Realistic or Modern 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙱𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚁𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚎 & 𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜.

[.V1LLAINISM._]

mother of sorrows :3​

 

[mother of sorrows]

𝐄𝐳𝐫𝐚 𝐌. 𝐅𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘢 𝘔𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘩.

Age: 32
Nationality: American

You know what they say about men of golden hair and golden smiles, the ones with eyes crafted from stardust; they're not often favored by the gods. A walking Greek tragedy, in love with every drunk person he happens to kiss - a thousand times over, even as the faces and names change.

 

[mother of sorrows]

𝗠𝗶𝗿𝗼𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘃 𝗚𝗮𝘃𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗶č
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘵𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘻 𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳.

Age: 33
Nationality: Yugoslavian

There's only so much you can handle before cracks form in even the toughest shell. Luckily for Miroslav, nobody cares to poke at his; his loneliness is both an armor and a cage, one he never fights to leave.

 

[mother of sorrows]

𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮 𝗢𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗴𝗮.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘥𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯.

Age: 30
Nationality: Spanish

The dark-haired beauties that haunt the Shakespearean poems, gentle eyed nymphs with mouths filled with blood. Tragic heroines drowned and burned and turned into swans; the stories of old raised Ophelia, her demeanor akin to the drowned woman after who she was named after.

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

WILLIAM IKEDA

Name: William “Will” Ikeda

Age: 33

Nationality: Japanese//American

Role: The hard-headed Vessel

Cynical are the men who were once left to rot; Innocent hearts a delectable treat to a world oh so keen, oh so hungry. He’d be a damn fool to let these monsters devour him, chew him up & spit him out akin to any other.
His defences would always accompany him, weapons cozy underneath the fabrics of his sleeve. Only, the battles were never one for an entrance.

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[.V1LLAINISM._]

JOHNNY VILLETI

Name: Johnny Viletti

Age: 32

Nationality: American

Role: The brainless jester

The sweetest of tales are often woven by kindred women; Speaking of pretty boys with kind smiles and mischievous eyes. Always up to no good, always fated with the memories of irresponsible, mindless adventure. And in the end, it appeared that it was not he who was living life, but rather it who was living him.

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[.V1LLAINISM._]

APOLLONIA DABROWSKI

Name: Apollonia “Polli” Dabrowski

Age: 31

Nationality: Polish

Role: The peculiar historian

What is an adventure without deterrents? Boring, some would say. Irritating? The majority would oft agree.
Gifted with a hungry mind and the most peculiar of knowledge, the historian is renowned for her inability to- shut up?- to put it lightly. A distraction with the purest of intentions, she often does wrong but in her heart, wishes for the opposite.

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[mother of sorrows]

MOOD: Existing.

OUTFIT: xxx

LOCATION: Plane

two

INTERACTIONS: Ikeda (my baby daddy )

MENTIONS: xxx

two

xxx

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TL;DR: Would we still be friends if I was a pudding cup

two

ezra m. fuscho

It's never easy to leave your home, but especially so when your home is the sunny side of California.

Heaven might be far away for men like him, but the sandy beaches and towns were the nearest thing on Earth. Death to the snow and cold of his childhood and long live the idle violence of the American elite. It's no problem if he was born elsewhere; New Carleone was his home in all that matters. And if they can tell that he does not belong, that his clothes were paid for with stolen money, that his smile and gimick is a mimicry, that Ezra is not everything he tells them he is, well.

Ezra always was very good at being what he is supposed to be. It's why he works so well at what he does.

Even if being the most handsome and quite possibly the smartest secret agent isn't all its sold out to be.

The paperwork is grueling, its not half as glamorous as you think, and there are thousands of people who would like you drowned or stabbed or killed - thousands of people who are running the world. Ezra thinks he could do without being held hostage by some egomaniac scientist or president or politician for his entire life and not miss it at all. Turns out that brushes with near death will give you a slight headache, and he never was one to do things that prove to be too troublesome. Of course, the pay and health insurance were top-notch, and almost made all the clothes and cars ruined by murderous enemies in this career worth it.

