Wrath, Violence, and Love. (Izutoru)

Гнев: Origin: Part Three: Convictions

After about 10 or so minutes of dumping round from all positions and what distances I could conceive, I remove the final magazine from the rifle and set it down besides the rifle. The barrel is leaking smoke, and is incredibly hot to the touch. As I wait for the rifle to cool down enough to place back on it's rack. Grabbing another bottle of water as I remove my ear protection, I down the bottle quickly, and look at my scarred arms. 

I've gotten used to the somewhat horrific scars covering my arms, face, and chest, but they tend to scare people off, as I've found out. When I walk around town, people give me a wide berth, little kids cry, and I've had a few people curse me out, saying I shouldn't be walking around with wounds like that. Every time that happens, I shoot them a death glare, and they shut up. For the first time in my life, I scare people. I'm not entirely sure I like it or not.

As I walk out of the secret room, and head up the bedroom Mishka put me in, a pair of sweatpants and a tank-top, because while it's cold, my arms are currently sweating like it's Texas in the summer, and it doesn't feel good. Grabbing a pair of boxers as well, I head into the attached bathroom, strip, and get in the shower, letting the hot water soak my sore muscles. Despite his age, which I've never managed to get out of Mishka, he's still one hell of an athlete and fighter. 

Hopping out of the shower, I dry off, and touch some of the new scars I've gotten from my training. Bad incidents with knives were the principle cause. Though, that damn squirrel was bad. Mishka never let me live that down. 

Drying off, and letting my now much longer hair hang from my face. I haven't cut it in six months, and it now hangs down past my chin. Partially to help change my appearance of a dead man, and also because I don't feel like it. I've never worn my hair long, but I like it. Grabbing a piece of dark green cloth, I tie it around the back of my head, and push the front of the cloth up so that my hair rests back, out of my face and eyes. 

Walking downstairs, I crack my neck as Mishka looks up at me. 

"You need haircut." Mishka mutters, and I chuckle.

"I need money for that. I don't fucking have any of my own, and you've only sent me out to get medical supplies and on occasion, food. I need pocket money. But getting a job with this," I say, gesturing to my scarred face "Isn't going to be easy."

"........Could have told me earlier, Маленький кролик. Have friend who owns cafe. Needs security. You work there. The you get haircut." Mishka says, standing up. He still towers over me, standing at roughly 6'6"

"Hold up, security? I don't really have formal training for that kinda stuff, дедушка. The hell do you expect me to do?" I ask, and Mishka doesn't respond for a second, merely tosses my hoodie, which, of course, is a dark green color. Mishka has an odd sense of humor, and thinks color-coding my clothing is hilarious. 

"You been trained with me. All you need. Follow." He says, then unlocks the door. I quickly pull on a pair of combat boots he got me, and we walk into the sun, the chilly winter air feeling good against my body. 

We walk for several blocks, getting a ton of odd looks. Me, for me scars, Mishka, for his freakish size. One couple gives me death glares, which I gladly return. 

"We here." Mishka says, stopping in front of a small cafe I've passed a few times. It's called Central Perk, for some odd reason. It's a fairly large place, or so it seems, but I've never been inside

"This place needs security?" I ask, and Mishka laughs

"Lot of place need it." He says, and walks into store, and I follow. 

It's a standard-looking cafe. A large counter/register and a kitchen area behind it, and a bunch of seating with small tables dotting the floors. Mishka looks around for someone, and seems to spot them in the back.