MRWETHERB
Level 5
Hi, this is ilovemyplanex6!
This is a story that I was inspired to write just after applying for the BMD role. It's sort of a parallel universe where my character, Milo C. Amias, is a crime lord of sorts. He joined the black market at a young age and became very successful. This story is based far into the future when he's already a very skilled fighter. This was surprisingly easy to write, as it involved two of my actual friends on SRP (hi x2), and I pulled lots from Milo's past lore. It was also very fun! Warning: it's long!
This is a story that I was inspired to write just after applying for the BMD role. It's sort of a parallel universe where my character, Milo C. Amias, is a crime lord of sorts. He joined the black market at a young age and became very successful. This story is based far into the future when he's already a very skilled fighter. This was surprisingly easy to write, as it involved two of my actual friends on SRP (hi x2), and I pulled lots from Milo's past lore. It was also very fun! Warning: it's long!
Marseille’s New Year
(Note: Marseille is pronounced mar-say:)
Marseille was seen sitting on a white leather couch that stretched across the open living room, staring up at the flat-screen TV mounted above an equally long fireplace, a half-empty wine bottle in hand. The penthouse was dim and quiet, the only light coming from the fireplace. Marseille’s vest was fully unbuttoned, and his shirt collar was loose. Various new strands of silver hair now decorated his head. He took occasional sips of wine while thoughtlessly staring up at the screen.
The TV made clear that the New Year had just begun. The large clock on the screen showed just a few minutes past midnight. The annual Shōgatsu was displayed on the screen, with “2035” flashing in large font in the bottom left corner. Marseille watched happy families hugging, couples giving affectionate kisses, and drunk friends belly-laughing with each other.
He continued to stare for minutes on end, eventually standing up and stretching. Marseille finished the rest of the wine and quietly set the bottle on the clear glass coffee table in front of him. He walked toward one of two large, perpendicular windows that traveled all the way up to the 25-foot ceilings. He looked down from the tall building in which he resided, watching the brightly flashing fireworks go off in the restless city beneath him.
Suddenly, Marseille’s phone aggressively vibrated. A call. He answered.
“Huello..?” Marseille asked, unintentionally slurring his words. Perhaps he had too much wine.
“Milo?” A man’s voice asked over the phone. It sounded a little familiar.
“Uh…” Marseille paused, “Who’s ausking?” He hadn’t heard that name in a long time. Marseille didn’t think anybody remembered it until now.
“I am. It’s me, Karl. I’m at your penthouse and was wondering if you wanted to hang out. Maybe throw a New Year's party?” the man asked eagerly.
Marseille briefly sobered up for a moment, and his face contorted. Was this some kind of joke? Who would make a call like this at midnight on New Year’s? It’s known knowledge among all the locals of the city that everybody in the Stark family died together in a freak accident. Not only was it strange to pretend to be a dead person, but it was also cruel, considering the history between Karl and Marseille.
In the criminal world in Japan, Karl and Marseille were well-known partners who worked together on nearly everything. They became successful crime bosses, helping each other with almost any scheme, from simple assassinations to full-blown robberies.
However, just a few years ago, Karl ended up on the police’s radar, and he was sent to prison. He tried reaching out to Marseille several times over the years, but Marseille was too afraid of losing everything he’d built and never responded.
Although this falling out between them ultimately did not lead to much, Marseille was still pained when he learned about Karl and the rest of the Stark family’s unfortunate fate.
This brought us back to the peculiar call from a somehow living Karl.
Immediately, Marseille hung up the phone and threw it over the back of the couch, landing it on the cushion. He removed his vest and dropped it on the floor beside him as he turned around. He looked toward the front door across the penthouse, which was nearly 30 feet away. Marseille detected shadows moving under the door.
Marseille calmly fixed his collar and buttoned up his white dress shirt while slowly walking toward the door. As he quietly tip-toed across the shiny granite tile and approached the door, he reached behind his back, resting his hand on his gun, which was between his belt and himself. Marseille switched the safety off as he pressed his ear against the door. There was faint whispering on the other side, but it was unintelligible.
