A Mick Rawson + Ethan Krieg RP between me and whereismystrawberrytart. Danny Devito is involved.

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Detroit.

This is the rougher area, and honestly it isn't far above a level that could get it labeled as the projects. Regardless of the grit and the stigma, however, this is home for many people. Among these is a man who can't quite call anywhere home for very long without getting itchy feet. His name is Ethan Krieg, and it's safe to say his life has taken more twists than a b-grade action movie at this point. No man should feel this akin to Jason Bourne, and to be quite frank he's running out of jokes to make on the matter. Serves him right for starting that trend in the first place.

This evening is a relaxed one, in all honesty. With no pressing job to plan out that can't wait until tomorrow or even later next week and no obligations this evening, Ethan is busying himself with something that doesn't seem to befit his character at first glance or conversation.

He's in a parking lot before a large multi-storied public housing building. The ramp leading up to it is shoddy, literally poured as cement over the old stairs when the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed. A metal pole with one support at each end and only one in the middle graces one side. Three boys ranging from 13 up to about 17 are with him, running a sort of obstacle course he has set up and marked out for them as they practice the skills he's teaching. In some way, he hopes making himself available from time to time might discourage them from heading straight for a gang once they're out of school. He's also made it clear he won't teach anyone ANYTHING if they drop before graduating. Whatever leverage it takes, really.

One by one, they sprint up the ramp and twist to the right, grabbing onto the railing to swing through and under without touching the ground, releasing and then landing gracefully into a crouch to take off at a run a mere moment later. Of course, they're knew at this, and they aren't perfect. There's a lot of near misses and several stumbles. He encourages them never the less.

"Good! Good work. Try arcing your back a little bit more when you twist under, though." His voice is devoid of regional accent, the standard one heard on TV from Americans and nothing more. He's spot-on average height for a man, meaning in all honesty he's rather short in comparison with how things have been changing since the last measurement was taken of the population. He's slim and built for motion over power, his body posture somehow relaxed but ready to spring at the same time. Like a scorpion, he is never to be underestimated in speed or reaction time.

He was bloody lost again.

Not that that wasn't expected from a Welshman who couldn't direct himself out of a two sided pipe.

At least here, in some shoddy ass side of town, he didn't stick out. Except for the accent but when he kept his mouth shut it made things a lot easier. He wasn't the best at imitating an American accent, the Welsh far too thick and honestly he couldn't even pass as a good British tourist. And hell, in this area, it was best that he just forced himself to blend in.

Which was why public housing was probably an ideal location to stuff himself for a while until the time was needed for him to throw his ass out and move on. Or at least until he figured out where the fuck he was.

He was a sniper both by trade and by mind, so taller buildings are ideal and almost like home, but in this area the best he could get that wasn't either a drug house or an apartment building. Here, he could happily sneak to the roof, maybe do a bit of scouting, and knock off for a bit of rest.

He had managed to stuff everything he had in a small duffle; there was no way he was leaving anything valuable in his car and with a pace that betrayed his state, he marched up when the sound of some kind of ruckus, leaning around the edge of the building to see some kind of whackaddo happening there, but as always, curiosity caught the better of him and he couldn't help but watch and find it somewhat alarming that a couple of school grade kids were hanging around with a man who looked thrice their ages.

"Well that's weird," he commented, slightly confused as to what the ever loving fuck they were doing.

"I-"

What the fuck is he supposed to say? Thank you for being the hundredth person to comment on my hair. Yes, I am very aware of how terrible it is, thank you oh so very much. You try bein' 'omeless and without warm watcher for weeks on end, yeah?

The suddenly friendliness sends a sort of uncomfortable shiver down his spine. Maybe he just wasn't used to it. Maybe this guy just creeped the fuck out of him. Whatever.

But then again, there was the prospect of making friends. And friends were always nice. Friends didn't kill you. Usually.

"Um, thank you?" he responded, blinking a few moments and trying very, very hard to ignore the comment about his hair. Snipers, all of them with their bruised egos and easy to hurt feelings. Fuck feelings. "You from around 'ere, then, yeah? 'M 'friad I'm a bit lost. Mick by the way."

Best to be friendly, right? This guy looked like he could easily take Mick out. And honestly he liked breathing and walking and all the other perks of being alive.

Friends might kill if the going gets rough, but it's a damn good thing Ethan Krieg doesn't have any friends. Nobody gets that name, and nobody gets to stay around long enough to earn it. He's pleasant in the same way towards anyone who can keep up with him, so here's hoping he takes a liking to Mick.

"I'm from around here now. Not always, but that's how life goes, right bro? You understand that, don't you? Welsh, right?" How….did he know that? What kind of American could possibly know it on sound alone unless they had connections over there, especially in this neighborhood? Ethan looks like a thug- he's a clear mix of ethnicity, bearing ink and dressing like a gangster. He doesn't look like he'd be very smart, but it turns out from that one hint he's more than meets the eye.

"Mick? Ethan. Nice to meet you. What's up? How can I help?" Friendly enough. He extends a fist for a bump, and he isn't taking no for an answer.

