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Post by Mischa Zyomin on Jan 14, 2015 2:15:13 GMT
The blonde stirred his drink absently as icy blue eyes took in the situation around him. Americans were so…. busy. All the time they ran around like little mice, squeaking and making a fuss over every little thing. Good lord did he hate it here. It hadn’t been so bad when he was traveling. Before the event he had spent most of his time in America on planes, in hotel rooms, or busy. He hadn’t had the time to just relax and watch them. Without their sense of personal space, hovering around their children like they would die if they weren’t watched for more than a few seconds. Disgusting. Even now a woman was screaming at the cashier about how the barista had gotten her order wrong. Was it the cashier’s fault? No. The girl looked like she was about to cry, but that wasn’t Mischa’s problem either. The woman needed to calm down and the girl needed to toughen up, but they could figure those things out on their own.
With a soft sigh he turned the drink up and downed it, throwing the empty cup into the trash as he pushed his way through a crowd of people to get there. A lot of them gave him incredulous looks, but none of them said a word – good thing, too. He wouldn’t hesitate to cause a scene, he was bored anyway. He would eventually make his way out of the overcrowded coffee shop and take a deep breath once he was out in the less-crowded central area. He pushed his fingers through his hair and then shoved his hands into his pockets as he took off walking in a random direction. His daughter would be staying with him tonight, so that meant he couldn’t do any of the things he would normally do. He refused to be high or drunk around her, and even though most of his jobs were fairly safe, he wouldn’t take the chance of his face being beaten up either. In short, this basically meant that Mischa would be bored until his ex-wife called him.
He wasn’t even really aware of the green-haired woman he had been walking behind until a paper seemed to flutter away from her. His gaze followed it lazily at first as he considered what to do. He hadn’t even been watching her closely enough to say for sure that the paper belonged to her, but it would be a good excuse to start up a conversation either way, and maybe she could quell his boredom for the time being. He stepped to the side and scooped, grabbing the paper out of the air with ease. “Miss!” He called, taking a couple of quick steps to catch up with her. “Hey, green hair!” His voice was slightly raised over the din of all of the other people in the mall. Assuming she heard him and turned around, he would present the paper to her. “Did you drop this?” He would ask in his deep, thickly accented voice.
This was assuming she didn’t just ignore him, of course.
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Oriana Verdi
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Post by Oriana Verdi on Jan 16, 2015 20:23:36 GMT
The Christmas season lulled into an after New Year’s euphoria that drove more people indoors than out of it. Those that moved along the streets and through stores were the scourging crew of after New Year’s sales and far less fervent passionate than their before Christmas counterparts. Ever still, Oriana detested going out. More content to envelope herself in machines and glassware, the woman made it a point to order online and have things shipped to her when she could. However, two weeks of order and postage problems had pissed her off enough to simply signal she was coming down to pick it up herself, and thus Oriana made the drive down to the mall, parked, and started in.
In three inch stilettoes, Oriana strode powerfully through the mall, her Everest green mane flowing behind her unhindered by pins, clips, or ties. Her form fitting dark pin stripe green suit and turquoise tie caught a few interested glances, but the fierce gaze that rested unhindered behind glasses quickly sent them turning again. Men who feared something more than rejection knew better than to approach a woman on a mission, and women who knew the sight of a lioness unhindered by social judgment were less inclined to look upon her. She was a business woman in a class all her own.
In the crook of her right arm, Oriana pressed a soft lavender folder full of documentation to herself. If anyone in the damn store dared to haggle with her, the woman was prepared to shove order receipts and printed screen shots down their throats. She was done with their shit. She didn’t expect humans or technology to be perfect, but she both needed this particular order for her research and this was one too many fuck ups for this. In the back of her mind, Oriana composed her however. She wanted to say exactly what she meant and make no mistakes in the process. There would be no room for error, she refused it. So caught up in her thought was Oriana that she didn’t realize a paper had slipped from her folder.
It was only when an accented voice caught her ears and then referenced her hair that Oriana stopped dead in her tracks. That’s…. a Russian accent? Turning instantly on one heel, she stared up challengingly until the paper was presented. Slowly glancing down and recognizing the printed screen shot of the second mishap with her online order, Oriana exhaled softly, her features becoming muted in soft disdain. Of course… she mentally sighed taking the paper after a second and carefully slipping it back into her folder. “Thank you,” was the prompt reply before she looked up at him again.
Oriana tried not to squint, really, but there was something about his face that seemed vaguely familiar now that she looked at it. Perhaps she’d just seen him somewhere in the toybox before. Since everyone had been sealed in there, faces had become familiar out of sheer reoccurrence, after all. In this case, however, she wasn’t sure if that was the case. “I would have had a hole in my argument without it,” she continued. Maybe if the conversation persisted for a little, she could figure out why he looked familiar.