Almost. Ezra has yet to stop mourning for that Brioni polo shirt that found it's end at a particularily dangerous mission in Kyoto. Ezra will never forgive and never forget, even if the boss might insist it's just a piece of clothing. It goes so far that, every year on the anniversary of this tragic event that could have been avoided, Ezra will throw a demonstration in front of the boss' office - which really just includes him idly mentioning how the new Brioni line looks suspiciously like a specific shirt he used to have. Alas, the boss' heart is cold and so are her morals. She has yet to offer to buy a replacement, something that Ezra is very sour about. He gets a burst of malicious happiness everytime she gets another grey hair, finding that the universe is punishing her for this cruelty.

Fashion homicide aside, it's not like Ezra has much of a choice. The leash the agency has on him is a pretty one, but a short one indeed - and they have no qualms about snapping it back if need to be. There are worse things to be, sure; dead is one of them. The hangman's noose is not something he wants to feel on his neck again and he is glad to be out of his prison cell and out in the world. There is nothing like the threat of execution to make you appreciate life. But if he dared to dream - and Ezra very much does, in the darker hours of the night when there is nobody to see his facade melt away and see what lies beneath - then he would like to run free. Criminality is a hard habit to kick and even if the agency might ignore his petty theft and general disregard for the law, it is not like what used to be. One day, he comforts himself, one day I will be back. And really, this job offered all of the danger and excitement Ezra craved in the first place - using his brain is something he is good at, despite what some of the other agents insist on. Plus, it gave him the opportunity to talk to interesting people and that is a perk in itself.

Ezra, after all, very much liked most people.

Ezra did not like Ikeda.

Which is a real shame, because despite agent William Ikeda being about the worst self-righteous stick in the mud he has ever had the displeasure of meeting, he is handsome in a way that made most women and some men they've encountered sigh and bat their eyelashes. Which, Ikeda, being the before-said stick in the mud and outspoken protester of anything that could even slightly fall under the definition of fun, never really appreciated. He was Ezra's type (a very broad spectrum, but the point stands) and if his talking did not make Ezra seriously consider throwing himself out of the nearest window, he would have even considered making a move - if he knew it woudn't end wih Ikeda trying to murder him with his bare hands. Alas, that was how Ezra's life went - he spent it running after stoic, serious men who did their best to run away from him.

So when he found out they're working on a job together, Ezra started what could only be described as a revolution.

He started the upheaval by first occupying the best couch in their HQ and refusing to move for an hour (until he got tired and decided the coup will have to wait), before bravely filling the water machine with warm water and ruining everybody's day. When one of the bosses asked him to stop, Ezra only showed his determination for justice by tying up the entire staff's shoelaces and wreaking Biblical level destruction. It's not fair, he'd insist, Ikeda tried to kill me last time. Can you believe that? Do you want me dead? But as usual when Ezra decided to defend his rights, it fell on deaf ears. William and him will have to work together and that is it, no matter that it is unnatural and violating of Ezra's dignity to not end up dead-drunk during a job. It is a long standing tradition that Ezra ends up shit-faced, with at least one article of clothing missing and possibly in another part of the country - the way the boss will not let him do that by sending him along with Ikeda, who has all the humor of a nun that wanted to be a stripper and is now bitter at the turn of events.

It is all distressing indeed, even as they were packed up on a place to go into the wonderous city of Lisbon; where the heat never dissipates and even murder has a hint of romance. A place you'd be ordinarily excited to visit, especially as a writer or poet or euphoria-hungry socialite. Ezra only fell slightly into one of those, so he would be pleased by the turn if events.

If he could sit by himself and not by a looming, boresome math test person of a man, it might have helped with Ezra's annoyance quite a bit. But as it was, the world was not done with making a fool out of him, and so apparently the boss thought she would save on tickets if they both sat together. Even showing a respect for his ancestral traditions by colonizing the window seat wasn't enough, because Ikeda, in his heartlessness, kept stealing the arm rest from him. Even when he politely (read: pushed Will's arm off with his own) pointed out that the arm rest is his, apparently Ikeda had other plans in mind. Hell-bent on terrorizing innocent agents, Ikeda had selfishly refused to give what is owed and so Ezra had no option but to speak up (read: loudly complaining to the boss that Ikeda is being unfair and therefore should be removed from the mission for the executable crime of arm rest theft).

