Of Monsters And Men | Discontinued |

Episode One - James Wesley

Evren had another nightmare.

Sleep evades her, but she manages to doze, stuck between being awake and struggling to let sleep weigh her eyelids back down. She always does. She doesn't have to worry about being late. Alarms are just a formality, really. At least, these ones are. She finally pushes herself up to her phone ringing, the familiar tone making her lips twist into a smile.

She lifts a heavy hand, grabbing her phone, answering eagerly, pushing her hair out of her face.

"Evren." James greets, voice carefully flat. Just hearing his voice  makes her feel safe, like no one could ever glance at her the wrong way. "Vladimir is expecting you within an hour. Fisk is assured that you will be professional." She has to meet with Vladimir to talk with him about how his business is doing- to lay the trap, smoothly, that her employer wishes her to. She loves being the messenger, though sometimes it's worse than anything else she's survived through.

"I won't let him down, Wesley. He can be assured."

"Good." There's a long pause, both of them waiting to say something they know they can't. Not yet, at least. "Be safe." James murmurs, quietly. Her cheeks burn and she can't help but grin.

"I will be. Goodbye, James Wesley." She says, softly, before hanging up the phone. Of only Fisk didn't stare at them oddly whenever they talked, even though he made no move to stop them, if only Fisk had anyone that made him understand. Evren can't help but feel like she's in danger any time she tries to grab James' hand or pull him close whenever Fisk is nearby- even if her employer is quite fond of his messengers. Her job is dangerous, after all, and whenever one of his own goes missing, he'll at least send a few to search for them. For her, more than that would be sent to look. Evren can nearly imagine entire gangs prowling the streets for her. Evren smirks.

She dresses plain- dark pants that hide the gun holster on her hip, an olive green bouse that she adores, and a thick jacket that's trails all the way down to her calves. There's no need for looking professional in this line of work, at least not for her. They understand. Her day job, however, is a different matter. Jemes is, too. She always tries to look professional when she's at his side. At night she's an owl, drifting back and forth across the city, delivering messages, before crawling back home for a couple of hours of sleep, before forcing herself from her bed and going to work with an odd desperation to quit her day job and simply work for Fisk all the time.

The streets are crawling with addicts, drunks, and homeless people. To those she can tell haven't gotten into any trouble with Fisk, or aren't a part of her organization, she offers a few dollars. Just enough to buy a meal.

Then the brick building appears in front of her. A cab business. A good cover up, really. No one would suspect cab drivers to be a part of the Russian cartel. She sighs, approaching the door, rapping her knuckles against the door. She waits for a few long moments, impatiently, before the door swings open, peering down the peaceful streets. Somewhere, a dog yips.

The Russians let her into their base quietly. A few offer nods, and she tilts her chin in return. At first the cartel was wild, killing any that opposed them, then her employer came and saved them, even if the Russians tried to deny him at first. They still do, stupidly. One of them follow her, peeling himself from the wall. She turns her head to watch him. His hands grab her shoulders and her back slams against the wall. Her ribs rattle and the air is stolen from her lungs.

"What do you want from Vladimir?" He growls, getting closer to her face. She glares at him. If she dies, it isn't her problem anymore. Simple as that. Though her heart begs to differ, and the image of James pops into her head, trying to keep his composure as he hears of her brutal death. Her breath leaves her lips shakily. She's keeping herself alive for him, to enjoy the nights as they come and endure the days.