"You should never underestimate the predictability of stupidity." - Bullet Tooth Tony, Snatch
NATIONALITY • Japanese American
BORN • Seattle, Washington
AGE RANGE • 30 to 39
BIRTHDAY • March 21st
SEXUAL ORIENTATION • Straight
HEIGHT - WEIGHT • 6'4" - 190 pounds
BODY SHAPE • Trapezoid
HAIR - EYES • Black - Brown
GLASSES • No
LANGUAGES • English, Japanese, Russian
OCCUPATIONS • Crime, Economist
EDUCATION • College
NERVOUS TICK • Runs tongue along teeth
WEAKNESSES • Slow Dances
TIME OF DAY • Any
PIERCINGS • None
TATTOOS • None
SMOKES • Yes
HOBBIES • Reading, Playing Cello
EXERCISE • Martial arts
MUSIC • Classical
MOVIES • Hero
BOOKS • And Then There Were None
FOOD • Junk food
DRINKS • Coffee
COLORS • Navy
PET • None
SCIENCE FICTION • CIRCA 2016
God, is everything in this room fucking gray?
Sneering slightly Mark starred at the wall, the maps of Uriel toned into different levels of colorless shades showing different districts, pinned up to the wall with silver pins. They were mixed with papers and notes. All taped up, plastered along the steely paint of the stark room. Even the sound of the phones as they rang, it was as if the mechanism inside was dying, the note not true, fading away into what could only be described as a gray sound.
Picking up the mug from his desk he paused, brown eyes glaring down at the color. A white porcelain, but through the years of being tossed into a murky sink with stained water had turned an off white. Groaning he took a quick sip, his gaze looking up over the rim and catching the sight of a small, bright orange note, letters scribbled on the square of colorful paper and tacked to some evolving crime under investigation.
And in a way, he hated that damned bit of color more than the gray.
“Persons of interest coming to your desk Watanabe.”
Dropping the mug onto the desk he turned, chair cracking under his weight, his boss sitting on the edge of the metal surface. Gray slacks, on gray metal. His nose picked up for a moment in distaste before washing the expression away to look up at the man. Dull.
Handing over the paperwork the man sighed, “we have a few others working on the case, raided a club last night. As we get more information it will be passed your way. We thought, perhaps you could speak with your father.”
It was code.
Speak with your father.
Even his fucking words were gray. Not to the point, not clear or direct. Pulling in a breath he held it there, looking at the cover of the folder for a moment. They wanted him to check for illegal activity, because his family, while in part mixed together with the police service, was familiar with the crime they appeared to uphold. Not speaking a word he tilted his head up to his boss. Though they both knew if he wanted, Mark could simply deny any request and do as he pleased.
Pushing a finger into the folder he propped it open, looking away and offering no response. The man knew. Pulling off the desk he left Mark alone with his new assignment. Left him alone, starring down at what appeared to be very close artistic representation of his girlfriend. And the asshole she had been dancing with.