One of the men chuckled coming from the driver's seat, a brown hand resting on the steering wheel, the other fidgeting with the centre console. A chapped lip quirked up, revealing a white teethed smile, his sneakered foot pressuring the gas, the van rolling through the side streets of the city, strangely vacant, the passerby’s of pedestrians were nil, the drone of another engines hum, or the melody of another's music, nothing was seen.
“Looks like clear skies huh?” he spoke, a small off kilter comment, casual and stagnant. Dressed in a plaid button up and simple denim jeans, he wasn’t like the rest.
The men in the back of the van brooded easily, 4 of them, in different corners of the van. There on one of the faux leather seats sat one, short black hair, faded to the side, an angled jaw line covered in scruffy stubble, a dirtied face, a cut lip, a scar across the right brow, and a smirk that rivaled life. A slanted, quiet nose, thick dry lips and eyes that bagged with the likes of withdrawal.
Faded grey eyes proved a fading view of life, yet a spark lit inside them, one of vicious energy. “That fuckin mask man.” His voice proved fiery, with a certain bark to it, one full of youth and rebellion, an angsty chuckle gurgling in his words, subtly imposing, brutefully mocking. A layer of complexity, all within the young mans voice. His chapped lips perked into the corners of his narrow cheeks, shady, yellow glinted teeth, darkened by the likes of drugs. His head shook casually, leaning back into the faux black leather seats, the seatbelt beside him, dangling anxiously.
Dressed head to toe in thick, rough black over alls, covering from ankle to wrist, a thick sturdy collar. Small pockets and pouches laid on hip and chest, chains of synthetic fibre and plastic clasps proving room for weapon holsters, an intimidating, darkened pistol fashioned by his hip.
A man stood next to him, imposing and brutish. A mockery of charisma, standing with thick arms crossed, one leg tucked over the other, feet sturdily, yet anxiously planted. Another set of deep dark over alls, casted with weaponry holding more tallies than he ate breakfast, his rifle hanging by his chest. Broad shoulders, a thick, sturdy frame, hiding an anxious and fringed personality, hidden by a round bald head, a slack, strong jaw, clean cut face and a set of dark brown eyes, rotten with the sights of his murderous life style.
Stood there watching, the bald headed pack of muscle aided the contrast of the group. Hot headed and yet without a voice to speak it, self assured, though not a morsel of dignity to stand up for it. Experienced, yet too suicidal to show it.
Just opposite the first drug addict was the most innocent man there.
Clean shaven, weak jaw, long face. Medium black hair furled off in jagged cut edges to the side, gleaming, light blue eyes that refused to admit his lack of innocence, his iris tucked behind the thin, blackened veil of his eyelid, bruised and ailing.
Paranoid, fidgety hands clasped together, fingers tickling and intermitting, caressing and snuggling, rubbing against each other like a sensitive couple, his hands laying on the carbon grip of his own assault rifle, rattling with each bump of the van. The rifle laid dormant, steady and focused, while it’s owner couldn’t be more the contrary.
A weak slim frame adorned with tiny fragments of the occasional toned muscle, a body left behind compared to the wit and snap of his battle-hardened mind, tactical and thoughtful, you wouldn’t have thought of it. Though frail and uncalm, his hands held stiffer against the rifles grip, his dormant calluses would shun against the guns harsh recoil, his elbows would lock and hold--His brain wouldn’t care to think about the poor soul in front of his sights, and before he knew it, he’d be back in the van again, extorted and unwilling, yet all the military experience backing his employment.
His thin lips slowly pulled open into an uneasy, quiet chuckle, white teeth clattering quietly and stiffly, seatbelt wrapped tightly around his torso.
And the last sat next to him.
Chubby frame bulging out the likes of his similar over alls, rifle clinging to his body, pushed out by his own body weight. Slouched over, held back by the tight fibre elastic of the seatbelt, meaty elbows pressing into his thick knee’s, one hand lazily clasping the edge of a white plastic mask, a simple and sleek design, rounded flat to fit the face, nose holes for breathing, a simple, practical, yet all the more cruel design on the front. A small, painted black smiley face, beady black eyes with a crooked smile no bigger than a tube of toothpaste.
A smile over his chubby, aged face, he looked down to the mask, his other hand rubbing over the edge. Thick lips parted and a gleam of grey, whitening teeth revealed, a long overdue attempt of personal hygiene proven, a thick set of scruffy, dark brown hair hanging from his jaw, neck and upper lip. Wide nosed, a thick oval face framed by a set of shaggy, rag like brown hair, falling down to just below his jaw line in an tangled unkempt jungley mess. Wrinkles and bags underneath a set of dull brown eyes, a stern wrinkle over both of his thick brows.
“Heh, well, it’s been follow’in me for awhile, now.” His voice was croaky and phlegmy, something deep, it had a rumble to it, a loose rumble that sounded like the warm cozy hum of a fire--Enlightened by the tone of a rural southern accent, his voice connotations and annotations deemed him fatherly. “Got’a bit of an err...Y’know, story tew it.” His hands fumbled with the mask, flipping it onto it’s side.
The group of misfits and miscreants were a small band of friends, apart of something bigger, henchmen and peons, among side each other, fighting for the purpose of another grand in their pocket. Though they’re motivations differ, personalities, skill and enthusiasm, one thing was for sure.
They were going to be working along side each other, for a long...Long time.
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