Not a Fan of Predictability

Warning
Violence and dark concepts follow
The following plot and posts are purely fictional
Any semblance of real life events or locations are coincidental
The ideas, thoughts, conditions and terms are not the direct beliefs held by the writers

It was early in the morning when the knocking started up. It was low at first, stopped for a moment, then began in a more annoyingly loud and insistent manner. He'd managed to ignore it for a while, pulling a pillow over his head and huffing at the blindingly gentle glow of early morning light that came in from between the curtains that hid the ocean that stretched out from beyond the docks. His head pounded, which wasn't an entirely unusual thing, and there was a pretty bad taste lingering in his mouth from a combination of alcohol, cheap street cart food for an impromptu late-night dinner, and forgetting to brush his teeth before collapsing into bed. Now he could hear the knocking clearly, painfully so, and a voice accompanying it. “Donatello Antolini, open up please!”

They sounded official. Did he do something stupid last night? He didn't have any current cases so he'd decided to go to La Cisterna, a dingy bar under the roads but with a great view of one of the main canals. It was frequented by some low-level criminals, petty thieves, extortioners, graffiti artists, peeping Toms, and the like. It wasn't illegal to congregate with them, though. Groaning, Donatello pushed himself up and nearly fell out of bed rather than getting to his feet. He was still in his black tee-shirt and scuffed jeans, which smelled like exotic tobacco smoke and lingering hard liquor. At least he'd taken his shoes off, so in sock-feet he padded down the narrow hall and to the door, wriggling his tongue in his mouth and pulling a disgusted face before opening it to two men in dark, semi-casual suits. Off-duty officers? They didn't even look like they were from Italio.

“Mr. Antolini.” The apparent leader of the pair spoke. “My name is Agent Dallas, this is my partner Agent Crell. We're---”

“FBI.” Donatello nodded. “So you guys make a habit of coming across the oceans to meet a random low level PI?”

“We have a case you may be very useful in.” Agent Crell said quickly. “Do you mind if we come in?”

“Fine. As long as you don't mind waiting around for a while.” Donatello was interested, of course. A case meant money, and if these guys were from Amiera, it had to be something good. But he had to clean himself up first. Leaving them at the door, Donatello turned and went to his little kitchen, putting on a powerful black coffee to hopefully soothe his pounding head, and stalked to his bathroom to clean up.

"Corey... Corey? Corey!" His name being called woke him from his sleep suddenly, causing him to glance about his room as though he was about to be attacked. He blinked several times, the effects of his hang over causing him to groan and lie back down. Had it been a dream? It wasn't rare for him to hear his friend's voice calling to him. He sometimes even thought that maybe the man's ghost haunted him, trying to drive him mad for killing him. Corey rubbed his eyes and stared at the ceiling, before hearing his name again. He turned his head, realisation dawning on him as he saw the man lying next to him.

A random he had picked up from the bar last night, someone that liked his rough play and dirty words. He smiled slightly, not remembering much from last night. All he noticed was the bruises on the other's face and neck, had he choked him? He sneered as he blinked his dark brown eyes again. "Whaddyouwun?"

"I'm sorry to wake you, Corey... You were crying in your sleep and I thought you were having a nightmare..." The man spoke English, but with a thick accent. It had been a long time since Corey had heard his mother tongue, it made him grin slightly.

"I don't dream." It was true, he couldn't remember any nightmares. Maybe his body was reacting to withdrawals. It had been awhile since his last hit and he could already feel the effects sinking into him. "I feel like I've been gored by a bull." Sure enough, his side ached as though he had an open wound there. His scars usually ached like this though, so he ignored it.

"Why are you still here?" he asked the man now, turning his intense gaze on him. He blushed slightly and looked rather nervous.

"I didn't mean anything by it," the man replied, in Italion. "I'll be going now." The man got out of bed, his naked body bruised and battered. Corey smiled to himself as the stranger got dressed and left his apartment, limping slightly. He rolled over and saw his black dog sitting nearby. Shadow came over to him and licked his face, before going quiet and watching out the window. The dog was quiet and extremely loyal, he had been a stray when Corey had first come to Italio, and now he was the best guard dog Corey could ever ask for.

