FOURTY--TELEKINESIS--LEVEL FIVE
THE BLACKBURN SYNDICATE HITMAN “I’m trying to love the shattered window of myself, the hands, the rock, the broken religion left behind. My inheritance is a body of vandalized cathedrals; light me on fire; strip my god from my breath. Watch as I dance amidst the flames.”
Sometimes what’s left unsaid tells you more than what has actually been said; and sometimes, what is said, is uttered in such a way that it essentially opens a door, or at least pulls the curtains from the windows.
Case in point: the internal cues. The man’s certainly not a local; content makes that quite clear; delivery the sort too dramatic to be a simple change of city; accent – difficult to place, but not local; midwestern, perhaps northern, maybe deliberately untraceable. Then the external cues: skin tone; the wardrobe, far from weather-savvy; the time: what’s there to do at a beach like this at this time of the night? Drugs, most frequently; murders; exchanges of sensitive information.
So where does that leave him? Private investigator, maybe. Drug dealer, possibly. Whistleblower for a big company or government agency. Recently transferred pig. Criminal.
Comfortable in the shadows, Guzmán observes the man quietly and entertains his prejudices. He could be wrong, and it’s not as though he’s infallible. This gentleman could be a perfectly normal, law-abidding citizen. A traveling salesman going through a bad streak, unaware of the seediness of the place in which he’s standing. But here’s the thing: he is seldom wrong.
And he saw the exchange with the suited man.
Not much, mind you, and he didn’t hear a thing. But it’s enough to make him feel lucky.
“Ah, if you find this place unexciting, that just means you’ve not been around long enough,” Guzmán says, stubbing his finished cigarette on the pavement before he replaces it with another one. He tilts the open pack over to the stranger, a wordless offer. How it looks like: harmless enough, he hopes, in his dark grey Henley, his jeans, his off white sneakers. “You’re in Florida. Home of the cranked out white trash and the entitled senior citizens. You’ll find a worthwhile buyer for whatever is it you’re selling.”
He decides to go with the most obvious, but maybe less accusatory estimation. He says it like a wry joke: “What kind of drugs is it you’re selling, anyway?”
Tierney hadn’t honestly expected anyone to reply to him. He takes in the new arrival with a careful eye. He doesn’t recognize him and he doesn’t look like someone who might be a problem. Not that Tierney was all that concerned about gathering another problem. He’s not a defenseless little kid and he’s been pent up long enough to know that it won’t take much to flip his trigger should he fancy it. Content the new arrival doesn’t know enough to get himself in trouble Tierney relaxes just a fraction of an inch, gladly taking one of the offered cigarettes. He figures he can be at least, a little honest here. “That’s the precise problem I have with Florida. Too many old people and too many people so twisted up on god knows what to know when they’re in too deep.” He leans against the wall, angling himself so that this new arrival is still directly in front of him. “I’m losing hope by the day it gets better.”
Drugs. It’s almost enough to make Tierney snort. The man is blunt, he’ll give him that, but drugs? How quaint. Tierney isn’t a man of good morals, not by a long shot, but he’s never dealt in that particular business. Part of him is glad that the man is so disgustingly wrong about his activities tonight, but the proud part of him chafes under it too. He’s worth a dozen good drug dealers at the worst. He takes a minute to contemplate how to answer, he doesn’t want some random thinking he’s a drug dealer, that might get him in trouble down the line, but he’s not about to air his own dirty laundry. He allows a mirthless laugh to bubble out before he explains himself, taking a long drag off the cigarette.
“You are either looking to buy something or a very bad cop.” He shoots him a smile that’s not quite friendly. He’s spent a lot of time with cops in his life, very few had ever been quiet so blunt. Especially the undercover ones. And if this guy is an undercover cop? Tierney would relish the chance to prove to him how dumb he is. “Not a dealer. Not by a long shot.” Another drag of the cigarette. “And I’ll be friendly and tell you trying to arrest me would be a very, very, bad idea.” Not that he thinks it’ll happen, its said with enough mirth and a half smile on his face that most would recognize it for a joke.
WHERE: Miami Streets
WHEN: March 29, 2020
STATUS: OPEN
It’s hot.
It’s always so damn hot these days. Tierney hates it. hates it enough he sometimes finds himself actually missing Chicago and all of it’s...quirks. Almost. Never enough to consider abandoning ship and moving back though. He owes too much to the Syndicate, too attached to the people in it. Leaving is off the table. But he can imagine the cooler climate without feeling too guilty. It’d probably help if he wore something other than his usual long pants and sleeves but if Tierney is anything, he is a creature of habit. And is entirely unwilling to spend his money on clothes when he can spend it on new parts. He had to leave a lot behind in the move, and he’s determined to restock on everything before he attempts to buy other things. Even if that means he’s been sleeping on a mattress on the floor for the past month.
Which, in hindsight, might be part of the reason he’s in such a foul mood right now. There’s a persistent pain on his right side. Easily diagnosed as an out of place rib head, but it’s a painful reminder that he’s not getting any younger. He played with the idea of tracking down Felix and gives up on it almost as quickly as he came up with it. That’s way more effort than it’s honestly worth. He’s got better things to do.
Like meet with a potential client on one of Miami’s seedier beaches. It’s a simple meeting. Short and sweet, but uneventful. Tierney is expensive and killing housewives because of poor life decisions? Not exactly under his purview. Especially not for little men in tailored suits who spend most of the conversations trying to haggle him to insultingly low prices. He waits until the little man has long left the scene before he pulls his hands out of his pockets and stands up from the wall he’d been leaning on. “Fucking penny pinchers everywhere in Miami.” Chicago might’ve sucked on multiple levels, but at least the clients there knew what they were asking for. “This place gets less and less exciting by the hour.”
