Jean kept her hand in her pocket as she entered with Vincent, waiting only a moment so that she could walk in behind him. This would eventually become unnecessary, of course, but for now, she did not trust him or want him walking behind her. And, seeing as she was the senior officer in this area, she didn't have much trouble. She felt a touch of relief at this, but not enough to make her relax.

"Jean Jameston." The last name was so painfully not French that it was obviously not her real one. But she had been going by it for years. By no means had she forgotten her real last name, but she had no use for it. "I do exist." She was rather famous for her achievements- not that that's what they were called these days, but famous nonetheless. It was frustrating, though. She made for a good figurehead for anyone who needed the morale boost, but it also made her job a lot harder.

And being caught would make for much more severe consequences than they would have otherwise.

She didn't seem to notice the cigarette, but even in her house she left her sunglasses on. She didn't seem to be noticing anything. She flicked on the light to the living room and gestured around. There was a worn-out sofa, a too-big chair, and very little other furniture. A bookshelf leaned against one wall, but the books consisted of a Bible- not Jean's- a dictionary, thesaurus, and a few old encyclopedias. The set of these was not complete. There was a little cart with an even smaller television sitting on it. There would be no cable or satellite channels. She would only get the One. The one that every television got. One that someone like Jean probably would not like watching.

There was a door leading off into what looked to be a kitchen, and a large space connected to that with a collapsible table and several folding chairs leaned up against the wall.

"Feel free to have a seat." She gestured at the chair before perching on the edge of the sofa herself.

Vincent was satisfied with the woman's answer. Either she was the person he was supposed to meet, or a very well informed assassin. He nodded."Of course, your hospitality is apresiated." He stood aside from the door and released his Juke-Gun. He ,however, did not disarm himself. His hand fell from the pistol grip to the rubber grip of a long knife on his belt. He took no chances.

he stepped into the house and drew his knife partialy from its sheath. upon not being attacked he pushed the blade back into the leather and let out a long relaxed breath. "You must be Jean." he said in his rather gruff voice. "I am Vincent Volaju, I don't exist." he stated. "What about you?" Vincent pulled a long white filterless cigarette from his pocket and placed it in his lips lighting a deep orange cherry. He hoped she didn't mind smoking in her house, he always found it odd that Americans didn't smoke in thier houses.

Jean dismounted her motorcycle slowly, placing her hand in her pocket and striding towards the stranger a couple of spaces. She had received notice that only one man had been cleared for departure from his previous station. However, they had neglected to inform her of the date of his arrival, as such things were so uncertain in their current situation.

The language he spoke was almost entirely lost on her. She had struggled enough in learning English. "Say it again, monsieur. French is my specialty." She narrowed her eyes behind her sunglasses and attempted to look relaxed. Unfortunately, Jean was always quite tense, and anyone who looked at her could tell- if only from her posture. She looked him over, memorizing his appearance, or what she could of it in this light. He seemed to match the description she'd been provided with- but one could never be certain.

Upon repetition of the challenge words, she responded icily. "There are no wild dogs. The only dog I have seen is large and leashed. His name is Liberté." She gestured to the door. "Maybe your dog is inside."

Vincent could never be described properly with words. He was a man of action and didn't want to be reduced to words. In Itallian news papers and on the news channels he was called "The Itallian Lion." Partialy because of his ferocity and animal like mannerisms but also because of his looks. He had hair as black as night and it fell down his back like a tattered main. His eyes held the same fiercness and killer instinct that his animal was famous for. However, like all lions he was captured and caged. Vincent "The Itallian Lion" Volajo was aprehended and charged with multiple counts of murderous enterprise after the Matilda Incodent.

Vincent was locked away in a prison for three years before he was freed and all but erased. He found his skills as a hitman placed him at an advantagous position in a new organization. They took away his entire history and in exchange he erased people who threatened the organization. Now he was no longer going to work alone, or at least that was what he was told. He was to act as the direct combat expert in a newly assembled team.

Vincent stood at his usual intimidating six foot three two hundred-twenty pounds of professional murderer. His dark brown eyes scanned the road for any posible threat as he walked down the long sidewalk. He was wearing a rather assuming outfit for an assassin. He wore a black long dress coat that shrouded his black casual suit. The only color he had on aside from black was his dress shirt which was a deep blue. His hard soled loafers struck the concreat walkway with light snaps from leather moving with each long stride. His overcoat was open and blowing slight at the bottom from his motion, his sports coat however was closed concealing his two weapons.

