Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-5999656-20190205035159/@comment-26571677-20190205110620

The people shoveling themselves through the few entrances available were of a bunch that would have looked fine with those of their own group but mixed with everyone else creates a bizarre mashup of people, fashion and sensibilities.

On one hand, there were the well-dressed aristocrats; dignified, slow, and deliberate in their movements and choices of words. They spoke little; bought even less, yet never failed to draw eyes wherever they walked to.

It was a poor choice of clothing for an event as notorious as this, but few aristocrats were well versed in the arts of underground living. Fewer still, suited for the true nature of it; filthy, gritty and dangerous. They belonged to that rarified air of high-class wine, gentle piano, and soft chatter amongst the leaders of the messed up little world that we lived in, and so few approached them.

They chose to speak only to those people that caught their fancy, or simply perhaps to flaunt their existence; like a peacock rearing up and showing off its plumage.

Of course, if there existed such people on one polar end; there existed those on the other half of the metaphorical seesaw of social inclinations; the lowlifes and the slaves. Those that wore unflattering clothes and bore unflattering odors of oil, gunpowder and the sweat of brutally hard work.

They walked around listlessly; some in chains, some skulking in the shadows, sooner inclined to stab you and steal the clothes off your back than to find any sense of morals within their souls.

But most intriguing of all, were those who dressed as lowlifes, but had eyes flickering to and fro, hands dancing over the wares on sale with gentle caress; examining the make, the feel, the grooves and the lethality. They were the few indefatigable professionals who could appreciate the value of the underground market. They were those who came seeking something more than money or infamy.

They were those who understood that it was better to remain unseen, yet constantly around. They were the vengeful ghost upon one’s back, sending a chill and making people turn whenever they looked; only to find darkness and the unsettling grip of being watched on their mind.

These people were the professionals; those whose names were whispered but never stated; those who went by code, or by sheer reputation. They were those who commanded an eerie stillness wherever they walked. They were those who were of a silence before the calamity.

They were those who killed, who stole, who carried out missions with no doubt in their heads of victory.

And one of those, was Hazel McAllister ; a dead man's name. The people who saw her form move by could only whisper that moniker of which she was unequivocably and singularly known as.

The Stalker.

-

On much the other side was a man parading very convincingly as the lowlife of which he was dressed as. He wore simple clothes: a tattered and dusty hooded trenchcoat, scratched and torn boots and a black bandanna around his mouth and nose; covering his face from the many prying eyes upon him.

He knew his part. Knew it all too well; he’d spent his childhood living and breathing it every day. The smell of poverty; thick and distinctive against his nose brought him back to harder, yet simpler years. You either got food or went hungry. Never a shower in sight except for those few days when the rain trickled down the gutter of their alleyways and gave them a bone-chilling cleanse of outside filth, yet always failed to reach the insides; the parts that mattered.

It was hardly a wonder why he got along so well with everybody else; even here, in the hot and poorly air-conditioned spaces for deliveries where he sat and played cards, yelling in amusement at every turn. Even as someone relatively unknown, a certain ‘Hickory Tennant’, Dust got along with them famously; working his charisma into the previously stone cold and untrusting people to gain a foothold in this wealth of criminal activity.

“Orright Orright, you win mate, and I’ll tell ya another story, okay big man?”

“You sure Hicky? You’ve lost so many bloody times I’m beginning to think you’re makin’ half this shit up!”

“Half!? Mate, if you reckon I’ve actually heard even half of the shit I’m tellin’ ya, I’d call you a bloody lightweight! How many beers you’ve had? Two? Fuckin piss weak too! Get on with the damn game! Dead set, I’m gonna kick your arse mate, you bloody betcha.”

“You sure mate? I don’t think you have any money anymore ay? Better start getting ready to gimme those clothes too! Reckon I’ll start with the fuckin undies, give the girls a big look at old Hicky’s budgie smugglers!”

Laughing, ‘Hickory’ continued to lay down his cards on the rough wooden plank they’d flipped onto an upturned milk carton, until a certain name caught his interest; for he heard on the grapevine the name of the one he’d been dreading. ‘The Stalker’.

“So mate, mate, before you take me bloody undies you fuckin’ poof cunt, lemme ask ya. Who’s this bloody cunt ‘Stalker’ I’ve been hearing so much about? Some big shot sniper or somethin’?”

At the mention of the name, his playing friend chuckled nervously and leaned in; eyes flickering to the sides.

“You’ve never heard of her? Well, they call it a her anyway. Truth it that nobody knows.”

“People say that they just up and appeared out of nowhere one day offering themselves on the hitman’s market. Usually nobody pays attention to newbies like that; don’t last long or anything, but…but The Stalker made a name for themselves. Made it real quick."

"They say that her first job was a sting oppo. Some quickshot group of police tryna dupe us out. Funny thing is, they don’t realise we already know who they are, so we usually just ignore the requests. Not them though, no, no t'his madman actually 'picks the job up! ''We thought they were a goner for sure. A galah, definitely. The bloody copper must’ve thought he hit the jackpot!”

Dust leaned in, his eyes not betraying any emotion but with his mind racing at the connotations. His sister? No, she couldn’t…the kindest, soft hearted and fair survivor he’d known as a little tacker? A murderer? He couldn’t believe it…yet the stories held conviction in them; a sense of truth, even with it’s hyperbole.

“So yeah nah, week later, there’s a news report of a sting gone wrong. Ten officers killed with two under serious injury. ''Broken fucking bones man! ''We were thinking it couldn’t fuckin be, but barely a day later. ‘Stalker’ pops up again. People’s been debating since whether they did it for publicity. You’ve heard the stories though."

"Big fuckoff gun that she uses with accuracy like a thread through a needle. She blew the head off some cunt from 6 K’s away through a mountain range while they were flying in a copper! Shit like that’s unnatural dude, I’m telling ya. Plus their hand to hand mate, absolutely brutal. Killed two dudes with a pen. How fucked is that!? I guarantee you mate, if anything, stories about that person have been underexaggerated.”

Whistling low under his bandanna, Dust shook his head, his eyes widening in a mix of fake and real surprise at the stories.

“Well mate, if half the shit’s you’ve told me true, then I’d still say that you were telling porkie pies. Fuck it then, let’s finish our ga-“

“Oi! Hickory! Get your fuckin arse over here and help me unload the produce! You too Shaw! Get movin off to Celadon and help him take off the boxes!”

Sighing, Dust shrugged at his unknowing friend and clapped him on the shoulder as he worked towards his undercover boss. They stopped for a moment as the man palmed something into his hand and whispered into his ear.

“Nearly time for the main auction. Get in position and get ready for the sting operation. Remember, high profile only.”

Giving a barely perceptible nod, Dust moved through the store and into a secluded area where boxes were loaded. Looking around, he popped the lid of one open, and began to change into his combat clothing; sneakily disguised as high class winterwear with the sheath on his back disguised as an across the shoulder backpack. In his hand, he palmed a small slip of paper.

On it, was printed his undercover name; an invitation.

His way in.

His redemption.