"Good boy..." he muttered, before drifting back off to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, Donatello's iron-toned hair was washed and brushed in its usual parted-at-the-side style and his steely gray eyes were a little less red and bloodshot. The agents had declined coffee, perhaps because it was too strong for them by the way they grimaced at the very smell of it. He'd put on a new, clean shirt and jeans, and was sitting across from them. Agent Crell put a thick, bound envelope on the table in front of them. “That'd be your case.” He said, and Agent Dallas immediately took over:

“This man is very dangerous.” He said sternly, brushing back his chestnut brown hair that Donatello thought looked quite nice curved back and over the ear the way it was. “He's fled Amiera after a variety of attacks on the people through several states---”

“And what's he done?”

“Well, he's been involved in several accounts of terrorism, is accounted in many murders, a bank robbery that resulted in a hostage situation.”

“And you didn't catch him.” Donatello scoffed, pausing to sip coffee under the withering gazes of the agents across from him. He smiled inwardly.

“He petitioned for a vehicle for the hostages.” Crell said through gritted teeth.

“Aaaand you gave him one.”

“One of ours!” Dallas snipped. “We had it bugged. Apparently he found it and disabled it, and we lost the vehicle.”

Donatello pursed his lips, but said nothing. He could think of a dozen other ways to track the vehicle, but didn't want to get under the agents' skin. He wanted this case and he'd keep his mouth shut in their general vicinity. “Fine, I'll take it. Anything else I need to know?”

“Not anything that isn't written in that folder.” The agents stood as Dallas spoke. “Our personal contact numbers are in there too, in case you find anything.”

“You'll be sticking around Italio?”

“No, but as soon as you contact us we'll be back out with a full unit to bring the cage down on this bastard.” Crell was already at the door, waiting for Dallas. When he spoke again, it was with barely a look back: “Don't fuck this up. We heard you were good, this better not be something we'll regret.”

The words were hardly a threat to him. He'd dealt with plenty of worse, and the actual delivery of said threats. He leaned back, running his tongue over the chip in one of his front teeth. Well, eventually he'd have to read that envelope, and why not at the cafe for breakfast? He stood, stretched, and got ready to leave his little apartment.

Corey awoke again around midday, his head feeling less groggy as the alcohol had had time to be filtered by his liver. He still didn't want to leave the comfort of his bed, but knew his day couldn't be wasted sleeping. Even though he hadn't been contacted for a job, he decided he might as well go for a walk and see if anything exciting was happening around the small city of Viste.

He rolled out of bed and found his clothes, going to the bathroom to relieve himself and shower. He glanced at his reflection, rubbing the light stubble that had grown over his chin. He needed to buy a new razor, the other had become blunt from other uses. He decided to make a list while he was at it, finding he was quite low in a lot of supplies, including food from his fridge. He would have to go to the markets, a good place to find only the freshest of ingredients. He hated the inorganic stuff, riddled with pesticides and God knows what else that you found in the supermarkets and shops in the city.

Once he was dressed and ready, he left his apartment and made his way down the stairs to the small bar he lived over. It was dark and claustrophobic, earning the name of La Rete Fognaria as it was one of the most seediest places in Viste. But the wine was cheap and it was a good place to find some fun - and someone to have that fun with. He nodded at the barkeep, a pudgy man who liked to wear leather by the name of Antonio. The man waved at Corey, but didn't question him. It was another reason why he was fond of La Rete Fognaria.

He stepped onto the pavement outside the bar, which was barely wide enough for someone to walk on. Instead of a street, Corey looked out over a stretch of water. The canals were quite famous and brought some tourists in, but they weren't as well known as the ones found in Vinico. He watched a few boats drift past, before turning left and climbing stairs to reach the street level. Even though the water was a source of mysticism and romance for out of towners, Corey had seen one too many dead people being recovered from the water to see it as that. It was a good way to dispose of bodies, as the lazy local police force would just wave it off as drunks drowning themselves by accident.

Corey smiled at the thought, turning down the paved street and heading towards the markets which were located nearby.

He left his apartment and stretched the remaining stiffness from his neck and shoulders. He carried a very carefully locked leather briefcase that looked like it belonged in the hand of a lawyer or teacher, rather than a punkish-type guy wearing a black leather jacket and strategically ripped jeans. But no one really seemed to spare him more than a cursory glance. He was somewhat known in the city, a neutral standing between what people saw as black and white---good and bad, right and wrong. He saw the shades of gray between those layers of black and white but was paid to ignore one side or the other for an end result. This looked to be another one of those black-and-white cases. He crossed the market, sliding into a little cafe and finding a small table in the corner, where no one would disturb him and where he could read up on this Corey Tell and see why two agents from Amiera had traveled so far just to find him. No doubt Corey was in the city, or the country somewhere, but they made a point of finding someone that would request a big paycheck for this high profile catch.

