Prove Yourself

[Artemis "Spirit" Jacobs]

The dreary, damp afternoon was fading subtly to twilight, grey skies darkening to a formidable leaden color and a biting frost sharpening the winds. Hotel staff stood sentry on either side of the Hotel's entrance, hunched up, glaring bitterly into the approaching night. Merry, laughing guests, returning from their day of visiting, trickled through the revolving doors and, among them, Spirit went unnoticed.

She had picked her attire carefully; beneath a long jacket she had chosen to wear a sleek silver top, loose folds falling over a pair of black, snug-fitting jeans. Her shoes were an innocent shade of nickel, and were a pair of fashionable boots. The only sign of red on her person was a ruby that hung along a golden chain, a quiet sign of defiance resting along her throat.

The red leader was smartly disguised, and while she felt somewhat restrained, the necessary precautions had been taken to ensure she would be able to move. Her boots were flat and had minimum material between her and the ground, allowing natural movement, her hair had been strategically pinned back in an elegant manner, and the only issue that presented itself was the constriction of her jeans. All in all, however, she had not done badly. She was here on business, and she had conceived a way to keep herself as distantly out of harms way as possible.

Seekers were desperate. Hell, Spirit had been desperate before being picked up. The nameless runners who crowded the streets were no more than the homeless, and she was intending to use this desperation to her own gain. In this very hotel she had witnessed a small group of Blues, dressed smartly in suits and sapphire-colored ties, book a conference room on the fifth floor. They had with them a very intriguing black suitcase, and Spirit wanted it. Badly.

She had though of crashing the party for herself, or calling her men to do it. Yet for as much as she longed to do something useful herself, she realized the careful position she held. Spirit hadn't the least idea what was in this case, and she had her doubts whether or not it was relevant to the information on this leaked virus she needed. By putting herself in danger, she was risking Troye's campaign, her own life, and both the safety and identities of all her charges. No; she would give the seekers the chance they longed for.

The elevator dinged cheerily and Spirit wandered onto the fifth floor, finding herself faced with a stately-looking door with the golden words "Conference Room" on its front at the end of the hall. Slipping from her pocket a maid's keycard, stolen almost a year ago, she let herself into a room that was silent and, finding no luggage, claimed it. Setting her handbag down on the table, she sprawled out onto the bed and allowed herself a minute of comfort. The seekers would, no doubt, be on their way, if they weren't already here- she had left a message for them in the underground of the Mall complex, a spot frequented by Runners and Seekers alike. In red spray paint, the date headlined the message-

Seekers, prove yourselves-

The Blues are conspiring at the Fallen Dove. Get me their suitcase; you will be rewarded.

She had left no indication of where she would be; as it were, she expected to hear some commotion when the suitcase had been nicked. Being in the room just before the elevator of where the Conference Room stood, she hoped to intercept the victorious seeker and aid him or her in the escape. She was anticipating several seekers to show, and while some would undoubtedly take the fall, it would be a valuable distraction.

Plans, of course, were never perfect.

(This is an open thread, as many people can join as possible. Roll with the punches! No characters are invincible, remember, make it a fun scene. And go in order! If you can't find the inspiration or don't have anything to go on when your turn comes around, say "Skip" so we can keep things going. :])

[James "Saint" Reilly]

As it just so happened, Saint liked challenges.

Four hours previously he had been wandering the underbelly of the Mall complex, belongings slung over one shoulder, hand shoved in the pocket of his cargo pants, and a sour disposition due mostly to the fact that he hadn't eaten since the evening before. Now he stood in the bright welcome hall of the hotel, looking a tad out of place among the elegantly dressed tourists and rich, who passed him with scathing looks. His hunger was quite forgotten, replaced by the familiar ambition to come out on top; he didn't particularly care what this award was. But he wanted it.

His loitering was picked up on; twenty minutes into his arrival, he was approached at the bar by an irritable little man who curtly introduced himself to be the hotel manager. "Can I help you with anything?" he asked sourly, watching Saint poke at the cherry that bobbed innocently at the surface of his ice water. It looked very much out of place, but alcohol was damned expensive. Smiling his half-smile, Saint turned his attention to him.