Suddenly, Marseille was startled by the loud banging on the other side of the door. A woman’s voice followed shortly after.
“Hello? Mr. Amias? Are you home?” she yelled.
Marseille once again questioned how whoever was trying to kill him – that was always his assumption, at least – knew his name. Was it even his name anymore? Marseille briefly pondered on that, as it wasn’t something he had gone by in nearly two decades now.
Focus, he thought. His home was still being invaded, after all.
Marseille didn’t respond to the woman. Instead, he switched the safety back on and once again tip-toed away from the door and up his spiral staircase. He ran all the way to the end of the long hallway and silently unlatched the handle to his office. Large bookshelves covered all but one wall, filled with antiquarian books. On the wall opposite the door was a tall credenza desk with large glass-door cabinets and wine bottles displayed inside each of them.
Marseille locked the door and approached the desk, where he found a sealed envelope. He sat in his cushioned desk chair, turned on his desk lamp, and picked up the envelope, which read, “MILO C. AMIAS.” Marseille stared at the bygone name written on the mysterious letter for a few moments before dropping it and inspecting his desk cabinets and drawers for a bug.
It wasn’t much of a mystery as to how somebody might have gotten into his office. Not only were parties held at his penthouse almost monthly, but Marseille was also well-known and one of the wealthiest people in the city. Countless people were after him and would’ve killed him by now if Marseille hadn’t been in his own enemies’ shoes when he was younger.
The reason that “Milo” first joined the crime world and the black market trade when he was 21 was because it paid significantly more than any kind of mediocre city job. Some of the highest-paying jobs were assassinations or kidnappings of people of high social standing, similar to that of Marseille now. Of course, those jobs required rigorous training in both fighting with fists and weaponry, which is the reason he’s incredibly skilled at defending himself.
These people were different. They knew his real name, something that nobody else should know, especially since those who used to know were dead. No matter, Marseille still had people after him.
After some searching, he gave up and came to the still-uncertain conclusion that there was no recording device. He returned to the envelope on the desk and stared at the name written on the back once more. Marseille opened his drawer and pulled out a letter opener with intricate patterns engraved into the handle. He flipped the envelope back over, the bright red seal reflecting light from the lamp above it, and slid the blade of the letter opener across the top of it.
Marseille pulled out a letter and a few money bills from the envelope. Appreciating the mysterious and unnecessary payment, he slid the money aside and opened the letter. In large, red letters, it read: “BUY A TICKET. IMMEDIATELY.” Well, that’s what the money’s for, Marseille thought.
Then, as Marseille’s eyes traveled further down the letter, his gaze was set on a familiar address. An address he’d wholly forgotten until that moment. One that had he ever thought of it in recent years, he likely would have figured it didn’t even exist anymore. Marseille continued to stare at the address for several moments before- wait. Was it always this quiet?
Suddenly, Marseille heard the door to his office begin to open. He swiftly dropped the letter and spun around, pulling out his gun once more. Switching the safety off, he aimed the gun at the opening door.
Markus entered the room—an aged, near-robot-looking Markus. The man had all prosthetic replacements for both of his arms and legs, as well as deep, healed scars of puncture and bullet wounds covering his face. His hair was almost entirely gray, and his beard was long and unkempt.
At first, Marseille hadn’t recognized him. He stared at the man, the gun pointed directly at his head. “Miss me?” Markus said, putting his own gun in the back of his belt.
Marseille’s aim slowly lowered, and he put his gun away. “Son of a bitch,” Marseille muttered while walking toward Markus into an enormous, long-awaited brotherly hug. “You look like you’ve been doing well,” Markus complimented, patting Marseille’s back.
“And you look like shit,” Marseille responded, chuckling lightly as they both separated from the hug. “Didn’t you have a wife last time I saw you?”
“Oh, that ended a long time ago. And the same with Germany. After I chewed myself out of that ball-and-chain relationship, I went back to my scamming ways of when I lived in Karakura. That worked well for a little while, but then I got tied into the black market business, like you.” Markus explained. He rested his hand on Marseille’s shoulder. “I have to admit after you moved away from that little island city to Yokohama, it was hard to find you. I suppose Milo Amias is only a relic now, yes?”
