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Post by gwen on Nov 30, 2011 0:52:08 GMT -6
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------ "I will see you soon." Gwen clicked off her phone with a sigh. Back to business and she had just gotten settled, too. Gwen tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. Her full name was Gwendolyn Kai De Luca, or at least that was the name she went by. She never used her birth name anymore. Although, her birth name, Guinevere, still had the nickname Gwen so she did not feel like she was dishonoring her father. Gwen's father took great care in naming her. He was a renowned professor of art history and just about the greatest man you could have ever known. Mateo Martinez, an American citizen who was born in Cuba, not very common. Good man, well educated. After his wife, Gwen's mother, was murdered he had raised Gwen alone to the best of his ability. He was a wreck from losing her mom though. He needed to know what had happened to her. He became obsessed and wrote everything he discovered into his notebooks conducting his own investigation. But even so, he was not neglectful or bad to Gwen. He treated his daughter like a princess. They lived in a decent apartment in New York, their rather modest apartment was trumped by the priceless art pieces and artifacts on display. They're home looked like a museum.
------ Mateo had home schooled Gwen. She didn't resent it. She had read that a lot of home schooled children hated it because they had not been able to socialize. But honestly? Gwen hadn't cared to. Gwen had mostly known some of the students in her father's class at Columbia University. A couple even babysat her. But she would just sit in the back and take notes. Hell, the girl even tutored some of her babysitters just because she loved talking about art. No worries, she knew a couple kids her own age growing up and that had been more than enough. No, home schooling was good for her, especially since she had a brilliant teacher. Gwen knew she was not many things a "modern" woman should be. She was not tough in terms of physical strength or pain tolerance. Although she had gone through child birth and let me tell you-- oh well actually that's another story. But she wasn't crazy outspoken. She didn't like to party or flirt. She did not wear the short skirts and pink halter tops. No. She knew she was many things that might not be considered appropriate, like her night job for example. But she knew she was intelligent. She knew she was smart. And she knew it was all thanks to her father.
------ Her father was the man who made her who she is. She had a brilliant talent and mind. She might have some issues but she would not sacrifice her mind, her eye for detail or her passion for art for the world. Gwen did wish she had gained a bit more of her mother's artistic talent. Now the paintings Gwen did, the ones that weren't forgeries of other pieces, were also quite good, especially her mixture of the black and white world with the color, but that was her one talent that Gwen could never see in herself, so she kept her own works hidden away in the studio of her loft which she never let anyone in, usually. Gwen walked toward her bed and sat down on the edge pulling on her heels before standing again. She made her way back into the main area of the loft and pulled some papers off of her printer and placed them in a folder before sliding the folder into her matching leather briefcase. Quickly glancing into the case to make sure she had everything she needed, Gwen made her way out of her loft, locking it up tight before heading for her silver GS Hybrid Lexus. She was on her way to a new but quick job.
------ Gwen handed her keys to the valet's at the Inferno Hotel with a smile and a thank you. She looked up to see a few rather frightening looking men. She put on a warm and polite smile, holding out her hand to them, "Господа. Gwendolyn De Luca. Рад встречать Вас." -- Gentlemen, Gwendolyn De Luca. PLeasure to meet you -- Gwen greeted them warmly in Russian, if it was even possible to do so. The taller of the men gave an almost smile as he shook her hand with a bit of a grip. "Ms. De Luca, I see you know some Russian." Gwen tilted her head to side slightly before returning her hand to her side, "Only a few phrases here and there I regret." The taller gentlemen again gave an almost smile. Gwen would have a hard time trying describe the look he gave. Still threatening. She wasn't nervous or anything. Of course she had heard of the Russians. Her father had verified a few pieces for them before but that was a long time ago. "My name is Lisovkii," The man began as he began walking into the Hotel, gesturing her to follow. She did. "I knew your father once, good man." She looked up at him. He had known her father? He looked down at her as he lead her down some hallways to the lesser occupied areas of the hotel.