What the fuck. What the fuck?

In his career, Mick Rawson had met some strange and honestly fucked up individuals. From a man who traveled around with his sister's rotten corpse, to a generic serial killer who just really, really had a very close and personal sexual connection to his victims.

But this guy…Just freaked him out.

"Yeah. S'Welsh. Surprised you caught that," he's genuine about that, most who heard his accent guessed British (an insult, mind you). He was starting to almost wish he'd just kept on his way, ignored the sound of whatever the fuck they were doing and just went on his own way.

But he didn't exactly have a choice in company now, did he? And this chap did say he knew his way around…

He looked at the fist with a frown. "I'm not touching that, sorry mate. bit of a Germophobe."

A lie of course. But Mick doesn't know where that thing has been.

"…" Ethan, clearly offended by the exclamation, instead lets his hand drop. The friendly demeanor is gone in an instant as if a switch had been flipped. Mick is left facing a rather sullen looking man who might as well have been locked out of his own house in the rain. Who knew refusing a fistbump could end up this badly for both parties? He merely huffs and shakes his head.

"Cool. Fine. But seriously, bro, what you looking for all the way out here? City's that direction. You're in the 'hood, and looking like you do- no offense- is a good way to get shanked. So what can I do for you?" He's not amused, but at least he's giving Mick the time of day.

Problem was, Mick was a man defined by trust issues. He'd just met this man, so anything beyond casual conversation at first was almost too much for him. Hell, perhaps it was just him being a dick.

Still, didn't help that the guy looked like a kicked puppy who was left in the rain. Damn it, you are incredibly terrible at social interaction, aren't you?

"Look, mate, no offense, just 'ave a thing with touching. Bit squeamish, y'know. Uncomfortable, blah blah blah."

"Honestly? I had a call to come out here. Apparently the contact 'asn't shown up, so I've been wanderin' around trying to find a place to get a kip," he looked around. "Not gonna get that out here, am I?"

A terrible lie Ethan picks up on instantly, which is pretty obvious from the look on his face and the faint smirk he gives in response. "Mm…hm. Ok. Yeah, you want a hotel, guy like you? You should get as far out of this part of town as you can. Not everybody here's tolerant of "different," as ironic as that is." He gives fair and honest warning with a faint smile that pushes away the suspicion he holds on account of Mick's abrupt appearance and odd accent.

"Totaled, huh? Well, I don't have a car or any shit like that, but I could walk you somewhere, if that would make you feel better about being down here." He offers it in a somewhat mocking tone not because it doesn't mean he would do it but because he's teasing Mick if the man were to show himself being nervous at all down here, in the shadow of the city.

"I can 'andle myself, thank you."

Bruised ego, he felt it sting hard. He tried hard to keep that stereotype from attaching itself onto him but he couldn't help but be a little offended that this man didn't seem think he could handle himself when push came to shove. Sure has a little malnurished, a bit weak in the upper body and a tiny bit off his practice but put a gun or some kind of bow staff in his hand and he could fend himself off quite well, thank you very much.

But now Ethan's teasing words felt like a challenge.

"But I wouldn't mind the company, 'specially since my job isn't gonna get done down 'ere," he shoved his hands into his pockets, old habit whenever he didn't have something in his hands. "Said your name was Ethan, right?" There we go, get the conversation on to something else.

Hell, he was curious about this man. Mostly because he thought the guy was weird and interesting as hell. Probably couldn't be any worse than the doppelganger, though.

But Mick Rawson had a nasty habit of walking into weird.

"Yeah, that's me." A weak conversation starter is better than nothing at all. "So. Mick. This job's gotta be a pretty damn odd one given…uh, the part of town it's dropped you in. I hope it goes well for you." It's not a threat and it's quite honestly what he's said it to be- a wish for success. Maybe there is honor among those who live here, and maybe his act to scare away strangers is just well-practiced for the sake of image and weeding out those who can't put up some kind of wall against it.

He leads the way without doing so intrusively, his steps cutting the distance between them smaller as he guides so it's almost like how cattle are herded. He understands human movement and body language's clues into it well, apparently. Talk about a useful and dangerous skill for a gangster to have.

"It is an odd job, yes," he agreed, following the other man and watching Ethan with a curiosity he didn't even bother to hide. "I kill people for a living."

He says it so casually it doesn't even phase him. It feels liberating to say, actually. Always coming up with lies, always trying to cover up what he was, that took a lot of of a man. But honestly, he was wanting to see what this man's reaction would be. Maybe it was that old bit of profiler in him. Maybe he just wanted to know what Ethan was all about. "I have conditions to it, of course. But that doesn't exactly condone it, does it?"

At first, Ethan is dead silent. Then, he lets Mick finish and stops walking for a moment, staring with wide eyes. and then? Finally, a response. "…NO WAY! BRO! ME TOO!" As if it were the best connection in the world, the hitman strides forward and bro hugs Mick whether he wants it or not. His strength is crushing and his weight immense- that simply isn't normal for someone of his size. "Dude, that's badass! I never thought I'd so openly meet somebody else who…yeah! WOW, bro, then you've got all the help from me you want. Welcome to Detroit, motherfucker." Ethan backs off, grinning like a kid in a candy store.

