M U R K

Fletcher Hargrave | 29 | Former Spec Ops | Mercenary @ Mercy

[fletcherhargrave]

ilianaxcstx​:

closed: @fletcherhargrave​

There’s something to be said about the nostalgia of a town one would try to run away from and when it comes to Iliana, she knows that the feeling is fleeting and there’s an urge to hop onto the nearest plane and never return. But Lina’s pregnant apparently and if she wasn’t so nice, there would be no reason to be here. The town is big enough, she hopes, and maybe if she’s real good, the chances of bumping into someone that haunts the empty space in her bed are slim to none, but Iliana’s lived her life enough to know that luck is never on her side.

And so when she sees her ex husband walking down the street like it’s nothing, like he isn’t racked with the guilt of breaking them when she’s forced to relive the very moment he did so every time she closes her eyes, she turns the other way and tries to make an escape. What she doesn’t account for is the traffic of people behind her, knocking straight onto an incoming old lady and almost falling in the process. They’re about to go at it – or at least Iliana is about to deck a geriatric for ruining her getaway – but she lets it go and turns around once again forgetting that she’s supposed to be avoiding someone in the first place. 

“Fuck.”

-

Cigarette smoke breezes from between lips, white mist that emanates an unpleasant staleness about the air in front of Fletcher when he pads along the concrete pavement. It’s thick in places, where tar clings to the back of his throat and forms lumps of stickiness that can only be forced down with hashed swallows. The expert motion of the mercenary’s lips roll the straight along, let it nestle in the corner, for just a moment to allow his next exhaled wave of pollution into the atmosphere. Then, two fingers slide it between, and he taps grey ash off the end; butterflies to the ground to become near invisible against the same grate of colour on the ground. There’s no actual direction he’s looking, near absent is his attention, other than the awareness for his surroundings to keep him moving forward. Boots crunch down carelessly, the falter is so fast; almost missed when inattentive hues suddenly pay attention to a face he cannot forget.

Iliana. 

Fuck this. Hargrave refuses to succumb to the feelings that somehow find their way past bricked barriers; walls cemented with so many layers that a fucking jackhammer shouldn’t be able to make a dent in them. A chip in the blocks built so securely that Iliana Acosta shouldn’t be able to leave even a scratch on it.

And she does that and more from halfway across the street.

It’s a coldness he finds underneath each broken layers that starts to rot away like she’s a kind of acid that melts his skin, incites the urge to scratch the discomfort away where he knows it’s his own doing; the divorce. A ridiculous notion to begin with – Fletcher fucking Hargrave, married to anyone had been a joke nobody believed, until they met her and realised that she balanced the psychotic with another kind of it; alternative breed of insanity that complimented his own; Bonnie and Clyde didn’t have shit all on them. 

Where the thoughts inside his mind deteriorate into something else, a newfound amusement as she clocks him like the briefest of shared gaze stirs the same sensation it always has. And she’s out of his reach. Cannot ghost fingers along soft skin, warm blood heats the epithelium and reminds him how satisfying it is to press metal deep and open up another kind of feeling; a reminder that nobody else can play the game of knives nearly as well as Lia can.

Along with that comes the reason why she isn’t his wife any longer, the way the inexplicable job went awry. Fletcher shouldn’t admit he can remember the moment of another woman’s hands on him, the sickest of requests fulfilled when a married man somewhat willingly takes up an offer when the upper hand is lost; when Iliana’s life had been threatened and the only option seemed so understandable; fucking is hardly the crime of the century when that’s all it is. And it hadn’t been standard; a complicated lie that had been buried beneath manipulation; a price paid in order to secure his wife’s life. Something, Lia didn’t believe then and consequently ruined for them now.

But he remembers all of that, can bring the memories to surface vividly, just as he can recall the blood and knives of his wife in their car fucks; ruined interiors of so many fucking nice cars, a deep cleaning request that always earned lifted brows and a shaky agreement only secured by green in hands. Silence promised. It’s not a wrongdoing to cut a woman apart if she likes it; just as the roles reversed feed into the masochistic, sadistic kind of lifestyle the Hargrave’s both shared.