After he ran the waiter off with a request for a cup of strong black tea and strawberry tart, Donatello opened his locked briefcase and took out the newest inclusion. He unsealed it, curiously touching the jagged edge of his broken tooth while he focused. Corey Tell was Amieran, blonde, dark eyes---they looked almost black but they had to be brown.

He was only twenty six and yet he had a pretty long list of felonies. Murders. Bank robbery. Kidnapping. He apparently had a love of explosives and seemed to be manic. There was a lot of speculation where blank patches were, namely deductions that he was a drug runner, terrorist sympathizer that wanted to see the destruction of Amiera, and was on the run from the counts that had been pulled against them. The agents decided that he'd pulled the bank robbery to get a scot-free ride to the nearest airport so he could escape the states, and had come to Italio to escape prosecution. He nodded his thanks when the waiter returned, and absently sipped his tea while reading. Well, this was a bit more high profile than he'd ever dealt with. Donatello folded the papers, slipping them back into his briefcase as he thought. He was feeling somewhat restless, a bit on edge. It was anticipation, and withdrawal. A combination he didn't exactly like, but could handle.

The markets were always bustling with activity, from the customers looking for the right deals to the vendors crying out their wares to passers by, Corey was glad he no longer had a headache. He went to a stall that offered fresh produce before turning to his favourite stall that sold honey straight from the hive. He brought a piece of honeycomb to suck on as he wondered about the markets, watching the customers and vendors alike.

A few tourists were around, and soon he was approached by a couple that sounded like they were from his home country. They wanted to know where a museum was, but their Italion was very limited. They seemed glad to find someone that spoke fluent English, but he didn't want to chat with them. He gave them directions and slipped away before they could talk to him more. He wasn't in the mood for conversation with Amierans. He wandered about the markets, before growing bored for the crowd. He went to leave but noticed someone who looked rather nervous.

"Hey! Vince!" Corey grinned and approached the small, beady-eyed man. Vince jumped when he saw Corey approach him and cowered slightly.

"I did nothing, no siree! Why'd they send you? No, I didn't do anything! I kept my promises, I did!" Vince squeaked pathetically, making Corey roll his eyes and hit the man lightly on the shoulder.

"Dude, they didn't send me. I just saw you and thought I'd ask how things were," Corey came closer to the man and glared into his eyes. "Why are you so jumpy? I know you are a rat, you are lucky I don't tell the boss." Vince cringed again, looking sweaty.

"No, not at all! I didn't do anything! I stole no drugs! They already suspected me. Killed my wife. I did nothing! Honest, Mr Tell, please," Vince was almost in tears, shaking and sweating like the coward he was. Corey found it amusing.

"They killed your wife? Well, maybe next time you won't be such a despicable idiot. You never steal from us. I guess you learnt your lesson, right?" He was intimidating now, sneering at how the older man cowered. "But, I was hoping you had more. You know... I need some. And you are the dealer after all."

Vince was still shaking, but he took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty brow, his beady eyes darting from left to right, as if he was looking for an escape. "N-No, they don't trust me with it any more. You'll have to see Angelina." Corey grimaced, but nodded and backed off the tiny man.

"Well, sorry to bother you, Vince. See you around." Corey turned and walked away, trying to remember where Angelina usually hung out. As he walked, he passed by a small cafe and looked in one of the windows. He never liked coffee and couldn't understand how cafes existed. Then again, he had never had a social life. He whistled to himself, carrying his supplies from the market and walking down the street to his home.

Donatello left the cafe after an hour, finishing his considerations. He had to find the guy. They had a vague idea that he was in the city. If he found Corey, he could possibly befriend the guy. No... That was stupid. He'd have to watch him from a distance somehow. It was something he was practiced in, blending in, watching, waiting, overhearing. And he could talk to some of his connections in La Cisterna. They like him because he didn't turn them in. They liked him because he bought from some of them. Vices had to be fed somehow, after all. And there was little honor among the criminal underbelly, If it saved their skin, they'd give up their partner. They'd give up their boss. They'd give up their own kid. He'd had it happen before, had seen it happen. It was rough, dirty sometimes, but it was done. Everyone knew that, and yet that well-known fact was just a way of life.