Isaac really never thinks about what he’s doing before he acts. Perhaps then he’d think about why he was such a pest, and why he vied for this attention, realizing it was because he never got enough growing up and any attention seemed to feed into that desire, good or bad - plus now even the negative attention was attention he intentionally brought on himself. Tierney indulging Isaac only satisfied that urge to pick at the scab, to get him what he sought, an exercise in reminding him how he was free to do what he pleased or a cure to his boredom or just someone to give him a moment’s attention or whatever it was he was truly seeking that his mind just glossed over in favor of a few quips in response. “Are you saying I can’t handle it? You wouldn’t even try.”
Isaac tosses the screwdriver and watches as it spins a few times before returning to his hand. He bounces it in his palm a few times, feels the weight, and tries again. Same number of spins, same success at falling gently down into his hand with a soft slap of plastic on skin. Third time, he tries for more, gets greedy, and he misses the catch as it clanks upon the concrete floor. Still, he picks it up, attempts to try again. There’s really no purpose to this, other than a moment’s entertainment as he listens to Tierney lecture him on his business practices.
“Yeah, no shit, which is why you should let me test the bikes,” Isaac argued. “Besides, what are you gonna do? Test one and leave the other one sitting here all alone to gather dust? That’s just cruel.” But bikes weren’t dogs, and Tierney wasn’t an idiot. Isaac, however, was, and he points the screwdriver at the other mutant to prove it. “Hey, I can use this thing! I’ve seen someone stab a guy with one of these before.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Tierney says, giving up on the project altogether. With Isaac nattering in his ear he’s not able to give the problem the attention it needs. Not a bad thing, just mildly annoying. In other words, Isaac in a nut shell. He grabs a nearby rag and wipes his hands, taking great care to wipe every inch of his hands. “I know you. And I know if I put you behind the engine of one of my bikes you’re liable to loos what little common sense and drive it into a wall.” He smirks at him, only kind of joking. “And you and I both know that you couldn’t afford to fix one of my custom bikes.”
He watches him toss the screwdriver and chuckles dryly when he inevitably manages to drop it. He cocks his head with an amused smirk and slows the movement of the rag between his fingers. It’s a slow and methodical sort of motion, a brief switch from casual Tierney to dangerous Tierney. “Isaac. You’ve seen me stab someone with a screwdriver.” Not exactly the tool Tierney would call refined or useful, but they worked well enough. And no one ever saw the screwdriver coming. Usually.
He shakes his head again and rolls his eyes, finishing his last finger and shoving the rag into one of his pockets. “Better to gather dust than get smashed into a wall. I can fix dust.” He could probably fixed a smashed bike too, but there’s no contest when it comes to which is easier to do. “Maybe, if you behave,” A hard task for Isaac on any given day. “I’ll take you with me when I test it. I’ll even promise not to attach a side car.” He grins toothily at him, amused by his own joke. Putting a side car on this baby? That would be a sin.
“Hmm,” Jack says, as if he knows what the hell a piston is. He’d done some research on motorcycles when he’d looked into Tierney’s background the first time around, but none of it had really stuck. He hesitates to say much more, not wanting small talk to become a thing with them– neither of them would want that– but he also really, really wants to touch the bike.
Which is a problem, because he’s seen Tierney’s crime scene photos. It was what made him curious enough to check the guy out in person the first time he happened to ‘swing by’ his shop. It’s also more than enough for Jack to know that making sudden, unprompted movements around Tierney isn’t the best idea.
“Can I… help?” he says. Not something he’s used to asking. Jack glances down at his hands, sitting useless on the sides of his legs, to avoid accidentally meeting Tierney’s eyes. Thin and long and elegant, good for typing, would have been helpful on the piano if he’d been a different sort of person, but not exactly the hard-worn hands of a mechanic. The closest thing he has to a callus is the scabbed-over spots where he’s bitten his hangnails to the quick. Self-consciousness is not a familiar feeling, but next to Tierney’s competence, his sure movements with his tools and the puzzle of moving metal parts in front of them, Jack feels suddenly useless. Uncomfortable, already regretting he’d opened his mouth at all. Tierney’s been pretty good to him so far, crime scene photos be damned, too good to tell Jack to plainly fuck off and leave him in peace. He’s probably trying to think up a nice way to say no, you’re useless at this, don’t fuck up my bike, rather than doing them both the favor of being a dick about the whole thing so Jack can roll his eyes and pretend not to care.
Jack scans the room for an excuse to make his escape but doesn’t find anything helpful. It’s fine, he’ll just have to never come back here again. So much for their… vague acquaintance. Good thing he hadn’t gotten attached, right? He picks at a loose thread in his jeans, avoiding looking at the other man. “Or, whatever,” he adds, a few beats too late.
The last thing Tierney expects to hear from Jack is a request to help him. His knee jerk reaction is to stop what he’s doing and stare but he refuses to pull to a stop. They both know the last thing Jack wants to see is Tierney look surprised. And he’s always been good at hiding his real feelings, not that these are hard to hide. Mild amusement flashes across his face as he watches Jack do everything but look at him and fiddle with his pants. He’s just about to agree when Jack speaks up again and Tierney finally stills his hands and smiles.
“With fingers like those?” He laughs and brings his tools to the ground with a gentle clink. “You’re probably going to have way more success than me.” He grins and scoots over a little bit to make room for Jack on the floor. “You’ll have to come down here though. Careful not to sit in the grease stains.” Tierney gestures vaguely to a discolored patch of concrete. It probably won’t leave a stain but...Tierney wouldn’t know since most of his clothes are already grease stained monstrosities. He watches Jack expectantly, quietly. Jack and him? They aren’t small talk people. Their people of action. He puts his hand on the part with the blockage.
“You’ll have to be careful, you press too hard and you might bend the pipe. Not a bad thing, but not great. And when you get it, try not to drop it.” He smirks. “That’s part of what got us into this mess in the first place.” He uses his free hand to gesture towards the bike. “And don’t worry about tipping the bike. I’ve got a hold of it. He isn’t going anywhere.”
