rivkalashnik

[rivkalashnik]

“If I was all that smart, I wouldn’t have gotten fucked before,” she says dryly, parroting his phrasing with a self-deprecating smile. “But you live, you learn, eh?” Shady debt-collectors and their made-up, sky-high fuckin interest rates. They won’t catch her unawares again, that’s for sure. “Don’t go taking that as a suggestion, either. You probably make enough profit the way it is, don’t you?”

She wouldn’t even have to pay the other half? Score. “Deal.” Riv gladly begins to dig around in her deep coat pocket for her wallet. “Fine by me. Would have drawn the line at murder, anyway.” Well, almost certainly. Unless he was offering a lot of pills. “I don’t know how you’ll get in contact with me to call in your favor... I can come back in a month, if you want. Or give you my burner number. I’m not from Berlin but I get sent here often enough.” 

She says she won’t bail. Is he supposed to take her word on that? If Christopher managed to remain where he is ( alive, and with money ) is by not giving people much credit. Specially not junkies. Still, if he didn’t take other forms of payment, he would’ve lost a lot of clients by then. Half usually works for him. Half pays his supplier ( most of it anyway ), and he can still get benefits for his part. 

Her comment causes a slight chuckle. “You’re smart. Or you’ve been fucked before.” Maybe both. Christopher had never sold with interests, but it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Might put it to work with future clients. “Half now, and you owe me a favour. Do we have a deal?” As if to avoid any gray spots, he adds to it. “I’m not into anything too shady, so you don’t have to worry that I’ll send you to kill someone. Some errands, like you said. Nothing else.”  

#with: christopher #location: berlin #the doctor

[rivkalashnik]

Sure, sure. She keeps her mouth shut at his indication-- never claim she doesn’t follow orders-- but she makes sure to roll her eyes so it’s ridiculously clear what she thinks of his question. Anyone even halfway connected with any sort of shadowy business could consider at least fourteen ways that spying could help someone like the doctor. She’s not too bothered, though. Maybe he’ll percolate on it and take her up on that particular offer on a different occasion. If she’s lucky. 

He brings up a good point. “I wouldn’t bail,” she tells him with a touch of mild indignation, more of a remark than an actual argument. After all, she hasn’t really done anything to earn it, not towards him. But his offer for her to pay half is, in fact, surprisingly generous. “I can do half, yes.” Riv grins, delighted that this might actually work out. “I will be glad to take what I can get. Half now, and half later? I’ll be good for it in... well, soon.” She pauses, then adds with a touch of skepticism, “As long as you don’t decide you want fifty percent interest afterwards.” 

“Right.” Christopher didn’t know what she did for a living, but after having her in his office more than once, he had his guesses. A chuckle leaves his lips upon one of her offers. “I’m a doctor. Who would I need you to spy for me?” With a movement of the hand, Christopher indicates the other to not reply to that rhetoric question. In the world they lived, even a priest could use some spying. It was just not Chris who needed it at the moment. 

The thing was that mending a few broken bones wasn’t the same as dealing his pills; fixing people was what he had studied to do. The pills were given to him by someone else, someone that required money. “It’s not that I don’t want to trust you, but what guarantee do I have that if I entrust you with an errand you will actually do it and not bail with my stuff?” And then, he would have to deal with angry bosses and being in more trouble than it already is to do the delivery himself. “Maybe if you pay me half I can see what I can do.” Or he could give her the less fancy stuff; sure, it wasn’t as good as some of the other pills, or lasted as long, but it worked. Wasn’t that what everyone looked for?

#with: christopher #location: berlin #the doctor

[rivkalashnik]

carayamamoto‌:

Cara has missed this - the fear, the cold, unmissable fear. There was something so calming about her ability to elicit this response from people. To feel that power in her veins. She had always loved it, since her days in the police force.

Rivka was smart in this way at least. She knew the danger she faced. Death followed Cara wherever she went, like a second shadow.

Cara was surprised Rivka had a weaker picker face then she would expect from a gambler, but she supposed it was relitive to the situation. Cara who could maintain her composure at all times in the face of danger had never had any luck on the tables.

It was a type of relief, having someone to play with. Cara was not at home on the Casino floor. She did not gamble, did not drink excessively. She was understated, controlled and composed in a room of chaos.