------ Gwen walked a bit faster than usual to keep up, listening carefully. "I was disappointed when I heard of his passing." He added as he held a door open for her which lead into the Kitchen. Gwen nodded. Disappointed? That's one way to look at the murder of the one person in the world who Gwen had cared about. She looked around as they simply cut through the bustling kitchen and made their way to a back office which contained a rather large case. The man who called himself Lisovkii turned around and leaned against the large desk, as one of his men reached for Gwen's bag which she handed over. She was not an amateur. She knew they were going to do a bug check. She raised her arms and let herself be pat down although she did not like that the lacky seemed to take just a few seconds longer than necessary. She dropped her arms and looked up at Lisovkii, "Shall we then?" The man smirked, "Down to business, I like that." He snapped his fingers and one of his men went into the safe and pulled out a medium sized canvas draped in an old sheet for protection. He laid it out on the desk and pulled off the sheet.
------ This was another reason she had wanted this job. If it was the original she would be seeing the original Vermeer's Concert which hasn't shown up anywhere in the past twenty-two years after being stolen in 1990. Gwen reached into her bag and pulled out a small but rather strong magnifying glass and leaned over the work which at first glance she could say was a magnificent forgery if it was faked. She scanned the paint strokes for a few moments before pulling out her protective soft gloves in order to lift the painting slightly, checking the edges. She then pulled out a small flashlight and turned it on under the painting and smiled as nothing shone through. She smiled in her head as she stood up and faced the Russian men, "Well, Mr. Lisovkii, I do have an answer for you." She said expectantly. He nodded and tossed her a fold of money. Gwen caught it and counted it. Five grand cash. She charged more for forgeries but this was just a verification. Usually that was even cheaper but she convinced them to up the price since if it was the original Vermeer and she was caught with it her sentence would be higher. But after seeing it in person. It was beautiful. "I would like to thank you Mr. Lisovkii." Gwen counted out two grand as she continued, "Seeing the original Vermeer was truly a joy. I only wish my father could have been here with me." She reached out and handed him back the two grand, making her pay three grand.
------ The man laughed deeply taking the money back, "You're a strange girl but I like you. Tell me, why the light?" Gwen smiled and glanced down at the painting. "Well, I knew right away, if it were a forgery, it was a brilliant one. The key strokes a perfect match, right down to the type of paint he used, the canvas material aged to perfection. But this canvas material and this type of paint should be thin enough to see a bright light through. The original Vermeer was painted over so many times from him trying to get it perfect that it had too many layers and no longer let light through. Only a very select amount of people know this and only one of them has the skill for this level of work." The man stood up straight, "And who's that?" Now it was Gwen's turn to give a small smirk, "Me." She said plainly, "And since I know I didn't do it... even his signature on the back is perfectly placed. Congratulations. You have in your midst a 100 Million dollar painting." She held out her hand again. He shook it. "Pleasure doing business with you. I have some work to do but please, if you go out through the kitchen, have a drink at our bar, on us." Gwen nodded and thanked the man again before taking one long look at the painting. Now that was a find. She then made her way out into the main part of the hotel. She could use a nice drink. She pulled herself up onto one of the bar seats and crossed one leg over the other as the bartender asked what she would like. "An Old Fashioned please, Jameson? Thank you." She added before she pulled out a small leather notebook
------ She wrote down the current location of the Vermeer. She kept track of all the works she saw that held importance. She then folded the three grand into the book. Not bad for less than five minutes of work. Not bad at all. Plus she got to see an amazing piece. She placed the book back into her bag in the secret pocket to protect it against any pick pockets before pulling out a newspaper and thanking the bartender as he handed her her old fashioned. She took a sip before letting her eyes drift down to the words in black and white.
