Fortune Cookies and Unfortunate Encounters { Mihai

[Vash Alois Zwingli]

[atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=width,480,bTable][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,100][atrb=vAlign,top] ASHES, ASHES He found himself eating a sodium-ladden meal at the Shanghai Hous of Chinese in the sketchy neighborhood of the Aylesbury Estate. That wasn't his usual cheapskate eatery, nor was it one of the healthiest cheap food he had ever had... nor did it taste very good. Of course, he never said anything about taste. He'd just have to be content that there was food in his stomach and would have to claim "I ate it for the taste." Why was he eating such a cheap meal tonight? Well, it's been a long day at the bank (lie), he's too tired and hungry from accounting to go home just yet (lie), and he wouldn't want to bother his sister with cooking up something that was always delicious (truth). So that is how Vash decided to go have dinner at the Shanghai Hous of Chinese. The establishment was humble, run down (look at how the "E" is missing from the sign... and the word "Cuisine" was probably supposed to be next to the word "Chinese"), and permanently smelt of oil and soy sauce. The people who ate were sketchy, many of them recent Chinese immigrants coming here for business or to start a new life. You could tell who was here for business. You'd see them as ones in suits... though of course, they were the minority. Those here that were rich in China tended to go to The Jade Dragon. Here, you see the low scum who decided to jump ship and swim here to London to hopefully make a new life. Well heh, bad idea. London sucks. Go follow that new ad line and go to Romania, it seems happier. He had ordered chow mein, something that seemed mostly harmless. After all, a lot of Chinese food he had seen before didn't seem like... food he would eat. Food involving cow tongues, dog meat, and livers wasn't very appetizing to him. And what were those... Ching Chong Balls? Well that's not edible at all. From the looks of the samples at the counter, they seemed like... balls of grease rolled in bread crumbs or something of that sort. "Made of real tiger bollocks!" they said. And so, he did not even dare to try having a sample of those tiger balls. He silently fiddled with the wooden chopsticks to eat the chow mein. Of course they'd be too cheap to purchase proper silverware... or lazy to go wash silverware. Rain started trickling outside, heard on the roof of the rundown restaurant, the overhead lamp shaking from the rumbling coming from the second floor, swinging left and right, left and right, the noodles slipping off the chopsticks... ahhh, the joys of msg. Notes:LateTagged: MihaiWords: 451 template by pianissimo of BTN

[Mihai Chimet]

Of all the places his associate wanted to meet up, she really couldn't have chosen a worse place short of her own daughter's bedroom or perhaps the labs of the MI6 headquarters. Mihai had heard that the woman enjoyed Chinese food, but he had expected her to have higher standards than this cheap, run-down little shop tucked away in a dirty corner of one of the most notorious areas of London. It wasn't as though a woman of her status wouldn't be able to afford it—what was more, he imagined that someone as well-groomed as she would be thought of as easy target if she were ever spotted around Aylesbury, and thus cause further unwanted trouble.

In any case, said associate had not yet showed up, and it was well past the time she had agreed upon to meet with him (in fact, Mihai himself had arrived on scene some twenty minutes behind schedule). She wasn't the type to leave without having accomplished what she'd set out to do, and so, as the Romanian leaned back with a cigarette between his fingers, he contemplated if she'd had the misfortune of running into a few of the more infamous troupes that lurked around the sector. Of course, said misfortune would burden her attackers and her attackers only, as he knew her to be a rather disciplined woman in the realm of close-quarter combat—a former ace of the police force, if he had his information straight.

Allowing a puff of smoke to escape his parted lips, Mihai afforded his surroundings a cursory scan. The establishment was no fancier than he had expected, but luckily neither was it any worse. Other than the lingering smell of cooking oil that hung over the restaurant in a perpetual shroud, and the humidity of a terribly aired-out building, the shop was as decently clean as one could hope for it to be. The menu that lay in front of him, however, was another story altogether, and he found himself puzzled in regards to more than half of the entrées listed, rife with misspellings and foreign names. Curling his lip at some of the less tasteful sounding offers, he simply closed the menu and requested a can of beer from the waiter, who seemed to take some offense that Mihai wasn't properly appreciating their cuisine. To ensure that his waiter would not be returning every sixty seconds on the dot to ask again, whether Mihai had decided to order something else, he told the man (barely a man, more of a boy really) that he would order once his dining partner had arrived. He did hope she would be able to pinpoint the edible entries in the menu.

