Ubiquitous [Squeaky!]

[Rocket!]

There's only so many ways you can throw someone off a building.

Here's one:

First, find the sap to toss...

Akilah rolled her eyes, leaning back as she was in the tiny plastic chair, tempted to shut the book then and there.

People are not idiots. Akilah liked to tell herself she was living proof of that, to herself. Saying it out loud would be arrogant, obviously.

But what can you do? A job's a job.

Sap first, complaints later.

Akilah raised her eyes from her book.

And shut them.

Two tables left, one right.

Okay then.

Akilah shut the book, placing it on the table.

"Hey-- hey you!" the woman shouted, waving to the boy with black hair. "Can I have a word with you?"

[/size]

[The Squeak]

The black haired boy in question—one Marcus Gallagher—lurched forward in his chair, hacking and gagging away as he had inadvertently inhaled the cup of tea he was casually sipping at. Oxygen quickly returning to his lungs (after a violent coughing fit), he snapped his expression to and fro, hair following in suit, to determine who had shouted for him.

Lo and behold, he caught his culprit: a tanned, yellow eyed female who looked much, much older than Marcus did, even from a distance. The black haired boy kept silent, his innocent blue eyes quietly studying the individual who had picked him out of the crowd. Odd. Why would a random stranger suddenly decide to strike up conversation with him? Heck, most people, if not everyone in Radiant Garden found Marcus to be as nutty as a fruitcake these days.

Oh well. What was the harm in a little, idle banter?

But, Marcus's taste for his tea had been dissipated, having nearly suffocated on the brew as the brown-haired female called for him. He needed something to quench his thirst, regardless of what it was. (With a few exceptions, of course...) Observing the contents of his table, he had found a small collective of condiments. Salt; pepper; ketchup; mustard; hot sauce.

He studied the label of the container of hot sauce, observing its brand name and its intended slogan. "'Ifrit's Tongue' Brand Hot Sauce (Meteor-Strength): guaranteed to taste and feel like Hellfire!"

Brilliant.

Without even giving it a second thought, he grabbed the small flask of spicy liquid, snapping the hinged cap open and took the mouth by the teeth, turning the vessel upward as he allowed the peppered liquid to empty into his throat. Despite this, his eyes never left the girl across from him. He still watched her. Waited for something to happen.

Call it a hunch, but she just struck a suspicious note with him, in the form of a "Hey! Hey, you! Can I have a word with you?"

Relishing the volcanic flavor of the now-empty hot sauce bottle (to the flabbergasted eyes of a few, shocked onlookers), Marcus set the container down against the table before picking up a swathe of thick, brown rags next to him, seemingly rolled up into a vague, cylindrical shape. He didn't even bother to fasten the rags to his backside: he simply just held it under his left armpit, his fist pressed against his hip (so they wouldn't fall everywhere) while his right hand remained placed against the top of said rag collection.

Who knows? Maybe she's not as suspicious as he was thinking she was. Or, maybe she was. Heck, she could be an assassin or something, sent to kill him for being such a pest to society—ruining its "natural order" with his randomness.

...Even better!

"Yeah, what's up? Am I doing something to irritate you? I can stop, if you want." Marcus asked the strange woman, completely devoid of any, hostile emotion. His eyes attempted to stare into the other woman's, as if he were trying to read into her thoughts—to see what she was thinking. That suspicious feeling never left him, no matter how hard he tried to stomach her presence.

That, or she just wanted to make sure she was paying attention.

He swerved his tongue around inside his mouth a bit, feeling an odd sensation of tang and zest.

[Rocket!]

Though a woman of many experiences, it took more than she'd dare admit to any to not stand in greeting to this puerile teen that stood before her just then and there. It was an old habit of politeness, one that allowed the illusion of equality among friends, a habit Akilah hid by changing her near stand to a fast leaning in her chair.

Akilah wanted to declare superiority. It was a silent gauntlet that only someone more accustomed to polite company-- or simply manners in general-- would pick up.

His reaction would be educational. Akilah was counting on that.

"Not me, no," Akilah replied, giving a wily glance and raised eyebrow at the fellow patrons of this establishment. Her face said as much as her mind: My, grandmother, what a thick head you have.

