Post by Bashira Doji on May 22, 2019 23:44:15 GMT -4
The watchmaker set his beady eye upon Bashira, looked up from his desk with a mixture of condescending disgust and amusement at some unvoiced joke. The eye was hidden behind the monocular device he used for work. Everything about the man made Bashira want to deck him or throw a bowling ball into his stacks of meticulously displayed time-telling devices, but instead, she'd found herself working out a contract for him. Rarely was her work conducted by contract... it was usually a handshake agreement without the handshake. In this case, however, she found the old bastard wanted everything in writing, even if the paper had no legal binding power.
Her eyes contracted as the ticking in the room seemed to grow louder, filling the void created as neither she nor her employer jumped to words. Finally, she had to speak up. "Is that it?" she grumbled, crossing her arms very carefully, to avoid knocking anything over with her over-sized mitts. Today, she was in her vigilante outfit as Tenpin, dressed for work: namely, tracking down a "criminal." His actual criminal inclinations were yet to be proven... but proving them wasn't her employer's concern.
Once she was dismissed, Bashira left, carefully, as she was forced to turn sideways to wedge her way through the door without cracking the frame. The old guy was apparently a mutant racist: he'd hired her, a filthy, pigmented mutant, to track down another of her kind. The guy was, supposedly, a lobster. She'd received almost no other details, but that seemed to be enough. Just how many lobster people could there be around this block? If she went on patrol, she'd probably bump into him and recognize him on sight. This was especially true because she tended to bum around this area herself; she vaguely recalled seeing a lobster some time in the past, though she had no reason to address him at the time.
Right now, the guy's crime was essentially loitering. The watch guy had it in his mind that the lobster was staking out his shop, waiting for him to leave so he could pinch the merchandise. Bashira had no way to confirm or deny, but her job was to find the guy, chase him down if she had to, and convince him to leave the area. It wasn't the kind of job she favored, especially since, if the guy was wrong, she was really the criminal hired muscle rather than the vigilante in this scenario. Still, the potential pay was good, so she couldn't turn up her nose at it.
Tapping one finger up and down gently upon her bicep, the ogress looked this way and that upon exiting. The lobster man wasn't on the streets... she reasoned she might have to venture into the alleyways to find him. Sighing heavily, she lowered her arms to drag across the asphalt, making her way towards the darkened pathways. Once she reached the wall, she clasped her hand onto the brick out of habit to turn the corner, and immediately wished she hadn't: her fingers had cracked the brick-work of her employer's shop. "Son of a..." the vigilante cursed, lingering just before a swear. Clenching her teeth, she quickly skirted her way into the alley, feeling as though he might see her handiwork through the wall.
Bashira ended up watching the street instead of the alley she was backing into...
--------
WC 570
Her eyes contracted as the ticking in the room seemed to grow louder, filling the void created as neither she nor her employer jumped to words. Finally, she had to speak up. "Is that it?" she grumbled, crossing her arms very carefully, to avoid knocking anything over with her over-sized mitts. Today, she was in her vigilante outfit as Tenpin, dressed for work: namely, tracking down a "criminal." His actual criminal inclinations were yet to be proven... but proving them wasn't her employer's concern.
Once she was dismissed, Bashira left, carefully, as she was forced to turn sideways to wedge her way through the door without cracking the frame. The old guy was apparently a mutant racist: he'd hired her, a filthy, pigmented mutant, to track down another of her kind. The guy was, supposedly, a lobster. She'd received almost no other details, but that seemed to be enough. Just how many lobster people could there be around this block? If she went on patrol, she'd probably bump into him and recognize him on sight. This was especially true because she tended to bum around this area herself; she vaguely recalled seeing a lobster some time in the past, though she had no reason to address him at the time.
Right now, the guy's crime was essentially loitering. The watch guy had it in his mind that the lobster was staking out his shop, waiting for him to leave so he could pinch the merchandise. Bashira had no way to confirm or deny, but her job was to find the guy, chase him down if she had to, and convince him to leave the area. It wasn't the kind of job she favored, especially since, if the guy was wrong, she was really the criminal hired muscle rather than the vigilante in this scenario. Still, the potential pay was good, so she couldn't turn up her nose at it.
Tapping one finger up and down gently upon her bicep, the ogress looked this way and that upon exiting. The lobster man wasn't on the streets... she reasoned she might have to venture into the alleyways to find him. Sighing heavily, she lowered her arms to drag across the asphalt, making her way towards the darkened pathways. Once she reached the wall, she clasped her hand onto the brick out of habit to turn the corner, and immediately wished she hadn't: her fingers had cracked the brick-work of her employer's shop. "Son of a..." the vigilante cursed, lingering just before a swear. Clenching her teeth, she quickly skirted her way into the alley, feeling as though he might see her handiwork through the wall.
Bashira ended up watching the street instead of the alley she was backing into...
--------
WC 570