Abigail can’t help herself. She flinches at the knife pressed against her neck, the smallest tick of movement in her throat, before she can regain her control. She stares Tierney down, face colder than it’s ever been, a mask of calm. I didn’t lie. The words, the knife, it makes the heat in her blood boil harder, fury and adrenaline mixing into the most dangerous kind of cocktail. She’s about to do something unwise when he finally lets the knife float away. She notes it in her periphery, filing the information away for later, but right now all she sees is him.
The second the knife is flat on the table, Abigail sits up and leans as far forward in his direction as she can with the hand still holding her in place, her chair scraping loudly on the floor with her sudden movement. They are close enough she could count Tierney’s eyelashes. “If you ever try something like that again, I will scream into your mind,” she hisses, hands clenching against the tablecloth so she doesn’t reach for him again, doesn’t take him by the shoulders and shake. “Maybe you could get to a knife before the blood starts leaking out of your ears, but let’s not test it and see, hmm?”
The air heavy with her threat, Abigail leans back, eyes still narrowed on him. “As for what I know,” she says, voice pure ice, so far from how they’d started their chat, “All you’ve told me is as good as bullshit. So there’s something special you do, that certain special people hire you for? I could say the same for a pastry chef.” She’s so angry, she nearly throws her napkin at him. She knows she needs to calm down, but her anger is mixed with a much worse, much less forgiving feeling, a deep, heart-wrenching hurt. The spot where the knife had pressed into her still feels cold, as if he’d never pulled it away. “And that’s it. That’s all of it. Because I respect you too goddamn much to pull out any of your secrets, Tierney. I guess I was just idiotic enough to hope you’d offer one up freely.”
Tierney doesn’t break eye contact with her as she leans in, her face a mask of anger. He won’t lose this fight and he won’t back down from it either. He can morn the loss of...whatever this has been later. Her threat doesn’t scare him, even though he thinks he should be, at least, a little worried. “I think you’re under estimating exactly what it is I can do.” He means it as a threat but more because he wants her to be very aware of what he can do and why her doing anything remotely related would be a very bad idea. “Don’t do something we’ll both regret.” He considers making a show of what he means and elects not to. With a gentle wave of his hand he lets her go, but he keeps it on the table. “I can do far more than what you’ve seen already. And believe it or not I don’t actually want to hurt you.”
He leans back in his own chair, keeping a careful watch on her and the rest of the bar. He wants to believe her, wants to trust that whatever she’d done up there in his head wasn’t invasive...but Tierney isn’t what someone would call, trusting. It takes a great force of will to swallow past the lump in his throat. He wants to tell her something but he knows who she is and her knowing him? Could lead to some terrible things. After a long, long, moment he speaks again. “My loyalties lie with the Syndicate As they have for the past twenty some odd years. They are the bulk of my clientele. I was not lying when I said I followed my employers.” He clears his throat. “I think telling you any more than that would be a bad idea. For the both of us.”
He takes a long drink of his whiskey, relishing in the heavy burn as it slides down his throat. The clink of his glass on the table feels definite. “I’m choosing to trust that you didn’t pull anything out of my head of use.” He considers it a high honor, though he won’t tell her that. He likes her too much, the months of quiet coffee conversation has done a lot to soften him. The last thing he wants to believe is that she’d been using him. “You’ve never struck me as an outright liar in the time I’ve known you. Take that as you wish.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I don’t feel like I can convince you with telling you my age either. It’s come to my attention that you look down on people,” she said with a grin. She didn’t like Tierney, not in a friendly sense. She teased and annoyed everyone, and that didn’t mean she had to like them. To her, these gangs, it was child’s play. They could all work together and make progress in the name of mutants, if only they all had the same dreams for the future. Which was not the case. Her chaos fitted best with the Jems, and that meant she aligned with them. But it could’ve been different, and she was aware of that. She liked making friends with people from other gangs. For one it gave her more power - which was why some intelligently avoided her - but it also showed how little she had regards for this little ‘war’. The real war was out there, against the humans who sought to make them disappear.
“I am being annoying.” She laughed then. “That would be the day, me changing sides. It would be fun though, I would do it just to see the look on your face. What a day that would be. Oh, I could be your apprentice! You could teach me how to look tall and dangerous, and be incredibly unpleasant at the same time!”
“Age hardly matters in this context. It’s the years spent working. And you’ve been around a while, but compared to me you’re nothing more than a girl.” He smiles over at her, dangerous and just a smudge condescending. Sure, it was rude but anyone who knew Tierney knew he wasn’t exactly the most pleasant of people He wouldn’t lose sleep over the insult. He shrugs his shoulders in an attempt to dispel some of the heat, it doesn’t work and he settles back into his pose easily enough. It’s, perhaps, the only sign of how uncomfortable he feels in the heat he’s willing to show in front of Luca.
“You are already unpleasant.” Tierney says, vainly scanning the horizon again. He’s pretty much given up on meeting his contact at this point. It’s mostly just a game of getting rid of Luca at this point. He refuses to walk away in a huff. “I’ve already told you. I have a partner. And you and I? Incompatible. You’d have to learn the art of subtly and I’m afraid to say I think you lack it altogether.” He shrugs and shakes his head. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
WHERE: Bar near Cain’s apartment
WHO: closed @tierneysinclair
It’s weird to have found a drinking buddy in this shit hole of a city so fast but Cain’s not about to look a providence horse in the mouth or whatever. Tierney is an okay guy, not too friendly, not too unfriendly. He pays for half the tab. He listens to Cain grumble about work and doesn’t ask him questions about all the many details he’s got to leave out. Plus, he’s from Chicago and he hates Miami just about as much as Cain does, which is what really sealed the deal on their tentative acquaintanceship.He doesn’t trust the man. He doesn’t trust most people who aren’t Damien or his mama. But he likes him well enough to withstand and maybe even enjoy his company for a few hours every couple of weeks.
Which is how Cain finds himself in a tiny bar a short walk from his apartment, scanning the patrons until he spots a familiar face in the crowd.
