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Festive
Snowdrops
Nightwing95
Chronic
TokyoPewPew
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Tlaloc
Apoalo
Little Bird
“I hate rain.”
An annoyed, almost whining-like growl escaped his flesh-colored lips. A lot of greater men were unaffected by the tiny droplets of moisture that fell from the sky. Had this particular day been any other without the double-faced excitement and slight stress not been weighing on Francisco’s shoulders, perhaps the man wouldn’t have minded his premium, exclusive-to-him, Spanish leather suit (yes Spanish because he refused to wear anything but his native country’s work) being lightly drenched with the mild downpour of rain hitting him and the maroon umbrella he had hovering over him. God forbid he actually allow this rain mess up the hours that went into getting the smooth texture of each, individual streak of his dark brown hair and that’s not even mentioning the slight, careful trimmings he made to his facial hair. The rain wasn’t going to harm a hair on his chinny, chin-chin.
Footsteps blended in with the downpour, smooth concrete and hard leather tapped and tapped. As he made his way across the street had heeded a turn, soon it was clear that he was heading in the right direction. Not only were crowds of people gathering outside the history museum, but guests dressed similarly to Francisco entered the Paramorlian Cathedral. And, before he would as well, the Spain national took a few moments to admire the structure and all of its beauty. He had a job to do, of course. People were likely watching him from afar. There wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that The Bird had eyes on him from a secure location. Wherever they were, he turned around, and raised his umbrella for only a moment and smiled at the tallest building he could find.
Shortly after taking another series of long moments, the man took to his own entry. As he reached the door, a well-dressed, obviously well-equipped man who posed as the doorman (Cisco knew he was more than that). His experience at these events could just tell, based off of the posture of the subtlety-buff male that he had some sort of bulletproof armor under that Italian suit and there was likely a gun or firearm of some variety on his person. Had he been a guessing man, which Francisco Delgado Jr prided himself in being, it was on the doorman’s dominant side.
“Your invitation, sir?” The man asked him, a voice that was modestly deep. The man himself was of African-American descent. Francisco heard the subtle hint of a Nigerian accent mixed in with the North American influence.
Smiling back at the neutral-faced guard, Francisco pulled out an envelope that was elaborately-designed. Along with the sigil of the Paramorlian History Museum, the name of the gala was also present. “This should cover everything, señor,” he spoke as courteous as he could muster. What he really wanted to do was punch this guy in the mouth because that’s how much his superiority complex demanded of him. But, to save face and not get thrown out by whatever person was in charge, Francisco refrained.
“Very good, sir. Enjoy the Gala!”
In exchange, Francisco received a stylish, wrist bracelet that ironically blended in with the suit he was wearing so it didn’t stand out too much. It was still tacky and just a little too plain for his flashy tastes, but that wasn't so important that the man was going to waste his breath or any of his time or energy on it. He’d rather focus on what he came here to do, which just so happened to case the area top to bottom as he put on the best socializing smile he had in him and pretend he actually gave two shits about what these aristocrats had to say about the building and the latest gossip.
So he spent the better part of an hour talking to businesspeople, owners of art shops, art dealers, musicians, historians, CEOs of companies from the surrounding cities that had an interest in The Badlands, and basically anyone too rich for Francisco’s genuine interest. Some of them were interesting like an old, wealthy white lady who seemed to be plagued with thoughts about how her latino lover cheated on her with her granddaughter. This was interesting to him because it reminded him of the telenovelas that he remembered his baby sister loved as a kid.
Another that caught his eye was an alluring beauty he had only caught from behind. To his undoubtable surprise, this beauty wasn't a beauty at all. From the back, she looked like something out of his dreams, but when she turned around, Francisco did all that he could to prevent the champagne coming back up to properly greet her. It wasn’t that she was ugly in the way her face was shaped or even the way her eyes seemed too far from her nose. It was her attitude. How she blatantly referred to him as a name that nobody other than his own father called him and even then, it wasn’t the kind of thing anyone in their right mind would dare say without any shame. Clearly, an ignorant person who forgot they lived in the 21st century.
He had to pull himself away from the growing group of older and younger people than him if he was going to maintain any of his dignity and, above all else, his sanity. Casing this place was becoming a lot more work than he initially thought it was going to be. Every corner he turned, if there wasn’t a guard posted by every exit, there had been an annoying gala-goer wanting to speak to him. And in all that time, he had been going from one panel where a translated page was translated to another. His interest, though it was increasing to the point of genuine curiosity of the contents, what Cisco really wanted was to find the book itself - the famed Atis. The only problem he was experiencing was getting from the Gala main floor to where it could be located at.
And thus there lay the root of his problem. He more had the means, but it wasn’t the actual doing of the act that presented Francisco with his biggest obstacle; it was distracting the guards long enough to sneak where he needed to get to, but alone, he found that near to impossible. What he needed was someone willing to distract, or at the very least, buy him time to do what the device his kid sister gave to him. He knew that was asking for a miracle.