“Of course, you weren’t told to change your name when joining the black market?” Marseille asked puzzlingly.
“No, but I guess I didn’t really need to because I dropped my own last name soon after I moved to Germany. So that nobody would follow me.” Markus replied.
“And after you joined the black market, did you stand out in an open battlefield? What the hell happened to your face?” Marseille asked, questioning the scars covering Markus’ face.
“Dozens of things, friend. Dozens. A few of these are from when I first joined. My first deal was a fluke, and I was met with the edged blade of a sword. Others were from other botched missions due to untrained and horribly irresponsible associates. None were truly my fault,” Markus excused.
“Right,” Marseille said disbelievingly, “So… why are you here? Really? I’m sure this wasn’t just for some kind of reunion. I mean, you tried to fool me with my former business partner’s voice over a phone call. Are you here for some kind of deal?”
“What?” Markus questioned, giving Marseille a confused look. “I never called you, and I certainly didn’t use anybody’s voice. Nobody even knows I’m in Japan.”
Marseille’s face fell again. He turned around and returned to the letter on the desk and showed it to Markus. “You wrote this, didn’t you? Who else would know my real name and childhood home?” He asked, reaching behind for his gun again. “Milo, I’ve never known the address of your childhood home, and you know I certainly wouldn’t leave a letter for you. I haven’t changed that much since we last spoke,” Markus said after taking the letter from Marseille’s hand.
“Then who the hell did?” Marseille asked.
Suddenly, both men heard the clink of a pin being pulled, and something metal rolled through the open office door. They both turned around and quickly reacted. “GRENADE!” They both yelled. Marseille speedily kicked the grenade into the hallway, slamming the door shut and jumping away from it moments before detonation.
A loud noise.
A flash was seen from under the door.
Another door is being knocked down from the floor below.
Marseille noticed all things happening at once and pulled Markus up from the ground. He picked up his gun, which had been unintentionally thrown against a bookshelf. “That was just a flash, but somebody’s coming,” Marseille told Markus while rummaging through one of his desk’s drawers. He grabbed a few magazines, packed them in his pockets, and threw some to Markus. “Get ready to fight,” Marseille said, ****ing his gun.
Markus opened the door, and they both ran down the hallway back downstairs. There was still a loud banging against the front door to the penthouse, and the hinges slowly started loosening with every enormous smash. Aggravated yelling also came from outside the front door, and this time, Marseille could hear that the yells were in French. He heard one man tell another to hurry up, and the banging got more aggressive.
“What the hell do we do?” Markus asked Marseille, pacing on the fluffy living room carpet. Before Marseille answered, he walked over to the window, where he first removed his vest and picked it up. Marseille put it on and calmly began buttoning it up.
“What the hell are you doing?” Markus asked, his face showing a confused and judging look. “I tend to try and look my best before a fight. I find that somebody’s last sight being a well-dressed and expensive man instead of some low-life killer leaves for a more poetic and poignant ending to their life.” Marseille explained, tidying up his hair and fixing his collar once more. “You haven’t changed that much either, Milo,” Markus chuckled, reminiscing for only a few seconds before the front door fell into the penthouse and flat on the ground.
Marseille turned around, aiming his gun at the open doorway into his apartment. Almost immediately, eight men in all black and masks began running in and shooting, holding small handguns. As Marseille and Markus took cover behind the couch, the firing continued, and the windows directly behind them shattered. Marseille peaked his head over the arm of the couch, shooting two or three of his attackers. “It’s too bad I’ll have to do this. I just remodeled,” Marseille muttered, reaching one of his hands under the couch. “What?” Markus asked while shooting at the other men and quickly ducking back down to reload and Marseille’s plan.
Marseille pulled a heavy, thick box out from under the couch and unlatched it. Opening the box revealed a disassembled automatic assault rifle. “Got one of those for me?” Markus asked, once again lifting his head over the couch to shoot. “Nope, sorry, Mark,” Marseille quickly responded as he tried assembling the weapon as fast as he could. Once finished, he loaded it and waited for the perfect chance to fire.