Did share.

Fletcher doesn’t chase, never has. But where he’s not running like some desperate ex that begins calling out apologies down the street like some shamed weak thing. He does find himself still walking closer, flicks his cigarette away automatically, the neutral expression that is only broken when a tick of lips lift in one corner; hooked up in a near false way that looks too unbelievable to be real.

But it is, and somehow, it’s a hurt the mercenary declines to accept.

Iliana, you fucking bitch. Waste of breath to continue attempting to justify his actions of the past when she signed the same documents he did and fought him at every turn to disprove all reasonable elucidations that he presented her. But he misses that hands on him; the way she carves that knife and leaves scars that every time he fucking sees them reminds him of her. It’s a twisted hate; something that is rooted deep in his pit, a fist near tempted to punch the post when he passes it, if only to feel that hurt physically – he understands that better than the type that he can’t stop when it’s a consequence of neurons, cells in a body acting on their own; without any of his say so.

He doesn’t even know the name of the fucking woman that he had pressed up against a dank wall, armed and screwing for Iliana in some tasteless spiral of fate that put them there on that job together in the first place. A lie you believed and you rammed your cock in her because it was easier than not. Whilst he reminisces on that, he is reminded how little he knows of that one-off psychotic result of a merc hit that went wrong, Iliana had always been the partner that mattered there.

It’s that hate that angers him most; the way it had happened; not the fact he did it at all.

Regret something he doesn’t think he’d recognise even if it were that. But a methodical calculation in the manner he racks his mind over how she’s right there when there’s so many other places she could be, is certainly, karma.

Not the kind of torture he likes. 

He’s at least within audible distance now, the only way he can cope with not reaching out to slam her into the brick wall behind her; crack it the same way she tore down his own mental ones in seconds is almost the most willpower he’s ever possessed. Because he wants to take her right there and make her remember what she walked out on. Doesn’t care who watches. 

When his lips lift, manage it in the only way he can without exploding in places he cannot, she’s not long near stumbled into an elderly civilian.

“Fuck, what, Lia,”

[fletcherhargrave]

KNIVES.

Location: Underground/BM.  Time: Idk. Late sometime.  Closed for: @hadleyxhopewell​

The underground of Santa Ysabel; a place of wandering souls, prowlers that find a twisted comfort in the carcinogenic cigarette filled air. A stale aftertaste of burnt rubber that implies some kind of race has not long taken part – a street of carnage that all understand is vices unrestricted. There’s a line walked – crossed in fact, the lawless and insufferable that find the haven of illegalities an aphrodisiac.

It’s surprisingly warm despite concrete walls, an appeal in the bazaar that bodies exude enough heat, most shrouded in heavy wears that hide faces; identities that are kept secret, under wraps to provide a comfortable, shiver-less walk. Fletcher’s not there for any particular reason, he’s not been given a job – not bothered to collect one being more accurate. But light blue hues skim wares and artefacts with some curiosity, something sharp always welcome in the ever growing repertoire.

Hargrave’s armed; a gun’s tucked into the rear of cargo’s and there’s a holster on his right side that houses a blade; bowie sized, an extension of himself like picking up his cycle keys or his phone. They’re important; necessities that the mercenary doesn’t leave behind without good reason. And usually, there’s never a good enough one. He stops the memories before they have an opening to surface; plague the forefront of his mind; the other half of the notorious duo that simply is no more. A misunderstanding on a job gone awry; not worth the neurons to deliberate about anymore. Fletcher’s silently thankful for the shine that sparks in his peripheries, distraction, evokes a twist of his head in that direction when the tunnelled lanes of the beneath begin to wind around like a slalom.

A woman’s figure obfuscates the table – kind of classy extremity for Black Market dwellers, really. But a somewhat organisation that prides of its merchandise. Fletcher’s already closing the distance, takes up a position to the right of the stranger so he can glimpse at the blade she’s handling with an amused smirk. It’s moving between fingers, an imagination wild that pictures what red might look against the sheen of the steel. Hargrave absently picks up another on display; like a child in a sweet shop that can’t resist touching everything, even if this version might take appendages off. He points it into his palm, twists it against his flesh to feel the tightness of skin tempt to break under it before he makes a sideways jibe at the stranger and her knife inspecting:

“Careful with that, wouldn’t want you to lose those pretty fingers of yours now, would we?”

