- ☠ ▬ ❝ duncan vizla
- 50 // male // polar // tagged; --
He didn't even have to open his eye to realize he wasn't where he was supposed to be. It was warm - not the hottest place he'd been, but much hotter than the borderline apocalyptic cold of the bitter Montana wilderness he called home. Of course, this wouldn't have been the first time he'd ever been carted off to who-knows-where, but even in his old age he was almost always keen enough to know when something was off and thus avoid situations like this; it was more than a little concerning that someone had managed to so completely blindside him, but such was left entirely unapparent on the man's grizzled visage as he surveyed his surroundings. This place was exceptionally run-down, the air full of dust and the vague scent of death as it swept around withering buildings that creaked and groaned intermittently as though it agonized them to remain upright. The entire city was abandoned, by the looks of it - which would make for a reasonably good headquarters for a discreet criminal organization, but rose a set of entirely different questions. Cities didn't just end up empty and rotting away to nothing for no reason. Thankfully, whoever had captured him hadn't seemed interested in keeping him under lock and key, or even keeping an eye on him at all, so he had an easy opportunity to investigate. Not that the man wasn't still suspicious, of course; he was far too jaded to assume that everything here was as it seemed. His dress was far from suited to the ambient temperature, and the layers of black clothing quickly emphasized the surrounding heat as the assassin's dark silhouette darted from shade to shade, narrowing his functional eye up at corroded signs in order to analyze his position in the layout of the city. They were in English - which surprised him; this place looked like it belonged in a third-world country, but outside of its ravaged nature, everything else about it was reading more 'metropolitan America'.
A bit more complicated than he'd initially expected, then. His next assumption was that this was an elaborately staged game of some sort. Such may have seemed far-fetched to most, but very few things were beyond the kinds of fat cats with the money and influence to orchestrate something like this. Staring down a faded hotel sign, Duncan's hand gravitated to his hip, where he distinctly felt the shape of a gun in its holster concealed by his long black trenchcoat. Within the span of no more than a second he had drawn it and ejected the clip. It was still loaded, untampered. That meant that whoever had put him here wanted him to be armed, which didn't bode particularly well. He would've probably preferred being taken prisoner to becoming a pawn in a 'game' like this. He holstered his gun just as quickly as he'd drawn it, not wanting to appear outwardly threatening. He had no idea what he was up against, after all. Thinking quickly, he circled around the hotel building and looked for a fire escape. It was rusted and some of the platforms had partially collapsed, but it looked scalable. The metal wailed underneath his weight, but stayed put, and Duncan climbed the first few levels to get a slightly better vantage point.