Vincent had long mastered the ways of firearms and his two favorites were very different. On the left side of hsi underarm holster was a large anti-reflecting fourty-five caliber Desert Eagle. It was his kill weapon. It put nasty holes in people and was very accurate. On his right was a very opposite weapon. It was a Type 17 fully automatic .38 calibre machine pistole. It was chromed out and had a fourty-five round extended clip so he could properly spray bullets. He had no intensions of killing with that weapon. he used it at full auto in his off-hand in order to scare people and wound them. He called his Juke-Gun.

He had figured out the house where he was supposed to meet the team from RF and was on his way. He walked up to the door of the house and paused taking a deep breath. He pulled his hand from his pockets and was about to knock. His right hand outstreached while his left sat firmly on the handel of his Juke-Gun. If this was a trap he was ready.

Before his hand fell against the door a motorcycle pulled up into the drive. Vincent turned, not taking his hand off the weapon and looked at the driver. She looked rather riddiculous, although he knew he was not one to say anything about looking strange. He waited for the woman to step off the bike and begin to approach. She looked younger than him by at least ten years and that simple thought made him wish for this to not be a team member. He hated working with children.

Vincent narrowed his eyes slightly at the woman. "Ciao, avete veduto il mio cane? È piccolo e selvaggio." he said the code phrase to her in Itallian. He would respeak it in English if she didn't know the language, but he wanted to see if this woman could speak what he thought was the most beautiful tounge on this Earth.

Jean looked down her sharp nose at the selection of carbonated beverages, lips pursed in thought. She was a rather severe looking woman, though it was clear she could be no older than twenty-seven. Her hair hung around her in a frizzy, wavy, brown mass, flecked with premature grays. The muscles in her jaw always seemed strained, almost distorting the too-sharp angles of her face. Her lips were too thin, and she always seemed to be scowling at something.

Her attire did nothing to lessen her generally frightening appearance. She wore a tight black shirt that clung to her- going so far as to dent in at her navel. Her jeans were dark blue, and just as tight, disappearing into large black boots that looked to be of military quality. Over all of this was a black leather coat that swung down around her knees- buttoned once in the middle. The collar was flicked upwards to protect her neck and chin from the cold Chicago air.

She opened the glass door with a snap and bent forward, plucking up a large Pepsi with deft hands in fingerless gloves. She usually drank Coke, but in this instance, Pepsi came in the bigger bottle.

On her way toward the counter, she snatched a pack of spearmint gum from its display, placing both in front of the man at the register. "Morning, sir!" she greeted, her smile even more frightening than her usual melancholy visage. She didn't seem to care that it was getting dark outside, and the man made no argument.

"Two thirty-five," he informed her, and she handed him a five dollar bill, leaning on the counter. He couldn't be quite sure what she was looking at, as her eyes were hidden behind exceedingly dark sunglasses, but he felt like he was being measured. The faster he got her her change, the better.

The woman kicked herself up and took her purchases, pocketing the money he handed to her in her coat and letting the soda swing at her side as she turned and exited the little gas station. She stood up too straight, and every step she took seemed measured. She did not look vulnerable, though. She approached a black motorcycle that seemed to make her look a little less severe, and a little more interesting. Both she and the motorbike were powerful, dark, and seemed to be built for speed and stamina. She popped a piece of gum into her mouth before straddling the vehicle and placing her cola into a leather bag on the back.

She sat there for a moment, staring thoughtfully through her shades at nothing in particular. She was avoiding going back home, but being out in areas filled with people was not the best cure. Where to go next? She revved the engine.

Her entire squad was back in Versailles, and while she had been a solo agent for the longest time, she had spoiled herself with their company. Their last mission had left all of them incredibly emotionally damaged. Jean, however, experienced that same torture every day- the memories of the worst parts of her life- and had felt no need to go back to France for rehabilitation. A new team would be on their way, as she understood it. But she wasn't sure when they would get there, and she wasn't sure she would be able to watch them use the old base and her old squad's rooms. But she had straightened up the place to the best of her abilities- and put away all of their personal belongings.

She'd be getting a muscle, a medical, and a technical member again soon. Until then, she was on her own. RF was an interesting organization, but the sheer size and secrecy of it all made everything so unforgivably slow. She checked her watch. Almost curfew. She really didn't need to be caught breaking any laws. She was supposed to be lying low, and she didn't have any backup. Ah, the price of breaking laws for a living. She revved the engine of her motorcycle before pulling off the lot and speeding down the road. Looked like she'd have to go home after all.

((Alright, open for 1 to 4 people. Feel free to join so long as the title says Open.))