Lovely.

Well that was unexpected.

Still, he let Ethan hug him, even if it did cause his back to pop and force a little wheeze out of him. But the openness is just too wonderful to think about. It was a test that went weirdly the unexpected route and honestly the Welshman didn't mind.

"Thank you?" he stuttered out, not exactly sure what to say. "We in the same business then? The whole ah, ordeal, shoot to kill, yadda yadda?"

Strange comfort flooded into him. "'Onestly that's a relief, runnin' into someone else in the business. Never really 'appened before."

Ethan's suddenly cheerful and slightly creepy tones however seem to affect his mood as well, making him smirk. "We should ah, come up with some secret handshake or somethink."

"I don't tend to shoot, but yeah! I like knives, poison, "accidents." I like people not knowing a third party was involved. But I respect snipers and gunmen, bro. Sometimes I break one out myself, but I'm not very good with a rifle from a long distance. Up close I'm alright." He discusses it openly with zero fear of repercussion. If Mick was an undercover cop, well…he'd die before Ethan went in for what he admits. It's happened before, and it hopefully won't happen again. Because Krieg knows he's protected both because of his occasional military and government employers, the fact that he's dead on record, and the simple fact he can handle himself, he doesn't spend much (if any) time concerning himself with the inner workings of what might happen should he run into trouble.

"It's rare, but that's a good thing. Others like us, I mean. We aren't the friendly type, normally. You're different. And I like the idea of a handshake. Hey…speaking of your contact…when's that going down, exactly?"

"Supposed to go down in a few hours, but 'aven't made contact with my client yet," he stretched back, relaxing inch by inch as they spoke. "Client" wasn't that far off from a shady government character, some old bloke who tended to keep his secret affairs well, secret. And the current target, some mediocre dingus who strangely reminded Mick of some actor he'd seen in a movie before. Deciding that working the job alone didn't exactly have the perks of working it with a new friend, Mick dug in his shoulder bag for the file and handed it over.

"You're free to work it with. Wouldn't mind it," he smiled. "Guy kinda reminds me of Danny Devito."

"You mentioned taking a shot- you a sniper type, bro? If you need a spotter, I'm your man. I've got nothing going on and I won't ask for much of a cut if you'd like some company." It's a good offer, and he means it whole-heartedly. After all, what do you call an assassin that accuses other assassins?….my friend.

"Danny Devito? Then it will be a pleasure. That guy haunts my dreams sometimes. I'm not explaining why, alright?" Ethan flips through the file, glancing at the picture and giving a bright grimace. "GOD. Are you sure it…ISN'T really him? Because I see no difference at all." He passes it back over when satisfied.

Mick frowned, taking it bakc and flipping the photo of the target at all angles before sliding it back into his file. "Yeah, pretty sure. Doubt a military big shot would be concerned over Danny Devito. Bless him, that man is an icon. Plus look at the mustache, you think Danny Devito would 'ave somethin' that ridiculous on 'is face, mate?"

Real question. Danny Devito was a big thing in Wales. Kinda. Sorta. Mick was just a fanboy.

"And yeah, could consider me a sniper type," if "could consider" was "I was once labeled as the best in my business", then sure, he was a sniper type. But a spotter, yeah that would be something he could use. Cash value of the job wasn't much but he didn't mind a tick about splitting it. "Settled then. If my contact doesn't well, contact, we'll just kill the first thing we see that looks like Danny Devito. Simple enough, really."

"I like that idea. Let's do that. Hey, you need a hotel or you just wanna crash at my place? Honestly, it would be less conspicuous to show up there. Nobody questions people coming and going in the projects, especially if they're connected enough to not be messed with. I'm not much of a cook, though. You've been warned." The offer stands firm and open, and he reconsiders what else Mick has said. "You wanted a nap, right? Well, take one there. I'll review the file and think it all over, and then tonight we can get moving. Sound good? Keep your phone on for a ring from the boss and get some rest where you aren't going to get mugged or…worse."

Hey, in a place like this? It might just happen. He assumes his offer will be taken up, and so with that in mind he motions for Mick to follow him towards a massive but crumbling housing project. For a man who clearly earns money from his kills, he seems to enjoy living in squalor.

"I'd love it. Lead on."

Ah, the beauty of friendship. Or partnership. Either way, he could use the asset. At least he'd taken his things from his car beforehand, he thought as he slung his duffle aside so that it stopped chafing his shoulder and wrapping his fingers around the worn handle of the rifle case he carried and marched on.

Here he was, walking in with a complete stranger who killed people for a living and yet somehow he felt more comfortable with this chap than he did with his doppelganger. Then again, this guy had an excuse to be weird. John Constantine was just a nutball.

"Better than paying for a dirty room and gettin' shitty service, eh?" he said as he patted his side for his phone. Hell, he was excited, he couldn't help it. New friend, possibility of a good job getting done, and the prospect of a bit of food and rest beforehand? Hell yeah.

"Thanks mate, really appreciate it."