girl giggled, poked her tongue out at them, and suddenly leapt into a cartwheel. She sprang across the slab of cement before falling back onto her own two feet, regaining her balance. “See?” she giggled--she had a bright, perky, almost ‘saccharine sweet’ voice--“now who wants to learn?” she asked, holding out her hands.

Her figure caught in a fall of streetlight as she walked towards them; she was dressed almost entirely in black, with a tank top and tight-fitting track pants. A trail of tattoos, including a portrait of Marilyn Monroe, ran down the exposed, white flesh of her arms, and her hair was glass straight, fixed in a ponytail. An intricate design of black-and-white face-paint upon her face gave her the look of a panda; it managed to be both comical and sinister at the same time.

She giggled again, and settled her hands on her hips, leaning towards them. “Well?” she murmured. A boy stepped forward, nervously, open-mouthed, and she had to resist the sudden urge to hold back her head and laugh. It was an almost laughable sight--a scrawny, midget of a boy, greedily ambling towards her. Her grin widened, and the others followed. Children were so easy to seduce, and that was why she loved them--most of the time all they needed was a grin, and a few cheap tricks; amateurish trapeze artist stuff, really--her more sophisticated maneuvers were reserved for the adults.

The world was a beautiful place for them; full of bunnies… and light… and rainbows… and love. Too bad love was practically nonexistent; something they would learn soon enough.

The boy stepped into the pool of streetlight and she found herself gravitating towards him, affectionately cupping his chin; he was gorgeous; large, hazel eyes blinked back at her, a soft supple mouth curved in a tentative smile. Skin so soft and sensuous, almost impossible not to stroke. “Pretty boy,” she crooned, her eyelids fluttering. Pulling away from him, she turned to face the others; she smirked at them as they joined the circle.

They weren’t easy to teach; they stumbled, fell, cut their knees--yet, they persisted, and soon she was the one watching them in open-mouthed wonder; they were so innocent, so compliant, yet… their willpower was phenomenal. “Not like that, silly,” she giggled, grabbing at a deathly thin arm. He yelped in surprise and pulled away; a ribbon of blood running down his arm. The others clustered around him, examining the wound, then turning to examine her; their eyes widening in surprise, fear, terror. It took her a second to register what she had done, then in hit her; she had cut him. Torn through his skin with her fingernails. Suddenly she had gone from a kindly trapeze artist--a ‘friend’--into a monster.

She didn’t restrain the laughter, this time; it erupted from her--mirthless and cold. The children jumped in fright and ran; ran, like the wind--their legs dappled in dim streetlight; excited, fearful yelps reminding her of mice and rats; all sorts of pathetic rodents.

So she held back her head, and laughed. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed; straining her lungs, tears coming to her eyes. The phone would ring eventually, and she would still be laughing--when she received it, and even when she replied--a giggle of confirmation, a codename that would inevitably bring her back into the business, back to work, back to reality; “Uniform.”

[Aurelia Courville]

She stood, dressed in a white tank top, red racing gloves, blue jean shorts, a cowboy hat and red cowboy boots—one of which was on the neck of some guy lying on the floor with the shaft of a shotgun pointed right between his eyes.

“You just had to make this difficult didn’t you.” She cocked her head to the side as she talked and waved the gun that she held only in her right hand nonchalantly. Her southern drawl sounded odd coming from a full blooded Chinese girl with the body of an Asian boy “Always with the running.” She said this part more to herself than to him. It seemed that because she wasn’t as bombshell as some of the other girls in the agency, she’d had to find other ways to go about the business than your average ‘sex and kill’ formula. Needless to say, men didn’t like the ‘just kill’ way so much.

“Why can’t you take your death like a man?” He tried to speak then, but she silenced him with a look as she flipped open her phone that had been vibrating silently between her bosoms.

“What?” she answered sharply and sighing impatiently, her southern accent gone. There wasn’t a need for the different costumes and changing of her accents from Southern to New Yorker to French to South African and back to Chinese, it was just really fun. “Right now?” there was a reply from the other end. The balding gentleman under her foot fidgeted. “Could you hold for just one second?” Mouthing ‘Don’t you move.’ to him she pressed her heel into his chest for emphases before stepping off and walking a few steps away.

