NationStates Jolt Archive

In the southern end of St. Romain in the Crescent Republic, there was a little white cafe crammed between a laundromat and a cheap clothing store. It's paint was peeling off in several places, exposing the dull red brick that was crumbling beneath, and vines had climbed from the foot of the building's front porch to the very roof. The porch itself was old and wooden, and probably not very safe to stand on, though two small white tables were at either end of it in case anybody decided to entertain the idea. A great big sign hung over the entrance reading in shiny red letters "Tubby's". At one point it may have been electric, but now it couldn't light up if God wanted it to.

On either side of the cafe's front door were two huge windows for the customers to look out of; they were filthy with dust and fingerprints, hardly fit to even look at let alone see through. Yet placed in the bottom corner of one was a little sign that was hard to miss in a third world country. It read "Help Wanted", words that every Crescentian hoped they'd see during the course of the day.

Unfornuately, this cafe wasn't looking for cooks or waitresses; anybody who lived in the neighborhood could tell you that. It wasn't ever open for business as the owner wasn't exactly what you'd call a restrateur. No, "Tubby's" was looking for a different kind of help. It needed a "handyman". A "fixer". And not the kind that fixes your screen door when it falls off, or gets the dishwasher working when the old bucket of bolts doesn't feel like starting up. "Tubby's" needed a "problem solver". Somebody with a hands-on approach. Somebody who could pull a trigger.

In today's world, there's only so much that you can "do it yourself". Sometimes certain fields of work require outside help. Such was the case here; emphasis on the outside part. The question was, in a society dummed down by liberal propaganda and lovey dovey bullshit, were there any real gunslingers left to call upon? Did the mavericks, the outlaws, the lone rangers...did they still exist? If they did, they'd follow the scent of the dollar. And if there was one thing Tubby had to offer, it was money.

Jordan Reiker, a former Intelligence Specialist from the Siapian Intelligence Network through St. Romain. He was a tall man, wearing a long dark coat, with moderately long brown hair combed back. His eyes were covered by sunglasses, and every so often, he broke into a coughing fit and would cough up a few drops of blood. This was always followed by him pulling his scarf tighter.

He had just resigned his commission for SIN three weeks ago. He had put in five years of service, exceeding the averge three in his profession. For the number of jobs he had succesfully conducted, it was a miracle he had not died or gone psychotic. Unfortunately, like many other Siapian Intelligence Specialists, he could only find comfort as a soldier of fortune, leasing his gun, his garrote, his dagger, his encyclopedic knowledge of explosives, poisons, and Combat System 4 to whomever would pay for it.

He stepped inside the small cafe. "I'm here to inquire about the employment vacancy."

He was greeted by the sight of two men sitting in a tidy little dining room; one stood behind a small square bar, as if he were the bartender there. The other, more prominent-looking character sat at the bar, already sipping at a glass of flavored rum. He was chubby, with black hair that was beginning to recede at the top. He had a thin mustache and wore a white hawaiian shirt and white khaki pants. His fat fingers were covered in several large, golden rings. Both men were black, as were all native Crescentians.

As Jordan spoke, the chubby man turned half-way to meet him, although he didn't get up. He took a sip from his glass, and than slowly he responded in kind, his voice thick with an island accent.

"Ah'm lookin' for a cleaner...take out dee dirtee laundry an' all dat. Mehbe you know somebody?"

OOC: Heh, question, is this an invite only thread? Or can I send someone in?

[OOC: It's open.]

OOC: Okay, thanks.
IC: A young girl named Saya was walking down the street when she saw the sign. Saya was your everyday girl, except that she was also highly trained in the use of katanas, one of which she carried just about everywhere, and that she could also kill without batting an eye. When she was killing, she had a surgery a while ago in her eyes, so that when she sighted blood her eyes turned the exact color of the blood, making her victims think they were being assaulted by a Demon. She walked into the restraunt and walked right up to the waiter, "Help wanted?" She asked.

The larger black man at the bar smiled, revealing a full mouth of pearly white teeth. He glanced at the bartender as if to say, "look at what we've got here," before shaking his head ever so mildly.

"Ah'm afeared we got no use for a little girl here. Playground's up the street though, sweetheart. Now let the grown-ups get back to talkin'."

The bartender, a taller, lankier man laughed out loud at this, even going so far to slap a large, powerful hand on the bartop counter. There were rules in Crescentian culture; one of them was that man was superior to woman. Regardless of the degree of skill Saya possessed, the men gathered before her here weren't about to let a young girl do their dirty work for them. They needed a man, a man who could handle a gun. The math was simple. Whether she liked it or not was hardly important.

Sayas eyes flashed, and she drew her katana, it flashed up faster then the eye could follow and hovered a millimeter from the big black man's neck, "Little girl eh"?
OOC: Are you serious about absolutely not letting a female do it, if so I'll use a different character.

The scene got ugly fast, for as soon as the girl drew her weapon, the would-be bartender drew his own; a sleek SW1911 pistol, and it was pointed directly between Saya's eyes. The larger man, still seated but now wearing a very solemn frown on his face, was the first to speak. His tone was now sharp, his breathing heavy.

"Ah'm gonna tell you once, an' onlee once. You best put dat sword back between your legs and walk out dat door, or your brains are goin' to decorate my diner's floor. Ah don't need no samurai, an' ah especially don't need no preteen warrior princess. Ya dig it?"