With his poor arms being forced to cross over his chest and Ikeda not proving to be receptive to conversation, Ezra rebelled by depriving his travel-mates of his thoughts and opinions on the passing events. He did not notice how a few of them sighed in relief, glad that he has finally shut up. It truly was dreadful and they had the whole day to go.

His rescue came in the form of a black-haired stewardess, her lips a rose pink and a pretty blush when she gave Ezra his coffee. She looked up at Ezra's smile, her own forming with a bat of the eyes that made the man reconsider.

''If you need help with anything else, just call me.'' She said, night black eyes flickering to the ground shyly.

Perhaps it would not be such a bad ride after all.

***

The pilot's cabin is big enough, and there is nobody around. Clouds outside, beautiful and so close to Heaven - to a word Ezra only vaguely understands. Her lips are warm on his as he pulls her close, thinking 'I wish this could have been love.' She smiles up at him, raven hair let down haphazardly and her lipstick a mess. She is beautiful in the most primal sense of the word and Ezra smiles back, even as he struggles to remember her name.

***

A halo of black hair surrounded her head as she watched him scavenge for his pants somewhere on the beautifully carpented floor, her body covered by the white of the sheet. Melissa's (Matilda's? Maria's?) face was gently amused, her own clothes abandoned in God knows which part of the cabin. It's a miracle nobody needed anything from here for so long, but Ezra pushing his luck was nothing new. His shirt was a mess, crumped at the edges and he knew nothing will make it look decent now. He turned around to his romance of the day as he shuffled into it, giving the woman (or was it Merina? No, that doesn't sound right) a smile that charms his way into secrets and information. Malina - or Merissa? - looked suitably captivated, half-sitting up to give him a hopeful smile.

''Will you stay in Lisbon long?'' Maria - definitively Maria, he is sure - asked gently, her eyes hiding another intention. Ezra smiles wider, altrough he doesn't mean it.

This part always sucks.

''Maybe,'' he lies, winking at the woman he knows he will only half-remember in the dawn of the next day. ''We might catch each other there. Who knows?''

He tries to fix his blonde hair the best he can, running his hands through it - its still in disarray as he abandons the cabin and the - what was her name again? - woman inside, catching his reflection in a passing window. His eyes are dead.

In his mind, another person.

My beloved, if only you could see me now.

***

Her name is Melani, it turns out. She really ought to watch her jewelry next time she takes somebody to bed. It's basic safety, yeah?

***

Ikeda was still there once he came back, still hogging the arm rest like the self-caring villain he is. Ezra made it a point to walk past him with all the grace of an angry elephant, hoping it annoys him as much as it annoyed Ezra, before plopping into his reserved seat. The gentle blue polo shirt's two buttons were loose and his hair was a mess, a shit-eating smile tugging at his lips. If Ikeda suspected what he had been up to, that is no matter - it will only serve to give Ezra bargaining power in his strategy to steal back the arm rest.

''Hey, Ikeda,'' he said with all the malicious glee of a trouble-making student seeing his arch-nemesis teacher, pulling out a necklace to dangle in front of the solemn man's eyes. ''Look what I got.''

It was pure gold, sparkling in the bright light - gorgeous, delicate and most definitively stolen.

They will rue this day. Rue it.

He danced and laughed
with the thought of death in his heart

code by valen t.

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

WILLIAM IKEDA

Fifty-five..fifty-six..fifty-seven..fifty-eight-

Thunderous were the tickings of his watch- battered, nearly at the end of its life, and yet enrapturing nonetheless. Why he was always a competitor of time; always too fast or too slow, either running from it or chasing after it. But never quite catching it. It seemed that in the end, time was a most natural burden imposed upon man. And as every second passes, his eyes skitter nervously.

‘Where is the bastard?’

