A Smoke and a Pancake?

[Ismael Akopolis]

August 21st, 2019

14:49pm

 

Ismael stood outside the restaurant, fingers idly playing with the edges of his coat sleeves as he stared intently through the window. He was hungry, there was question about that. The problem was trying to figure out what to eat. That was always the problem. While he had learned that at one point New York had possessed a fairly large Greek population, and thus a number of Greek-styled restaurants, with the destruction wreaked by the Nevus and subsequent difficulties of intercontinental travel, the groups numbers had dwindled considerably. And thus, the Greek found himself in his current predicament: what to eat.

 

Collins Fine Cuisine wasn't terribly busy, but there were people inside and it was clear that the business was thriving. He just happened to be there at an odd hour for a meal. He'd been in New York just under a month, and was still functioning on his European schedule. Which was why he wanted dinner at just shy of 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Lunch for him was when most people were settling down for breakfast. It wasn't that he couldn't make the minimal effort to change his circadian rhythm and daily schedule to match that of most people living in the city. It just made his job slightly easier, if he was up and about while the masses were sleeping. The rash of murders of OFL and ARMA members tended to happen in the twilight hours, and since the powers that be had sent him to this hell hole of a place to participate in figuring out what was going on, it made sense to Ismael to keep things the way he liked them. Let the ARMA stooges and their cronies conduct their investigations in the daylight; the night time was the right time.

 

He sighed, longing for a good home-cooked Greek meal. Not that he had eaten one recently, having been out in the field for so long and then being shipped off straight here upon his return. That, he supposed, would have to wait for later. For now, it was just food. And Collins seemed just as good as anywhere else, so he shrugged mentally and pulled open the door, stepping into the building. The sign at the host/hostess stand read "Please wait to be seated", and so there he stood, slightly irritated that he could not just take a seat at random, like in a European cafe, as he waited for someone to show up and pick his seat for him.

[Aingeal Clarke]

If there was one thing in the world that she was most thankful for it was when the restaurant wasn't extremely busy. It was nice to take it easy and not stress out over all of the things that needed to be stressed out over. Making sure everyone's drink was topped off, or even just keep thing the patrons happy so she could get a nice tip. Some days she wondered if she should find a different job or find something that might give her a little more pay, but she felt humbled by doing this job. Plus it meant not having to go to too many unsavory places because if there was one thing that she knew it was places that had a bad rap usually were crawling with spirits. Here though, at this place, it was nice and quiet.

 

Aingeal had heard about the killings that had been taking place recently and it freaking terrified her. It made her just want to lock herself up in her apartment and never walk outside again. There was also something that it made her feel. She felt slightly guilty because she wondered if she could be of some use in helping to figure out who or whom or even what was going around killing people. All she would have to do is find their spirits and have a little chat. Maybe the people saw a face. Although Aingeal was not very artistic so that would be a slightly problem, but she had had a nagging feeling that she could help. However. She pushed that feeling aside. Trouble wasn't something she wanted to be apart of.

 

The sound of the bell above the door made her head move up quickly, seeing that there was someone waiting to be seated. It was easier for her that way. Not having to keep track of everyone that came in. She pulled a menu, knife, fork, and spoon, along with a napkin and walked up to the man who stood at the sign. [aingeal]Hey there. If you would follow me I'll take you to your table,[/aingeal] she said with a bright smile on her face and then turned slowly, taking a quick look around the restaurant.

 

She opted to put him slightly close to the door and by the window, standing beside the 2 person table she kept the smile on her face as she pulled out her note pad to write down his order. [aingeal]So what can I get ya,[/aingeal] she asked with the smile still on her lips.

[Ismael Akopolis]

Ismael stood there by the door as the woman collected what she needed to seat him, and slowly followed her to the table. Head on a constant swivel, his dark green eyes evaluating the small handful of patrons and assigning them threat levels based on their physical appearance. None of them reached higher than a four out of ten, but what couldn't be assessed except on the fly was what they were, if anything, gifted with by the Nevus event. That was the unknown factor, and what was really turning the wheels in his mind.

 

As he arrived at the table, he glanced back at the door, then down at the way the seats were. Taking one of the chairs, he moved it around one of the sides of the table, so that he had a clear and unobstructed view of the door. Despite the Order still having a foothold in New York City, this was still considered enemy territory in Ismael's mind. Not to mention there was a person, or group of persons, intent on killing those who were gifted by the Nevus. It wasn't that he had a problem with that per se. The universe knew he'd killed his share of them while carrying out his missions in Russia and Europe for the Order. He just had no intention of becoming one of the dead.

 

Satisfied with how he had positioned the chair, he sat down slowly, his heavy overcoat still resting across his shoulders. Ismael glanced down brief at the menu, and then looked up at the waitress. He considered her for a moment, watching her face and deciding that the smile placed there was in fact genuine. It had been a while since someone had actually done that, and it felt foreign to him. Most people in the wilds of Russia, when they smiled at you, it was because they were putting together a plan to kill you and take whatever you were carrying. "What do you recommend?" he asked, the words thick with his European accent, clearly marking him as not being from around here.