maskormenacelogs | I got blood on my hands // OPEN

Entry tags:

I got blood on my hands // OPEN

WHO: Kaz Brekker + YOU
WHERE: Porter cities
WHEN: Arrival + days after
WHAT: There's no mingle/swearing in this month so come meet this asshole.
WARNINGS: Kaz warnings + opt out; updated as necessary

I. Maurtia Falls

A. RESIDENCE 007 - closed to housemates
Kaz is not having a good day.

Waking up naked on a medical table with a new tattoo has put him in a particularly foul mood, as has the news that he's been dragged-- somewhere he's never even heard of, to do a job that he's not particularly inclined to do. Hero. Do they even know who the fuck they caught? Any of the other five people he'd been with would have been more suitable heroes than Kaz Brekker. They all might be inclined to lean into the role, too. He wants nothing to do with it.

He's been standing outside of the building he's been assigned to live in for a long time, leaning on his crow's head cane. His suit and the dark wool coat he's wearing over it are sharply tailored, accenting the angles of his body. He needs a new hat, but one thing at a time. At least he has his gloves back. He reaches over to rub the mark on his arm, opposite the Dregs tattoo.

Eventually the cold gets the better of him and he limps up to the door, the keys he'd been given appearing in hand so that he can open it. There are other people living here, he's been told that much. Can't be worse than the Slat.

B. Out and About
Kaz adjusts the scarf around his neck as he makes his way down a quiet sidewalk. The cold snap has his leg aching sharply but it doesn't slow him down, even if it should. Maurtia Falls has strange echoes of Ketterdam everywhere, including a canal. When he's feeling particularly contemplative, Kaz leans on a rail and watches the water. He hasn't been here long, but he's found this particular city to his liking: they aren't as frenzied about imPorts here and that suits him.

He ducks down an alley, partially to get out of sight but also to cut some time off his trip. He isn't afraid of anything that might be lurking there. If anyone thinks they'll take advantage of this poor cripple, they have another thing coming. He's been feeling particularly murderous: he doesn't appreciate waking up somewhere completely naked and on a medical table with a new tattoo and-- whatever else they'd done to him. He's been pointedly not thinking about it. On top of that, he can't leave. He has things waiting for him in Ketterdam: plans, a haul, revenge. Inej. No, he tells himself. She isn't waiting for him or for anyone. Nor should she.

Kaz hasn't allowed himself time to sulk, however. Though the bird sanctuary gives him something to do, he wants to find a gambling den that will hire him. He's a good dealer - the best - and they'll lose a lot of money if he ends up on the other side of the table. That's how he made scratch in his early days in Ketterdam, until he was banned from the tables in every single gambling house in the Barrel. In his short time here, he's paid attention. He's learning which cops are on the payroll and which ones are better avoided, the vague territories that gangs or businesses always sketch out. He needs to build his reputation all over again and Dirtyhands will do well in Maurtia Falls, one way or another.

He thinks, briefly, of the last time he'd been new to a city like this. That boy died in the harbor and Kaz will never let himself sink that low again.

With a quiet huff, he shakes off the memory of Jordie. Kaz forces himself to pull up short as he comes out on another open street and nearly slams into someone.

"Watch it," he growls.

II. De Chima

A. Shopping
Kaz has been told - though he never asked - that De Chima is the place to go for shopping. His tastes are specific and he might as well see what the city has on offer. That, and he wants to familiarize himself with getting from city to city. Maybe it will bother him less the more he does it.

He wanders the shopping district, mostly looking at window displays for now. He doesn't exactly have a large disposable income. He should probably find something easy to wash, something he wouldn't be upset about getting bird shit on. He's not exactly sure what an assistant at a bird sanctuary does but he has a feeling it involves getting dirty. That's fine, though he wonders who the hell assigns these jobs and what criteria they use. It's been years since he had to take care of any animals, other than the rats that live in the walls of the Slat.

Mannequins dressed in sharp, three-piece suits draw his attention. They aren't so different from what he's wearing now beneath his wool coat. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as his eyes drift from the staid black-and-gray to a more flashy red-and-gold. Not enough patterns to be considered Barrel flash, it looks like it could be a uniform in one of the gambling dens or brothels. He looks back at the more reserved colors and shifts to stand in front of it. He starts wondering about the security in these places and decides to have a look inside. Technology is more advanced here than he's used to, but that certainly won't be a deterrent.

B. Drinking
After some window shopping and casing a few of the shops, Kaz limps into a bar. He needs a drink. Several. A bottle would be perfect but he has no intention of getting drunk where anyone can see him, never mind a pack of strange people in a strange city.

As soon as he settles at the bar, someone asks, "Are you an imPort?" with excited overtones. Kaz lifts an eyebrow.

"Yeah." He's willing to see where this is going.

"Let me buy you a drink!"

"Kind of you," he says, and the person waving down the bartender doesn't seem to notice the dripping sarcasm or just isn't concerned by it. Kaz orders his drink and watches intently as the bar tender makes it.

"Hey, you know, I'm a doctor here. I work in one of the hospitals. I saw you limping and--"

Kaz's dark eyes snap back to his patron. "No," he says flatly. "I'm not interested in hospitals or doctors."