[fletcherhargrave]

ryker-bishop​:

It wasn’t often that Ryker treated himself to much of anything — 6 days of the week he was working. Today however, on a Saturday.  He went down to Worth a Shot, feeling restless and a needing clear his head. He was sat at the bar.  Not sure yet what else he wanted to do with the rest of his night.

As early as it was though, there was always a drunk or two milling about, and just as he was finishing his shot, he casually watched one get booted from the bar. On his way out, the man stumbled as he walked, and crashed —quite cartoonishly — headlong into a telephone post. 

“ He’ll feel that in the morning.” @indulgencerpgstarters​

-

Calloused fingers wrap around crystal; honey bourbon neat at its base, glows beneath Worth a Shot’s dim lighting and becomes a little reflective of the ghosts that can be found when it touches tongues. Alcohol a vice in itself; activates the demons in every individual, triggers the monsters that live dormant in the flesh of the pretty faces humanity wears. Swallow down the substance and watch as it infects every fibre, swarms through veins like a poison and activates the system’s second stage of existence. The creature that comes alive when its fed. The difference between most and Hargrave, is the fact he doesn’t stop it, welcomes the demon to surface and buries the slither – if it’s even that, of care that he hates that he possesses. Lets the whiskey burn his insides like the masochist he is and enjoys every moment he gets to play reaper to the masses.

And mostly, because the demon of drunk isn’t all that different to the man sober. 

The bar’s busy, bustling one could say, myriad of stages of drunk visible in peripheries, slurs thrown about as though only moments away from being followed by a thump of an incapable collapsing. It’s a mess so normal that it’s forgotten; ignorance a real bliss when Fletcher hunts for a cigarette from his jacket pocket. A man behind him, brushes too close, near knocks him and encourages the tipsy monster forward, but karma catches the stranger first, Fletch’s head twisting with disinterest at the bloke being qrestled, arms flailing like he’s to be thrown into traffic. He considers going out to watch if that is the case. Expects the bouncers – security, whatever they are aren’t quite as virulent as Hargrave is. Fuckers. It’s quiet, cigarette recovered from leather pockets tap the bar side with his free hand, other lifts the Woodford to his lips, swallows down the fire and catches the backend of another strangers comment.

Crystal lowers, clunks back to the wood whilst fingers slide along the rim thoughtfully. Fletcher’s smirk is mirrored back in the trickle of liquid remaining inside.

“I am sure the shit’s grateful that it’s all he’ll wake up in the morning with,”

[fletcherhargrave]

opheliadavis​:

@indulgencerpgstarters

​

Ophelia wasn’t used to being a working girl. Not in this sense anyway, being a waitress. It was positively degrading but until she got something more sustainable under her belt than the very large bag of cash she was currently living off of, needs must. Still, that didn’t stop the usually quick tempered girl from being in a particularly nasty mood these days, worse than even those that knew her would know how to contend with. Worse than even she knew how to deal with, but loosing the love of your life at 23 would do that too you. Parked at what had become her usual spot at flick the bean over the past couple of weeks she was busy scribbling in her well worn journal, notes, plans, thoughts, when the scrape of the chair opposite her caught her attention and her expression dropped to something even more sinister than what she was sure was a resting bitch face just moments prior. “I’m sorry I missed the part I invited you to join me here.” 

-

There’s a violent throbbing in Fletcher’s head, a pulsating of something pressing up against the blood brain barrier as though a captured, dying creature is attempting to escape the holes of his less than savoury brain. Hungover, slightly unkempt in the way a pair of cargos cling to his waist, belted tight and with a peculiar red stain a little darker than the average on his left thigh; unmissable unless someone were really looking. Navy coloured tee creased in the corner where he’s recovered it from the floor of his apartment earlier that morning. He’s still squinting to adjust his vision to something more workable, an annoyance riddles down to his bones; curling irritation around ivory and crushing his skeletal system as if he’s just that tiny bit breakable this morning.