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STATUS;; complete
TAGGED;; miikka<3
CREDITS;; format stolen from lainey, with a little tweaking by me
LYRICS;; 'uptown girl' billy joel
CLOTHES;; here
NOTES;; really long, sorry, got carried away. hope everything's okay
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Post by miikka on Dec 19, 2011 2:02:46 GMT -6
 ,THESE SURROUNDINGS DEFINITELY were not foreign boundaries to miikka sakahrov. he had spent several years jumping from one five star establishment to another. since turning professional, all he had experienced were first-class amenities. it came with the stereotype, i suppose. many people had odd opinions about professional athletes. like they were held on another plain, or something. he imagined it could make some level of sense. twenty-five people in a single city, hundreds of thousands recognizing them, cheering them on, defending their honour. "pride on their chest, hearts on their sleeves, and heroes on their back" - that was a phrase often coined in the world of the national hockey league. it was baffling, thinking about people and their fierce passion for him, as a person. it was eerie, now that he was on the outside looking in. him and his teammates had been, for some people, higher on the ladder than celebrities. fuck hollywood, i obsess over my sport and the people that are experts. while hotels like the inferno seemed second nature when he was on the inner circle, it seemed unreal now. sort of. at the back of his mind, the opulent surroundings impressed him. people found these places crappy. he had heard several valkyrie residents turning their noses down at the inferno hotel and casino. he didn't get it. it all felt very familiar, but at the same time, it was weird. he didn't want to break something and get exiled all over again.
a matter of weeks had changed his mindset completely. the last several years seemed like another lifetime. while his bank account echoed the lifestyle of a professional hockey player, his mentality certainly didn't. he didn't get it. i don't think anyone did. very few had gone through what he did, leaving all of "that" behind. luxury, impatience, only the best - that is what had been his three months ago. and while connecting with all of "this" again seemed routine, he still felt uncomfortable. the washed-up doctor saving lives in a hospital again, but he didn't have his lab coat, his official identity. imagine how that fellow must feel. translate that into miikka and you have a winning. he smiled rather wryly at the comparison. his gait was casual, almost careless. but he was trying not to gape. everything about the inferno was top notch. articulate in perfection. clean lines, minimal taste, almost seemingly untouchable. maybe it was because all his times in five star hotels, he had been exhausted, exhilarated and in desperate need for a shower. that left little time for admiration. yes. he decided that was the reasoning. because he didn't understand it, and it was beginning to make him uncomfortable.
then again, he had never been on this side of the hotel - the hospitality business, the staff. the people passing him by, eyeing him judgementally, were the ones paying for his employment now. he didn't have a keycard, a suitcase and a roommate to prank. it was just…odd, that's all. pushing his hands into his pockets, miikka drew a sharp breath. why was he even thinking about this? he didn't miss it, yearning for the inner circle that had once belonged to him. well, not really. he was just sensitive to his surroundings, that's all. it was new and just a little bit scary. he had been an official employee of the inferno for less than a month now. and everytime he arrived for a shift, he felt the same sense of hesitance. he was lost. completely and utterly. he was staring into the future and all he saw was a storm circling, dark clouds piling and lightning threatening him. he definitely had yet to accept the fact he no longer played hockey. perhaps this was another step, accepting life as a private citizen. shifting from places like to this was no longer the norm. he could hang up the golden key to the inner circle, but he was refusing to break his stick in half and burn all of his old pucks. what the fuck, brain. seriously.
breathing a quick sigh, he slowed his walk farther. arriving an hour early for a scheduled shift, he had taken to wandering the endless hallways. a few people seemed to stop for a second, look at him with an odd expression. they recognized him. someone had a chicago hat on; he definitely furrowed his eyebrows. an old couple in fur coats scoffed, seeing his moody pictures at the front of the sports section. it varied from there. his light eyes quickly glancing at the clock on his phone confirmed it - time to swipe in. he was doing what he should have done all along: cooking. putting his red seal certificate to good use. no, he never played college hockey. no, he didn't spend a year in russian hockey. and no, he did not spend almost four seasons as the goaltender for the chicago blackhawks. nope. he quickly graduated and has been rising through the culinary ranks ever since. yep. that was his story, and he was sticking to it. biting down on his lip (active with his mouth? new habit.), miikka avoided the eyes of the tired kitchen staff milling around the locker room. he remained silent as he switched his shirt for a black chef jacket. he was quick to find his apron and pick up his knife case. a good part of him didn't want to admit he was going to be with these people for a good long time. he didn't want to make connections, because he wanted to believe this was simply a trial. he'd be back where he belonged tomorrow. yep. no point in getting to know them. he'd never see them again. too bad reality pulled him back down and he ascended the staircase up to the trendy bar of the inferno hotel and casino. this place may have felt routine. but this certainly didn't.