Marseille stood fully up from behind the couch and aimed the weapon at the enemies. He aimlessly began firing at the attackers blocking the door until the gun was empty, and every person fell to the ground. He threw it on the ground in front of himself. “Come on,” Marseille shouted to Markus after picking up his smaller gun again and sprinting toward the door.
“Where are we going?” Markus asked, following closely behind as they flew down the emergency staircase.
“Home.”
(Note: Marseille is pronounced mar-say:)
Marseille was seen sitting on a white leather couch that stretched across the open living room, staring up at the flat-screen TV mounted above an equally long fireplace, a half-empty wine bottle in hand. The penthouse was dim and quiet, the only light coming from the fireplace. Marseille’s vest was fully unbuttoned, and his shirt collar was loose. Various new strands of silver hair now decorated his head. He took occasional sips of wine while thoughtlessly staring up at the screen.
The TV made clear that the New Year had just begun. The large clock on the screen showed just a few minutes past midnight. The annual Shōgatsu was displayed on the screen, with “2035” flashing in large font in the bottom left corner. Marseille watched happy families hugging, couples giving affectionate kisses, and drunk friends belly-laughing with each other.
He continued to stare for minutes on end, eventually standing up and stretching. Marseille finished the rest of the wine and quietly set the bottle on the clear glass coffee table in front of him. He walked toward one of two large, perpendicular windows that traveled all the way up to the 25-foot ceilings. He looked down from the tall building in which he resided, watching the brightly flashing fireworks go off in the restless city beneath him.
Suddenly, Marseille’s phone aggressively vibrated. A call. He answered.
“Huello..?” Marseille asked, unintentionally slurring his words. Perhaps he had too much wine.
“Milo?” A man’s voice asked over the phone. It sounded a little familiar.
“Uh…” Marseille paused, “Who’s ausking?” He hadn’t heard that name in a long time. Marseille didn’t think anybody remembered it until now.
“I am. It’s me, Karl. I’m at your penthouse and was wondering if you wanted to hang out. Maybe throw a New Year's party?” the man asked eagerly.
Marseille briefly sobered up for a moment, and his face contorted. Was this some kind of joke? Who would make a call like this at midnight on New Year’s? It’s known knowledge among all the locals of the city that everybody in the Stark family died together in a freak accident. Not only was it strange to pretend to be a dead person, but it was also cruel, considering the history between Karl and Marseille.
In the criminal world in Japan, Karl and Marseille were well-known partners who worked together on nearly everything. They became successful crime bosses, helping each other with almost any scheme, from simple assassinations to full-blown robberies.
However, just a few years ago, Karl ended up on the police’s radar, and he was sent to prison. He tried reaching out to Marseille several times over the years, but Marseille was too afraid of losing everything he’d built and never responded.
Although this falling out between them ultimately did not lead to much, Marseille was still pained when he learned about Karl and the rest of the Stark family’s unfortunate fate.
This brought us back to the peculiar call from a somehow living Karl.
Immediately, Marseille hung up the phone and threw it over the back of the couch, landing it on the cushion. He removed his vest and dropped it on the floor beside him as he turned around. He looked toward the front door across the penthouse, which was nearly 30 feet away. Marseille detected shadows moving under the door.
Marseille calmly fixed his collar and buttoned up his white dress shirt while slowly walking toward the door. As he quietly tip-toed across the shiny granite tile and approached the door, he reached behind his back, resting his hand on his gun, which was between his belt and himself. Marseille switched the safety off as he pressed his ear against the door. There was faint whispering on the other side, but it was unintelligible.
Suddenly, Marseille was startled by the loud banging on the other side of the door. A woman’s voice followed shortly after.
“Hello? Mr. Amias? Are you home?” she yelled.
Marseille once again questioned how whoever was trying to kill him – that was always his assumption, at least – knew his name. Was it even his name anymore? Marseille briefly pondered on that, as it wasn’t something he had gone by in nearly two decades now.
Focus, he thought. His home was still being invaded, after all.