“T,” he says, shouldering his way through a group to throw himself into the seat beside the other man. “Buy me something fucking strong.”
Tierney’s first act of business in Miami had been to find a place for his bikes. His second act of business had been to find a new bar. Nothing fancy, Tierney didn’t like having to dress up to go out drinking, but he wasn’t going to settle for a total hole in the wall sort of place either. It had taken him a while, but when he’d found it he’d been perfectly content to become a regular. What he hadn’t expected to find was a drinking buddy. He didn’t know jack about the guy, outside of what he liked to drink. Which is just fine by him.
It’s easy enough to smirk at him as he takes up a sport next to him at the bar. He waves the bartender over and orders the first thing that comes to mind, shoving it to Cain and taking a long drink. “You’re going to have to split the bill if you want anything stronger. Do I look like a top shelf liquor man to you?”
Isaac, for as nimble as he can be and how he prides himself on his escape tactics, isn’t the most graceful of beings. That much is made obvious as he’s shoved off the stool by a force Tierney controls, sending him flailing until he hits the ground with an audible “oof” that steals the wind from his chest. It silences him, but unfortunately for Tierney, it only does so for a few moments as he lays there to catch his breath. Then, he’s springing himself back to his feet, still not so graceful as his limbs flail to help him gain back the balance he lost.
“What the fuck man?” Isaac asked, a bit appalled as he walked back over to where Tierney worked. As an obvious sign he hadn’t learned his lesson, he picked the screwdriver back up, twirling it in his hand as he talked. “All I did was ask a question. I don’t get why you’re so mad at me.” It’s not that he just asked a question, and Isaac, in a sense was aware of this. Hell, he was also aware that he was a pain most of the time - he simply didn’t care, because it was fun and amusing and any reaction was a good reaction for a kid who rarely got attention that wasn’t basically torture.
“Can I help?” For a moment, you’d think the question was almost genuine. “I can test it out once it’s done. You don’t wanna bring this guy a bike only for it to not work. That’s bad business.” Isaac, of course, didn’t know the first thing about business, good or bad. He really only knew how to steal from them, and even that was only petty theft.
Isaac’s silence isn’t nearly as long as Tierney would have like, he could have done with a few more minutes of stunned silence. He’s half ignoring him as he bounces back up and walks over, and he half considers just not answering his asinine questions. “Son. If I was mad at you I would do much, much, worse than shoving you off a stool.” Tierney considers himself a very in control sort of person. His emotions don’t rule him these days, instead he rules them. “Besides. You and I both know I’m capable of much worse.” He goes back to the bike, slotting the wrench around a bolt and twisting.
He notices Isaac picking up the screwdriver again and bites back a groan. Kid never learns. He considers his options before freeing up one of his hands to freeze the screwdriver in place. Isaac can pull and tug all he wants, it’s not going anywhere unless he wills it. And if Isaac’s lucky, it won’t be into one of his shoulders.
“You’re kidding right?” Tierney asks, mostly aghast, and turning away from his bike. He smells mischief oozing off of Isaac in waves. “I test the bikes. I’d never send a client something that din’t start.” He rolls his eyes. “Rule one of owning a business. Give out product that works and clients will come.” He stands and stretches his back out, relishing in the pops. “If you want to help you’d figure out how to work a screwdriver in something other than a door jamb.”
His smile. His words — sweetheart. Please. The way he tilted his head to the side — it all made Penelope feel like she had just been cornered by a wild animal even if there was nothing but open space around here. “Maybe but it’s really no one’s business but my own, right?” Penelope spoke, trying to stand as tall as she could; even if she was aware that she was more than capable of getting the man to back off, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Penelope scoffed. “I’m not ashamed.” Not even when her parents clearly weren’t a fan of either of their kids’ powers — the blonde could understand it, partially; her and Avery’s powers were beautiful and scary. “I just like keeping some things to myself,” Penelope added, shrugging her shoulders and trying to remain as nonchalant as she could. It wasn’t a lie; she wasn’t scared or ashamed or anything like that. She just liked to keep things simple and not overly-informative. A survival’s instinct of a sort.
Her eyes remained trained on the man before her. He wasn’t going anywhere, was he? Penelope looked around, trying to see if anyone walked by that she could latch onto and walk away from that situation. Alas, no living soul could be seen. The blonde let out a small sigh and looked at the other again. She’d show him something but not everything. Not when she knew nothing about him.
A passive demonstration of her powers ought to be sufficient; and if not, he can take it up with HR. Penelope formed a hollow ball with her hands and closed her eyes; she pictured the prettiest space thing she could think about. After a few heartbeats, as she opened her hands — which were seemingly holding a ball in them — there was a small nebula, floating in her cupped hands.
Penelope looked at him. For a few moments, she kept her eyes on him and the nebula in her hands. And then, without warning, her little piece of outer space disappeared into thin air. There was no way she’d show him her offensive powers. “There. A deal is a deal. Your turn.”
Tierney just watches her, letting her talk. She can say anything she wants but Tierney isn’t about to believe her. As far as he’s concerned the second he saw her fingers it became his business and no one not ashamed of their powers would be trying so hard to hide them. He can see her make the decision before he can think of something to say to coax it out of her. It’s a surprising result, the fact she decides to actually show him something. And he’s fascinated by it. He doesn’t understand what she’s doing, what he’s looking at, but it’s beautiful. And perhaps dangerous. He wants to see more, wants to test the extent of her powers.
It’s gone nearly as quickly as it appeared and it takes him a long, long, moment to register her next words. He blinks and then stands up a little straighter. She wants a show? Maybe if he shows off just exactly what he can do she’ll reveal more of her own powers. “I recommend you not move for this portion of the show.” He grins at her and steps back, surveying. Some dumpsters, a couple trash cans, some trash. He holds his hands up and lets the strings flow from his fingers, picking up everything in sight that isn’t the young woman. Letting it float as he dances them around in the air. He only hits the buildings a few times. And it’s chump change for what he can do if he really wants to do something, but he’d rather not go and exhaust himself showing off.