Akilah was, at best, not a fan of dealing with thickheaded individuals. Or at least perceived thickheaded individuals. They had this odd tendency to be far too jumpy.

But she didn't care to show this impression of hers on her face, hands, or mouth.

"Take a seat," Akilah Aultman said, leaning forward in her seat.

A professional edge entered her voice.

"I've been trailing you for the past week. We've got a lot to talk about, Mr. Gallagher."

[/size]



[ Note: Akilah's Town Hearsay is in effect! ]

[The Squeak]

His expected response never came. Marcus, baffled at this woman's blunt reply, attempted to mentally filter her response several times over. "Not me, no." The riposte was short and to-the-point, but its abbreviated status was not what caught him by surprise. Rather, it was her politeness. The tone in her voice almost seemed to reassure Marcus that, while she may not exactly "know" him, she knew enough to realize that he wasn't just a mere nuisance to Radiant Garden. Or, at least, not to her.

"Oh. Well, sorry for jumping to conclusions, then!" Marcus apologized sheepishly, illustrating genuine embarrassment to the stranger. He paid close attention to the woman he had no knowledge of, picking up her subtle glance to the crowd, her furrowed eyebrow included. Was she being watched? Or was she watching everyone else?

He'd keep that thought to himself.

Swiftly, he was commanded to take a seat. "Uhh, sure. Thanks!" he accepted humbly, pulling up a plastic chair with his free hand, gently setting down his swathe of dirty rags to his side. A faint thump hit the cobblestones, like a paperweight against a thick stack of paper.

Her declaration came as a legitimate surprise to Marcus, his eyebrows raising as far as they could go as his expression lowered, almost as if he were skeptical of her accusation. His mouth, in spite of this, remained closed without a hint of forced restraint: what he was mostly attempting to illustrate to her was interest in the edict. A lot to talk about?

His eyebrows lowered a bit, displaying to this woman that his undivided attention was now hers. Processing his thoughts around, shelving the occasional spurs-of-the-moment to himself, he prepared to hear the woman out for what she had to say. If she was trailing him for the past week, it must be important stuff!

Marcus would suddenly spasm in his chair, eyes popping open like circular saucers before one could see an uncontrolled grin plastered to his face. A gasp of air, as if he had come to a dramatic realization.

"Are you a representative of the Castle Guard?!" he asked in shock, his concentration having tipped fully over the edge. He wouldn't give the female a chance to respond as he rose up from his chair, exuberantly pumping his fists repeatedly in the air, whooping and hollering as if he had won the lottery.

"Yes! They got my letter!! I knew they'd find 'bar soap bombs' useful in these tough times!" triumphed the teenager, his once-undivided attention having now scattered to the four winds. He hopped up from his chair, oblivious to the woman he was about to talk to, doing a little jig in personal celebration as several onlookers gossiped to themselves about his spasmodic behavior.

Then again, Marcus never really sent in a letter to anyone. Or wrote one. Heck, he didn't even know how to read, let alone write.

Oh well, a little humor never killed anyone.

[Note: Forgot he was illiterate. Edited it to reflect that. XD]

[Rocket!]

Akilah opened her mouth.

And then shut it.

She'd had half a mind to say she was from the Guard. It would make this much easier, actually, if he had a history with them.

But Akilah couldn't cite anything from this letter.

"Do I look like a government-funded stalker?" she asked, less than politely, looking at the standing figure from her chair.

Akilah moved to grab her cup of tea--

...

That is, Akilah moved to wave down a waiter, in the hopes of getting her first cup of tea.

"Now," Akilah continued, motioning towards the chair opposite her in a fairly Let's get this done and over with manner, "Do you know a Lewis Jerry? From around the Burough?"

[ Blrgh. Still stretching mah RPing muscles, forgive me! ^^;; ]

[The Squeak]

"Maybe." His response was simple and plain, borderline childish, and with a dash of acerbity; almost as if he had given the discourteous question absolutely no thought whatsoever. He didn't, really: he was too busy cutting grooves into the cobblestones with his slick dance moves; moonwalking included.

