Post by jameson on Dec 6, 2012 23:52:20 GMT -5
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[style=width:350px; font-family: josefin sans; font-size: 30px; letter-spacing: 0px; text-align:center; color: #000; line-height: 80%; text-transform: uppercase; padding-bottom: 5px;]NATHANIEL RYAN JAMESON
THE LAW. 30. DETECTIVE. DISCIPLINED. HARD-ASS. DRIVEN. CALLOUS. CLOSED OFF. NO BULLSHIT. MIMI. MICHAEL FASSBENDER.
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,386,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, width:130px; height: 200px; background-image: url(http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c72/lemonice5/2-1.jpg);][/style] | [style=height: 180px; overflow: auto; font-size: 9px;]The room was cold around you, the metal table in front of you gleaming. Its reflective surface gave a marred imaged of your face, looking stone cold and apprehensive. You hadn’t said anything for the last hour, and you weren’t about to cough anything up yet. The detective in front of you had a face set in stone, too, but it fit him, like he was made of marble. He had a strong face, one that would have made a lesser criminal scared. You weren’t scared, of course—you’d seen all of these ‘detective’ faces before. He took a deep breath and started again, “I’m going to give you one more chance to talk.” He waited a moment, then added, “If not, you can kiss the plea bargain and your freedom goodbye.” His voice was flat, unaffected; it really didn’t matter to him either way. For the first time since you arrived, you opened your mouth to speak: “Why do you care so much about the Russians, anyway, when it’s the Irish that run this town?” Your voice sounded strained, its Russian accent muddled within. Detective Jameson set his jaw, and answered, “That’s none of your concern.” His tone was sharp and curt, but you only smiled back at him arrogantly. “Sure it is. You want to know so much about me, why shouldn't I know about you?” You could see it getting under his skin with the tick in his jaw. “Fine.” Your eyebrows flew up in surprise at his easy compliance. His voice was low and calm, casual even. “Since you’re such a rat even to the Russians, you probably don’t know.” He leaned forward, placing his hands together on the table. You were compelled into his story with his blue eyes. “I busted one of their old leaders, and they killed my wife. As you can imagine, I’m a little thirsty for revenge.” You laughed at his serious tone, sitting back in your chair, almost giddy with your excitement at learning this. “Ahh, so the great Detective Jameson, after the Russians. We are shaking in our boots, I assure you.” He didn’t reply, only mirrored your laidback position. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, digging one out for himself, lighting it, and taking a puff. After a moment, he offered you one, knowing your hands were cuffed to the chair behind your back. When you glared at the cigarette, he shrugged, taking it back, with a ‘suit yourself’ sort of look. Another long silence passed, and finally, he said, “I guess that means you want to rot in jail?” You looked at him with scorn. He took a long drag on his cigarette, and then stood. His final words, he said with mock sorrow, “It’s too bad you didn’t take the cigarette. It will be the last one you’ll ever see.” He turned around over his shoulder before he left and said, “Tell Sven I said hello.” You spat at him as he closed the door, knowing that Sven was the man he'd busted, one of your closest friends. Nathaniel has been living in Boston all his life. His dreams of being on the force were realized in his early twenties, around the time he met and fell in love with his first and only wife, Theresa. Tessa was his life. They had a beautiful home together, and everything was perfect. However, when Nate was promoted two years ago, the very first bust he made was a big one, one that resulted in an assassin being paid to kill his wife in revenge. It had sent him down a dark path that he still wanders to this day: a path of revenge on the Russians. It’s tearing him up inside, and he’s become obsessed with avenging his wife by finding the bastard who ordered the hit, Ivan Ivashkov, Sven’s brother. He’s so obsessed that our little detective might be going to the dark side—that is, the Irish Mafia. |