this was the saving grace. he liked the untouchable quality to the bar. people whispered, seemingly afraid to stand out. it was clean, polished and buffed to modern perfection. no one bothered him. he mingled in the state-of-the-art kitchen and prepared whatever orders requested. the bartenders were busy. people - quiet white collars fading into their misery, couples in designer garments looking into the bubble, he didn't even care - rarely ordered complete meals. the restaurants were perfect for that. good. he was left alone. the silence infected the staff as well. much of the night was spent playing silly games on his phone, pretending he couldn't see the plasma screens secured above the bar. vancouver was currently owning buffalo. the commentators were screaming the play-by-play because they hated him and wanted to force him to hear what was happening in the world that he no longer belonged to. he narrowed his eyes, leaning against the counter, attempting to convince himself nothing was going on. he didn't like hockey. he'd been raised on curling, good finnish sport. he discovered a nice love of football when he moved here, a few years back. yep. that was part of the story, too. the only times he stopped playing brick breaker was when he smiled vaguely and prepared meals for the staff, because they were working hard and he was bored. he'd offer to help, but that would require interacting with people and being around them as they discussed the game. no. he wasn't ready for that. the dishwasher never bothered him, lost in a book about serial killers and forbidden lovers. that would be a nice life to live. he was boredly toying with his knife sharpener when the next chef arrived. clearly relaxed, the fellow, sergei (?), smiled brightly at miikka as he pulled his own jacket on. he was a better employee than miikka, definitely. he was nice, eager to learn and happy to be here. must be nice. he was like that once. offering the russian fellow a brief smile, tarnishing the continued wishes for conversation, the ex-goaltender quickly cut through the back halls into the locker room. it felt like fifteen minutes since he'd been here last. eight hours had been spent in absolute silence. and he used to be so talkative. well, maybe he was quiet now. that could be part of the story. curling and football loving chef, moved from finland, looking for the next step in his career. quiet and unassuming, uncomfortable in new surroundings. that sounded good.
raising an eyebrow at the stupidity of that story, miikka quickly shrugged his suit jacket back on (still can't give those up). what did he have to do? where did he have to go? his mind wouldn't let him make an effort to settle down in valkyrie. he didn't want to get to know his family. he didn't want to get involved in their dark lives. he didn't want to accept any of this. this was just absurd. too bad his chef refused to let him work more. sixty hours a week is too much for a young, good looking boy, he'd said in his gruff swedish accent. what did a grizzled man who had lived here for thirty years, yet still had his silly accent, know about that? if he was the type to pick trivial arguments, he would. it wasn't worth the effort. pushing his hands back into his pockets, miikka retained his casual pace. he could pretend like he belonged again. a private citizen here for a quiet drink. yes. cutting right back through his usual route, he received another brief smile from the tired bartender as he took a seat at the bar, doing all he could to avoid looking at the television. he'd ask them to put on anything - baseball, even cricket - but he knew jamie, the general manager, never would. he was busy looking like crap and glued to the televisions. he never listened to what people wanted. the good american sports were playing on the secondary screens, ignored by the staff. silly. "vodka-diet, peter, please. tall glass." sounding much brighter than he currently felt, miikka watched his drink being poured before grasping the cold glass and turning to his right. beautiful girl, clearly wearing a 'do not disturb' sign. he definitely was not himself. professional hockey player miikka would have noticed the best looking girl - classy and mysterious - before he even entered the bar. oh well. maybe this could be part of the story, too. "there is only so many times a girl can read the same stories, no?" he wore the same bland, but pleasant, smile as he took a sip of his drink. "you are definitely the type to know much more than a newspaper can offer. correct me if i'm wrong." that could be part of the story too, annoying a pretty girl at a bar.
[/size][/blockquote] ----------------------------------------------------------- TAGGED, gwen! <3
DATE, the inferno, bar.
LENGTH, 1816 words.
ATTIRE, clicketh..
NOTES, hope this is okay….it's really random. i can change.