Would be a fool’s game to mistake that opening for not volatile. If anything, more so; the usual patience he holds that keeps him performing as a professional on a job is non-existent, tossed to the side until caffeine hits his system and rejuvenates the mercenary to something a bit more recognisable.

Hargrave’s ordering method; unorthodox, like anything, an impertinence in the way the barista nods frantically to get an order together whilst he no less than wavers in a general direction for them to bring his coffee over. It’s when his tired eyes, off-whites that are a pale red from last nights abuse catch a familiar face that he’s able to smile through the pain in his head.

Not the kind of pleasurable pain he likes to bury himself in with someone. Fletcher crosses Flick the Bean easily, bypasses likewise individuals with a glare thrown his way at his method of order and like he is some asshole VIP exclusively in demand in the building, he plants himself opposite Phe with a grin that’s as amused as his eyes are scouring over her pages like it’s one of the novel’s on his bookshelf.

“Oh, it’s probably underneath all that shit you’re scribbling down O,” wavers at the mess in front of her as though he cares in the slightest, but as much as he won’t admit it, a familiar face with the same penchant for chaos is somewhat welcomed – even in the hangover haze. “But you’re not kicking me off this table anyways, you like me too much,”

[fletcherhargrave]

FLETCHER HARGRAVE

“Welcome to Oblivion.”

Name: Fletcher Hargrave

Goes by: Fletcher, Fletch

Age: Twenty-Nine

Birthday: September, 29th.

Birthplace: Westminster, England.

Gender: Male || Cis

Occupation: Mercenary @ Mercy

Orientation: Hetero.

[ TRIGGERS: DEATH, PTSD, WAR, UH, BLOOD? ]

BIOGRAPHY

Oblivion; the state of being unaware or unconscious of what is happening around one.

 If Fletcher Hargrave ever whispered the word, show gratitude; be thankful to the sweet abyss when it comes knocking; stay ignorant to the darkness for it likely meant death would be kind, maybe even painless.

 If he didn’t, better beg he does.

    Westminster, London, birthplace of the youngest Hargrave and for almost two decades; also home. Coddled by parents who couldn’t do enough for him and his three siblings, Fletcher had it easy; a pleasant ride through childhood, they say. Everything provided on a lavish silver platter and yet, nothing they did could satisfy a young man’s growing hunger for more.

  He was not the philanthropist like his eldest brother, nor was he a flourishing artist like his sister. Fletcher’s always been the one coming home each day with a new scar on his face; a new story of barbarianism to tell; a mischievous grin that scared his family just that little bit too much.

  What suited a boy who wanted adventures outside the renowned walls of the Hargrave Manor, was war, and Fletcher learned very quickly upon enrolling in the British Military that he was good at it, it suited him.

  The frontlines became his new home and touring was something he could claim as his own above his family - if he ever wanted to. There was no heroism in it for him; no seal of approval for serving his country, Hargrave was just that little bit volatile; if it were permitted, it’d say on his discharge forms that perhaps from birth he’d been afflicted with such virulence.

  After seven years of service - lucky number seven, he calls it. Numerous bloody and brutal stories captured beneath his belt; array of new scars for his collection, Fletcher Hargrave was medically discharged from the Special Forces. An undercover operation over in Iraq had become merciless - fatal for all the other four members of his team, none of which were recovered. Fletch was the only man to return and upon debrief, he was arrested.

   The circumstances of the deaths of Special Ops team remain unknown on any Military paperwork, much like the name of the soldier that played spy that day; if Fletcher ever found them, he’d be sure to introduce them to oblivion, if they were lucky. Without solid proof, documents, or evidence that Hargrave was responsible for any calamities, they could not incarcerate him. His discharge was the consequence; under medically unfit for deployment.

  That spurred another kind of unpredictable rage to boil underneath his skin. Civilian life seemed a new impossibility for a man so good at breaking bones.