Once the waiter had returned (with a can of cheap beer), and left again, Mihai found himself left alone to enjoy the pleasant atmosphere of the restaurant. Yes, for all intents and purposes he was rather enjoying watching the dealings of a few of the shadier types that converged in a corner table, discussing whatever their interest may be over a deck of cards and cigar smoke. Though who was he kidding? Because in all honesty it was about as intriguing as watching a few ants converge upon a piece of discarded lettuce, which wasn't really. In fact, he was actually inconceivably bored, and he only hoped that his associate would arrive soon (or at least send him a text that she was indisposed and therefore give him a proper cause to leave).

The only other person who seemed as bored (or alternately just plain morose) as he sat across the room from him, a blond who seemed to be fruitlessly struggling with a pair of chopsticks in an attempt to eat his food. Mihai watched the other's actions in semi-interest, partly because it was funny watching someone try and fail to maneuver chopsticks, and partly because there wasn't much else to watch.

As he sat, idly observing the other man, he contemplated whether that would be a possible venue for relieving boredom. A quick glance at his watch revealed that his associate's tardiness was creeping towards half-an-hour, and though he thought it would only be courteous to give her another time-allotment of thirty minutes, he found little appeal in the prospect of spending that time watching the rain fall outside.

It took little mental argument to persuade him to find some form of entertainment, even in the form of someone he'd never met, and who he might eventually regret meeting. But it wasn't as though the great majority of his decisions had been made after careful consideration, and it was only luck that ensured that most of the outcomes had been pleasant. (Of course, there was also the other portion of which the outcomes had been unpleasant, but Mihai was rather good at ignoring the chances to learn from his mistakes, and simply hastened towards methods to keep himself entertained, consequences be damned.)

It was thinking thoughts along those lines that he unclasped the watch from around his wrist and dropped it into his pocket, then rubbed his cigarette out in an ash tray. If there was one positivity to this restaurant, it was that it was one of the rare ones that allowed any smoking within its premises anymore, yet it was still restricted to one side of the room. He left the can of beer mostly untouched on his table (it'd tasted fairly terrible anyway), and unobtrusively made his way over to the blond man's seat. The trick was, mainly, not to appear too demanding or as though there were any ulterior motive—and judging by the man's demeanor, certainly not as though any extended interaction were hoped for.

Stopping by the other's table, fingers of his left hand resting on its edge, Mihai allowed a smile to cross his lips. "Excuse me," he said, tone light and treacherously innocent. "You wouldn't happen to have the time, would you? I'm supposed to be waiting for someone, but it looks like she's running a bit late in this downpour."

[Vash Alois Zwingli]

All for the taste, all for the taste... he kept telling himself. He had come here for the high quality Chinese food that had quite a nice price tag. He hated to admit it, but this restaurant has pretty low, and he  had been to low places. And in quite a questionable location.

Now then, does this establishment have proper silverware? He knew how to use chopsticks (somewhat acceptably), mind you, but the amount of oil on these noodles was just not healthy. It was the noodles, he swore... he asked the waiter, the boy with the bad pidgin English, for a fork.

"A fock? We don't give here, try at red light house next door."

"No, a fork, silverware for the food."

"Sir, we give no focking on food, food is clean."

"Fork. F-o-r-k. For noodles and meat."

"Oh! I'll get that for you, sir," the young man said, hurrying into the kitchen and returning with a somewhat oversized fork. Vash lost a bit of his appetite with the knowledge that the Red Horizon Travel Agency building next door was a brothel.

He ran the fork through the grotesquely oily noodles and began to eat, trying his best to stomach how oily the noodles were. This wasn't going to sit well in his stomach, this he was certain. Every bite of this made him just want to leave.

But you must finish. The price was cheap, but you need to get your money's worth.

This was not entertaining or amusing to say the least.

Why didn't you just eat at home? Much easier.

A man then crossed over to his table and put a hand on the table.

"You wouldn't happen to have the time, would you?"

It was a bit random, but Vash knew the man. An important person of the Counterterrorism Initiative who was somewhat involved with the MI6 when the MI6 dealt with terrorism issues. In fact, this man was the founder of the CI. Even if Vash knew his background, he wasn't going to talk MI6 business. He wasn't an important person in the MI6, so Michael Collins perhaps wouldn't know him for his MI6 career. It was best he simply humor the man in any way he desires.