He decided to take the low road, the sidewalks that lined the canals. He enjoyed watching the ocean water filter in and then out, keeping it clean. When he came to a crossroads where he had to get across the water, Donatello waited until a gondola passed and jumped onto it, using another as a stepping stone and earning a few annoyed curses. He ignored them, however, picking his way to his usual haunt, La Cisterna. He loved the place, the dank air, the smoke that hung like streamers, the upper floor that thumped and called out with gibberish that anyone could understand if they just gave it a moment's thought. And behind the bar, down the steep flight of stairs, the cistern that the bar was named for resided. Black market deals, incriminating conversation, and from time to time the odd drowning happened in the four-foot deep pool of clear water that was fed and subsequently emptied by two grates on either side of the room.

Here, Donatello sought out his dealer and what could very loosely be called a 'friend'. When he sat down at the rickety table the man glanced up with red-rimmed eyes and a strong smell of clear liquor Donatello couldn't quite place the name of. "Need some?" The middle-aged drunk rasped.

"Yep. Ten."

"Stockin' up I see." The guy smiled and showed yellowed teeth as he reached into his pocket and pulled a silver tin from his pocket. "That'll be forty."

Donatello scoffed. "Fucking prices raise every damn week." He spat, but forked over the money and snatched up the tin. "Hey, I got a question." That made the guy focus, if only a bit. "You happen to see a guy around... Blonde, really dark eyes... might look around my age, might be called Corey?"

Once home, he stocked his cupboards and fridge with the supplies he had managed to get from the market. He then went to the bathroom to use his new razor to shave the stubble off his face. He could never stand body hair, and in a place like Italio, hairless men were hard to find. Maybe that was why he liked younger men, especially teenagers. He smiled as finished shaving, wondering what he would be up to next.

Angelina. He had to find this woman, but where was it that she usually hung out? La Cisterna? That shady, smelly bar just across the canal from La Rete Fognaria. Corey hated the place, even though it was where most drug dealers and other criminals frequented. He stayed away, paranoid that being there would make it too obvious to anyone that was trying to find him.

And he knew that he was being followed, probably by the Amieran FBI or even the CIA. It was a small price to pay for the fun he had had back in his home city. He wondered if they ever did find the pipe bombs he had rigged in the getaway car they had given him. He left his apartment again, climbing the stairs outside to use the bridge to get across the canal. The gondola's costed way to much and he wasn't about to swim in the very water he dumped bodies in. Walking down the steps on the other side of the canal, the smell of smoke and alcohol assaulted him as he approached La Cisterna. He screwed his nose up and entered the bar, glancing about before going to the man behind the bar.

"Hey, you know a woman called Angelina? I'm looking for her," he asked, in a quiet voice. The barman shrugged and then pointed to some stairs that led downwards. Corey followed the directions, coming to an open area with a strange pool of water in the centre. He looked about, feeling nervous as many eyes were on him down here. He couldn't see Angelina, however and he bit his lip, wondering what to do.

The dealer had shaken his head at the name, and the confused look on his face made it obvious to Donatello that he wasn't going to get a straight answer out of him after that. It didn't look like he'd be able to think right for a good long time, so with a sigh, Donatello left the table and glanced around the room. It was humid, cool, and smelled like a combination of smoke and liquor, bodies and clothes that didn't see regular washing and sea salt that wafted in from the door upstairs as it opened and closed with the passing of people. Donatello studied the criminal element he felt so at home around. Of course he turned on some from time to time, and while grudges were held, he was always welcome here as long as he didn't lead officials to the nest or use what he found out here against anyone. Besides, he had his own vices that made him something of a criminal.

He went to a nearby couch, one that didn't smell strongly, and picked up the instrument that laid against it. It was an archlute, an instrument that he knew had been around a very long time, but was now coming back in mass-production, especially in Italio, where it first appeared. Its many strings created a complex series of deep, bass tones that, if one wanted to sing along, they had to have a more powerful voice. He didn't this time, but watched people nod to him and tap a foot here and there. They did like his music, at least. Corey would be around, he didn't doubt, some time or another. He might have to walk many an alley, frequent many a bar or cafe, plant himself in the marketplace, but he would figure out where the guy was.