CREDITS, format and graphics to me.
lyrics to mute math - "typical"
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Post by gwen on Dec 21, 2011 23:42:54 GMT -6
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------ Gwen's parents had so much in common. Her mother, Dominique was a small time artist living in Italy, one of the most artistic and historical places in the world. Her father, Matteo had been in Italy, a renowned professor of art history. Both loved art with all their hearts and had an eye for detail. They were both moderately attractive but not anywhere near beautiful by society's standards. Both of them had a sense of adventure and romance. On their first date, Matteo had brought her to the roof of the cafe she worked at. He had draped the roof with lights and soft curtains. He had set up a table with a maroon cloth and Kraft mac'n'cheese, her favorite food. But what really won her over were her paintings standing around them in a circle. He had told her that even though he hadn't known her long that he had a hard time imagining himself in three years being anywhere than right next to her, holding her hand in his. That was how romance was supposed to be. Beautiful, and perfect. But that was probably too much to ask for. But who was Gwen if not a perfectionist? Her parents got married quickly. They had only known each other three months, and within the first year of their marriage, they moved back to his home in New York and Dominique was pregnant.
------ It wasn't until after she was pregnant she found out about Matteo's work. Dom was not a happy camper at first but compared to the rumors about her father's association with the mafia, he was very mild. Plus he never dirtied his hands with bloodshed. She forgave it. They lived happily, and fairly clean apart from a few underhanded deals. Dominique gave birth the a healthy baby girl: Gwen. She had been named after a painting. Guinevere, the arthurian queen. The painting had been Matteo's favorite, and one he was given as a gift. It had been lost after his death. Gwen would do anything to have it back. But it was respect for her father that caused her to keep Gwen as part of her name when she needed to change her name. The painting was beautiful. See, after Dominique's murder, Matteo was not neglectful or bad to Gwen. He treated his daughter like a princess. They lived in a decent apartment in New York, their rather modest apartment was trumped by the priceless art pieces and artifacts on display. They're home looked like a museum. Gwen was home schooled. She never really had to play with the kids her own age. She might meet a few when out walking but over all it was just her and her dad. She loved him with all her heart. Her father was her whole world.
------ Afterhis murder, she was sent to live in foster care but had run away within the first night. She ran to the storage unit where her father's belongings, including all of her mother's paintings and the painting of Guinevere. But they had sold all of it. His notebooks and clothes were all that remained. Seeing his prized possessions taken was like killing him all over again, especially her mother's paintings. She knew how he loved those. She hid in that garage for the night and in the morning, a stranger entered. He was a young adult male, in his late twenties. Charming smile, one of those guys that were too slick for their own good. He told her he would help her. His name? Vince. He told her he knew Matteo. Respected him, and Mateo had told him of his daughter, Guinevere who had the best natural talent for forging he had ever seen. Vince explained that he was an art thief, and a damn good one but was never particularly talented at forgery which is required to become truly infamous but that if she helped him, he would help her track down her father's lost art and her mother's stolen paintings. He would also, of course, allow Gwen to continue her unofficial education and live in style. Vince was the closest thing she had to family for years. They were able to find a few of her mother's paintings, but she never saw the Guinevere painting again. Gwen still hasn't given up hope to find out why her father was murdered. But she needed some connections to do it. It was one of the reasons she wanted to come to Valkyrie, the city had become a hotbed for organized crime. And as this night proved, work was not hard for to find here.
