#famine;;

[samirkotecha-archived]

Feb. 11th, 2021. The Docks. @ikkinakamura​​

Four minutes.

That's roughly how long Samir knows he has left before Saint fires a warning shot across the bow, a shot that runs the risk of spooking the quarry that Samir has been tasked with tracking down and subduing. His lungs are starting to burn as he takes the stairs two, sometimes three at a time, the adjacent building largely dark at this hour of the morning.

War knew this would be the most likely vantage because it’s where they often put their own players, watchful eyes for the larger operations that simply can’t go awry. Famine are well going to learn the feeling of plans going awry this morning. Adrenaline keeps Samir going and keeps his legs working as he mounts the last flight of stairs, pausing only briefly at the top to check his watch and meter his breaths. His heart continues to pound regardless.

His fingertips deftly unsnap a pair of handcuffs looped at his hip. Samir knows far better than to assume Ikki is unarmed even if he intends to remain largely uninvolved, and he knows better than to underestimate the Dominion. The weight of his own weapon at the small of his back is a heavy reminder of last resorts.

Two minutes. Samir takes a final steadying breath before his hand finds the bar at the industrial door, managing to push it open without so much as a click.

He spots the proud line of Ikki’s back at the edge of the roof, a dark overseer to whatever plans have already been put in motion below, plans that have yet to grind to a halt. There’s no relief at the realization that he’s found him; Samir slides directly into calculation, stalking forward one soft footfall at a time. He has the height advantage, but it isn’t significant. He can’t rely on it. The element of surprise will only get him halfway there -- the nearest viable option for detaining the Dominion is a good ten feet from where he now stands and Samir is approaching.

Samir knows he’ll make it work, because he has to.

With the decisive click of cold metal slotting into place and capturing Ikki’s wrist, he gives himself away.  “Hi,” Samir says with a lightness wholly incongruous with the flare of determination in his sharp, dark eyes that greet Ikki. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here, mate.”

[samirkotecha-archived]

Feb 14th, 2021. Notting Hill. @kyungxsoon​​

Samir has a number of paper-thin rationales floating through his head as he walks the city streets, headed towards Notting Hill. He doesn’t look like he belongs here and he doesn’t feel like it, either, a dark grey hood pulled over his distinctive curls and a pair of non-prescription glasses to hinder facial recognition, in the event of any cameras. Overly paranoid, maybe; but at the same time, probably not.

In his mind, the thread started with the idea that MI5 would likely benefit from any firsthand accounts of what happened between Famine and Pestilence in the earliest hours of the thirteenth, regardless of whether or not it’s within Samir’s immediate purview. It continues with the assumption that maintaining relationships with members of other gangs will be a useful tool, though that could easily be the pesky protective instincts that more and more often seem to get the better of him lately -- instincts that are all well and good within his own ranks, but not so much across so-called enemy lines.

So if he were truly honest with himself, which he’s not -- he lies to everyone else, why not himself? -- Samir would realize he’s worried. That’s all. No mental gymnastics will absolve him of that simple fact. He at least tried to follow Wren’s advice to ‘just send a text,’ but it’d gone unsurprisingly unanswered, implications ranging from bad to worse. So, against better judgement, he set out. This recklessness, it’s so much more Samir -- it’s not his. It’s not who he is. But it’s who he is tonight.

He’d consider mentioning to Kyung-Soon that it wasn’t that difficult to piggyback inside with a group past the front-door security, but she’ll probably already be wondering what resources he used to look up her address. A couple of different lies are fabricated as he opts to take the stairs rather than spend time in the scrutiny of strangers, slipping the glasses off and pocketing them when he reaches her floor. He doesn’t hesitate to knock when confronted with her apartment number because at this point, there’s no use turning back.

[samirkotecha-archived]

Feb. 6th, 2021. Worthing; a coastal restaurant @kyungxsoon​

Even after a few days the dust has far from settled, and Samir suffers no small measure of guilt for what feels like a thoroughly selfish diversion from the new state of things. At least Nico can reach him, if he needs; same with Saint. Same with Dhruvi. It almost makes more sense to take care of this now, while everyone is still reeling and before concrete plans can be made, orders tumbling down the pipeline to the likes of Powers such as Samir. He doesn’t feel like a pawn but he’s far from a major player, such that slipping away for a moment in the days-long shuffle doesn’t feel suspicious -- but maybe that’s just what Samir is telling himself.

He needs closure, assuming that’s what this will be. Kyung-Soon deserves the same.

‘We should meet,’ he’d messaged for the first time since before the truce party. ‘Clear the air.’ Kyung-Soon had obviously understood and, more importantly, agreed. Samir had considered making a joke about not forgetting the reservation this time, but figured it’d come across as too familiar. Any ounce of familiarity they’d previously enjoyed had evaporated in an instant, no match for the stark and sudden realization that not only are they playing the same game, they are not on the same side.

At least this restaurant is on neutral territory, he thinks wryly to himself as his eyes skirt out over the English Channel. Samir hadn’t been thinking ‘neutral territory’ the last time he was here, only ‘far enough from the city.’ He hadn’t been thinking about much at all, honestly, which is likely why the two of them have ended up in this awkward in-between to begin with.

Samir’s fingertips tap absent-mindedly against the side of his water glass, thus far untouched. He picks up his phone, reads the time without actually absorbing it, and sets it down again. He already knows he won’t know what to say.

[samirkotecha-archived]

Feb. 4th, 2021. Downtown; neutral territory. @realjessicareyes​​

Samir and Jessica were two of a kind in more ways than one might expect -- both outgoing, both friendly, both making an effort to bridge divides between gangs and get to know people regardless of who they’d pledged loyalty to or been born under. The biggest difference was that Jessica’s sweetness came from a good place, a genuine place, whereas scratching too deep into Samir’s affable front brought ulterior motives bubbling to the surface.

The problem was that he’d fallen under Jessica’s spell just like so many others. She was obviously so broadly liked because she was so easy to like, and not even Samir’s best attempts to keep that at arm’s length really protected him as he’d gotten to know her better over the past handful of months. He could lie and tell himself that wanting to meet up with her today was purely business -- and a lot of it was -- but not all. Definitely not all.

He’d found a corner of a downtown sports bar to tuck himself into, in the midst of a rush and loud enough that the two of them could talk in public without being overheard. Samir and Dhruvi often met in places like this, hiding in plain sight, casual smiles masking the deeper purpose. Meeting with Jess would be less tense and loaded, or. So he hoped, anyway.

Samir had watched the Femenias Energy news conference on one of the more isolated TVs, much to the ire of a couple of nearby sports aficionados when he’d requested the channel be switched to news. Soon after it was over he’d texted Jess: the name of the bar, quickly followed by a tongue-in-cheek, ‘oh oops sent that to the wrong contact lol! stupid me,’ wink nudge. Then he’d simply sat himself in a booth to wait, a mug of mediocre bar coffee occasionally and grudgingly sipped. He was tired.

He didn’t know if she’d bring an entourage, and truth be told, wouldn’t blame her if she did. Trust was a commodity in short supply the past forty-eight hours, and trusting though Jessica Reyes may seem or genuinely be, Samir knew she wasn’t entirely naive. He was, for all intents and purposes, the enemy now. But if anyone could look past that, he’d hope it would be Jess.