FC Medical

[A-T]

Roland Baker

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The crimson-and-pearl-white confection landed at Roland's feet, his exposed hands refusing to lower for the freebie "Smokey" flung at Roland's arm. Smokey. Either somebody's parents were shitty at naming their kid, or that particular somebody just made false statements- a crime in and of itself. But arresting and charging this youth with a growing list of felonies was among the least urgent tasks on Roland's bucket list; he needed to leave NOW. At least that hideous switchblade was out of the picture for now. Now it was this punk's arrogant "Terrorized? 'Pops?' You have a lot of guts for assaulting a Federal agent, kid," Roland growled, glaring at the assailant feeling up his tac vest. That tattoo... I wonder which crime syndicate this punk belongs to? I do not recognize that swirl from any American organized crime groups.

"Sympathomimetic agents? I'm afraid you'll have to ask a toxicologist about them. But admitting to burgling a Federally-funded facility? For acquisition of controlled substances to sate your habit? Come on, really?" Roland could not believe Smokey's relative transparency: The ability to sublimate into smoke and evade arrest was no laughing matter, but even Roland's cockier arrestees typically knew to shut up from initial contact. Roland shook his head, hearing "Smokey" ask for his name; this day kept getting weirder, what with the casual conversation tone maintained by Smokey. "Senior citizen" took the cake for creativity of the year, the Agent had to admit though. "Baker. Agent Baker if you will." There was little use in revealing his full name if he could. A lingering feeling in Agent Baker's heart suggested Smokey had means of locating undesirables' domiciles; keeping things to a last name basis would work for now. All that mattered at this moment was waiting for the purple-head to linger too close within Combatives distance; one solid knee-kick, a quick drop-and-roll for the fallen pistol, and Agent Baker could start his escape.

- - -

Mood: Irritated
Company: "Smokey," aka the punk kid who stole my pistol
Outfit: Black leather shoes & matching slacks, white tucked-in dress shirt, and an FBI-labeled tactical vest
Armaments: Standard-issue .22 semiautomatic handgun (Disarmed; on the ground)

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Huntress Kitteh

 

[Huntress Kitteh]

"I only want to hurt you...and what I want, I get.

____________________________________________________________

Location: FC Medical
With: Agent Baker
Status: Amused
____________________________________________________________

I'm aiming to continue, so consider me a threat."

"Yeesh. Tough crowd." He was casual. Far too casual to be someone with any merit. The guy was already on the wrong track, and that meant that the teenager's acting was working. He already thought it was a young punk with a drug addiction....so Saitou would continue to let him think that. He knew how to act, how to put on a face and turn heads. Charismatic as he was, he never really found much fun in acting like this. Acting like a naive child. But it was his best maneuver.

Acting as if Baker wasn't even there, Smokey whipped out a cell phone, sending a quick few messages before popping the thing back into his vest with a whistle. "Is it wrong? You feds don't really make it easy on us low lives to get what keeps us sane." he began now, a pout spanning across his tanned face. Was he high? On drugs? Just cocky? Just casual? It could all make sense...or not. Depending on how one thought about it. "What...are you lucky enough that you can go without drugs? Because some people not." he turned around again, sighing now.

"I don't want to fight you...in fact, I was quite hoping that you could help me out. His strut meandered around the room. He was speaking to this man while still looking, fairly uncaring about the guy and what actions he took. Would he run? Try to fight him? Shockingly, Saitou wasn't here to spill any blood. Pausing, a mischievous eye looked dead into Roland's, glowing with a feint hint of white. "I need friends." He stated, eyes finally sparkling upon digging into one particular drawer and pulling out those much wanted drugs. A whole ******** bottle of the stuff. Motherload!

To be honest, Smokey didn't care about Roland. The only thing that mattered was HIM. His vision. His ambitions. His goals. And there were others under his command that agreed with that revelation. Tucking the bottle into his vest, Saitou's gaze once again met the FBI agent's. It had been a tense few minutes, huh?

"Your last name is Baker, right? The cops and I have...never gotten along much. But I am cordial. I have proved that to be true with you, friend." The word was pronounced with such a chill. "I see the terror in those eyes of yours. You're free to leave at any moment, you know. I won't stop you. But..I might come visit you later. We can have tea and talk about the future, hmm? Young guys like me have a lot to look forward to..."


As he finished his sentence, the teenager gave a slight bow -- eastern. He wasn't American. Though it would be impressive and almost shocking if this agent guessed that this boy was a mix of Russian and Japanese. It was then that his body seemed to fade, but it was dispersing...becoming smoke.

And that bottle did not drop out, either.

Those eyes were open again, floating amongst the smoke that now completely filled the room to the brim now.

"I would like to keep in touch, friend. Maybe...well..you could help a kid like me not have to do this kind of stuff, huh?" The bait had been set. If only Roland had reached into his vest -- there would be a little note card with a number there for him. Of course, Saitou wouldn't give away his personal phone, but misleading the FBI agent while still being connected with the guy? Priceless. There were so many roads this man could take....and Saitou would line them all with hazards just for his own amusement.

A-T

 

[A-T]

Reserved