------ Gwen sat at the Inferno bar, sipping her old fashioned, pretending not to be thinking about the man who said he had met her father while reading the newspaper. The news was always so depressing lately. A kidnapping here, a rape case there, then moving into international news, war here, 14 soldiers dead there. Gwen was usually the type to refrain from reading much of the newspapers. She hardly paid attention to politics because when a lot of your work is outside of the law, the politics and law makers do not matter as much to you. But she did like to keep up on international affairs. Many of the times it helped you to track historically significant work and even when she wasn't hunting a piece, she was always the type of woman who liked to be in the know and aware of the world that encompassed her. "there is only so many times a girl can read the same stories, no?" Gwen looked up as she heard a male's voice speak in her direction. She offered a polite smile and gave a small shrugg, "Maybe for a girl you would be correct, a woman on the other hand might have a head for staying current." She replied cooly before continuing her smile as she returned her eyes to the pages in front of her. "you are definitely the type to know much more than a newspaper can offer. correct me if i'm wrong." Gwen set her drink down and without looking up added, "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not," She looked up at the stranger and smiled again, "But I won't know until I give it a chance, now will I?" She looked at the man. He was attractive, that was clear. Well dressed, but not rigid in presentation. Her immediate assumption? Had taste and opportunity that had either been taken from him or abused by him. Had a career, decent living but either not happy, or satisfied or he was living with regret. Either way, didn't matter much to her. "Smart people don't turn their eyes away at an opportunity to learn more." She added with a small smirk.
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TAGGED;; miikka<3
CREDITS;; format and graphics to me,
lyrics to 'uptown girl' billy joel
CLOTHES;; here
NOTES;;
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Post by miikka on Dec 30, 2011 2:32:23 GMT -6
,MIIKKA SAKAHROV, HIMSELF,/color] had stopped reading the newspaper. most rooms at the inferno hotel and casino - valkyrie's best and brightest establishment for tourists! - were delivered a copy of the 'valkyrie chronicle', or whatever it was, each and every morning. he knew he did. everytime miikka opened his door to get more ice at the end of the hallway, he saw the bold headlines glaring up at him. all he did was merely glance at the front page, uninterestedly looking for something worth reading, and throw it into the recycling pile that was quickly growing to ridiculous levels. he should really try and find a place to discard all of that. regardless of his part to save the planet or not, miikka did not read the newspaper. that's the point here, audience. no, it was not because he preferred to live under a rock. and no, it definitely was not because he wished to appear clueless about current events. he used to pride himself on being 'in the know', if you will. but he couldn't make the effort. not anymore. too many mornings had he read humiliating articles about him, seeing his name slaughtered in newspapers across the country. he had grown sick of struggling to swallow his coffee and appear unbothered. he couldn't do it anymore.
sad, isn't it? several months of disturbing words, and he had admitted defeat. miikka sakahrov's mental state was easy to break. every good fan in chicago knew that. how long did it take him to crack under the pressure, and shatter altogether? he pretended not to notice, but it was difficult. even in his first years as a blackhawk, when he was quickly titled a wash-up, pathetic even before his time, he struggled. that was the only time in his life he could compare this feeling. and it held a light, just a little flicker. the candle had been dissipating then, a desperate hope someone would light a match to his wick again. now? his candle had melted to the ground, nothing but a dirty pile of wax that refused to come out of the carpet. the words were ice cubes, he supposed. keep rubbing it on him, and he'd eventually fade. i guess it happened. he was defeated. he felt sick and humiliated everytime his mind told him that, but it remained the truth. the articles were fewer now, the hockey world growing tired of the goaltender who just decided to give in. pathetic, really. we were right all along, he is nothing but a wash-up, pathetic even before his time. he had to give it to blackhawks fans - they were quick on the jump, always correct. these days, when there was the odd whisper of miikka sakahrov, it was a snide accusation. "a tale worthy of the one once knows as the superior." that was a good one, commenting whenever another athlete flirted with danger. if he weren't so buried in shame, he would have smiled, admitted, rather wryly, that it was clever of the journalist. that wasn't the case. not even close.
he was a good actor. the p.r. team for the blackhawks trained their players well. he had been taught the fine ways of dealing with the press, moulded and stuffed into the frame of a good boy hockey player. he behaved in interviews. he answered questions directly, just aloof enough not to spill anything dirty about his team's organization. he had been playing actor for years. even on the ice, during the worst years of his career, miikka maintained posture. for the most part. when his brain decided to crack, his mask began to dissolve. his mental state was paling at an ironically impressive rate. his composure would lack sooner or later. it was simply when. keen eyes, twisted smiles, sharp ears, were all watching him, eager to see this final fall. he knew people of the national hockey league - some of them could never ignore certain things. for a select few, all eyes remained on him. stupid, really. there had to be a new scandal to rock the sports world by now. he wouldn't know. he didn't read the newspaper anymore. it was the best he could do. the less he read, the more he could pretend to be fine. not as lost as he felt, trapped in this maze of "normal" life without a compass. miikka was disconnecting himself. a lack of involvement means a stronger mask, coated with steel, not fractured bone. it helped, i guess. he was a good actor. without the ugly words, he could be a better actor.