“In other words? I’m screwed.”
An annoyed, almost whining-like growl escaped his flesh-colored lips. A lot of greater men were unaffected by the tiny droplets of moisture that fell from the sky. Had this particular day been any other without the double-faced excitement and slight stress not been weighing on Francisco’s shoulders, perhaps the man wouldn’t have minded his premium, exclusive-to-him, Spanish leather suit (yes Spanish because he refused to wear anything but his native country’s work) being lightly drenched with the mild downpour of rain hitting him and the maroon umbrella he had hovering over him. God forbid he actually allow this rain mess up the hours that went into getting the smooth texture of each, individual streak of his dark brown hair and that’s not even mentioning the slight, careful trimmings he made to his facial hair. The rain wasn’t going to harm a hair on his chinny, chin-chin.
Footsteps blended in with the downpour, smooth concrete and hard leather tapped and tapped. As he made his way across the street had heeded a turn, soon it was clear that he was heading in the right direction. Not only were crowds of people gathering outside the history museum, but guests dressed similarly to Francisco entered the Paramorlian Cathedral. And, before he would as well, the Spain national took a few moments to admire the structure and all of its beauty. He had a job to do, of course. People were likely watching him from afar. There wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that The Bird had eyes on him from a secure location. Wherever they were, he turned around, and raised his umbrella for only a moment and smiled at the tallest building he could find.
Shortly after taking another series of long moments, the man took to his own entry. As he reached the door, a well-dressed, obviously well-equipped man who posed as the doorman (Cisco knew he was more than that). His experience at these events could just tell, based off of the posture of the subtlety-buff male that he had some sort of bulletproof armor under that Italian suit and there was likely a gun or firearm of some variety on his person. Had he been a guessing man, which Francisco Delgado Jr prided himself in being, it was on the doorman’s dominant side.
“Your invitation, sir?” The man asked him, a voice that was modestly deep. The man himself was of African-American descent. Francisco heard the subtle hint of a Nigerian accent mixed in with the North American influence.
Smiling back at the neutral-faced guard, Francisco pulled out an envelope that was elaborately-designed. Along with the sigil of the Paramorlian History Museum, the name of the gala was also present. “This should cover everything, señor,” he spoke as courteous as he could muster. What he really wanted to do was punch this guy in the mouth because that’s how much his superiority complex demanded of him. But, to save face and not get thrown out by whatever person was in charge, Francisco refrained.
“Very good, sir. Enjoy the Gala!”
In exchange, Francisco received a stylish, wrist bracelet that ironically blended in with the suit he was wearing so it didn’t stand out too much. It was still tacky and just a little too plain for his flashy tastes, but that wasn't so important that the man was going to waste his breath or any of his time or energy on it. He’d rather focus on what he came here to do, which just so happened to case the area top to bottom as he put on the best socializing smile he had in him and pretend he actually gave two shits about what these aristocrats had to say about the building and the latest gossip.
So he spent the better part of an hour talking to businesspeople, owners of art shops, art dealers, musicians, historians, CEOs of companies from the surrounding cities that had an interest in The Badlands, and basically anyone too rich for Francisco’s genuine interest. Some of them were interesting like an old, wealthy white lady who seemed to be plagued with thoughts about how her latino lover cheated on her with her granddaughter. This was interesting to him because it reminded him of the telenovelas that he remembered his baby sister loved as a kid.
Another that caught his eye was an alluring beauty he had only caught from behind. To his undoubtable surprise, this beauty wasn't a beauty at all. From the back, she looked like something out of his dreams, but when she turned around, Francisco did all that he could to prevent the champagne coming back up to properly greet her. It wasn’t that she was ugly in the way her face was shaped or even the way her eyes seemed too far from her nose. It was her attitude. How she blatantly referred to him as a name that nobody other than his own father called him and even then, it wasn’t the kind of thing anyone in their right mind would dare say without any shame. Clearly, an ignorant person who forgot they lived in the 21st century.
He had to pull himself away from the growing group of older and younger people than him if he was going to maintain any of his dignity and, above all else, his sanity. Casing this place was becoming a lot more work than he initially thought it was going to be. Every corner he turned, if there wasn’t a guard posted by every exit, there had been an annoying gala-goer wanting to speak to him. And in all that time, he had been going from one panel where a translated page was translated to another. His interest, though it was increasing to the point of genuine curiosity of the contents, what Cisco really wanted was to find the book itself - the famed Atis. The only problem he was experiencing was getting from the Gala main floor to where it could be located at.
And thus there lay the root of his problem. He more had the means, but it wasn’t the actual doing of the act that presented Francisco with his biggest obstacle; it was distracting the guards long enough to sneak where he needed to get to, but alone, he found that near to impossible. What he needed was someone willing to distract, or at the very least, buy him time to do what the device his kid sister gave to him. He knew that was asking for a miracle.
“In other words? I’m screwed.”