His knee bobbed up and then down, down and then up- worn oxfords generating a sound most maddening but otherwise held no ill-intent; old habits die hard as they say, but his, his never do seem to pass on.
The man huffed. Deep creases perched comfortably atop his flesh, visage slowly contorting into his signature scowl. Irritated? Aggravated? Concerned? There seemed to be not a single word that encompassed this flurry of anxiety, this deep-rooted frustration that shadowed his being. He was always the angry kind mind you, but this so-called bastard had a special talent of bringing out even worse than the worst, of triggering a storm of both fire and ice.
Another lonesome minute passed and his thoughts began to nip at irrationality. Nearly considering getting up from a less than comfortable seat and begrudgingly searching for his partner for the sake of the job.
But he steeled himself. Only one of them needed to be alive to complete the mission and he had no problem working alone.
Though a part of him did wonder if the blond had finally gotten his piece of karma; if the years of torment had finally struck back, leaving him a rotting corpse amongst the backrooms of their cramped airmobile.

God, he could only hope so.


''Hey Ikeda,
Look what I got.'

He’d spoken too soon.

Agent William Ikeda was a man of order. Frozen in intimidation, but ordered nonetheless. For his work was his pride, rumoured to be the only thing that his cold, cold heart would warm up to. The only thing he’d ever return home to, setting the table, planting a kiss on his cheek. In retrospect the image was quite sad but Will never quite cared much for pity parties, never quite comfortable in his own emotions.
But when his rambunctious supervisor had promptly informed him of his partnership with none other than Agent Fuscho, all hell was unleashed.

“What do you mean Agent Fuscho?!” He snarled.

“I mean you partner with the pretty boy or you’re off the case. It’s about time you two got along” She responded dryly, taking another long drag of her cigarette before abruptly adding:

“-Do it or I’ll bring out the get-along shirt.”

Even now he shudders at the possibility. There have been far too many instances of rancid breath assaulting his face and skin-to-skin contact between them to not be in the least bit traumatized.
Needless to say, Will had left the headquarters an angry man that day, more angry than usual. He was just so- just so- so- and don’t even get him started on the revolution! It was so- so- so… Words could not express the rage he’d felt as the blond began tying their coworker’s shoelaces together, causing them to stumble and fall into the arms of an unsuspecting William.
Even the hands he’d launched were not enough, too short-lived and unsatisfactory as his boss (and a couple of terrified interns) pulled him back from what would’ve likely resulted in homicide. For the future may be uncertain but this much is certain: one of these days he is going to kill him.

Dark eyes flickered to meet Agent Fuscho’s, remnants of a flashback waltzing amongst his pupils.
All the while the bastard dawned a too gleeful expression- a representative of his never-ending thirst for mischief.
Will always considered him the poster boy for trouble, with his big-screen- worthy appearance and suave way with words, it was no wonder that the man was always caught in the midst of one situation or the other. He simply had all the right cards… Until he didn’t. And that’s when Agent Ikeda had to step in.
He cocked a brow as the poor victim’s necklace dangled in the air, fingers subconsciously tugging at his own prized possession, his watch. He wouldn’t… would he?
With his gaze retracting to the newspaper spread before him, Will feigned his usual lackadaisical indifference, as if he hadn’t just been counting the seconds, anxiously waiting for his return.

“Whatever you did I want no part of it,” he muttered curtly

“now sit down or I’ll handcuff you to the damn thing myself.”