Marseille didn’t respond to the woman. Instead, he switched the safety back on and once again tip-toed away from the door and up his spiral staircase. He ran all the way to the end of the long hallway and silently unlatched the handle to his office. Large bookshelves covered all but one wall, filled with antiquarian books. On the wall opposite the door was a tall credenza desk with large glass-door cabinets and wine bottles displayed inside each of them.
Marseille locked the door and approached the desk, where he found a sealed envelope. He sat in his cushioned desk chair, turned on his desk lamp, and picked up the envelope, which read, “MILO C. AMIAS.” Marseille stared at the bygone name written on the mysterious letter for a few moments before dropping it and inspecting his desk cabinets and drawers for a bug.
It wasn’t much of a mystery as to how somebody might have gotten into his office. Not only were parties held at his penthouse almost monthly, but Marseille was also well-known and one of the wealthiest people in the city. Countless people were after him and would’ve killed him by now if Marseille hadn’t been in his own enemies’ shoes when he was younger.
The reason that “Milo” first joined the crime world and the black market trade when he was 21 was because it paid significantly more than any kind of mediocre city job. Some of the highest-paying jobs were assassinations or kidnappings of people of high social standing, similar to that of Marseille now. Of course, those jobs required rigorous training in both fighting with fists and weaponry, which is the reason he’s incredibly skilled at defending himself.
These people were different. They knew his real name, something that nobody else should know, especially since those who used to know were dead. No matter, Marseille still had people after him.
After some searching, he gave up and came to the still-uncertain conclusion that there was no recording device. He returned to the envelope on the desk and stared at the name written on the back once more. Marseille opened his drawer and pulled out a letter opener with intricate patterns engraved into the handle. He flipped the envelope back over, the bright red seal reflecting light from the lamp above it, and slid the blade of the letter opener across the top of it.
Marseille pulled out a letter and a few money bills from the envelope. Appreciating the mysterious and unnecessary payment, he slid the money aside and opened the letter. In large, red letters, it read: “BUY A TICKET. IMMEDIATELY.” Well, that’s what the money’s for, Marseille thought.
Then, as Marseille’s eyes traveled further down the letter, his gaze was set on a familiar address. An address he’d wholly forgotten until that moment. One that had he ever thought of it in recent years, he likely would have figured it didn’t even exist anymore. Marseille continued to stare at the address for several moments before- wait. Was it always this quiet?
Suddenly, Marseille heard the door to his office begin to open. He swiftly dropped the letter and spun around, pulling out his gun once more. Switching the safety off, he aimed the gun at the opening door.
Markus entered the room—an aged, near-robot-looking Markus. The man had all prosthetic replacements for both of his arms and legs, as well as deep, healed scars of puncture and bullet wounds covering his face. His hair was almost entirely gray, and his beard was long and unkempt.
At first, Marseille hadn’t recognized him. He stared at the man, the gun pointed directly at his head. “Miss me?” Markus said, putting his own gun in the back of his belt.
Marseille’s aim slowly lowered, and he put his gun away. “Son of a bitch,” Marseille muttered while walking toward Markus into an enormous, long-awaited brotherly hug. “You look like you’ve been doing well,” Markus complimented, patting Marseille’s back.
“And you look like shit,” Marseille responded, chuckling lightly as they both separated from the hug. “Didn’t you have a wife last time I saw you?”
“Oh, that ended a long time ago. And the same with Germany. After I chewed myself out of that ball-and-chain relationship, I went back to my scamming ways of when I lived in Karakura. That worked well for a little while, but then I got tied into the black market business, like you.” Markus explained. He rested his hand on Marseille’s shoulder. “I have to admit after you moved away from that little island city to Yokohama, it was hard to find you. I suppose Milo Amias is only a relic now, yes?”
“Of course, you weren’t told to change your name when joining the black market?” Marseille asked puzzlingly.
“No, but I guess I didn’t really need to because I dropped my own last name soon after I moved to Germany. So that nobody would follow me.” Markus replied.
“And after you joined the black market, did you stand out in an open battlefield? What the hell happened to your face?” Marseille asked, questioning the scars covering Markus’ face.