"Certainly. Feel free to sit down."

{ OOC; I'M SORRY THIS IS LATE, WORLDIE-SEMPAI, AND IT SUCKS BUT IT'S THE FIRST POST I EVER WROTE IN EUROPE AND IN GERMANY. }

Letting people down is my thing baby

CREATED BY FIZZLE OF BTN

[Mihai Chimet]

Well. He hadn't expected it to be quite that easy, but he wasn't one to refuse an invitation. Though there hadn't been a direct answer to his question either, and he wondered briefly if there was some kind of miscommunication along the way; he was accustomed to those happening, especially during his earlier years in England, but he'd thought they were mostly a thing of the past by now. Nevertheless, he decided not to push the issue since the other had already extended his welcome and that was what he had set out to acquire anyway. Mission accomplished and all that.

"Thanks," he said, flashing a smile, and rounded the table to the unoccupied side. He pulled out a chair, its legs scraping a bit noisily against the floor (which also seemed to be covered in a thin, sticky layer of grease. Gross). He settled down across the stranger, propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his twined fingers. He tilted his head slightly, observing the other man, making a unobtrusive inspection of him as he was now accustomed to doing for most people. Light hair, green eyes, of rather small build. Probably central European, judging by the slight accent. He definitely frowned too much, and Mihai contemplated whether it would be appropriate to pose himself a challenge to lighten the other's expression by the end of their acquaintenceship. In any case, challenges aside, it seemed that his table-partner was a rather sullen character who likely had trouble making friends, and probably wasn't in that sort of position involuntarily. Stand-offish perhaps, but not rude unless the situation called for it, judging by the reserved invitation Mihai had been extended. But he was definitely not the type of person you'd call first for a fun time. (He was pretty cute though, Mihai would give him that at least.)

Mihai could not, however, place him in his memory. He considered the possibility that he'd met the other man before, which might have been the reason the (supposed) stranger had offered him a seat so courteously. But he was fairly certain he didn't know the other—hadn't seen him in the office, hadn't been introduced to him at one of those overly-lavish parties, hadn't slept with him (though that could be arranged). He would be fairly assured that the stranger was, indeed, just a pretty stranger if there weren't some vague feeling nagging at him that he'd seen the other before. Then again, he met a lot of people, many of whom he tended not to remember the names of. He decided that it wouldn't hurt to ask, unless they had slept together, in which case the situation would turn awkward very quickly. But he asked anyway.

"I'm sorry, have we met before?" he said lightly. "And if you don't mind my asking, why are you alone? Meals tends to taste better with good company." He paused, then added quietly with a grin worthy of conspirators, "though I'm not sure even good company can salvage the food here."

SPOILER: Click to show

{{Don't worry about it, Asu. o/

EDIT: I was going to say Mi lived in Knightsbridge then I realized I already had two threads in Worlds End, uh. A few edits have been made yuy

[Vash Alois Zwingli]

Michael Collins was the kind of man you never refused invitations from if you were in service to the government, even if the man probably didn't know you personally. You simply didn't. It was an unspoken rule among the agents in MI6. Unfortunately, they didn't seem to have unspoken guidelines on how to act around the CI head, or on how to react to Collins observing and inspecting you. It made Vash somewhat uncomfortable, but he said not a word about it. He couldn't exactly object to it. It was something he usually did on the job. And of course, it seemed Collins probably didn't know or remember him. After all, he was simply a guy from the MI6 out of countless agents.

"I'm sorry, have we met before? And if you don't mind me asking, why are you alone? Meals tend to taste better with company, though I'm not sure even good company can salvage the food here."

To reveal agent status or not. That is the question. But this was a man he was supposed to trust, though he felt just a bit suspicious... strange. This man was someone who represented an organization against organized crime. No need for this kind of unease. 

"We met before during one of your presentations at the SIS Building, though you probably spoke to so many of my colleagues," Vash said, recalling Collins' animated presentation on the big crime organizations currently active in London. Collins had put together a very informative PowerPoint that included pictures, video media, and even some sound effects. The White Lotus, Dieudonnee *, the recently disbanded Irish mafia group, the Bratva, the British branch of the Italian Dionisio. From what Vash remembered of the presentation, this very restaurant was put on the MI6 watchlist, along with the Barbican Arts Centre and the MI6 lab itself.