His tone was indicative of an exhaustedmother scolding her child- after all, that was what he was right? A child? A toddler? Targeting any shiny trinket that dared pass his peripherals, cooing at attractive strangers and somehow losing articles of clothing for no reason at all, Will was the clean-up crew that came after every Ezra-made disaster. A probability as to why he was assigned to him in the first place.
For they needed a babysitter and a leader, but Will was only one of those things. And as his partner settled back down into his seat, he’d made it a point to possessively stab his elbow back into the armrest once more.
The battle was not yet over.

~~~

Rarely did Will ever get to appreciate the scenery of whatever country they were dragged to. Either on the run from death or chasing after it, his job often proved difficult for picturesque scenes and instead opted for bloody fists and dark nights. But this? This was difficult not to enjoy- even during their brief ride exiting the airport, Will was able to tune out whatever mindless conversation his boss and Agent Fuscho were having to simply peer out the window. He watched as the crystalline waters aligned with a pinking sky, almost enamoured- though his face likely emanated his usual distaste. For he often suffered at the hands of a chronic RBF.
Throughout their ride however, his selective senses had picked up on three things

• They were to meet and introduce themselves to two private agents.
• They were to eat and settle in a nearby rental.
• He was not to leave Ezra out of his sight.

Though the last one was more of his own addition, Will knew far too well that a romantic afternoon like this and beautiful strangers like these would entice Ezra in such a way that it was almost irrefutable. He could practically already see the gears turning inside that empty head of his. Therefore, he took it upon himself to take both his and Agent Fuscho’s whereabouts into his own hands.

Their arrival at the cafe was rushed, staggered as the unfamiliar chauffeur had frantically ushered them out of the vehicle, wishing to take their luggage (and their boss who’d oh so gracefully stated that they were all grown up and didn’t need mommy to come with them anymore) back to their current residence. The agent heaved an acceptance of fate, wordlessly turning on his heel and leading them up through the tumultuous (and admittedly) confusing pathway to their cliffside view. He was already jet-lagged, hungry and tired from the journey and quite frankly, was not in the mood for any of Ezra’s antics. Though when was he ever?
Therefore, when the two perched themselves at their tackle, he narrowed his eyes.

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing… you better not do it.”

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[mother of sorrows]

MOOD: Donec posuere nisl tortor

OUTFIT: Donec aliquam vestibulum ex

LOCATION: Vivamus quis aliquet est

two

INTERACTIONS: Aliquam erat volutpat. Quisque malesuada nunc vel convallis vestibulum

MENTIONS: Donec cursus justo eu aliquet venenatis. Integer consequat

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TAGS:

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TL;DR: Donec posuere nisl tortor. Donec aliquam vestibulum ex. Vivamus quis aliquet est. Aliquam erat volutpat. Quisque malesuada nunc vel convallis vestibulum. Donec cursus justo eu aliquet venenatis

two

miroslav

When people talk about Miroslav, they often say this; he is everything a man should be.

He is hardworking. He is serious. He can speak 7 languages and has never bet on a horse race. He drinks, but not excessively. He smokes, but not terribly so. His parents were farmers and he is in the Party and he plays sports. Nobody can fill the idea of an ideal modern man, but Miroslav is as close to it as he can be. The days-now warrior-poet, educated in the Party's philosophy and yet wordly enough to know his country from others. His co-workers might not be his friends, but they respect him; yes, about the only thing to be said about Miro is that he is slightly too cold. Not impolite, never, but not easy to approach and still a bachelor when he already ought to have children and a wife.

It's all Miro ever hears about when he visits home; his mother huffing and his father shaking his head. 'We've already lost him,' (they never say Feliks. Never.) they'll say, 'At least you should settle down.'

That's how it always was, ever since he was a little child. The curse of twins, he supposes; one will have to bear the sins, the other expectactions.

Miro was so good he would sweat under oil-light to get the best grades. Feliks was so terrible his name still gets used as a curse word by the neighbours' farmhands. Miro would train wheels, somersaults, stretches to be at the top of the athletics club. Feliks would get marched into the principal's office, teacher at each side. Miro would sit and be quiet and not talk unless spoken to. Feliks would do the exact opposite and get dragged out of church by the ear.

Where Miro would succeed, putting in his absolute best, Feliks would try to do his absolute worst.

Miro becomes a secret agent; and Feliks, well.