He gives her a minute longer before putting everything back in its place. “I have other tricks up my sleeve too. But I don’t think you’d find the humor in me messing with your head or holding you in place.” He grins. “Now. Why don’t you show me what you can actually do. Unless all you can do it make pretty little stars of course.”
Time seemed to move at a languid pace whenever Dana was on a mission. If that was what she should call this. It was different than most tasks she’d been given before: cut, stitch, sew. This was recon. This was getting supplies. This was building a relationship with a supplier to ensure that the Kings Collective stayed stocked. That they didn’t end up in a situation where there wasn’t enough to go around.
They were breaking new ground here and despite their power, their leader had been killed and they were picking up the pieces and putting it back together as best they could. Dana knew it was only a matter of time before the supply runs would turn into more, so she took them when they came –– not complaining as she set up a meet, ready to do her part in hopes that no one would ask for more.
She was a few minutes late to the meeting place: the back of some club in downtown Miami. Enough people were there on a Friday night that she was just another face in the crowd, which is exactly how it should be. She got there, and was pushing through the crowd to the back. The music thrummed around her, sending vibrations through her that contrasted the constant pulsing of her bones and vibrating of her bones that seemed consistent ever since her powers emerged.
She pushed open the door just in time to see someone fly through the air into a pile of crates. That someone who happened to be her contact. On high alert, Dana leapt forward to go to the man who was surely injured and cried out when she was frozen in place, unable to move and any attempt resulting in the feeling of moving through sludge –– impossible. “What is ––” Dana trailed off as the person she took to be the culprit for this violence turned the corner and she stared, “H-how––” how are you doing this? What are you doing here? Why are you attacking this man? Words that never left her mouth as she struggled against whatever invisible force was holding her in place. @tierneysinclair
He doesn’t usually do shake down jobs. He’s the sort of person Alma deploys to send a brutal and bloody message. He’s highly trained, highly refined. And very much highly above your regular shake down gig. Except Alma called him in and asked him to do this...and here he was. In some back alley or Miami roughing up some wannabe crime lord. He doesn’t know the details, didn’t bother to ask for that. He just knows his name and the fact Alma wants him to know what crossing the Blackburn Syndicate means.
He tried the intimidating trick first, stalking him, appearing for just a minute and melting back into the crowd a moment later. Everything he knows how to do to set a person on edge. And when he cornered the guy in an alley he’d been hoping a brief flash of his strength would be enough to convince him of his mistakes. He’d been sorely mistaken. Scrappy little man tired to tackle him to the ground. His first mistake. He second was taking a swing at him. Tierney fancies himself a man of good emotional control, but that fist on his chin made him see red.
He reacts on instinct, punching the man back until he hits the wall. Scrappy guy gets up and Tierney shoves him into a pile of trash, stacked crates tumbling around his feet. The other voice startles him and it’s instinct that causes him to grab the woman and hold her in place, out of the way. He’s here to hurt the scrappy man, not some random woman off the streets. The man gets up, his nose is bleeding and he’s limping, but he doesn’t rush Tierney, a small blessing. They stare at each other for a moment, Tierney’s face dark. “Next time you run a bad deal on the Blackburn Syndicate. This...” He waves the hand not holding the woman around the alley. “This will end much differently. Comprehend?” The man glares, face pale, and nods once before darting around Tierney and leaving the alley behind.
He finally turns back to the woman he’s been ignoring since she arrived. He speaks before he looks at her. “What you saw here? You saw--” He stops mid-sentence, taken aback. He knows this woman. And he also knows this is perhaps the first time she’s seen more of him than he ever intended. “What the hell?”
Ciara huffs and crosses her arms. She knows that some people had problems with Tierney, sure. But that was because they looked at the surface. There was so much more to him if someone just cared to look close enough. “You might want to take that back, I’m just gonna bombard you with messages now.” She was joking, of course. Ciara always over thought before she sent a message and then looked over it two or three times after that. And then she wouldn’t send another unless she got a reply. It was just the way she was.
“Then the same goes for you. You know I’ve always got your back, no matter what ends up in our way.” She nodded and smiled. It was easy for her to follow him, especially after a lifetime of going unnoticed. She did her best to remember where they were going, just in case she needed it in the future. Ciara follows his directions and makes her way inside, glad to be able to relax for a while. “Oh my god. That’s probably not a bad idea. Have you seen the garbage that Isaac puts in his body? I don’t even know if he knows what a vegetable is.” She shrugged. “I’ve eaten week old Chinese food before. Not my favorite but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“You can.” Tierney says with a shrug. “But you seem to forget that I can both put my phone on silent and text without my hands.” He shoots her a shit eating grin over his shoulder as he starts up the stairs. “And I do text you. Not a lot. But more than I text anyone else.” Which is saying something. Tierney would be confident in saying that his texts were almost 90% work related. The other 10% were definitely the texts he could quantify as not work related. Mostly with Ciara. He’s not a great text person, he’s barely even a phone person. He smiles at her admission. He knows that, knows it on a deep level, but it’s nice to hear regardless.
“Oh. He knows what a vegetable is. He also knows how to avoid them. Ordered Broccoli Beef found it two days later. All broccoli.” He rolls his eyes and tosses his coat onto the couch. “If that’s a fight you think you can win let me be the first to tell you that you won’t. Give up.” He heads into the kitchen and rummages around in on of his drawers, producing a slightly wrinkled menu. “I’ve never eaten week old Chinese...but I think I can relate regardless.” He tosses the menu at Ciara and turns to grab some plates. “Pick what you want. I’m buying.”
“Nobody’s ever been arrested for a murder; they have only ever been arrested for not planning it properly.” ― Terry Hayes, I Am Pilgrim
Basic Information
Full name: Tierney Sinclair
Pronunciation: Tier-Knee Sin-Claire
Nickname(s): Not if you like to live. Tierney doesn’t do nicknames. Tierney is the only name he’ll answer to.