“Dozens of things, friend. Dozens. A few of these are from when I first joined. My first deal was a fluke, and I was met with the edged blade of a sword. Others were from other botched missions due to untrained and horribly irresponsible associates. None were truly my fault,” Markus excused.
“Right,” Marseille said disbelievingly, “So… why are you here? Really? I’m sure this wasn’t just for some kind of reunion. I mean, you tried to fool me with my former business partner’s voice over a phone call. Are you here for some kind of deal?”
“What?” Markus questioned, giving Marseille a confused look. “I never called you, and I certainly didn’t use anybody’s voice. Nobody even knows I’m in Japan.”
Marseille’s face fell again. He turned around and returned to the letter on the desk and showed it to Markus. “You wrote this, didn’t you? Who else would know my real name and childhood home?” He asked, reaching behind for his gun again. “Milo, I’ve never known the address of your childhood home, and you know I certainly wouldn’t leave a letter for you. I haven’t changed that much since we last spoke,” Markus said after taking the letter from Marseille’s hand.
“Then who the hell did?” Marseille asked.
Suddenly, both men heard the clink of a pin being pulled, and something metal rolled through the open office door. They both turned around and quickly reacted. “GRENADE!” They both yelled. Marseille speedily kicked the grenade into the hallway, slamming the door shut and jumping away from it moments before detonation.
A loud noise.
A flash was seen from under the door.
Another door is being knocked down from the floor below.
Marseille noticed all things happening at once and pulled Markus up from the ground. He picked up his gun, which had been unintentionally thrown against a bookshelf. “That was just a flash, but somebody’s coming,” Marseille told Markus while rummaging through one of his desk’s drawers. He grabbed a few magazines, packed them in his pockets, and threw some to Markus. “Get ready to fight,” Marseille said, ****ing his gun.
Markus opened the door, and they both ran down the hallway back downstairs. There was still a loud banging against the front door to the penthouse, and the hinges slowly started loosening with every enormous smash. Aggravated yelling also came from outside the front door, and this time, Marseille could hear that the yells were in French. He heard one man tell another to hurry up, and the banging got more aggressive.
“What the hell do we do?” Markus asked Marseille, pacing on the fluffy living room carpet. Before Marseille answered, he walked over to the window, where he first removed his vest and picked it up. Marseille put it on and calmly began buttoning it up.
“What the hell are you doing?” Markus asked, his face showing a confused and judging look. “I tend to try and look my best before a fight. I find that somebody’s last sight being a well-dressed and expensive man instead of some low-life killer leaves for a more poetic and poignant ending to their life.” Marseille explained, tidying up his hair and fixing his collar once more. “You haven’t changed that much either, Milo,” Markus chuckled, reminiscing for only a few seconds before the front door fell into the penthouse and flat on the ground.
Marseille turned around, aiming his gun at the open doorway into his apartment. Almost immediately, eight men in all black and masks began running in and shooting, holding small handguns. As Marseille and Markus took cover behind the couch, the firing continued, and the windows directly behind them shattered. Marseille peaked his head over the arm of the couch, shooting two or three of his attackers. “It’s too bad I’ll have to do this. I just remodeled,” Marseille muttered, reaching one of his hands under the couch. “What?” Markus asked while shooting at the other men and quickly ducking back down to reload and Marseille’s plan.
Marseille pulled a heavy, thick box out from under the couch and unlatched it. Opening the box revealed a disassembled automatic assault rifle. “Got one of those for me?” Markus asked, once again lifting his head over the couch to shoot. “Nope, sorry, Mark,” Marseille quickly responded as he tried assembling the weapon as fast as he could. Once finished, he loaded it and waited for the perfect chance to fire.
Marseille stood fully up from behind the couch and aimed the weapon at the enemies. He aimlessly began firing at the attackers blocking the door until the gun was empty, and every person fell to the ground. He threw it on the ground in front of himself. “Come on,” Marseille shouted to Markus after picking up his smaller gun again and sprinting toward the door.
“Where are we going?” Markus asked, following closely behind as they flew down the emergency staircase.
“Home.”