(They don't say that, either. It's a wound that didn't heal quite properly.)

It was only right that when he was sat down in his mid-twenties, the picture of the Marshal staring down at him and a recruiter at him, that they would only have good things to say. The middle-aged man had flickered through the stack of papers and nodded at each one, glancing up at Miro. 'Youth Boxing Championship of 48' winner... Then 49'. You represented Yugoslavia in Brussels and Paris, both first place. Impressive.'

(The harsh light of the gymnasium, blinding him. Cheers and claps from the stands. Face guard tight on his temples.)

'What did it feel like, being in the ring?'

(The athletic tape tight on his knuckles as he throws the first hit. Pain and blood and adrenaline singing.)

'What were you doing all that for?''

(A grunt of a fallen man and the screams of a win gained. His coach slapping him on the shoulder, a thousand voices errupting in congratulations.)

'It says here you have a... brother? Not a party member, I see.'

(Miro took it all in, red faced and sweaty, grinning up at where his family sat. Watching him.)

'You'd be an excellent addition.' The man had said, closing the papers together. 'Welcome to the team.' He reached a worn, scarred hand over the table and Miro took it firmly. It was expected; he had worked hard for this and he'll work harder still, once he goes on the field. Because Miro is serious and hard-working and painfully the image of everything he's supposed to be.

Everything Feliks never had the chance to be, a voice whispers. It always does, even when he's deaf with work.

---
​

Clouds, white like ash and soft like a summer's breath, gathered outside like a garden of high-class ladies; and the sky, burning blue like living paintwork. They moved slowly, languidly like leaves on a fresh stream (and isn't that an impossible sight? Priests said once that humans were not meant to fly; his parents have never stopped foot on a plane, though they say they don't go to church anymore. Impossible, but Miro was born at the right time to see it turn possible.) Summer gave no signs of letting up even here, away from the dust and heat of the ground; sunlight, hot and demanding, peeked from the thick glass keeping passengers from the heavens outside. Vienna was a long way back, only seeming a mirage from up here where no foot is supposed to thread.

Miro thought it was painfully beautiful, utterly so; rivers and fields and houses and long, rustling fields of green stretched as far as the eye could see, fresh and alive and breath-taking. Nature has a way of healing, elders would tell him, and it's so easy to believe them with sights such as these. The body may be here, but the soul goes far beyond that; down below to walk on the grasses and just stand there, overwhelmed at mere existence. Poets are often compared to children in that way. That, like a newborn child, they have to take in any strand of grass, any flicker of the breeze. To be alive is enough to be amazed - he read about the cosmos once, about how humanity is a flicker in a million years. Million feet and souls and eyes and hopes have wandered this earth, many just as amazed as he is and many of them dead. They will write about them in the modern day now, about skeletons found in mountains or foot imprints found in mud. They too, had seen impossible things become possible. Quite like him, sitting by a plane window and dark eyes set outside.

Such a wild thought. And such a lonely one, too.

...it would be easier to meditate on such thoughts, were it not for the little lady sitting next to him.

Miro is not very talkative. Less so when he is on his way to a mission, a hidden gun tucked in his jacket and brows set for death; his posture whispers don't talk to me. Don't look at me. If anybody asks, you did not see me. Gazes avoid his. People pass him by without noticing the sharp-eyed man with a newspaper tucked over his lap. He is a ghost in this world - until he snaps back to life, with a goal done and today's blood washed off for tomorrow's. And Miro is easy to ignore, easier still to hide on purpose. A lifetime of practice, hiding at the back of the classroom and slipping from sight. Loneliness fit him well, like an old pair of jeans; easy to put on, but don't want to slip off. 'Such a quiet child,' his mother would praise, 'never talks a word in class.'

He supposed that yes, a lot of seats were taken - and so it's not that surprising a young lady of big eyes and curled hair would sit next to him. She looked like a small, curious rabbit that turns it's head left and right; her eyes never seeming to stay still. She sat in her seat, sighed - sighed again. And then somehow decided that Miro, who was nose deep in some noble's jewelry scandal, would be the perfect companion for conversation. He wasn't even able to get a word in, that's how fast she spoke - like the words ran out by themselves. Honestly, he's not even sure what the conversation was even about, with how the topics jumped from literature to - skulls? He didn't dare ask even if he could get a word in. Once she started, she never stopped; just kept on chatting as if she didn't even notice that Miro said not a word back.