"But we could--"

"No."

His drink arrives and Kaz lifts it in a silent toast before he pushes away from the bar. He'll find somewhere else to sit.

III. Wildcard

[Surprise me. If you want to plot something out, I'm at

givemedragons]

Threaded | Flat

One of those residents comes immediately into view, impossible to miss (for now) thanks to his towering stature and Herculean build. No one has a right to look so chiseled in a sweater befitting a librarian, but this is Eli Ever, and he could be on the cover of a magazine exactly as he's posed right this moment.

He's leaning against the kitchen counter, studying an enormous tome spread open before him while coffee brews in a machine just to his left. When he hears the door open, he glances up and greets this new face with a brilliant smile. Though they've never met before, Eli looks like he's already decided he's made a friend.

"Coffee?" he offers, with a gesture to the nearly-filled pot.

Speaking of random nakedness, that's currently a thing that's happening right in the middle of the living room with no medical table in sight; simply a guy in his birthday suit practicing what appears to be tai chi—which might be a little weird to some, but seriously? This is pretty tame compared to a lot of the things Constantine does. Be grateful there's no chicken blood involved.

Kaz checks his pocket watch. He's leaning back against a wall just outside of the place he's chosen to eat and he knows he's early. He spent an hour yesterday talking to servers and kitchen staff out back while they took breaks in the cool air, learning all kinds of little tidbits. Through it all, he caught glimpses into the kitchen. Clean, efficient, no rancid smells wafting into the alley.

Ambiance and good food. Let it never be said Kaz fell through on a promise.

He's in a sharply cut suit with a wool coat to ward off the growing evening chill. The streets are still bustling but it's a far cry from the bright lights and loud crowds of the Barrel. Hawkers would be starting up on East Stave as tourists and soldiers unloaded from boats at Fifth Harbor; the windows in all the brothels in West Stave would pull back their curtains so potential patrons could decide where to spend their money.

Kaz slips the watch back into its appropriate pocket and lifts his head, watching the thinning crowd for a familiar face.

"Hey, hey. Be careful. You okay?"

The man Kaz ran into puts his hands out as if to steady them both. He's about six feet tall, dressed rather plainly in pale blue shirt and black trousers, but extra tattoos are peeking out from the side of his neck and on his fingers - astrological symbols, a cross and on his neck, an eight pointed star. It also may be noticed there's a police badge attached to the side of his belt.

Some dude crashes into Kavinsky, who wheels aside, turning the energy of impact into kinesis the way that he was trained when Dr. Chilton hired a boxer to train him. He catches a look at the other man's face. Something's off about him, which is relatively standard for Maurtia Falls. And he likes that well enough. You don't come to the Falls if you want shit to look sunny and proper.

Kavinsky sizes him up on reflex. Up and down, height, weight, balance, something off about the latter. The hard look in his eyes.

The words come to him nearly as much on reflex, unmediated. An old habit. "Looking to score?" They're out of place on him now, a little. They used to make sense when he wandered around in a wife-beater and wore giant, bug-eyed sunglasses well into the evening, but the golf shirts and khakis are a different fit these days. On the other hand, there are different kinds of drug dealers too. And after all: it's Maurtia Falls. Even the career narcs wouldn't have enough time in the day.

Further down the bar there's a skinny, scruffily dressed fellow watching the exchange, interested as he is by people watching, especially when he hears mention of imPorts. He's used to the too-intrusive questions and the nosey as hell locals around here, and honestly, he comes purposefully for the free drinks and easy attention, but for now he sits alone with his bottle of whiskey.

For now.

But he's quick to open up his body language as Kaz moves, sitting side on to the bar as he perches on the stool, enough of a shift to try and catch the other's attention, and crook a tattooed finger in beckoning if he catches his gaze.

"Oi, imPort. Here." It's not much as greetings go, but perhaps it's enough of a lure. Or just maybe the faint glow of Cassidy's own imPort tattoo is just visible in the dim light.

[ He should have been more suspicious of the wide, open, empty street. Not even in Maurtia Falls do things get quite that quiet, he's been here long enough to know better. But he'd gone ahead nonetheless, watchfully curious down the sidewalk, and for his troubles had run into a small, unsettlingly abnormal gang of otherwise average looking citizens. Average aside from the bibs of blood they wore, anyway.

Damian had jerked away and out of sight around a corner as soon as he noticed the blood. With his back to the brick wall of a store front, he really hopes they haven't noticed him. He doesn't exactly blend in, with this pale winter coat and the fitted white suit below. And though he knows that the wisest course of action would be to hitch a ride through a portal out of here ... he's got to know a little more about what the hell is going on over there, with the small, bloody crowd mulling around in front of the butcher shop like they're not quite sure how to take a number and form a queue.

He's still considering the best, and safest, way to get a better look at it all, when he spots a man headed the direction Damian had just been going. From the cover of his brick-wall-lean, he snaps his fingers, loud on the eerily quiet street, to snare his attention. And, if he gets it, he delivers a nod toward the street in question followed by a very solemn shake of his head. Best not, buddy. ]

Threaded | Flat

007

I

For Victor

B Maurtia Falls

IB.

drinking in de chima, because of course

slams in this wildcard