Birthdate: September 8, 1979
Age: 40
Zodiac: Virgo
Gender: Cis-Male
Pronouns: he/him
Romantic Orientation: Straight
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual
Nationality: American
Ethnicity: White
Current Location: Miami, Florida
Living Conditions: Tierney lives in a small apartment above his new garage. It’s nothing fancy and that’s the way he likes it. Well worn couches, outdated kitchen appliances, wear worn towels. He doesn’t live in the slums but owning only new things has never been a part of Tierney’s lifestyle.
Background
Birthplace: Las Vegas, Nevada
Hometown: N/A
Social Class: Presents as lower-middle class but has enough money in the bank to be upper class if he really wanted to be. But he never will.
Educational Achievements: None. Tierney never went to school. By the time he was released for the testing facility it was too late and too hard to get someone like him caught up. Sporadically home schooled by staff and other people Tierney isn’t the sort of person you want on your trivia team. He struggles with complex math, history, and all other assorted ‘average school knowledge’.
Father: Unknown
Mother: Unknown
Sibling(s): Unknown
Birth Order: N/A
Pets: None
Previous Relationships: Nothing lasts longer than a night. Do one night stands count?
Arrests: A lot. By the time Tierney aged out of the foster program he’d been arrested more times than he had fingers and toes. Nothing major, minor mischief and petty theft. It wasn’t until he was picked up by the Syndicate that he started doing bigger crimes. And by then he had the support network to not get arrested.
Prison Time: Surprisingly, not a lot. Accumulated, no more than a few months. It pays to have friends in low places.
Occupation & Income
Current Occupation: Hitman for the Blackburn Syndicate & Freelance Motorcycle Restorer
Dream Occupation: None. Tierney has a limited view of both his life and the world. The idea of having a ‘dream’ anything is a foreign concept to him.
Past Job(s): He was boy once at a greasy diner once. When they found out he’d lied about who he was a week later he was fired. Chicago wasn’t kind to kids with rap sheets and level five rankings. Falling in with the Syndicate has been the only ‘real’ job he’s ever had.
Spending Habits: Tierney is a very frugal person. He buys almost everything second hand or used and very rarely spends it on anything new. The only expensive things he owns are his bikes and a flat screen TV. Tierney’s not ashamed to admit most of his money gets spent on bike parts anyways.
Debt: Never. Credit cards mean government ability to track him. And being in debt t other people is a one way trip to being killed over it at a later date. Tierney repays any debts he can’t avoid as quickly as possible, but he tends to avoid accruing debts as much as possible.
Most Valuable Possession: Some people might say it would be his bikes, and from a purely financial stand point it most definitely is, but according to Tierney it’s the Blackburn Syndicate, hands down.
Skills & Abilities
Physical Strength: Above Average | Average | Below Average
Tierney works out twice a day, every day, no exceptions. He needs to be in top physical condition for every job and now it’s just become a part of his daily habits. He’s supremely strong in his own right but mix his powers in with it and a supremely dedicated force of will he could probably lift a car above his head.
Speed: Above Average | Average | Below Average
Tierney isn’t the fastest hitman on the market but he’s perfectly capable of darting in and out of a situation with speed. It’s part of the job to act quickly and what he lacks in sheer speed he knows he more than makes up for elsewhere.
Intelligence: Above Average | Average | Below Average
Tierney never went to school. What schooling he did get the few years he had between testing and aging out was sporadic at best. He’s not ashamed of his faults but he doesn’t go around talking about them much either. Besides, being able to recite the presidents holds no bearing on his life choices so...what’s it matter? Tierney knows how to do his job exceptionally well. What Tierney doesn’t know ranges from complex math to the English Oxford Comma.
Accuracy: Above Average | Average | Below Average
Tierney’s powers require a certain degree of needed accuracy coupled with the fact he’s exceptionally talented with a range of deadly weapons. He prides himself in hitting exactly what he’s aiming at every time. Sure, he misses, but that usually because his target makes an unexpected move before he can account for it.
Agility: Above Average | Average | Below Average
He’s getting older, he won’t lie about that, and that’s starting to show. Tierney is less likely to look like a stunt double these days. No somersaults or daring roof top leaps happen these days. Besides, it’s more dramatic to sweep in like an avenging angel and sweep out just as quickly. Agility is good for running away. But you only run away when you get caught. And Tierney never gets caught.
Stamina: Above Average | Average | Below Average
Tierney’s powers are tied directly to his stamina. It’s taken him years and years of practice to build up the stamina he has now. He can use his powers for hours before he starts to feel winded and hours more before he gets tired. (Unless he goes for the super taxing activities like lifting buildings or psionic explosions.) It’s perhaps his greatest strength, his ability to keep going when others weaker than him might stop.
Teamwork: Ciara Sawyer is his go-to partner. Hell, most would call her his only partner. He doesn’t like working with other people and tries very hard not to do it. He will when he must but he’ll be begrudging about it the whole time.
Talents/Hobbies: Motorcycles, Lockpicking, Murder
Shortcomings: His sense of justice, the inability to kill someone who isn’t involved with what he’s doing. It’s a bonus he can erase minds when he wants to. Anyone who knows Tierney from work and outside of work knows he has a severe weak spot for his gang. Touch a hair on their heads and he tends to lose focus.
Languages Spoken: English
Drive?: Yes. A MV Agusta Brutale.
Jump-Start a Car?: Yes
Change a Flat Tire?: All the time.
Ride a Bicycle?: No way. In hell.
Swim?: Not because he likes to.
Play an Instrument?: Nope
Play Chess?: Yes
Braid Hair?: No
Tie a Tie?: Yes. Of course!
Pick a Lock?: Oh hell yeah. With his mind.
Cook?: Yes, but not well.