"And I don't have a reason not to be alone. It's late and this place happened to be on the way from work. Who would I bring here anyway? And anyways, I am here to eat, and the food is perfectly..."

He couldn't lie. The food wasn't good at all. Even company wasn't helping it taste any better. And there was perhaps someone he would bring to dinner, though perhaps not this place...

Vash allowed a silence to cut through their conversation as he attempted to eat the oily, oily chow mein. After struggling for a few minutes and eating a bit more, he asked "How has your evening been, Mister Collins?"

Letting people down is my thing baby

CREATED BY FIZZLE OF BTN

[Mihai Chimet]

Mihai wondered if it was the atmosphere of the restaurant or the man himself who was so dour, as he seemed friendly enough for the time being, more talkative than Mihai had expected when he'd first approached him. The other was indulging his whims quite willingly, and he questioned whether the man were usually so open, and whether it was merely the dingy atmosphere or some other event that had run down his mood. Nevertheless, there was a brief pause before he answered the question Mihai had posed. An indication of recognition and wariness, or the process of carefully choosing words?

Mihai listened with chin in hand as the other spoke, trying to recall the event mentioned to only partial avail. Presentations and proposals made at the SIS building were common enough, as CI cooperated extensively with all branches of law enforcement to safely eliminate as many terrorist targets as possible (though that was a bit of a farce—not something that this man, nor most people involved, would or needed to know). It was true that he usually met many people during the course of such a trip to the SIS, also true any assumption that may have been made that he had no particular inclination to recall many names or faces associated with the visit. But the information given by the other eliminated a great many possibility about who he could be—or at least what his occupation was—and that was worthy of a mental note. Mihai's words would have to be measured during their acquaintanceship, regardless of how brief, as agents tended to have a sharp intuition and he doubted this one would be the exception. Still, he did not find himself much dissuaded from pursuing conversation; he was very much convinced of his own ability to lie if necessary, and company was far more preferable to waiting for his colleague alone.

"I do remember the events you are talking about, but you'll have to forgive me for not knowing which one in particular," he said, mildly apologetic. After all, he'd done several presentations over the course of his career and it was only reasonable that he didn't recall the roster for each one. "But I can't say I ever caught your name..?" It seemed apparent enough that the other knew who he was—or at least his alias—but it was a common enough occurrence that his conversational partners knew more about him than he of they. It came with being a high-level official, he supposed, though sometimes he wasn't sure if it didn't resemble more of a culture of stardom.

Judging by the man's next words, he wasn't much of a socialite. It didn't come as too much of a surprise (since everything from posture to expression spoke against the love of many social engagements), but, well—it was still kind of sad. A remark on his loneliness might have passed were they more well-acquainted, but they were not, and even Mihai had enough tact to swallow comment on what might be a sore point of the other's character. Instead, he accepted the man's explanation without question, finding more amusement as the other trailed off. He laughed at the incomplete phrasing, the man probably struggling and quite possibly failing to find a diplomatic way to put to words his reasonable grievances with this mockery of food. "Perfectly terrible?" Mihai finished for the other with an entertained smile, a nearly conspiratorial tilt to his brows. It truly was admirable the way the other managed to swallow a few more bites of the chow mein(?), as it looked delightfully unappetizing. Internally, Mihai wholeheartedly applauded his effort.

"It's been good," he said in answer when the man posed his question. "Well, aside from the mystery of why my colleague would choose this place for an over-dinner conversation." The bell hanging at the door of the restaurant jingled again, and briefly, his eyes flitted to the intrusion, expecting to see his coworker, but finding a gaunt, pale young man occupying the doorway instead. His gaze lingered a moment; he was just as aware as the next involved with law enforcement that the restaurant was a business of interest, and it wasn't exactly beyond his plan for that night to give the place a scope-out. Reserving his judgment, still remaining wary of the newcomer, he turned his attention back to his conversational partner. "And yours?" he asked. "Hopefully your superiors aren't overworking you," he said in light jest, though it was hardly a little-known fact that their secret service had been overtaxed recently.

SPOILER: Click to show

Vash Alois Zwingli
{{I'm sorRY WOW OK THIS IS FROM SO LONG AGO