Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-5999656-20190205035159/@comment-26571677-20190206102242

She walked silently through the jostling crowds; blending in with the patchwork colours of black suits and brown rags with her similarly brown cloak.

Her mask was one of sleek simplicity; an angled black design of light carbon fibre with two large holes on either end for the air filters installed. The lens was a dulled red on the outside, but on the inside was alight with neatly sorted data; parsing through and exposing itself to The Stalker’s eyes. Readouts on the current news situation, options for thermal or magnetic imaging and a small display monitoring air quality.

Though smoggy and somewhat dirty it was here in the underbelly of the main auction site; there was nought wrong with the air except for an unpleasant smell of unwashed bodies and polishing grease.

Though she kept her head down; it was nigh impossible to hide her entire existence from all the jostling bodies around her; especially considering the large canvas that she’d binded to her back, concealing her weapon. All around her were the typical whispers; whispers of awe; whispers of fear; whispers of confusion.

She’d drawn a small group of people in this regard; unlikely to try and mug her, they’d most likely heard the stories, but more likely that they were trailing her in hopes of finding good wares to spend their lien on. Though much as many ‘combat experts’ asserted that they’d only used their weapons and skills; she found that they were sorely lacking in versatility and resourcefulness.

It was a prime factor in why they had such high turnover rates.

Thus, she always made it a point to have a contingency plan, and many gadgets to facilitate it. Smoke grenades, thermite, graviton, tripmines, even the simple and common knife; all had a use in her kit.

They had to; her life counted on them with every passing day of dangers.

One bad grenade could mean the end.

One good grenade could mean the continuation; whatever that was worth.

Thus, she stopped at a promising looking stall and drew her gloved fingers across a set of small, circular, flat tripmines; feeling at the laser marker and register that would prompt the blowing mechanism; examining the dust makeup of the powder and checking the quality of the fragmentation. It was good; as good as you’d find in the lower markets, regardless, but still good.

Moving to the counter, she put down two and stared with immovable solidity at the shopkeeper; the eyes of her mask betraying no emotion, and its voice receiver remaining silent. She was of a mountain; immovable, emotionless, uncaring of what those lower thought. A few moments passed, and she was unsurprised as the shopkeeper; a wistful, twitchy looking man with a thin veil of sweat looked her up and down and shook his head with a nervous laugh.

“N-No, Sir…Ma’am? I-You can have these for free! Thank you for your business!”

Nodding, she slid the two off the bench and slipped them inside a locking mechanism under her coat; preparing them for use, should they be needed in the upcoming police sting. The shopkeeper’s wares were good. Their actor was not. One could have easily misconstrued his profuse sweating as simple nervousness at her presence; her reputation did uphold itself, after all. That was why she had stared him down, however; like a parent in a bout of cold, relentless anger at a misbehaving child.

His fidgeting, swiveling eyes and nervous adjusting of the collar had shown that he had something to hide. His eyes flickering to the people following her had shown his fear, and the fact that his wares were of strangely high quality had further betrayed him; a mostly nameless vendor with few contacts.

So now she knew for sure; a sting operation. It was suicidal against hardened criminals of such numbers. Suicidal unless they were targeting only a few specific people and were bringing heavy backup. There were too many PMO’s out there for her to be sure, but it would have to be one with close connections to a military and with local police, which narrowed it down to a small handful.

She’d have to be careful; working with unknown statistics was hardly her style. Her moniker was ‘The Stalker’ for a reason.

Yet she was drawn out of her ponderance when a sudden sight affixed itself in front of her eyes. It was a tall man wearing the garbs of some of the higher class customers that regularly attended this event; he wore a shoulder slung backpack that was, to her eyes, very obviously concealing a weapon, and betrayed his outwards appearance of a respectable businessman almost immediately.

What struck her, however, was his facial structure. The chiseled chin and twinkling, mirthful eyes that she could just barely see at the corner reminded her too closely of someone to be a mistake.

It was Dust.

It was her brother.

This changed everything

She realised that he was part of the sting.

A sting that was likely targeting her.

Hazel mentally shook her head to clear it and focused on her first priority; to tail him and keep an eye.

But then, more factors at play once more eked themselves into existence, for out the corner of her eye once more, she saw two other prominent figures in the criminal underworld.

The Crimson Snake and the Decade.

She knew their names, of course; any assassin with half a brain kept themselves as informed as possible, but it felt right to call them by their titles, just as others did for her.

In a split second, she made her decision, and accelerated to a brisk walk, catching up to her otherwise unawares brother undetected and bumping into him roughly as she sped off; barely in time to catch his annoyed exclamation as the small tracker she’d planted activated and displayed itself on her HUD once more.

With that, she moved into the jewelry store of which both men were just inside of and began examining the stones and metals inside; as uninterested in them as they deserved to be. Previous rocks, gems and metals held no value. Information was king.

And this was the royal court.

-

Dust walked slowly through the crowds in his new, much better fitting and comfortable garb; unhurried in his movements, as to appear agitated was to draw attention; something that he nor any of the other planted officers could afford in their current position of sheep among wolves.

His icy blue eyes examined the stalls with no small amount of admiration; though he was one working on the opposite side of the law, he could still admire the propensities from which these men and women were able to acquire such weapon, armor and…living products without being caught, though the last category of merchandise sold disgusted him to no end.

He was knocked out of his gentle reverie as he was bumped hard by a lithe, hooded figure with a large canvas wrapping on their back; like the setup for an artist on the move. He called out to them with an annoyed yell, but they were soon lost amidst the crowds of shuffling husks and corrupt businessmen; disappearing as quickly as they’d appeared.

''Was that another officer? What a bloody galah, they’ll blow the whole operation! I’ve gotta get into position before we’re all stuck up shit creek without a paddle.''

Moving ever so slightly quicker, he entered the admissions for the main auctioning event and flashed his card, nodding with a larrikin’s grin at the masked security guard that had checked his invitation; noting the hefty battle armor that they wore and wondering distantly if one of his rounds would be able to penetrate the metal plating. He’d find out soon enough; that of which he was sure of.

Thus, he entered the large hall with barely a hitch, and grabbed a small shotglass of expensive whiskey. Swilling the orange liquid in small quantites in his mouth, he found himself once more admiring the quality of this place compared to the dingy outsides. It was pristinely clean, quiet save for small conversation and the gentle tunes of a small quartet in a corner and served alcohol as good as he’d ever tasted. He would be willing to bet that if the organiser had actually putting effort into helping society instead of tearing it down; he’d be able to do some good with that money of his.

It was a shame, then, that he’d turned to a life of such hedonistic desire.

A shame that he’d be tearing that life to shreds.

Then again, it wasn’t really, was it?