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Post by Mischa Zyomin on Jan 21, 2015 1:54:15 GMT
It was upon the man’s second calling that the woman would stop and turn sharply, and it would be after she turned that he really looked at her. More so than just noticing her hair, which was impossible to miss, really. His eyes traveled quickly down her form, though it would be clear to anyone that he wasn’t ‘checking her out’. No, the quick once-over was much more important than that, and there would be time for the other thing later if she expressed interest anyway. This look was simply sizing her up, deciding how much of a threat she was. It was something he’d been trained to do since he was twelve, and no one was excluded from it. She was tall for a woman, though perhaps some of that could be attributed to her shoes. Her suit was flashy and told him that she didn’t much care what anyone else thought of her, and her body seemed solid enough. It was her face, of course, that gave away her fierce nature more than anything else. That challenging look was not one he often received, though he held her purple gaze with a cool and practiced ease.
Even as she spoke those first two words, he recognized that awful accent. The same one his wife had. His ex-wife, actually. Nearly ten years of marriage made him quicker to refer to her as his wife than anything. He was glad for the fact that his daughter had been raised in Russia. He didn’t have to hear that accent every time she spoke, thankfully. Not that he would love her any less for it, but still. “You are welcome.” He rumbled, his deep voice warm as he allowed the paper to be taken from his grasp by her. They were standing in the middle of a trafficked area, and yet all of the people simply walked around them rather than say anything or bump into them. But of course they would. Both Mischa and this greenette were intimidating by themselves, forget anyone saying anything when they were seemingly together.
For a moment he thought that might have been the end of the conversation, but then she squinted. He raised his eyebrows slightly, though a playful grin made its way easily onto his features. She could squint all she wanted, even if he wasn’t sure why she was doing it. Given that accent she might have known him from somewhere, even if she didn’t seem very familiar to him. Surely he would have remembered that hair. Either way, when she finally spoke again he couldn’t help but smirk. No one with half a brain would argue with her unless they needed to, he was sure of that. She likely wouldn’t need whatever she had prepared for the occasion. “Your argument?” He questioned, tilting his head slightly.
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Oriana Verdi
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Post by Oriana Verdi on Feb 28, 2015 20:37:43 GMT
She knew that gaze as it scanned over her. It was sharper than ones she received from other men and more careful, perhaps? As those eyes met her own, however, these thoughts dispersed. Unlike many men that would have cringed at meeting her clearly harsh gaze, this one seemed to have enough gal to keep calm. A small smirk came and went from Oriana’s features, a questionable testament to her inner thoughts. Perhaps he had won a point or two by simply keeping calm; perhaps not. Neither assertion would escape from her lips. Oriana kept her thoughts of others to herself except in rare cases. This was more the prior than the latter.
The welcome was almost disregarded. It was a common comment said in habit rather than genuine ‘welcomeness’. She accepted it as a part of English, no, human nature in general to do such things. Social constructs were as real as the people they affected, after all. It would be foolish to ignore their persistence in humanity to date. Something more interesting had caught her attention, however: the man’s familiarity. In the seconds that ticked by, she became more and more sure she had seen him somewhere before. Wherever that was, she knew not, however. What is his name? Where is he from? Is he just a stranger or was he someone from- Oriana’s blood froze very briefly. His accent, his face. Russian mob. It was a stretch, a terrible extrapolation she would have refuted under almost every other circumstances. She knew that and mentally kicked herself for jumping to conclusions.
As her carefully placed bait was taken, Oriana’s lips pressed together briefly. “A stainless steel store has been consistently messing up a particular online order of mine, and I have decided to deal with the matter myself,” she stated promptly. Lips pressed together again, and she stared thoughtfully, intensely at him. “I don’t suppose you have had such experiences before,” she commented after the fact.
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Post by Mischa Zyomin on Mar 22, 2015 23:45:53 GMT
The blonde’s fingers moved absently across his earrings as he regarded the woman before him. She was intense. She hadn’t said or done much, but he could tell that she was. Maybe it was just the way she looked at him, maybe it was how she dressed, or maybe it was because he had met people like her before. Either way, she had already peaked his interest before she started talking about ‘stainless steel’ products. Perhaps a normal person would have automatically assumed she was talking about kitchen products, but his mind went automatically to more sharp and deadly objects. The wicked smirk that appeared on his face was covered poorly, but did it matter? He probably wouldn’t ever see her again, and even if he did, he wasn’t afraid of her nor did he take too many measures to hide who he was.
“I tend to get my steel from… more reliable sources.” He stated, looking over her features carefully thereafter. If he were to order, say, a knife, it wouldn’t be from someone who could be tracked, and it his order wouldn’t be messed up or misplaced or someone would pay dearly. “So I’m afraid I’ve never had that problem. Perhaps you should come to me the next time you need a new…?” He tilted his head as he allowed the question to hang in the air. Well, what was she ordering? He allowed his curiosity to show on his face, his blue eyes twinkling a bit. This woman was curious, interesting. And therefore Mischa wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know what she was ordering, what she was going to do with it – and he would be rather disappointed if it turned out to be something boring like a skillet.
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Oriana Verdi
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