  Coming home to Westminster, he found his home in a state of repair; his family suffering some major financial ruin. Fletcher only served to fuel their distress; the state of him and what he’d become over the last seven years was not a recognisable man. It was found that his siblings had moved on to other places, his brother to New York and his sister travelling Europe for her art.

 He wasn’t welcome to even a broken shell of a family.

 Where he was favoured was away from the place that seemed more enemy territory to him now than home. That was how he ended up on the phone to his brother, Lawrence, for information on independent contracting. It was only reluctantly that Fletcher found a temporary reprise in Santa Ysabel playing Mercenary with some assistance from some of his contacts from the Army.

 That paid for necessities, everything else that came with swift, precise hits was Hargrave’s thirst for being in his element; he relished in spilt blood and lived for the contracts he was given. Lawrie soon learned his brother was long past able to play civilian and before long, Hargrave had earned the wrong king of attention; the kind that Fletch would thrive in.

  Santa Ysabel, as it turned out was a monopoly for a reason; his brother was trying to make a business; being a benefactor amongst the high players, and Fletcher was a mercenary in a city that already had streets red with blood. It was an accident really, Lawrence had pointed in the direction, muttered a few things to certain individuals; some dangerous clientele that he’d been in the thick of dealings with and before long, Fletcher Hargrave was a name carried through the winds of Ysabel.

  Lawrence was the only reason Fletcher’s name wasn’t in the mouths of those who couldn’t be paid off. And during that time, the jobs he picked up; he made sure to be more adaptable to the less familiar city - became that ghost once again. Given purpose; an outlet for the skills he’d mastered over the years, he maimed, mutilated and murdered in cold blood without attachment. He didn’t half mind reaping the benefits SY offered either, the status, the towns high life; the women and above all, the freedom to let his desires run reckless.

Iliana Acosta wasn’t part of the plan, those few years a whirlwind; a woman as volatile as he was - or he’d made her like that, he never really knew, but that period; the ringed finger life ended in some harsh words and with some sharp metal in some unsavoury places. Puts it down to a phase; tried it once, didn’t work out. Though, as messy as it was, his ex-wife still holds something over him. He’ll never admit it.

Fletch doesn’t necessarily have a method; is more virulent of late; more aggressive in all the ways since the divorce a few years ago, but he’s always known how to conduct chaos and bring blood to the streets - he’ll clean it up before any living eyes catch sight of it; like a ghost; death is his game; the angel of oblivion.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Resilient, Humourful, Patient and Endearing. NEGATIVE TRAITS: Unethical, Volatile, Vitriolic and Promiscuous.

FURTHER DEPTH

Fletch joined the Army at seventeen and was discharged at twenty-four.

Enjoys literature, usually something dark and gritty to get himself out of his own head for a few hours; it’s a twisted place no book may compare.

Book Club is VIP only.

He is not in the best standing with his parents and does not contribute to helping their financial situation - his brother, Lawrence does.

On good terms-ish, with his brother since his discharge and over the years they’ve been in New York together, Fletch considers him an ally.

Hasn’t spoken to his sister in over a decade; mutually uninterested.

Has been in Santa Ysabel for four years and utilities his military contacts to pick up merc jobs and works the role as hitman in the city; takes jobs @ Mercy.

Served two tours, ‘nam and Iraq.

Hargrave is combat trained and well equipped for confrontation. He is weapons adept and utilises this for his work.

Likes knives and hand-to-hand combat.

Will stab you. Will Shoot you. Will probably fuck you too. Order varies. 

Is remarkably unforgiving in his manner and with people, he doesn’t often do second chances - the dead can’t be redeemed, or speak.

Definitely denies the mountains of PTSD he has and will ignore it with every figure of his being. 

Has a little bit of a masochist complex.

Will drink you under the table.

FAMILY

Ruth Hargrave || Mother Ethan Hargrave || Father Lawrence Hargrave || Older Brother Florence Hargrave || Older Sister  

CONNECTIONS

Iliana Acosta [Hargrave] || Ex-Wife Don’t mention her to him. He’ll kill you. Wynter Ellis || Owner of Mercy.  The owner of Mercy and is the conduit between mercenary jobs/contracts.