For the 5 hours it took them to land. 5 hours.

Miro was pretty sure his ears rang by the end of it. He only gave her a horrified stare through the whole of it, like a feral dog forced into a corned to be petted. He tolerates a short word or two from his travel companions, if he has to - but this? This was not a plane ride. This was a hostage situation. On and on she talked, rambled, looked out the window and the ceiling and pointed out any cloud that had the passing shape of an animal. It was torture, pure torture, and Miro was not above freeing himself through deceit.

''I have to go to the bathroom.'' He had said, flicking the newspaper shut. His face was carefully blank. ''Excuse me, ma'am.''

That was an hour ago.

Perhaps it is rude, to weather the storm elsewhere until the plane drops safely into the lines of the airport, palm trees and sea drifting in the distance. Portugal; the synonym of beauty and young people thirsty for romance, drifting along it's warm streets with arms linked. Something sweet came along the breeze, the scent of trees in full bloom.

In this city of sea and love, somebody is going to die. Miro is here to make sure of it.

If only his boss had told him more about it - but Psoglav is as cryptic as ever, only telling him the location and that he will not be working alone. Not a lot to go off, but he's had less. With a blank look of expert politeness, Miro courses through customs (fake name, fake birth date, fake everything - a man not dead but not alive, either) like a ghost passing church doors, not a single gaze settling on him. Business men on vacation brushed past him, young families with laughing children and couples on their honeymoon. One tired, overworked man gained no notice. A world he doesn't belong to, only walking through it as a visitor - did he use to smile like that? Look so free of worries and heartaches? As if he still has more than a career that means the world to him and a family he dares not talk to.

Miro looks on, but only for a second. The soul lingers - his body walks to where the cab awaits.

The steps are bleached white, the blue ocean smiling under the cobble-stoned sidewalk - waves sang quietly as they smacked against the stone, seagulls diving over fishing boats fishing for luck. It was not yet too hot in his suit as he walked, spotting the one meant for him parked by a bush of red nerium. His gaze goes into the distance for only a moment, not daring to stay - the part of him that longs no matter what fought the part of him that shifted into work, a low grinding focus of something beyond a man. Sharp wariness tucked into every nerve, every glance to check for enemies, snipers, cars; a strange shadow there, here. He checks the cab once, twice to make sure - opens it.

''My apologies for being late.'' Miroslav says as he slides on the seat, tone all business and nothing else daring to co-exist. He side-glances at the person sitting next to him on the black leather seats, looks at the driver. ''There was a line and -'' He looks to the person again, taking everything in - freezes.

Curled hair, owl wide-eyes. Blinking, staring, talking the ear off the exhausted looking driver. Miro blanches.

'Oh, fuck no - '

it may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
That I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world

code by valen t.

 

[mother of sorrows]

MOOD: Existing.

OUTFIT: xxx

LOCATION: Plane

two

INTERACTIONS: Ikeda (my baby daddy )

MENTIONS: xxx

two

xxx

two

TL;DR: Would we still be friends if I was a pudding cup

two

ezra m. fuscho

Beauty is absolute, and so is hate. Some pretty little sculptor he once fancied said that once - Ezra had thought it bullshit, like half of what these artistic types spout out of their mouths. He wonders now, though, if there perhaps was not a little truth to that too.

Waves crashed on to the sandy cliff, gleams of white foam sparkling in the burning sun; impressionists have been enchanted by lesser sights, and it is hard for a natural romantic such as him to remain wholly unaffected. On days such as these, Ezra would sit by beach-side hotels or quiet little terraces (possibly in the arms of some willing beauty) to watch the sun die with a wine in hand. On days when he isn't being guarded by a giant, quiet, stick in the mud of a man. The cruelty of life was truly too much. What has Ezra ever done to deserve this? Not that he minds the view (and he doesn't mean only the cliff), mind you, but he'd much prefer it if Will didn't glare at him like the man had killed his entire family and insulted his socks with it.

Sitting in the little wooden chair like it was made for him only, Ezra gave the waitress a bright grin and an order for some much-needed coffee. Leaning his arms loosely on the rest - and isn't that a luxury he's been denied for hours - Ezra's gaze slid around slowly, far sharper than somebody would give him credit for. Not to look for potential enemies, quite the opposite. As if sensing it, Will spoke up in that annoying, serious way that was practically his routine -

'Whatever you’re thinking of doing… you better not do it.'