“I bet.” Cara said simply, her tone soft but dangerous. “But I do not gamble. I have leaned never to take a bet I can lose.” Why would she, when the odds were so often stacked in her favor. “Perhaps it is safer for you as well. Keep the trouble you are in to one group - rather than risk creating more… kind benefactors.”

Riv knows her poker face fucking sucks. She’s out of practice (or at least, she tells herself). Besides that, in her experience, losing at cards had never resulted in bodily harm, whereas a wrong turn in a conversation with certain people could end much differently. Especially when there’s already such a steep power imbalance: around a poker table, everyone’s more-or-less equal, while here, Rivkele might as well be shit on Cara’s shoe. Still, she tries to tamper down her very obvious unease as best as she can. 

The woman’s very calm response does nothing to settle Riv’s nerves, unfortunately. “Oh. Uh. Glad you’re... confident, then.” Or cowardly, a tiny voice in the back of Riv’s head tells her, to only take bets that are winnable. She tells the voice to shut up, because she should not be pointing fingers when it comes to cowardice, even internally. She supposes that’s the surest way not to lose, which is... something she could stand to learn how to do, after all. She’s had plenty of losing lately. “You’re not wrong there,” she says, shaking her head as she glances back over to check the status of the fight. It’s... not looking great for the man in the plum, she notes as his head gets slammed against the edge of the table. Three times. Ouch. Though it’s still too early to count him out entirely... 

She tries to hold back a snicker that’s half-amusement, half-despondence at Cara’s last comment, before murmuring, “Kind benefactors. Right. Well, at least I can’t be the only one in this fix, right? There must be twelve more of me somewhere, running errands for our group.” The thought is incredibly depressing.  

#with: cara #the enforcer #location: berlin

[rivkalashnik]

fatherpatrick‌:

“Oh, I don’t know about that one,” Patrick counters, glancing uneasily around the bar. “Hell, I can get behind, but I must have too nonexistent a criminal record to see the charm of this place.” His turn to give her a playful nudge on the shoulder.

A place startlingly similar to this one has appeared in Patrick’s nightmares before, but he has yet to discover the slice of heaven in it– as if he would go looking, anyway. No, he’ll stay right here, thank you very much, and will shamelessly take Riv up on her offer to prevent a premature death. 

With that, he accepts the shot of vodka. He lifts it to Rivkele in a silent sort of cheer before swallowing it, the liquor burning his throat on the way down. Cheers, he thinks to himself, to dying peacefully in bed several years from now.

“I’m here same reason as you, I guess,” he tells her, shrugging absently. The Transporter is nowhere to be found. “A job. Helping out, you know…wherever a priest may be needed.” There’s an unmistakeable crack of a fist connecting with a jaw. He flinches. 

“This place could certainly use some religion.”

She grins easily at Patrick’s seemingly strained response. “Maybe ‘only hell’ for you. For some of us, golden fields of opportunity.” With a free hand, she gestures broadly to the room as a whole before pointedly holding up a single index finger: “Though-- golden fields threaded with strong poison, yes. So again, a little of both good and bad. No criminal record at all?” Blatant curiosity is evident in Riv’s voice as she abruptly switches gears to address the other interesting bit of information he’d mentioned. It surprises her that his criminal record is nonexistent, especially knowing his less-legal connections. She tells him as much. “That is a surprise, to me. Some priests do get arrested, right? I have read about it on the news. Though I did not assume you would get in trouble for the same reasons as the ones on the news. I hope.” 

When Patrick lifts his shot in a silent cheer, Rivkele vocalizes it on his behalf with an animated response of her own. “Ваше здоровье-- to your health, my friend,” she adds for his benefit before throwing back her own shot. 

A job-- she represses a sigh. That’s always what it comes down to, doesn’t it? But she disagrees with his final point. “I do not know that this place could use a priest by career, but it could use you, who seem to me to be a decent man.” She shrugs. His more level-headedness, at least, could balance out the overabundance of atmospheric aggression here. But religion? “Religion causes wars out in the world. You don’t think it would cause even more trouble in here? Fuel to fire?” Her husky laugh is almost inaudible over the even-louder shouting that’s begun to pick up over near the confrontation. 

#with: patrick #location: berlin #the priest

[rivkalashnik]

With the doctor’s permission now given, Riv closes the door with a quiet click and turns back around to face him, where he’s now standing closer, leaning back against his desk. “Riv,” she corrects. Rivkele, but whatever, he was close enough. There are only so many vowel-consonant combinations in the alphabet and he surely would have gotten it eventually. She doesn’t bother giving him her last name-- he doesn’t need it, and even if she told him, there’d be no guarantee it wasn’t a fake name anyway. 