it was difficult, no doubt. watching this stunning individual leafing through a newspaper, he battled the sick desire to look down, at the bolded headlines, endless articles claiming to know the truth. he didn't follow the news. everything he was spewing were absolute lies. it was part of his act, his story, wasn't it? miikka sakahrov, mild-mannered man, obviously updated on the goings-on of planet earth. it was this persona. the actions may have been forced, but the words rarely were. he was getting better at it. deep down, of course miikka felt like a piece of trash. but he was a strong enough person not to dissolve into an emotionally distraught recluse. he had a life to live. was it the life he thought he was supposed to be living? no, of course not. but as the weeks passed, it was, regrettably, getting easier to follow the story he had written for himself. he didn't know what to do, this confliction refusing to call off its cruel haunting. it followed him, a fanged shadow, intrigued by the person living this life now. all it could get was simpler, but it would never go away. he knew that. and that, my friend, is why he didn't read the newspaper anymore, why he was disconnecting himself. trying to face the old reality was too difficult.
a light smirk crossed his face. no acting necessary. even professional hockey player miikka sakahrov would have been intrigued by this girl. gripping his glass loosely, swirling the ice cubes around, he leaned on the edge of the bar, facing her completely. "touché", he raised his glass to her in a half-hearted toast. "times, what was it? three. touché times three." miikka tilted his head to the side, watching gwen's aloofness. he studied her for a moment or two, eyes shifting from her profile, down to the paper, and back again. the same smirk crossing his face, miikka drained his glass and distractedly tapped the bar for the another. "no, i suppose they don't. it is a real shame the majority of smart people are too lazy to realize an opportunity as it presents itself." her words held a ridiculous truth. there was no doubt, that was who this girl was: a ridiculous truth, smart, the one sharp enough to take notice of that opportunity. pushing one hand into his pocket, he toyed with his newly refilled cocktail glass. tapping the edge of her newspaper with the bottom of his glass, miikka tilted his head to the side again. "but something tells me you have given most things a chance. you noticed the opportunity. but you must have leaned these stories before, it rarely changes. correct me, again, if i'm wrong." he smiled, raising his eyebrows as he took a quick drink.
[/size][/blockquote] ----------------------------------------------------------- TAGGED, gwen! <3
DATE, the inferno, bar.
LENGTH, 1239 words.
ATTIRE, clicketh..
NOTES, messy, i apologize. i'm tired xD
CREDITS, format and graphics to me.
lyrics to mute math - "typical"
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Post by gwen on Jan 8, 2012 2:51:56 GMT -6
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------ Gwen was intelligent, no denying that. But some would be surprised to find out that Gwen never went to college. Her father was a college professor who taught her everything growing up. She was always very bright but after her father died, she was too frustrated with the length of time it would require to have the life she wanted so she began in on her con work. She is highly intelligent and probably knows more about art than anyone you'll ever meet but her credentials from Universities are technically fake. Paper work forged by her own hand, then she hired a hacker to get the credentials running through the system and electronically giving them a background to make them feel more real. As far as anyone knows, she's just a very intelligent restorer. Her name is known in the underground but she's never even been questioned by the cops before. She is a brilliant restorer but have you seen her loft? it's stunning. No way she affords that on her salary. She tells people her grandfather left her his home after he died and in the attic she found a large number of old paintings that ended up selling very well to art galleries, art museums and some private buyers. But that is a loft out lie, You see, Ms. De Luca is also a con artist and a brilliant art forger. Most of those high end "replicas" in her loft are actually the originals she stole and replaced with her forgeries. Mostly she sells the originals but if it is a piece she particularly likes, she will keep it for herself as well. De Luca is known to the criminal world as one of the best, if not the best. The police don't know her name yet, because she is in it for herself, not for fame, and all of her forgeries are still unknown except to those who currently own the originals.
