08-13-2014, 08:11 PM
Dressed, for once, rather plainly, Hood sat on a bench watching the entrance to the city metro. People came and went in a constant stream, old women and young couples off to the markets for the inexpensive produce that could be found there even in the heart of the Russian winter, some hurrying to reach the warm buildings the market fled to during the winter months. Others were more pragmatic about it and trudged along, embracing the cold morning air, accepting as something that they could do little about asides embrace.
A weather-worn shemagh was wrapped loosely around Hood's throat, serving it's practical role as a scarf, albeit one better suited to ward off the sun and sand, not the cold. A thick, heavy down jacket with fur-lined hood. As was common for old Moscovite culture, the jacket had a decidedly military cut to it, but Hood wore it more for functionality then for appearance. It had pockets, and was warm. Water proof, and treated against stains. Practical, functional.
Of course, it did look a bit more intimidating then those ridiculous brightly coloured plastic garbage-bag looking things the young folks were wearing these days. That was a fashion he had wished died years ago, but the blasted things seemed hell-bent to hang on. He shook his head in silent exasperation as a group of young men wandered past in jackets of bright yellows and shiny blacks or opulent blues. Ridiculous things. Looked like crap.
On the bench next to him was a nondescript backpack which appeared to be empty, or at most holding something slender or small. He didn't need to glance at his watch to tell the time; it was clearly displayed on the HUD of his Landwarriors, as was a photo of the man he was waiting for. He would routinely turn his head to sweep his gaze across the area around him, waiting for the facial recognition software to spot the man in question, and was satisfied when it finally flashed a man's silhouette and confirmed his ID to the picture.
An office manager for Krasnyy Medved Security Solutions (KMSS), Mr Volodya Fyodorov. The company had recently finished being investigated for four former employees who had been killed in their attempt to kidnap a very rich man by the name of Mr Talanov, and had instead stumbled on the man's former personal bodyguard, Mr John White, of Pervaya liniya Security.
Of course, that was all the cover story for what had been a contracted assassination attempt. Not that either company, or either involved contracting parties, were willing to admit to something like that. So it was all swept under the carpet as bad men doing bad things of their own accord, leaving their parent company, KVSS, free of any bad press.
The man seemed annoyed, more so then an early Monday morning away from the office would usually call for. The man's annoyance was of little surprise, or of any real care, to Hood of course. Who wouldn't be annoyed to enter their supposedly secure work office to find a post-it-note stuck to his computer screen with a copy of his own security code to disarm the building's security systems, and a note of where to meet whomever had placed the note?
Hood raised a hand and caught the man's attention, waving him over to take a seat on the bench. Mr Fyodorov hadn't always been flying a desk; the man was ex-military, although from what Hood could gather, it hadn't been anything particularly interesting. Mundane Air Force BS. Lent well to a resume for private security work though.
Mr Fyodorov approached Hood and stopped without sitting, staring down at Hood for a long moment before glancing around to see if they were being watched. Hood gestured for the man to remove his sunglasses, and with the aid of his Landwarriors was fairly certain the man didn't have any implants for eyes.
"Sit down, neighbour. You're drawing attention."
He jerked his head to the side of the bench such that the backpack would be between them both, and when the Russian man finally sat, Hood dug out a manila file folder and held it without quite offering it to the man.
"All I want to know is who commissioned the team. If you don't know, you will find out and pass it my way. If not...well, you know how these things go, Mr Air Force."
Hood's tone was neutral, almost bored, and certainly confident. This was exactly the sort of thing he did in a past life, after all.
Mr Fyodorov snatched the folder from Hood's hand and opened it to reveal a dozen printed photos, all of the interior of Mr Fyodorov's home. His two guard dogs asleep in the yard. The main panel of their security system turned off. His living room, with children's toys still on the central throw rug. His kitchen, the fridge door open and a hand holding up a glass jug of milk. He and his wife asleep in bed. His twin boys asleep in their room. The usual sort of stuff. With the folder was the details of what Hood mentioned; the four men's names, information on them. Even their bank statements, from before things had been fudged to make the men look like they had been acting on their own.
"Do we have an understanding?"
Mr Fyodorov was no longer looking irritated. He had visibly paled, and glanced at Hood with barely contained horror. "I have no interest in you or your family asides what information you can get me on this matter. Really, it's in your company's best interests. Your people never should have been stupid enough to take the contract to begin with. Shadow wars aren't meant to be fought where the police are involved. That's what makes them shadow wars, after all. Time someone reminded whoever payed you all that lovely money to remember that."
Mr Fyodorov closed the envelope, but Hood took it and returned it to his pack, casually checking the signal scrambler that sat in there as well. It had a very limited range, but any electronics he or Mr Fyodorov would have been carrying weren't likely to be sending anything. "We do."
"Excellent. You can get it to me..."
-----
Hood walked out of a nearby alley were a burn-barrel and a group of homeless men had set up for the time being, waiting for the lunch hour rush to go back to pan handling. The added fuel for their little fire was received without question.
The file folder. Synthetic skin pads off his finger tips. More synthetic skin pads off his face that had subtly altered his cheek bones and brow, all just enough to thwart facial recognition software from a distance. Better to be safe then sorry, after all.