“I’m kinda in the middle of something.” She slung the shot gun over her shoulder, pacing slowly in the abandoned church the man had run into. Apparently she was supposed to just let him go because they were on holy ground. She had turned to pace back away from the target that lay on the floor, but a movement caught her eye. She turned; eyes narrowed to see him trying to get up and continue to run. “Not on my watch.” She whispered—to the confusion of the man on the other end of the mobile—waiting for the five seconds it took for the target to get to his feet and the two following seconds it took for him to realize India was no longer preoccupied with the phone call to notice his attempt at escape. She had the gun pointed back at him now and fired a shot out of it just as he was about to start pleading again.

One last look at the cross that hung just above the spot where the man had fallen before bringing her attention back to the phone in her gloved hand. “I’m on my way.”


India drove silently in her red mini cooper, hearing the crunch of gravel underneath the wheel as her head lights passed over a curvaceous, long raven haired vixen that could only be November. She parked the car and turned off the engine, stepping out to hear the woman speak.

“You’re late. He’s already ahead of us.”

India let a smirk come to her face as she walked, hands on her nonexistent hips as she did. “I had to go to confession.” She stood beside November and looked down at the ground in front of them, assessing the situation. “Fuck.” It was the only word that came to mind to sum it all up.

The girls body still laid there, twisted in an unnatural way. It didn’t bother her to see dead bodies; she’d seen more than her fair share, hell she’d just killed a man in a church for Pete’s sake.

She took in a deep breath, and spoke with the exhale: “So what’s the plan?”

[Wintermute]

It was a long drive, windshield wipers arcing back and forth with a rhythmic thunk thunk thunk and Golf followed the washed out red of a truck's tail lights, it's sides all lit up in little orange lights that reflected faintly in the wet yellow of the lights that lined the highway to either side.


He had the radio tuned to an oldies station, Elvis presley crooning through the speakers of his old Crown Victoria, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. And all at once, he felt old, heavy lidded eyes coming on like a bad cough and he needed to piss.


In the distance, a gas station loomed, neon sign burning through the damp highway night. He took the exit, a long and narrow road that led to a little parking lot that was all prime movers and a camper van here and there. It was a pool of white light in a roadside sort of darkness, pulled his car in close to the door and he slipped out to ask for the key to the bathroom.




Afterward, he felt a professional sort of shame, standing alone in the parking lot and he knew that he'd be too late to get to the spot he'd been directed to. He paced uncomfortably, the smell of harsh soap still on his hands, dug a pack of menthol 100's out of a trouser pocket and he lit one with red disposable lighter.


He coughed wetly, hissed a For fuck's sake at himself and spat on the ground.


Golf fished a phone out of his pocket, then, a little sliver of shiny plastic and he still wasn't sure of how to use all the electronic bells and whistles. And he dialled some numbers, a work colleague, someone he knew would be around and who he suspected might have been in on the job.


There wasn't much else to do, he'd need some help.


It rang three times and he considered hanging up, then it rang three more.


"Hello?" He started, sniffing. "It's Golf, I need help."

[Shekinah]

Her phone rang a couple of times before she reached her car. She had gotten back to her house first, getting ready for the job ahead, and while she made her way to her car, all freshened up, smelling like roses and lotus flowers, her hair in a dancing pony tail, he finally called. Of course, it was no surprise at all, she had been waiting for this, but it was annoying nonetheless. Nei always thought it were those damned girls who couldn't let go of stuff and who stalked the person they claimed to like or love until that person would listen to them. Apparently Nick still had to discover he had no dick or balls in his pants.

She didn't pick up. A happy version of her voice told the caller to either call back later or leave a message and then she'd call back. She thought of changing her number, but on the other hand she thought that was way too drastical. If she really wanted to, she could make him stop anyway.

When she finally got in the car, she turned the key and the engine of her old Ford Mustang came to live with the sound of a roaring lion. It always made her smile and even today was no exception. She loved the brutal sound the engine created and she loved to drive as fast she could, dragging the beast out of it's cage and challening it to the max. Together with the engine, her cd-player greeted her with a bright blue 'hello' on the panel and then switching to the rock cd she had inserted a few days ago. The low flow of a bass guitar played it's music along side the music of the engine and Nei opened her window when she drove away. The music got the better of the ringtone that was still coming out of her bag.

After some time she decided to stop at a gas station to get some gas as she was almost out of it and to get herself something to drink. At the moment she grabbed her bag and opened her door to walk to the station, her phone rang again. Convinced it was Nick again she at first didn't even bother to check who was calling, but when it didn't stop she took the little thing out of her bag and saw it wasn't Nick at all.

'Hello?,' she picked up. She listened and recognized Golf's voice.

'What's going on?,' she asked, not feeling at ease that he was calling for help.