But the tone in the female's voice, with which the question was issued with, provided more than enough reason for Marcus to respond to it in a similar fashion. He would just continue dancing, even though she basically responded "no" to his question.

Still, bar soap bombs didn't sound like a bad idea.

A few moments had passed before Marcus caught the word "now", being spoken, instantly taking this as her attempting to get back to business.

He would pause mid-dance, his right leg hiked up as far as it could go so that he remained balanced on his left one, arms contorted in an awkward way. To onlookers, it appeared as if though he was doing some kind of splits maneuver while attempting to walk "Egyptian-style".

Whatever dance move he was attempting to perform was now out of the question: it was apparently too random, and painful, for any, sane person to want to replicate themselves.

Listening in on her query, he was asked whether or not he knew a "Lewis Jerry, from the Borough." A few, silent moments passed by—his contortion-like pose still held—before he broke into a haphazard spin, leg finally placed downward so that he could give it some resting time. Spinning, spinning, spinning; he would continue to twirl like a ballerina before making his way towards the chair he was directed to.

With reckless abandon, he spun himself into his seat, positioning himself in a way that made it look as if though he had never left it to begin with. He'd add a bit of a slouch to his posture as well.

"I know plenty of people named 'Lewis', and I know plenty of people named 'Jerry', but I don't think I've ever heard that combination of 'Lewis Jerry' before. Is it a new, household name? Nickname? Alias? Famous person? Famous place? Famous object, maybe?" Marcus rambled. Quite literally, if I do say so myself.

Didn't the girl ask if this Lewis Jerry guy was from the Borough?

One would think so.

Did that bottle of hot sauce he drank earlier fry his brain cells, too?

Potentially.

Again, he slithered his tongue around his mouth upon closing his lips, his left hand constantly fondling the collection of dirty rags at his side. Almost like he were stroking a cat, or some other, furry creature.

[Rocket!]

Akilah blinked.

She opened her mouth.

"You break it, you buy it," the woman said, a very very serious glint in her eyes as she looked pointedly at the chair Marcus seemed bound and determined to use and abuse.

Ah. Someone on a budget, and overly vocal about damaged goods as a result.

"I met Lewis for the first time about a week ago, actually." Akilah said, her own autopilot giving the table between the two a small rub. Perhaps the most tension she would release over the next half hour.

"He's hired me to throw you off a building."

The woman nodded at the incoming waiter. It was a simplistic nod, with little emotional connotation that might suggest or otherwise worry the employee of the possible fight that might very well break out as a result of this unknown mind before the tanned woman.

Safe and sorry don't go hand in hand.

"Rather good munny, actually."

[The Squeak]

"Not my problem. Besides, there are more uses for the pieces of a plastic chair than the chair itself." Marcus countered, an obvious glint of rebellion lodged deep within his eyes as he stared his colloquial foe down. The thoughts and reactions of society around him were the furthest thing away from his primary concerns these days; so far, in fact, that one could easily judge the black haired boy as apathetic. Uncaring, if you would.

Alas, the teenager would listen in on the female's story, paying close attention to every detail it would provide him. He would even catch wind of her sudden finger placement against the table they sat at. As she probably expected him to, that sensation of tension built up within Marcus's gut, his own glances shifting back and forth between her and the table.

Instead of what he was anticipating—a sudden burst of action, possibly leading to a fight—he got another statement. He was to be thrown off a building, as per the request of one Lewis Jerry. She added on, saying it was good Munny she was being paid.

A few, silent moments passed, the tension of the situation rapidly rising. Who would make the first move?

His eager facial expression instantly shifted to pure disappointment, a childish "Whaaaat?" escaped from his mouth. The color of his voice indicated that he was rather let down by her direct, overly boring, statement. "Really? That's it? Seriously, this guy's ripping you off—I could totally pay you to do the same thing for a third of the price he's running your purse at—free, even! No hassle, no clean-up, no worries!"

Marcus was the kind of oddball who could be counted on to wholeheartedly accept being tossed to his death, considering his loopy personality and his rather unstable grip on reality. You see, he had explored many places in Radiant Garden—some even higher than the tallest buildings located within the enclosed town. And yet he's still here, talking to the girl who pretended to be some lackey for a person that probably didn't even exist.