"No, thanks, I think I'll just enjoy a drink at the bar," he silently toasted the manager and took a sip, watching him above the glass with mocking, sea-green eyes. He knew exactly what the man had meant.

The manager's attitude became visibly more bitter. "Do you have a room, sir?" he asked. Saint shook his head.

"Just waiting for a friend."

"...I see."

They regarded one another for another few moments, the time in which Saint was making a rather good show of mockingly pretending his ice water was really an expensive mix of vodka and the manager was nearly quivering with frustration. He knew good and well Saint's type, and he did not want him here. As it were, and Saint knew, the man could not throw him out on the bounds that he looked like a criminal. Some reason, at least, had been retained within this city.

He sucked on the consumed cherry's stem. "Hey, chief," he said pleasantly, slipping a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. "How about a game of chance? You've a good eye, no?"

The man opened his mouth, but before a single enraged word could be uttered, a stranger's voice sounded from behind him.

"I'll play."

[Aron "Fox" O'Shae]

Fox stood in the parking lot of the hotel and looked up at the snow-white building. Earlier, he had been wandering around the mall underground when he ran across the advertisement, written in bold red letters. He had smiled at the writing and headed out for the hotel. He had had nothing better to do and besides, he loved getting under the skin of the blues.

And so here he was. He inhaled the cool air and stepped inside the hotel's lobby. The first thing that caught his eye was the receptionist, who had a vein standing prominently out on his forehead. Fox, however, was more interested in the man sitting at the bar, much to the receptionist's chagrin. This man had a certain look about him, almost like...

"I'll play." Fox quickly responded to the man's offer for a game of chance before the receptionist could speak. He placed himself on the stool next to the man and stared at him with his two-toned eyes. He casually grabbed a pen from the counter and wrote something on his hand as the man shuffled the deck of cards he had been holding.

"So," Fox said slyly, "what are we playing?" As he spoke, he showed his hand to the man. "Runner?" it simply stated as Fox closely studied the man's reaction.

[Evie "Harlequin" Summers]

Evie Harlequin Summers didn’t move as fast as she would have on her own. She kept a steady pace for Bishop to remain easily by her side, however her anxiousness to get to their destination was beginning to show through. The two conversed as they travelled, the Harlequin learning more about the Outlier’s background and his family, whose whereabouts were still unbeknown to her. She felt he was keeping secrets tucked firmly out of sight, about his deeper, more honest philosophies. One would expect strangers to keep a fair distance in the first few minutes of knowing one another. But even without having to question him directly, Evie knew there was more to Bishop’s past than he was letting slip by. Evie rarely gave him the opportunity to question her own motives, nor did she relay any sort of intimate detail about her corruption-littered past. There would be too many contradictions about herself she’d have to strenuously piece together in order to form some kind of sense into her identity. That, she thought to herself, would be left for another day.
The pair soon arrived at a junction that took them toward the hotel. Before they advanced toward the higher room levels, Evie beckoned for Bishop to follow close behind her. They descended via a downpipe, which brought them to a back window of the building. Bishop crouched beside her and peered in.

The late afternoon sun shone down into the mirror mosaic of wall-tile, reflecting sharply on the ground and ceiling. A greasy bartender winced slightly at the light as he moved across to two men shuffling cards at the table. He had a cloth in one hand and a dripping glass in the other, but he laid them down before taking the drink order. Evie watched as he poured two glasses of Tennessee whisky before expertly sliding them across to the men playing the cards. Bishop watched them too, before Evie directed his attention to the bartender, who’d just slipped something metallic into his back pocket. She raised an eyebrow at Bishop and they shrugged at one another, wondering why a bartender would be attempting to spike someone’s order when the rest of the bar was empty. There was no shady-looking dealer sitting in the corner, and no signs of dirty business about the joint. It was clean, and very darkly suspicious.
Evie swept one last gaze around the room inside before huffing and moving back on her haunches.
“You see that guy with the deck? He’s the ‘Saint’. He and I go back a while.”
They didn’t have very much in common, but Evie had run into the guy while attempting to lift some important merchandise she owed a company, back in the day. They were both going for the same stock, and she would have planned to steal it back from him anyway, but he had stopped to offer her the takings. She had moved forward reluctantly, lifted the goods and ducked out the window just after she caught his wide grin, and just before she was too far to hear the name he called to her. She had the notion he reminded her of a cousin she once met, he too a runner. But she didn’t have another chance to pursue the question further. She was too intent on her mission, and too intent on losing rigid family ties to give a damn.
She shook her head, appearing to regain her former steely resolve. She looked at Bishop then across the roof to the ladder which further into the backstreets. She gestured toward their next route.

“Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us spying in.” She smiled momentarily before leaving, a curious Bishop at her heels.

[Bishop "Outlier" Cortez]

The hotel was ritzy – a large statue of a dove proudly dominated the lobby while smartly dressed patrons trickled in and around, some clutching cameras, others with suitcases. There was an air of elitism about it although security was moderate. I watched closely, staring as my breath started to fog up the glass. I pulled away and glanced back at Evie. She was watching me with a look of skepticism. I rubbed the back of my neck, moving into a shadow outside of the hotel.

“I know what it looks like, but where there’s a will, there’s a way,” I said, grimacing at my clichéd words. She raised an eyebrow, her eyes traveling away from me and back at the hotel. I looked her over. “You can’t go in there.” Her eyes darted back at me. “You’re concealing a blade and that detector’s gonna go off the second you step in. You’ll have to find another way in… I’ll go in and see what I can find out.” I turned, shuffling around with my suitcase, unzipping it and plunging my arm inside. I fished out a small walkie-talkie.
“Walkie-talkies are underrated,” I started, chuckling as I handed it to her. “Keep it with you. I’ll radio you when I find anything we can use.”

I walked away and headed towards the entrance, straightening my tie and shirt. I was disheveled and a little dirty, but at least I was in a suit. The bellboy standing beside the metal detector hadn’t picked up on my presence yet. I rubbed my head hurriedly, making sure there was no obvious dirt lodged in it. He turned suddenly, his eyes widening slightly as he took in my appearance. I puffed my chest out minutely, holding my suitcase tightly. I smiled as professionally as I could.

“Good evening sir,” he said politely, wariness tainting his voice.
“Good evening,” I replied quietly, walking into the detector. Its piercing ring echoed in the dark street. I stopped, turning to the bellboy smoothly.
“It must be the equipment I’m carrying. I’m constantly setting these things off,” I said, smiling easily. I unzipped the suitcase – a montage of wires, metallic sharp edges and screens greeted the bellboy. He noticed the keycard I had used at the Trade Building – it was marked clearly, thankfully, CEO. He straightened up, taking a small step back.
“I’m sorry sir; please, enjoy your stay.”

I smiled again, walking into the well-lit foyer. I continued into the lobby, taking in the palatial statue. I stared for a moment, taking it all in, until my eye caught something in the distance. A Blue dressed in a very expensive suit, his badge shining clearly on the peaked lapel. He was talking to a member of the concierge and holding what looked like a menu. I moved closer, going over to a small, comfortable couch and settling into it, not lifting my eyes from him. He continued to point things out on the menu and then reached out to a nearby desk, lifting another menu; I spotted the imagery on the cover – it was a wine menu. The member of the concierge was dressed differently to the others, and he had a clear badge displayed on the front pocket of his shirt. I stood up and strode briskly to the bathroom. Luckily, each cubicle was a completely walled room of its own. I went inside and locked the door.

“Evie, come in. I’ve spotted a member of the concierge talking to a Blue; he looks to be servicing the meeting room only. He’s got a security clearance to get inside; it’s some badge pinned to his uniform. Now … you thinking what I'm thinking?”

[Artemis "Spirit" Jacobs]

_((skip))

[James "Saint" Reilly]

Both manager and runner swiveled to stare at the speaker, a young man with ear-length dark hair and dressed akin to Saint, who smirked at the manager's tut of exasperation. Shaking with suppressed fury, he stood by as Saint lifted two fingers and caught the bartender's attention.