The bartender's finger began to faintly tug at the trigger of his weapon. These guys were serious thugs; they'd been around the block, they'd had weapons pulled on them before. One girl with a sword wasn't about to phase either of them. If she was serious, if she even made a move to cut the chubby man's throat, her face would eat a bullet. Hopefully they could all walk away from this experience unscathed, though the chubby man wasn't so impressed that he was being disrespected. Perhaps he might terminate this girl regardless of whether she walked or not.

[OOC: In all honesty, I think I'm just going to keep this between Siap and myself. Sorry.]

OOC: Alright, but Sayas just going to do something before leaving.
IC: Saya autamaticaly made a swoop down low torwards the man with the gun, knocking him on the ground, and stabbed him through the arm saying, "I don't like guns" She then turned back to the chubby man, nicked him on the stomouch, and promptly sheathed the katana and left.

[OOC: Because some people don't know roleplay etiquette, we're just going to pretend that didn't happen. People. Bleh.]

Another swig of of his drink and the chubby man stood up from his seat at the bar, extending a fat hand to his foreign guest. He shrugged and shook his head apologetically, a wry smile on his face. The situation that just unfolded must've been awkward for the stranger to watch, especially considering there was a sword involved.

"People deez days, eh? Crazy times we live in. Ah never thought ah'd be held at sword point, but dare's a first time for everything, they say. Ah apologize for dat little confrontation. Ah believe we had some business to discuss? Yes, aboot some cleanin'. You're interested?"

OOC: Actually, I was'nt serious about that whole stabbing thing, sorry, I could'nt help it, its in my nature.

"People deez days, eh? Crazy times we live in. Ah never thought ah'd be held at sword point, but dare's a first time for everything, they say. Ah apologize for dat little confrontation. Ah believe we had some business to discuss? Yes, aboot some cleanin'. You're interested?"

Jordan smiled as he removed his hands from under the table, revealing that he had a very thin metallic wire wound over his hands, with a significant length between his two hands. He slowly unwound it and placed it back into his pocket as he spoke. "Thought I was going to have to strangle her. I bet she'll get herself killed in the future anyway." He tucked it away. and looked up. "For what its worth, I've been a cleaner for the last five years for an organization that I can no longer stand. Fortunately or unfortunately, however you look at it, I am very good at cleaning. Unfortunately, the people I worked for are not the types who write a letter of recommendation for this sort of thing, but who does anyway? What it comes down to is that I ain't a magician, but I can make things disappear. I just need some cash, and I need you to never speak of me to anyone."

The bell hanging above the cafe's door chimed softly, announcing to it's occupants that they were no longer alone. A tall man, thin and pale skinned, moved quietly through the door, taking a seat at the table with the Siapian and the rotund Republican. Removing his mirrored sunglasses, he smiled softly at the pair before speaking, his voice faint, but still managing to carry to the ears of all in the room.

"Ah. Mister Reiker, a pleasure to finally see you in person. I've had the rare honor of reviewing some of your past work, truely marvelous. You'll have to let me buy you a drink some time... And you sir, I presume you would be 'Tubby.' Again, a pleasure to meet you. I have been told you have some business you would like taken care of, a small... vermin problem..."

OOC: Apologies for the intrusion, but it's been a while since I've had the chance to do a good assassination RP. Promise I'll behave, honest!

OOC: Otagia, my memory fails me, but if I remember correctly you did some nice work in Ceyolia?

IC: Reiker could barely suppress his smile. Even he was not immune to flattery. "Protocol for my previous employers would require me to kill you for even knowing my name." He smiled and shrugged. "But I don't work for them for anymore."

OOC: Bingo. One of my favorite RPs of all time, in fact. :D

IC:

"Indeed. I make a habit of knowing the faces of people who I might be forced to remove. No offense is intended, of course, but I believe your employers were involved in some of the work I did in Ceyolia? Quite the infestation they had there. Not my best work, but it was... entertaining? Regardless, former employers tend to be a bit rash when it comes to ensuring their privacy. One weak mind, and they try to remove all hints of wrong doing..."

Shaking his head, the man ran a hand through his short blonde hair.

"But I forget my manners, I have yet to introduce myself. I'm afraid I can't tell you my real name, would be bad for business. However, you can call me Coatl."

OOC: It was indeed a good time.

IC:

Apparently his intel isn't all its cracked up to be. Reicker thought. "I know exactly who you are, and believe me, no introductions are necessary." Reiker said smiling. "My employers were, albeit tangently, connected to the work you performed in Ceyol, which was quite impressive." His hands reappeared from his pockets with the thin metallic wire wrapped around his hands and fingers, with about six inches of wire between his two hands. "Specifically, the man who taught me how to use the garotte killed the men and woman who paid for your services there." A small smile formed again as his hands disappeared back into his coat. He suffered a brief coughing spell and quickly tightened the scarf around his neck and then wiped blood from the corners of his mouth. His hands reappeared without the wire. "As a professional courtesy, I should inform you that my employer has a kill-on-sight contract placed on your head, and you would do well to stay away from their corner of the world. Three weeks ago, I would have been required under threat of death to do everything in my power to kill you now. But that was three weeks ago." He frowned slightly, shrugging. "How times change."