Her attempts to threaten and/or persuade him otherwise were trivial. Pointless. They held no meaning to a boy who's cheated death many times, and lived to cheat it again.

His awkwardly disturbing self-confidence would rapidly fade, his despondency to what he believed was this girl's oblivious nature to a swindler's tricks rapidly transforming into a savvy stare, mouth falsely twisted into a frown. Once again, his eyes never left the female who attempted to threaten him with his life—paying close attentions to her subtle nod to whomever she was doing it to.

She expected something, didn't she?

A depressed sigh escaped his mouth, his shoulders slumped over as he falsely accepted defeat. "The least you could've done was ask me. I really would've said yes, honest." A somber melody laced his voice, almost as if he were sad for having had his life ended for a small bit of pocket change. Any adventurer would have wanted to die at no charge—most heroes usually did.

Or, that's what happened in the stories, anyway.

[Yeah, apologies if it's all garbled and confusing. Trying to play a slightly mentally-detached character is somewhat new territory for me. XD]

[Rocket!]

Akilah had to lean back in her chair for that one.

"You... want to die?"

The woman cocked her head to the side. This was a new one for her.

"Sure, it's simpler, but..." Akilah shook her head. "I was going to say we should pull a trick on Mr. Jerry. I still get paid, you still get to live..."

She gave a lopsided shrug at the end of it all, reaching back into her cloak with a certain bemused look on her face as she pulled out her sword.

"That really what you want, champ?"

The single raised eyebrow, the single lowered eyebrow, that half-cocked grin, and the professional grip on that sword strongly suggested this was a serious question.

[The Squeak]

Marcus kept his mouth zipped after his bewilderingly suicidal proposal. Most people with half a brain wouldn't throw out the suggestion to have themselves killed at half a stated price, or free for the most part. In fact, any, intelligent individual wouldn't stick around to let their would-be assassins steal their lives away from them.

He'd precociously keep himself tuned in to the woman's comment—using extra effort to restrain himself from chuckling as she claimed the deed would be simpler—and listened in as she attempted to offer Marcus a deal; a means to "trick" this so called "Mr. Jerry". Her bids at providing the strange male with an incentive that struck both parties as beneficial still left him uneasy.

Her casual summoning of a slender-bladed sword, duplicitous query following shortly after, would deep-seat her desires for an answer from the black-haired man.

But, as tense as the situation came to be, Marcus only lowered an eyebrow while raising the other one—out of confusion, to contrast the other female's wily expressions. Eventually, he'd wave his hands around in exaggeration, believing she misinterpreted his earlier statement. "Wait, wait, wait. Put that thing away, you'll poke someone's eye out with that. Besides, I only said I'd do it for half-price, or free. I'm not suicidal, you know."

Folding his arms, he'd lean back in his chair to think to himself. As of now, all he could process was that this Lewis Jerry fellow wanted him thrown off a building. The female in front of him was the person who was going to throw him off. The only factor that didn't sit well with him was that she was playing lackey to someone who sounded more than capable of doing it himself.

Shifting a glance back to his would-be assassin, he shimmied his tongue around within his mouth. Still, that spicy taste lingered. "I wanna meet this Jerry-guy. Only then, will I believe you."

[Gah, so out of it. X__X]

[Rocket!]

Akilah coughed down a laugh. She'd do more than poke an eye out--

...

Huh.

A nagging notion tugged at the back of the would-be murderer's mind, one that sat uneasily enough in her lap to warrant a tighter grip on the yellowish blade before her.

Akilah had a prior appointment to keep.

Perhaps Mr. Gallagher could meet Mr. Jerry after all.

How would that work?

The woman cocked her head.

"I don't know... doesn't," she took a sip at the tea cup, "doesn't wanting to meet a man who wants you dead count as suicidal?"

Akilah turned her eyes up from the cup.

She couldn't protect Gallagher with an illusion-- a bit out of her league-- and she doubted the fellow would go along with this without cutting her pay...