His eyes flickered from staring after some woman's fluttering skirt down Will's shirt with an absolute lack of shame, expression thoughtful as if very deeply pondering on the man's muscles. To anybody else, such a gesture would be beyond scandalous; but to Ezra, who practically ogled every attractive person in the room, it was pretty much granted.

''What do you mean? I haven't done anything yet.'' He said in faux-innocence, playing at a smile that was far more friendly than it should be for a man whose guts he absolutely hated. But if he has to get credit for anything, it would be that Ezra can hate somebody, absolutely loathe them in fact, and still be more than willing to get into their pants. The will of a man with nothing on his mind but flirting is truly an amazing thing. The flutter of eyelashes he sent Will would no doubt give the other man a heart attack - but that would just be the second best option, with the first being Will ending up absolutely enchanted by Ezra's charm and wit and handsomeness. ''This is starting to look like a date, you know. The least you could do is pay for my drink.''

He turned that round, puppy-eyed look towards him, blinking in a way most people would find absolutely charming - and Elsa says makes him look like a frog that's been constipated for a week. You can't please everybody, unfortunately - he's sure the old lady is secretly madly in love with him, but just won't admit it. It would look bad, Ezra is sure. Too bad.

He danced and laughed
with the thought of death in his heart

code by valen t.

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

WILLIAM IKEDA

His mind has never been the quiet kind. Ridden with eternal responsibility, Agent Ikeda was- is, a man of little patience and consequently, little emotion. His grandmother often joked that he was born old.
“You’re too serious little dove,” she’d say, cooing at a visibly unhappy Ikeda, pinching his cheek with her worn, raisin-like fingers. And he’d grumble in response, muttering something along the lines of “someone has to be” underneath his breath, returning to whatever task occupied him in the moment. Angry then and angry now, William still hasn’t learned how to relax. Not even the earth could still his unravelling thoughts. He’d seen better views before, vivid scenes of vibrant rice fields and loving arms, dirt roads and rusted gates. No sea, no sunset could ever beat what he’d grown up in, not even by a minute. He closed his eyes- albeit reluctantly at first- half-worried that Ezra would run off as soon as he seemed even a tad bit distracted, though relented. He was too loud to slip by him anyways.

In his head played a film, memories he both cherished and wished to forget, accompanied by the barreling waves from down below. Like a soundtrack, his very own score played around him and William could feel himself shifting. There was no longer a war on his face. No jagged lines nor harsh edges, no piercing eyes. For once in his life, Agent Ikeda was a calm man. Mind traipsing through memories that he never dared speak of, glimpses of his home, his grandmother, his sister dancing, laughing through tresses of tall grass, their voices calling out for him, loving him. Their happiness, it seemed, would always serve as his tranquillity, his peace.

That is, until he began to speak.

It was not that he hated Fuscho, well, at least not entirely, no; it was only that, at any opportunity in which peace would present its fleeting appearance, he seemed almost determined to chase it off. Him with his gem- blue eyes and blond hair that shone golden in the sun, him who was in all ways trouble, the type of up-to-no-good man his sister and many other sisters would likely swoon over. He could only hope he raised her better than that. For it was that mouth- that big fat mouth that would inevitably taint whatever beauty his face divulged.

''-This is starting to look like a date, you know. The least you could do is pay for my drink.''

Slowly William raised a single eye open, eyebrows furrowed, scowl already pinching at the corners of his lips, as if constantly armed and ready to spring at whatever newfound disappointment there was. Though that’s not to say that this outlandish behaviour was out of character from his dear colleague, no, it was quite the opposite actually. A behavior that William knew rather well, much to his displeasure. Words that could make even the nuns drop to the cobble-stoned floors and repent, knuckles a white lightning as they utter the holiest prayers to cast the demons out. And in a way, he sort of envied him, envied how Ezra could be so casually frivolous, so needlessly stupid without having to think twice. Because he was young, he was young maybe forever and William would always be years ahead, always uncomfortable in his own skin. His grandmother was right, he was born old.

“Hm yes, I’ll even buy you a ring to match that new necklace of yours.”

His voice always seemed to come straight from the belly, rich and with measure even when drenched in sarcasm, a slight drawl reminiscent of his first American summer spent working down south.
Ah, the memories.

He returned to his film.

“Now be quiet, they should be here any minute.”

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º º code by ditto º º