The Worst Part of Town {Mihai}

[Feliks Łukasiewicz]

Feliks picked his way through a particularly dirty alleyway, strewn with sharp glass fragments which might equally well have been from shattered windows or smashed beer bottles, and wondered once again why he had signed up for this. This bit of the Isle of Dogs was one of the dirtiest, most run-down, most broken places in London, and he was here to pick up an information drop. He must have been out of his mind to volunteer for this job; it was a lifetime away from the pretty and valuable things he loved most in life, and he had pretty much had to roll in dirt in order to blend in well enough to be safe from mugging here.

But he knew perfectly well that someone had to do this, and it was his turn. Best to just get on with it, so that it could be over as soon as possible. Besides, it was a useful reminder: most of London was not at all like this, and it was Feliks' job as an agent of MI6 to ensure that it stayed that way. Looking around at it now, he forced himself to face the fact that people lived like this, in largely-crumbled buildings clumsily repaired with cardboard that could scarcely have provided more protection from the elements than a stand of trees might, and that they did so on the same island that also housed people who had far, far more than they would ever need. It was shocking, but it was right in front of him, pointing out that he was responsible for keeping the safer homes in other parts of the city safe, so that they would not also crumble. And maybe he had a responsibility even to the people who lived here, to do something to improve their lot in life as well.

But he couldn't focus all his energy on philosophy. He had a very specific present duty to carry out, and it was important to get himself to the drop point and back without getting robbed, murdered, or robbed and murdered. The latter aspect of his task was the one that required him to pay close attention to what was going on around him.

And that was how it came to be that he noticed the voices around a corner.

[Mihai Chimet]

How unreliable. Sometimes, the world seemed desperately determined to prove correct the little exasperated statement that you can't rely on anyone but yourself, and the culprit this time was double. The usual negotiator was unable to make it to the designated negotiation spot (he had the impeccable timing of fracturing both of his legs in a traffic accident) which meant that Mihai had been contacted on an emergency basis to finish the last step of the weapons purchases, too close to completion and too vital to be further delayed. Having to swallow his pride and plans for the day to do footwork for FOL was not an affair he particularly enjoyed, especially considering that his cover was one that should not, under any circumstances, be blown. If the situation had been any more risky, he would have flat-out refused—he knew when to play his hand, after all—but his contact had relented and promised that he wouldn't be bothered anymore about the Bondevik boy if he simply agreed to do the job.

That was culprit number one. Culprit number two was the guy holding a knife to his gut. It looked like the weapons deal wasn't going to go so smoothly after all.

Apparently, they were being double-crossed. The dealers would be taking off with the money now if Mihai had had it (at least, per their plan; they would not have gotten away so easily), but the fact that he hadn't was a source of a great deal of consternation. Frustrated and increasingly agitated words were being exchanged between the group of five, directed mainly at the well-dressed man who had been introduced at the beginning of their meeting, before things turned sour, as "Mr. Whitehall." Their current topic of discussion was whether their efforts at the entire scheme was all for naught, since if they killed Mihai (or "Piper," as he'd called himself), FOL would surely not turn over the money, but neither could they let Piper go home, as he would surely inform the rest of the organization and they wouldn't get the money in that case either. They would probably throw a fit if they knew that Piper also had substantial connections to the British government, and Mihai had to credit the minimal skills he'd picked up from Nicoleta for the fact that they did not.

For someone with a knife pointed at his guts, he was wholly unconcerned. Mainly because panicking would do nothing, but also partly because a knife was nothing close to a gun, of which his own was strapped to his thigh, under his slacks. Rather inaccessible, unfortunately, but he'd assumed (and been correct in assuming) that Mr. Whitehall would demand a search for weapons on his person before the negotiations began; thankfully, not too thorough a search. One possible course of action would be to wrest that knife from his aggressor's hand. He was quick enough that he might be successful as long as he didn't hesitate to wonder whether the blade might go through his intestines first, which was entirely possible, but there wasn't any guarantee that it wouldn't happen anyway if he allowed their conversation to continue. He much preferred envisioning the blood that would coat his skin once he drove the stolen blade into the jugular of the man—it had really been awhile since he'd been in a fight with freedom to kill. On this side of town, it probably wouldn't attract too much attention.

His fingers were already itching to dig themselves into someone's throat by the time he took advantage of the group's lapsed attention and shot out his hands, quick as snakes. One curled around the blade of the knife to deflect movement should the guard decide to thrust forward, and the other reached for the hilt to knock it out of his grip.

SPOILER: Click to show

Feliks Łukasiewicz More witty dialogue is definitely a possibility, but I hadn't the energy to write dialogue at the moment.

[Feliks Łukasiewicz]

As far as Feliks could tell, someone was being mugged around the corner—a corner he was going to have to pass if he didn't want to take a long detour. On one hand, he didn't want to get into a fight; it could derail his mission pretty badly. But on the other hand, he didn't want to leave whoever it was to their fate, either.