Physical Appearance & Characteristics
Faceclaim: Joel Kinnaman
Eye Color: Brownish/Greenish
Hair Color: Ashy Blonde
Hair Type/Style/Length: Average/Well Kept/Short
Glasses/Contacts?: None
Dominant Hand: Right
Height: 6′ 2″
Weight: 187lbs
Build: Athletic
Exercise Habits: Two session, morning and evening. Every day, two hours. With intermittent practice in between with others.
Skin tone: Fair
Tattoos: Left shoulder reaching to just below his elbow, spiders out to cover some of his chest and back. Got it to cover up an old gunshot scar. A faded string of numbers on his right arm (080879-58-05).
Piercings: None
Marks/Scars: Tierney is covered in scars. From battle wounds to childhood scrapes, to remnants of his life as a test mutant. Most can be found on his chest and back but part of why he wears pants and sleeves is to hide the others. Don’t want his identifying marks to get out and doesn’t like explaining to others what happened to him in order to get that many scars.
Clothing Style: Dark colors, long pants, long sleeves, deep pockets. Usually a coat when the weather allows. The more places to hide the things he needs to work the better. But he cleans up well, he has plenty of suits in his closet too. Usually second hand stuff, the only time he buys something fancy is when he’s on a job.
Jewelry: A set of dog tags labeling him a level five mutant. Nothing more.
Allergies: None
Diet: Average. More fast food than probably healthy.
Physical Ailments: Stiff knees. Jumped off a few too many building in his younger years. Spent too many hours kneeling behind walls after that. They don’t bother him much but anyone with eyes can see they’re stiff. His left shoulder is also stiff, he favors it. Perhaps on of his worst gun shot injuries to date. It haunts him. And aches when the weather changes.
Psychology
MBTI Type: ISTJ-A (The Logistician)
ISTJs are often called inspectors. They have a keen sense of right and wrong, especially in their area of interest and/or responsibility. They are noted for devotion to duty. Punctuality is a watchword of the ISTJ. As do other Introverted Thinkers, ISTJs often give the initial impression of being aloof and perhaps somewhat cold. Effusive expression of emotional warmth is not something that ISTJs do without considerable energy loss. ISTJs are most at home with "just the facts, Ma'am." They seem to perform at highest efficiency when employing a step-by-step approach.
Enneagram Type: Type 6 (The Skeptic)
The committed, security-oriented type. Sixes are reliable, hard-working, responsible, and trustworthy. Excellent "troubleshooters," they foresee problems and foster cooperation, but can also become defensive, evasive, and anxious—running on stress while complaining about it. They can be cautious and indecisive, but also reactive, defiant and rebellious. They typically have problems with self-doubt and suspicion. At their Best: internally stable and self-reliant, courageously championing themselves and others.
Moral Alignment: Lawful Neutral
A lawful neutral character acts as law, tradition, or a personal code directs her. Order and organization are paramount to her. She may believe in personal order and live by a code or standard, or she may believe in order for all and favor a strong, organized government.
Temperament: Choleric
Cholerics are extroverted, quick-thinking, active, practical, strong-willed, and easily annoyed. They are self-confident, self-sufficient, and very independent minded. They are brief, direct, to the point, and firm when communicating with others.
Element: Earth & Fire
Emotional Stability: Stable
Introvert or Extrovert?: Introvert
Obsession(s): Motorcycles. Tierney doesn’t know a lot outside of how to kill someone and get away with it. But he knows practically everything there is to know about motorcycles. How they work, how the break, how to fix them. Everything. Some would call him obsessed but Tierney calls it laser focused.
Compulsion(s): Protecting his family. It’s what’s on his mind in every situation. All of his actions are dictated by this fact. Even for decisions that aren’t going to impact the Syndicate are measured against this need. It’s never occurred to him that it might, in fact, be a problem. It’s just natural.
Phobia(s): Mutant testing facilities. It’s irrational, especially now, to be afraid of getting taken back to the white walled hellscape he grew up in. But he is. He scrubs his name clean where ever he goes and actively avoids anyone in a lab coat who starts asking questions. He even takes down fliers asking for mutants to ‘willingly’ submit to testing. He doesn’t talk about those years for damn good reasons.
Addiction(s): None
Drug Use: None
Alcohol Use: Often
Prone to Violence?: Always
Prone to Crying?: No
Believe in Love at First Sight?: No
Mannerisms
Accent: Depends. A bit of a hodgepodge of Boston and Midwestern. Tends to adapt to the common accent after a while when staying in a place for a prolonged period of time.
Speech Quirks: None
Hobbies: Motorcycle Repair, Motorcycle Rebuilding
Habits: Spinning things in the air when he’s concentrating. Leg bouncing. Ordering more food than he can eat so he has left overs in the fridge.
Nervous Ticks: Rubbing his nose and spinning objects in the air at high rates of speed.
Drives/Motivations: Protecting his family.
Fears: Losing his family, someone dying on him, being taken back in for testing.
Sense of Humour?: Dry. Like the desert.
Do They Curse Often?: Like. All the time.
Favorites
Animal: Bear
Beverage: Heineken Beer and/or Black Coffee
Book: None. Tierney hates reading.
Color: Deep Green
Food: Ciara’s
Flower: None
Gem: Emeralds
Mode of Transportation: Motorcycles
Scent: Fresh brewed coffee, rain on the horizon, motorcycle oil, pizza grease on your fingers
Sport: Football and Hockey
Weather: Rain
Vacation Destination: None
Attitudes
Greatest Dream: End mutant testing. Tierney sees nothing productive in the act and goes out of his way to end it whenever and wherever he can. Mutants are people. Not lab rats to be poked at or taken away from their families.
Greatest Fear: Losing one of his family and being taken back for mutant testing.
Most at Ease When: Elbow deep in one of his bikes with of his closest friends lounging on the couch across the way.
Least as Ease When: He doesn’t know what’s going on around him. When his plans has fallen through and he’s no longer in control of what’s happening around him.