"Good man," he said to the newcomer, "the game's quite basic, really- two mugs of whiskey, boss- I'm sure you've heard of it before." He glanced down at the man's hand, nodding slowly and smirking into the cards he shuffled as the manager finally stormed away.

"It's called 'war'." He reached for the glass and took an immediate swig, treasuring the burn down his throat. It had been far, far too long.

Lowering the glass, Saint considered his fellow runner. "Your timing is impeccable," he said, flicking his nail against the side of the beverage so that it dinged quietly. "I take it you're here the same reason I am. Spirit's having a little fun with us, it seems."

His sea green eyes narrowed a fraction, studying the man. "What do you go by, kid?"

[Aron "Fox" O'Shae]

“Fox.” The three-letter rolled off of his lips, having been said multiple times before. He glanced at the mug of whiskey the manager had placed in front of him.

“No thanks,” Fox said sliding the alcohol toward the other man, “I don’t drink; dulls the reflexes. And yeah, I’m here about that ad.” He sat silently for a moment, lost in thought.

“When I saw you sitting here, I figured you were either here about that, or an undercover cop. Apparently there’s something that the blues have that she wants.” Fox was careful as he spoke, making sure the manager wouldn’t overhear him and keeping his voice low.

“Look,” he said after a long silence, “I’m gonna be blunt. I’m here for the reward, you’re here for the reward. I’d rather not fight you for it and besides, two are better than one when dealing with the blues. So, how about we partner up for this thing and split the reward down the middle? I know people like us don’t usually team up, but I’d rather not end up with a bullet in my ass or sitting in some prison cell or interrogation room.” Fox’s eyes were locked on the man’s face, scrutinizing his every expression.

“If you want,” he said letting his voice rise a bit, “I’ve got a room where we could talk more privately.” Fox flashed one of the hotel’s keycards as the manager started to walk back over.

“But for now, let’s play. Deal” The man smiled and casually started dealing cards.

“By the way,” he said with a smirk, “I told you my name. What’s yours?”

[Seth "War" Hunter]

"Wow, it's so pretty," A woman spoke to the man next to her.

"Yeah, but we can't afford to stay there," her partner replied.

Is it really that nice? War thought, Sure, the building is attractive, and I'm sure the inside is just as pretty. I'll just have to find out myself.

He had made sure that he wouldn't be picked out by the Blues as a Runner, wearing his usual grey sleeveless shirt, his athletic pants and his white slip-on trainers, but adding a track jacket, to cover his tattoos. To the unsuspecting police officers, he would just be man who had been out for a jog and had come in to escape th cold. He had, of course, seen the message that was spray painted on the walls of the underground and acted accordingly. He looked at his watch and smiled.

"Time to go," he muttered to no one and, after checking for traffic, jogged across the street. Soon, he reached the revolving door and entered.

Hmm. Fancy place, War thought, I don't really fit in, I guess I'll have to improvise if anyone decides to nose around my business.

War then set about the task of observing his surroundings. He saw a few possible escape routes, a pair of men seated at the bar who looked like Runners and blues in suits, the only indications of their policeman status were the badges on their chests and their blue ties.

"Disgusting," He spoke, a little too loud.

"What is?" a man who had the word janitor on his name tag asked worriedly.

"Nothing that you can change."

"Oh, you worried me for a second, sir."

"I'm sure I did. Now, listen, you keep doing a good job, OK?" War passed him a ten dollar bill. The janitor beamed at him as he walked away. He decided to walk around to get some other perspectives on the place.

"Its called 'war'." He heard one of the men at the bar say.
Instantaneously, War smirked. He had recognized the man as one of the Runners he had observed on his first sweep. Intrigued, War sat at the bar, three seats away from the other Runners. He had picked a good seat, just far away enough away that he didn't arouse too much suspicion, but still within earshot. He figured that they were going to work together, and he wanted to know the others plan so he could formulate a better one.

"One water please," he spoke the bar tender.