He was thinking about chewing a leaf out of the tin when someone new appeared in the corner of his eye. Someone with pale hair, young-looking, with dark eyes. His steel eyes locked onto him for an instant and immediately drifted. That was most definitely Corey. He knew because of the photograph he'd been supplied was a spitting image, and few had that combined eye and hair tone. He also looked rather lost, and Donatello couldn't blame him. He was obviously new to La Cisterna, perhaps looking for someone. If he was involved with who he was rumored to be involved with, there could be a myriad of reasons to be here. But there was no way he'd approach first. If push came to shove, he would follow the guy, learn about him. But he wanted to befriend him first. He would get paid by the information, and the more information he got, the higher the final paycheck would be.

Corey was about to leave when he finally found Angelina, sprawled out on a sofa and smoking something that was emitting a sickly sweet smell. He grinned as he approached her, tilting his head slightly. Luckily she was without an escort, her husband was upstairs drinking and gambling it seemed. He sat next to her, still smiling as she recognised him. "I'm outta stuff, you got any? Vince told me you had it."

"Oh, that rat. Yes, I have a variety of goods for you, Corey," she winked and sat up, resting her still burning toke on one of the ash trays provided. "What was it that you were into again?" She pulled out a small satchel that she had been lying on, sorting through bags of drugs. Corey was fascinated, usually they only had one or two different sorts on them. It seemed this was where she felt comfortable and safe enough to carry many more things with her. She pulled out some liquid and handed it over to Corey, without him having to remind her.

"How much?" Corey looked about the room and quickly pocketed the drugs. It was obvious that those around this part of the bar knew what was happening, but he still didn't feel right to buy them so openly. He was just too paranoid to trust that there were no FBI agents in this bar. Angelina gestured with her hand, and Corey handed over several notes. "Heck, that's more expensive than when Vince sold it to me." He wasn't complaining, however. He was paid reasonably well to do what he did for his boss, enough to waste hundreds on drugs and fine Italion wine. He smiled and bidded Angelina farewell, standing up and leaving the downstairs area. He left La Cisterna and climbed the stairs, aiming to go back to his apartment.

He set aside his instrument and stood, stretching and shaking his head. Taking in a breath of the clean water of the cistern, Donatello started to move, taking out his tin and from the tin, a small green leaf. Following the light-haired man, Corey, Donatello nibbled the end of the leaf and nothing more. Just to feel the very slight tingling effect. He didn’t want his judgment impeded right now. Later, when he was alone or with a nameless someone for the night, but now was too important. He climbed the stairs when he heard the door close, giving it a moment, then stepping out and blinking in the hard sunlight. He saw Corey going up the steps to the upper street, perhaps to use the bridge. There were no gondolas drifting by this time, so Donatello had to take a different staircase so it didn’t look obvious that he was following---or following at all. Pocketing the tin and the leaf after it was replaced, he strolled with a dazed expression and kept an eye on the man from just some yards away.

The man entered the bar across the canal, the one Donatello knew to be La Rete Fognaria. He knew there wasn’t any crime life there, no overt drug dealings, murder plots, creeps trying to catch a glance of a girl or guy in the bathroom, or people trying to solicit in the hallways. His was a disgusting, seedy, dangerous, dark haunt and he loved it the way it was, because he was welcome there, he wasn’t seen as anything but another druggie, or drunk, or a horny street rat looking for a quick lay upstairs in one of the rent-by-the-hour rooms. Of course he was all of those, but there was something else mixed in---cop work.

He waited for a while, then crossed the bridge and went down the stairs to La Rete Fognaria, and opened the door. It was... cleaner here. Of course, despite being called “The Sewer” in Amerian, it managed to look much better, and have better patrons, than La Cisterna. He didn’t do much gawking or staring about---Corey was gone, so he must live up or downstairs, depending on how the place ran. He wouldn’t be asking questions, though. Living above or below a bar meant access to it whenever one wanted, and all he had to do was act like another alcohol sponge and sit around. He went to the bar, to the darkest side and the darkest corner, and slid onto a stool, leaning on it and appearing more despondent and withdrawn than he was. He was approached by a bartender and he nodded to a light, rather cheap wine on the middle shelf. Nothing strong so early in the day, he reasoned with the guy, whose opinion he didn’t really care about. It was good enough to plant the seed of acceptance early. To justify why he was sticking around.