Worst Possible Thing That Could Happen: Alma being murdered.
Biggest Achievement: Taking out the president of the company that held him as a test subject when he was a child.
Biggest Regret: He has exactly Eleven. Eleven deaths that weren’t supposed to happen but did.
Avery felt a force engulf his body. It was an odd feeling, as if he was being hugged from all directions but a lot tighter. He tried to wiggle free but it didn’t work. He kept calm and met the other’s gaze. “Well, welcome to Maimi Mr. Mutant.” He clenched his jaw as he attempted to sum up how powerful the other person was. It seemed as if the man held him with ease, so yeah, pretty powerful. “You really shouldn’t leave your things lying around.”
“Hmm, why shouldn’t you call the cops?” One of the least threatening things to Avery was the cops. It was the equivalent to a parent counting to three to attempt to stop their child from acting out. “Do it.” He shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Part of him knew that the cops were not going to be called if he was a mutant from Chicago, he was sure they’d be more interested in the other than in him. He sighed, “Okay, I’m bored.” and with seconds he reached out to the other with his powers, feeling their mass and it’s gravitational pull and the Earth’s pull on him. He concentrated on weakening the effect of gravity on the other. Maybe if he started floating away he’d be too preoccupied to hold him in place. He knew it was working as the other’s hair started to raise from its flat position first, he could also feel the room get lighter. If he wasn’t careful enough, he could send everything in this room into the air.
Tierney grins in spite of himself. The kid’s amusing. Witty even. And sharp too. He’s clearly been paying attention to the underbelly of Miami. For a minute Tierney considers the idea that this kid picked his storage unit on purpose and then dismisses it. Things are too fresh, too new, picking a fight with another gang right now would be a bad decision. What bothers him though is the kid’s absolute lack of emotion. Usually people panicked when they found out they couldn’t move for no reason, especially nobody thieves. This kid? Nothing. He cocks his head to the side, intrigued. “I’d hardly call this lying around. Considering they’re in a locked storage unit. With cameras.”
After another beat Tierney decides the kid either stupid or some variant thereof. No fear, taunting him even. Tierney finds he doesn’t much like that. “I though I was being nice, offering to let you get off clean, but I guess--” He doesn’t get to finish his thought before he feels things begin to change. It’s subtle at first, the hair on his arms standing on end, and then it’s suddenly something more. He feels...nearly weightless. It catches him so off guard that he lets the kid go with a grunt. He gets he’s bearing back but doesn’t make a move. The kid is clearly a mutant, and if Tierney knows anything he knows that fighting a mutant and not knowing how they work is a bad idea. “A mutant as well. Interesting.” He keeps a wary eye on the kid, hands at the ready, just in case. “How about you stop...whatever it is you’re doing, hmm? You break one you buy it. And I doubt my friends would take kindly to hurting my either, hmm?” He blinks. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way kid.”
Ciara fake gasped and lightly slapped him on the arm. “Rude. So rude.” She then laughed and this time when she smiled, it stuck. “I’m sure they bored you so much that you fell asleep. Really I haven’t had anyone to text since-” She paused and shook her head. She was not going to let the past bring down her mood now. “Since a long time ago. I wouldn’t worry so much about me.” Honestly Ciara was surprised he seemed to care about her as much as he did but she would always be glad for it. Without him, she wasn’t sure where she’d be. “That sounds so good. After all the gas station and just not great things I had along the way, this will be a good change.”
“What can I say. I’m a rude person.” He means it as a joke, but Tierney knows there are plenty of people out there who’d call him rude, if not something much worse. He smiles softly, hands in his pockets and eyes on the horizon. “Ciara. You can text me whenever you want. It’s not a bother.” Besides, he liked talking to her. He scoffs at her comment about not worrying about her. Of course he worries. He worries about everyone in the Syndicate. Some more than others. “You tell me not to worry but I will anyways you know.” He shakes his head and leads the way, weaving in and out of the scattered people with a practiced ease. Blending in, not being noticed, has been a skill honed for years. When he gets to his place he opens the door with little flourish, holding it open just long enough for Ciara to walk in before letting it go and flicking on the light. “Garage is just ahead, stairs to the apartment are on the left.” He heads up, already pulling out his phone. “I’m thinking of ordering the whole menu. I’ll need something to keep Isaac and Jack from eating my good food for a while, right? What is the shelf life on Chinese food anyways?”
“So dark, Tierney, so dark,” she said with a grin. She wasn’t easily caught off guard, but she didn’t like his tone. Not that she could do much about it. They weren’t on the same crew, but they were in the same business, and rivalry was something that was to be expected. So she copied every move he made, crossing her arms, scoffing and rolling her eyes, making sure to do it openly, and adjusting her stance so she like Tierney tried to appear dangerous and tall.
“Girl? Really Tierney, I thought we were past the name calling,” she said in a hushed tone. “And if you think this is me being friendly with you, you have a very twisted image of me,” she added with a smile. She paused for a moment, lipped her lips, and then turned back to Tierney with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “A new city, perhaps we should think about working together instead of working against each other… what do you think? We’re clearly the outsiders here.”
So dark seemed almost like a compliment. Almost. Tierney finds no reason to be offended by it, in fact, it almost makes him smile. Her attempts at mimicking him don’t go unnoticed. He’s amused by the whole display. He won’t say she isn’t a dangerous person, she’s a hitman all the same, but it’s humorous. Tierney is the tall and dark type...Luca had always appeared to him as...a chaotic whirlwind. The person you called in for a flashy show rather than an impersonal job. No trace, no message, just death.
“It’s not a name if it’s true, hmm?” As far as Tierney is concern she is a girl. Young. Dangerous. Annoying. “If you’re not being friendly then what are you being? Because last time I checked we were not on the same side. Unless you’ve decided to change sides.” Part of Tierney hopes she hasn’t. He doesn’t want the competition so close to home. Especially not so close they might mire his own career. “Thanks. But I have a partner. Not looking for another.”