With that little errand checked off his list for the day, he strolled into the market area. Two birds with one stone; he needed some groceries. Rune had near eaten him out of house and home after she had graduated from the smoothies.
A weather-worn shemagh was wrapped loosely around Hood's throat, serving it's practical role as a scarf, albeit one better suited to ward off the sun and sand, not the cold. A thick, heavy down jacket with fur-lined hood. As was common for old Moscovite culture, the jacket had a decidedly military cut to it, but Hood wore it more for functionality then for appearance. It had pockets, and was warm. Water proof, and treated against stains. Practical, functional.
Of course, it did look a bit more intimidating then those ridiculous brightly coloured plastic garbage-bag looking things the young folks were wearing these days. That was a fashion he had wished died years ago, but the blasted things seemed hell-bent to hang on. He shook his head in silent exasperation as a group of young men wandered past in jackets of bright yellows and shiny blacks or opulent blues. Ridiculous things. Looked like crap.
On the bench next to him was a nondescript backpack which appeared to be empty, or at most holding something slender or small. He didn't need to glance at his watch to tell the time; it was clearly displayed on the HUD of his Landwarriors, as was a photo of the man he was waiting for. He would routinely turn his head to sweep his gaze across the area around him, waiting for the facial recognition software to spot the man in question, and was satisfied when it finally flashed a man's silhouette and confirmed his ID to the picture.
An office manager for Krasnyy Medved Security Solutions (KMSS), Mr Volodya Fyodorov. The company had recently finished being investigated for four former employees who had been killed in their attempt to kidnap a very rich man by the name of Mr Talanov, and had instead stumbled on the man's former personal bodyguard, Mr John White, of Pervaya liniya Security.
Of course, that was all the cover story for what had been a contracted assassination attempt. Not that either company, or either involved contracting parties, were willing to admit to something like that. So it was all swept under the carpet as bad men doing bad things of their own accord, leaving their parent company, KVSS, free of any bad press.
The man seemed annoyed, more so then an early Monday morning away from the office would usually call for. The man's annoyance was of little surprise, or of any real care, to Hood of course. Who wouldn't be annoyed to enter their supposedly secure work office to find a post-it-note stuck to his computer screen with a copy of his own security code to disarm the building's security systems, and a note of where to meet whomever had placed the note?
Hood raised a hand and caught the man's attention, waving him over to take a seat on the bench. Mr Fyodorov hadn't always been flying a desk; the man was ex-military, although from what Hood could gather, it hadn't been anything particularly interesting. Mundane Air Force BS. Lent well to a resume for private security work though.
Mr Fyodorov approached Hood and stopped without sitting, staring down at Hood for a long moment before glancing around to see if they were being watched. Hood gestured for the man to remove his sunglasses, and with the aid of his Landwarriors was fairly certain the man didn't have any implants for eyes.
"Sit down, neighbour. You're drawing attention."
He jerked his head to the side of the bench such that the backpack would be between them both, and when the Russian man finally sat, Hood dug out a manila file folder and held it without quite offering it to the man.
"All I want to know is who commissioned the team. If you don't know, you will find out and pass it my way. If not...well, you know how these things go, Mr Air Force."
Hood's tone was neutral, almost bored, and certainly confident. This was exactly the sort of thing he did in a past life, after all.
Mr Fyodorov snatched the folder from Hood's hand and opened it to reveal a dozen printed photos, all of the interior of Mr Fyodorov's home. His two guard dogs asleep in the yard. The main panel of their security system turned off. His living room, with children's toys still on the central throw rug. His kitchen, the fridge door open and a hand holding up a glass jug of milk. He and his wife asleep in bed. His twin boys asleep in their room. The usual sort of stuff. With the folder was the details of what Hood mentioned; the four men's names, information on them. Even their bank statements, from before things had been fudged to make the men look like they had been acting on their own.
"Do we have an understanding?"
Mr Fyodorov was no longer looking irritated. He had visibly paled, and glanced at Hood with barely contained horror. "I have no interest in you or your family asides what information you can get me on this matter. Really, it's in your company's best interests. Your people never should have been stupid enough to take the contract to begin with. Shadow wars aren't meant to be fought where the police are involved. That's what makes them shadow wars, after all. Time someone reminded whoever payed you all that lovely money to remember that."
Mr Fyodorov closed the envelope, but Hood took it and returned it to his pack, casually checking the signal scrambler that sat in there as well. It had a very limited range, but any electronics he or Mr Fyodorov would have been carrying weren't likely to be sending anything. "We do."
"Excellent. You can get it to me..."
-----
Hood walked out of a nearby alley were a burn-barrel and a group of homeless men had set up for the time being, waiting for the lunch hour rush to go back to pan handling. The added fuel for their little fire was received without question.
The file folder. Synthetic skin pads off his finger tips. More synthetic skin pads off his face that had subtly altered his cheek bones and brow, all just enough to thwart facial recognition software from a distance. Better to be safe then sorry, after all.
With that little errand checked off his list for the day, he strolled into the market area. Two birds with one stone; he needed some groceries. Rune had near eaten him out of house and home after she had graduated from the smoothies.