Passing the corner, he glanced down the street in question, and what he saw there provided more than enough reason to come down on the side of interfering. The man who was being mugged had a distinctly familiar face—specifically, Feliks recognized him as Michael Collins, the head of the counterterrorism office. What was he doing here, in this seedy part of town? Well, that question could wait until after the rather more immediate problem of a bunch of armed men evidently threatening to kill Collins (in an exceptionally painful manner, too—a knife to one's stomach was nothing to sneeze at) was solved.

None of the players in the little drama seemed to have noticed Feliks so far, which suited him just fine. He strolled down the street towards them, so casually they didn't even bother sparing a glance in his direction, and when Collins lashed out at the guy holding him hostage, Feliks grabbed the surprisingly well-dressed man who appeared to be the leader of the gang by the sleeve. “What's going on?” he asked plaintively, and when the man turned to see what the unexpected interruption was, the agent swept his feet out from under him, sending him flying.

“No, really, what's going on?” he inquired of the rest, looking around to see which of them was most likely to cause harm to either himself or Collins. There was obviously something a little fishy about the whole business, and as a professional interfering busybody, Feliks had just assigned himself to figure out what that was.

[Mihai Chimet]

He noticed that they had an audience as soon as the handle of the knife touched his hand. Aw fuck, was the first thought that crossed his mind, as he realized that his situation had now been complicated further. But there was no time for hesitation—even a second of it would get him killed now that the thugs had realized he planned on fighting. In one fluid movement, he changed the course of his cut from the man's neck to his thigh, slicing over the femoral artery. If it became necessary, he could argue that he was exercising self-defense without an intention to kill, and had accidentally hit a major blood vessel. Hopefully, the newcomer wouldn't even question it in the first place. Mihai was generally not in favor of killing civilians, but if they asked too much of him… protecting his own identity always came first. Damn, he should've never taken the job.

He looked away from the man he'd just cut in time to see Whitehall wiping out, and his distaste for the entire situation deepened further. So much for their audience being a civilian. Interfering with such audacity, and the ability required to execute that kind of tactic pointed to a veteran, either of law enforcement or military. Which meant that he would be asking questions. Wonderful. There was no time for Mihai to decide whether he should get rid of him or not in the moment; if he dawdled any longer, both of them would be dead meat in roughly five seconds. Thinking it the best way to minimize damage control, he spun on his heels and grabbed the newcomer's hand, dragging him at a sprint back around the way he'd come. "Armed and dangerous," he quipped with a grin. "No time for questions." And give me the time to make up my excuses

As they rounded the corner, he heard bullets hit the wall behind them, indicating that he hadn't acted a moment too soon. The sound of thudding footsteps and shouting voices was evidence enough that the remaining criminals were hot in pursuit, and damn—if only there was the time to reach his gun right now. There was no question that provided enough leeway, he'd be able to pick off whoever had come after them. But now with a witness-and-someone-with-potential-official-ties in tow, he was going to have to figure out how to get rid of the pursuers without overstepping his bounds of 'upholder of justice' and all that. Or, if the ensuing incident reports and lies he'd need to fabricate if this little rendezvous became official knowledge was even worth this person's life. He'd figure that out when they weren't being shot at, and if he had some company at the moment, he may as well make the most of it. "You wouldn't happen to have a gun on you, would you?"


Feliks Łukasiewicz

[Feliks Łukasiewicz]

Much to Feliks' relief, Collins seemed to be more or less on top of things. He was surprised that the man was capable of fighting so effectively as seemed to be the case (after all, it wasn't exactly a requirement for a job that, to the best of the blond's knowledge, mostly involved sitting at a desk and filling out paperwork, seasoned with a certain amount of explaining things to the public), but he certainly wasn't going to complain about it, especially now that they were both in rather immediate danger.

Collins grinned and said something fairly flippant to Feliks, then grabbed him and more or less dragged him to a spot behind a building, and not a moment too soon. The sound of bullets hitting the wall behind them was unnerving, louder but still less disturbing than the noise that such projectiles would make striking flesh. They were safe for a few seconds, though doubtless that would change quickly enough. Accordingly, Feliks filed away the many questions he had about the situation (where did you learn to fight like that? What are you even doing in a place like this, anyway? Do you have any idea who those people are or what they're here for?) and focused on the important details. For example, Collins wanted to know if he was carrying a gun.

For missions like this, it varied. Normally, Feliks wouldn't have had a gun on hand for a simple courier trip, but he was in the worst part of town now, so his superiors had had the foresight to send him out armed. Probably for more or less exactly this reason, though he was certain that Q wouldn't have planned on the part where he ran into Michael Collins of all people along the way. Regardless, here they were. "Yeah, I have one," Feliks admitted, pulling out the weapon in question. "You want me to keep 'em off you, or would you rather do it yourself?"

((Amusing OOC note, I wrote this whole thing on my phone and my automatic suggestion feature wanted to say that Feliks' superiors sent him out with Armenians.)