Prompt: About a song title -"Are You the Hypnotist?" by The Flaming Lips
He stood against the cool brick wall, the last of a cigarette held casually between his lips as he shoved his hands into his pants pockets. The worn denim hugged his hips snugly, and then loosened over his thighs and calves, exposing bits of skin to the damp night air through rips and frays. His t-shirt hung from his lithe frame, the white and red patterned pocket standing out crisply against the black cotton. The flannel thrown over the top of it was the same red color, checkered with blue and green and white and just as worn as the pants. His eyes scanned the street around him once more, seeing nothing more than he had been seeing for the past half an hour. The backs of rundown apartment buildings, trash cans tipped from the wind or the occasional stray. No one else seemed to be brave enough to risk slipping out into the windy downpour that was forecast for that night and every night for the rest of the week.
He didn't mind a little rain.
The patter of footsteps sounded from his left and he shifted his eyes in the direction, not trying to give away that he'd noticed. The footsteps were too light to be the man he was meeting. Confused as the footsteps directly approached him, he fully turned his head toward them.
The girl next to him was short, reaching only his shoulder - if that - and looked nervous. He drew one last drag and dropped the cigarette, crushing it beneath his shoe. She followed the movement, seeming fully away of every move and sound anywhere near her. Yeah, she was definitely scared. His smirked internally.
"Are you The Hypnotist?" she asked quietly, eyes shifting around the alley. She didn't want anyone to hear her speaking to him. Her eyes found him again, taking in the furrowed brows and emotionless face of the man ahead of her and trying her hardest not to wince. It was her first month in the city and she already got herself mixed up with people she didn't trust.
"Depends on who's asking," he drawled eventually, his accent clear and befitting of the city she now called home. Hers, he noticed, stuck out like a sore thumb, screaming "newcomer" more than her wide eyes and jumpy appearance ever could.
"The Contractor sent me," she mumbled so low he almost missed it. Her eyes shifted behind him, as if checking for approval. He stayed quiet, unwilling to give himself up so quickly.
"You've got the wrong person, lady," he concedes when she makes no move to further convince him. She lets out a huff, frustrated with him for not making it easy and herself for trusting her roommate's shady flavor of the week.
"Look, he said to look for red plaid, brown hair, blue eyes and the - and I'm quoting here - 'craziest fucking neck tattoo you've ever bloody seen', so I don't actually think I do have the wrong person," she spat at him, letting her nerves get the better of her. The blue eyes she just pointed out widened, adopting a shocked and very amused expression.
"Alright, calm down." He soothed, taking in her tangled blonde hair and flustered brown eyes. She was definitely much prettier than the man he was supposed to meet; he'd give her that.
"Do not tell me to calm down. I don't know who the hell all of you are, but if you fuck this up for me, I have to contend with whoever the fuck The Mechanic is. And I want nothing to do with any of you anymore. So please, can we just do this?" She was waving her hands, running them through her hair and showing all the telltale signs of distress. He held up his hands in surrender and waited for her to stop ranting.
