AlphaZero
Dracula's not an Avenger? That lying fuck!
- Joined
- Aug 4, 2013
Three days ago Jason Grave had been sitting in a cramped, un-air-conditioned office somewhere in midtown DC, reviewing information on local religious sects, trying to determine if any of them could prove to be occult threats to national security. Without warning he was jammed onto a red eye flight to Langley, given a briefing and an operations account with a figure that was more than he could ever imagine needing then packed onto another flight to a cluster of small islands making up a tropical resort in the Caribbean.
A hot breeze drifted through the open balcony door of the hotel suit, the curtains billowing out to dance to some unheard tune. Jason leaned against the railing of the balcony, looking out towards the setting sun, a cigarette teetering on the edge of his lip. He had arrived at the hotel to find the closet full of tailored suits, slacks and shirts, all of it far fancier than he was used to. The cigarette sailed from the balcony, a trail of smoke disappearing along with it. He turned on the heel of one shoe, stepping briskly back into the room. A folder sat on the low magony coffee table a long with leather shoulder holster rig, a well maintained .45 Colt nestled in it. Jason was in his early thirties with a dark hair slicked right back and steely grey eyes.
His fingers moved deftly, doing up the buttons of the white shirt he wore before sipping on a tie and shrugging on his holster before picking up a tailored jacket from the back of the couch, shrugging it on before stepping in front of a full length mirror and adjusting his holster to ensure the weapon was hidden then paused to shake a small charm bracelet loose around his wrist. He was to meet his contact, some agent the Brits had sent over. He slipped from his room and down to the elevator. The hotel bar was on the roof, an glass roofed structure with palm trees growing inside of it, small groves set up to provide privacy to the people mingling over drinks.
Jason took a seat at the bar, flagging down the bar man he ordered himself a scotch on the rocks and dug his cigarettes from inside his jacket, firing a fresh one with a faded old Zippo and settled in to await his contact.
A hot breeze drifted through the open balcony door of the hotel suit, the curtains billowing out to dance to some unheard tune. Jason leaned against the railing of the balcony, looking out towards the setting sun, a cigarette teetering on the edge of his lip. He had arrived at the hotel to find the closet full of tailored suits, slacks and shirts, all of it far fancier than he was used to. The cigarette sailed from the balcony, a trail of smoke disappearing along with it. He turned on the heel of one shoe, stepping briskly back into the room. A folder sat on the low magony coffee table a long with leather shoulder holster rig, a well maintained .45 Colt nestled in it. Jason was in his early thirties with a dark hair slicked right back and steely grey eyes.
His fingers moved deftly, doing up the buttons of the white shirt he wore before sipping on a tie and shrugging on his holster before picking up a tailored jacket from the back of the couch, shrugging it on before stepping in front of a full length mirror and adjusting his holster to ensure the weapon was hidden then paused to shake a small charm bracelet loose around his wrist. He was to meet his contact, some agent the Brits had sent over. He slipped from his room and down to the elevator. The hotel bar was on the roof, an glass roofed structure with palm trees growing inside of it, small groves set up to provide privacy to the people mingling over drinks.
Jason took a seat at the bar, flagging down the bar man he ordered himself a scotch on the rocks and dug his cigarettes from inside his jacket, firing a fresh one with a faded old Zippo and settled in to await his contact.