@erdogan-nevra
Date: 14th of July, 2022.
Location: South Kensington.
Though he didn’t visit the borough often, thanks to the well established French Quarter, Berat knew it’d always carried a pretentious fucking air that could only be them. Things had gotten worse over the years as more had moved into the city to counteract the Rutherfords, but nothing quite beat the run up to Bastille Day. It was insufferable. Nobody in Europe liked the French, of that he was sure, but on days like these, they were especially obnoxious. Particularly when alcohol was involved.
But that was precisely why their street party seemed a good target.
Not only did the giant mass of people make it easier to separate one from the herd, but they were also drinking enough that should one disappear, it’d be easy to assume he’d just passed out drunk somewhere. Or at least that was what he was hoping. Somehow, he was sure this attempt to find an unwilling participant for his best friend’s master plan would go tits-up. Just his luck, and all that...
Funnily enough, though perhaps not funny at all, it’d been exactly that thought plaguing his mind when the Turk had spotted a familiar face heading down the street. It was hard to tell whether she was lingering, too, or merely passing through, but when she finally got close enough, Berat stepped out in front of her to stop her in her tracks. Maybe if he’d been smarter, he’d have let her carry on walking. Ignored her completely. Nobody had ever accused him of being smart, though.
"Look, if they sent you here to pick a couple off, I got here first. Wait your turn.”