------ Gwendolyn lived in a loft right in the middle of Valkyrie where the businesses usually were. It was a nice spacious loft. Hard wood floors, tall ceilings. Large windows, sky light. Gwen was a fan of natural light more than anything. It was decorated with impeccable taste. It even had a lovely large kitchen area. Even though Gwen ate a lot of raw foods. For health purposes mostly. Although, regardless of nutritional value, she never turned down a classic peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She liked extra crunchy peanut butter and raspberry preserves for the jelly, on whole wheat bread. Don't get me wrong, she dug all pb&j's but prepared like the above description was her all time favorite. She always kept her place very neat. She wasn't OCD but she was ordered and organized. She liked things to be in their place, even though she was very rarely in the company of others in her apartment. She was not a socialite by any sense of the word. She enjoyed her privacy, no matter how lonely she was, she got very uncomfortable when people came through her doors. She could handle a person being in her living room. The loft was a large open space though, the small stair case went up to the raised level where her bed was located along with the bathroom and her own artwork.
------ That was probably another small reason Gwen did not entertain much. I mean, besides from her not being the warmest or friendliest of human beings, but because, if she were to have people over, and they needed to use the restroom, she would have to find a place to store her art out of view. Gwen was a forger, but when she was alone sometimes, she painted her own work. Gwen's artistic eye was well respected but it was blind to her own talents. She was a wonderful artist by most standards, but to her, her own creations were personal and therefore, imperfect. As a perfectionist, she would not display them. They were for her. A way she got out what she felt. Feelings had very little to do with her forgeries. Or at least, not the way she saw it. She told herself all she needed was her art, her books and her career. She wanted a life. Friends, perhaps even a lover but she had been completely alone since she was sixteen. That's eight years. Her only real friend being a fellow con artist named Evie, Evie of course being about as different from Gwen as possible. Although that was probably good for her. She needed people to push her a bit when it came to human interaction because while Gwen wanted it, she was also terrified of it, and she was comfortable alone.
------ This man now at the bar with her seemed like he was probably another type of person, far different from her. She blinked up at him, moving only her eyes to glance as he raised his glass to her, before letting her eyes drift back down. "times, what was it? three. touché times three." Gwen smiled slightly as she read, okay it was getting a bit hard to concentrate. She pretended not to notice him study her for a moment as she practically ignored him. Gwen looked up at him again, this time moving her head to face him as he tapped the bar for another drink. "no, i suppose they don't. it is a real shame the majority of smart people are too lazy to realize an opportunity as it presents itself." Gwen's eyes narrowed slightly, more out of curiosity than annoyance or anger, "Then they're not actually that intelligent." She stated directly. She nodded a bit as he got his drink refilled and moved her eyes at the paper before he tapped the paper with his glass and tilted his head to the side which was actually, a bit, and only the smallest amount, adorable. She gave a small sigh as she gave him her attention again. "but something tells me you have given most things a chance. you noticed the opportunity. but you must have leaned these stories before, it rarely changes. correct me, again, if i'm wrong." Gwen smiled and folded the paper up so the article she was looking at was on top. "You're wrong." She replied. Gwen reached for the paper and slid it on the bar top so he could see it. She tapped at a line on the page. "I learned something new." She added before taking another drink of her old fashioned. Article in the paper was about an exhibit opening in Madrid, where one of the oldest paintings of Saint Paul would be displayed. She knew something the paper didn't. She knew it was a forgery, by her own hand. But the sentence she pointed to said one thing, '50% off all coats, everything must go!' She smirked at him, "I travel and am in the market for a new coat for colder climates." She took the last sip of her drink and slid it closer to the inner edge of the bar, "Thank you." She said to the bartender before standing and looking at the man, she extended her hand, "It was nice to meet you, but I suppose I'm not as smart as you may have thought."
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TAGGED;; miikka<3
CREDITS;; format and graphics to me,
lyrics to 'uptown girl' billy joel
CLOTHES;; here
NOTES;; SOOOO late lol
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