She would have been amiable and completely affable, given the conviviality that the other seems to exude simply from refraining to demand her name or abstaining from being incredibly impertinent or uncouth; indeed, this woman is competent enough for Kohana to have a rather intelligent conversation with but the cigarette smoking entirely discombobulates her, to which empyrean features contort and her astute positure begins to crumble, the palms of soft hands trailing towards an exposed, taut stomach in an attempt to mollify how nauseous she feels. Enhanced olfacoception brings with it very defined downfalls, ergo, Kohana’s inability to tolerate and function around the toxic fumes emanating from cancer sticks, she abhors smoke, it’s both disgusting and a huge vexation. To both assailant and comrade alike, she’s—very audaciously—snatched the small rolls of tobacco from the offender’s very hands and stomped the items out, ofttimes cracking the terra firma beneath her heels, physically projecting her animosity towards the things.
The redolence of the grey, acid smog gets into her clothes and saturates her hair, strips it of its floral and fruity aromas to trade the aforementioned with an odour akin to damp urine. Her right hand instinctively raises to pinch her nostrils together and she takes one deep exhalation out, casting porcelain lids over smaragdine depths and taking a meager step backwards. As willing as she is to speak to this woman, she’d rather do so without the inclusion of poisonous gas. “—Can you please put that out?”
She’ll answer the other’s query then, and only then.
Skeptical eyes took in the rather violent reaction — or perhaps the woman’s overall small demeanor simply made it more evident. Well, small except for in the chest. Not that Revy couldn’t relate.
Regardless, one look could tell a good eye just about all they needed to know about the opportunities here. This chick had backbone, common sense, killing intent, and above all…
She had to have money to be wearing that kind of shit.
This was a city where the most expensive clothing could be found on prostitutes and mob bosses, where nearly all the male population – and a good deal of females – used beer and piss as a cologne. As for this particular hired gun, well – she preferred blood and gunpowder.
To each their own and all that jazz.
When one worked from the money perspective, her compliance wasn’t a major feat. Petite shoulders shrugged lackadaisically, the stick being tossed out a window on the opposite side of the room with a short grunt of agreement. The open window would likely help circulate the air for the poor woman, too, and she waved her partially-gloved fingers as if waving off the inconvenience.
“Sure, sure. Ain’t no big deal.”
“O’ dear, issat how ya greet e’ryone tha’ comes ‘round?” The priest asked as an amused chuckle came out soon after. Father Anderson was currently spending his time wandering around wherever he felt like, since the Church didn’t foresee any need for his… “Services” in the near future. So, taking the opportunity that his “vacation” gave him, he thought it would be interesting to visit a part of the world he had never been at before.
A meeting like this, however, certainly wasn’t on the agenda. But at least it would prove to be entertaining.
“Since half of ‘em end up bein’ a boring waste of my time? Uh, yeah.”
Her tone suggested her attitude should have been self-explanatory; which, in her mind, it should have been if he had spent more than five minutes in this beloved cesspool of a town.
Roanapur: The puss-filled, angry boil on the face of Asia. Where criminals roamed free and the police force took bribery in stride. Why anyone in their right mind would walk in unannounced, anywhere, was beyond her.
Therefore, this guy must have been outta his right mind.
“Ya got business here or what? I’ve got a busy schedule.”
Said the petite woman with the TV Guide in her hand and both feet on the table.
The demeanor of the next set of steps to shit on her lazy day parade weren’t lost on the gun for hire.
Those were the steps of authority.
It reminded her of Balalaika, the tough-as-nails former Paratrooper who now served as the head of the Russian mob. A wolf, she was; once someone was stuck in those maws, she rocked their fucking worlds. In this woman, with her sleek amethyst tresses and underlying scowl – it was a wolf, alright.
A slow, steady trail of smoke billowed from dry lips, a soft exhale following as deep puce hues darted upward, to the side; studying the new arrival. She had the eyes of a killer — the eyes of a soldier.
A grin danced on those very same lips; amusement was coming, for sure.
“What’s a chick like you doin’ on this side of town, huh? Need some dirty work off yer hands?”
“— Make it good or shove your own ass out the door.”
Yes, Dutch. Making Revy the obligatory door-greeter for the day was a wonderful idea. What the guy did on days like this, she had no idea; but shit, not like she wanted him or anyone else prying into her business. It was only businesslike to return the favor.
“I could do it for ya, but then you’d have to choose which asshole you wanna shit out of.”
Quite the charmer.
Day 6: Character you would like to cosplay as.
Revy from Black Lagoon. I think I could pull it off.
Image source: http://snakou.deviantart.com/art/Revy-Black-Lagoon-311498548
“– Eh?”
If those weren’t the heaviest fuckin’ footsteps she’d ever heard.
The brunette glanced up with distinct disinterest, one bare leg draped across the other as she bounced it to an unknown tune. Here she had been, reading about the newest vampire show on the cable they could hardly afford, and some twit had come prancing right on through.
Okay, prancing would be an exaggeration. But still.
“Who the fuck keeps leavin’ the goddamned door open?”
>> goddess-ilias ; just-another-wonderful-nancy ; prideful2ndchild ; mimicryminene
“— What the fuck? What’s with all the chicks? This better be fuckin’ good, ‘cause helpin’ seemingly innocent schoolgirls may be my partner’s thing – but it sure as hell ain’t mine.”
