Born to Lose

The thick black smoke of the Camacho drifted out of his mouth idly as he watched the foggy December mist of Amestris whip by. It only felt like a moment ago that they'd past the north, and even the sealed interior of the Mi-24 chilled beyond temperatured both Mitya and his cargo were used to.

The cabin had been kitted out solely for the man in the white jacket bearing the blacked-out sunglasses, with three seats on either side of him, but his flanks were empty save for his arms stretching wide over the heads of the two adjacent seats as the cigar crackled in his mouth. There was a transparent panel of reinforced glass between his passenger cabin and the cockpit, so Mitya's gaze wasn't obscured by the cigar smoke.

On the floor sat another three crumpled, scorched butts. The trip from Esparia to Amestris was not a long one, but still an unpleasant one: as the craft travelled further north, the journey got considerably more and more uncomfortable. The individual in the pale coat had taken the liberty of wearing his interior-padded jacket, as opposed to his regular thin article, over his kevlar vest.

The man commanded a sense of authority, his calloused, tanned, and scarred face almost suiting the fluffed collar and the sleek white gloves, alongside the authoritative sunglasses. The cigar between his pursed lips burned with an angry orange ember and released a continual wisp of black smoke, and a swiftly-dissipating puff every now and then. Mitya was not worried by the fact that the cabin had been totally obscured. His passenger had a tendency to chain-smoke his Camacho cigars the moment the Hind lifted off the ground.

But, for once, the grinning man in the white jacket was traveling light - light, for he, anyway. With only a knife, a pair of pistols, his crossbow, and his Vector, he was mainly prepared for all close-combat encounters; and his Ducati was tied up in the back, the framework clanging intermittently - but the man didn't bother worrying.

He was here for diplomacy, and a revolutionary leader, even of an "unofficial" uprising such as his, going missing or being found dead or mugged in the middle of Central would paint a very bad picture and only further incite the rage of his revolt regime and the members responsible. Whilst they hadn't fully taken off, there were enough to continue without him, and collect members before acting upon an ultimate contingency: the O.R.E. was the organisation of Esparia's 99%.

He wore only white, but he walked in the shadows. He bore guns but came for peace. He grinned and spoke of health but enjoyed himself best with a pistol, a bottle of vodka, and a cigar. He was a walking contradiction.

THUD.

Zzzzt. "Touchdown in Central, sir. Time is fifteen-thirty-four hours. Do you want me to get the Ducati out from the bay?"

His name was Commander Noman Z. Godslayer, and he was a true revolutionary.

The white-coated man shook his head and smirked to himself as he pulled the door open, and stepped out into the bitter cold of Central, shivering and yanking his coat tighter around his frame. "I'll handle it, Mitya," He smiled as he nodded, looking over the skyline from the helipad and flicking the butt of his cigar down to the floor with a chuckle. "I'll handle it."