“I can tell you most positively: ribs, nose. Maybe collarbone.” She points somewhat unnecessarily to each body part as she lists it off. Riv wouldn’t claim to be clairvoyant by any means, but after having either her nose broken or her ribs bruised roughly every three months in a reliable alternating rotation, it’s a pretty solid bet. (The broken collarbone only happened the once, but it hurt-- so better safe than sorry.) “I don’t know what your rate is, and I don’t have much money, but I can do the I-owe-you. A favor for a favor. I am good at errands, deliveries.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “I can spy for you-- unless it is on the tracksuits, I draw the line there. I don’t know what you want. But I would love to not be in future pain, if that is possible.”  

While no one can say that Christopher’s memory is perfect, at least he remembers most ( if not all ) the faces of his patients. The red hair and the cheerful attitude surely help the doctor remember the woman from previous meetings.  Giving her a nod towards the door, as if to say that it was okay for her to close the door, he stood up and walked around his desk, until he was on the front of where he had been writing only seconds ago, facing the other and resting on the wooden surface.

‘ Preemptively ’. That was an original way to say it; Christopher would give her points for that.  “What do you think it’s going to hurt, uh… Rik, Rav…? ” He doesn’t have a sheet with her name ( or any other name of the people that could need to be tracked by the law or worst ) for obvious reasons, which makes him have to actually remember his patients’ names. And he could remember faces and cases but names entered in another category. Frowning as if that would help him remember her name, he looks at the woman. “Help me out here.” 

#with: christopher #location: berlin #the doctor

[rivkalashnik]

friendlylocalrussian‌:

A sucker with a sense of bravado. Filipp almost felt bad that Rivkele wasn’t ever going to get her happy ending. “No offence,” he said, draining his glass in a way that would have been impressive if it was pure tequila, “but you’re in this shithole because you don’t find the right guy to bet on.”

Unless of course she did.

Later, Filipp could blame it as being under the influence (of water). He’d have to worry about it only if things went belly-up. God willing it wouldn’t.

“How about you don’t waste time on a losing bet,” suggested Filipp, slipping off the bar stool. His sneakers hit the floor with a thud that was absorbed by the sound of the casino riot. “There’s a better way to make fifteen thousand dollars to shave off your debt with. When there’s a loud and annoying spectacle on the floor—“ This time, he nodded at the table with some fondness— “people with too many poker chips in their pockets are distracted.”

"No offense taken.” There were other contributing factors, if she was going to get nit-picky about it, but yeah, he was right. She did get into this mess with a big hand from herself, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t try to keep clawing her way back out by herself just as well. 

Riv shoots back one of the remaining shots of vodka sitting in front of her as Filipp slips off his bar stool and offers his own creative resolution. The corners of her mouth turn downward in a look of serious concentration as she tries to comprehend what he’s suggesting. Using the chaos as an opportunity to steal poker chips? Fifteen thousand dollars would be a drop in the bucket compared to how much she actually owes, but she can’t afford to turn down the chance to make even a small dent. Still... while she’s not morally opposed to the idea, these sort of skills aren’t exactly in her wheelhouse. “I’m many things, but I am no pickpocket,” she murmurs slowly, quietly, even though she’s already picturing it: the dark-haired man over by the wall on the right, one stack of his purple-and-orange chips are just sitting there on the edge of the table, and with a quick swipe of her hand as she walks behind him, as long as he’s still distracted by the movement and noise of the fight, she could... 

Her thoughts grind to a sharp halt, and she glares at Filipp with sudden suspicion before hissing under her breath, “How do I know you are not trying to set me up, huh?” She knows her window of opportunity is closing by the second, since who knows how long the fight will last, but she’d be an idiot not to think Filipp could throw her under the bus in half a second, call her out, make the room’s aggression turn on her instead and claim he had nothing to do with planting the idea in her head in the first place. She’s got to think this through. 

#with: filipp #location: berlin #the double agent

[rivkalashnik]

Location: The Club House

Her heart nearly pounds out of her chest as she weaves between the tables of the Club House, heading over towards the bar. 

More than anything, she’s worried she’ll just end up wasting the man’s time and unintentionally pissing him off; she’s never wanted his attention, tries to avoid it if at all possible. But here she is, voluntarily approaching him, like a tiny, annoying ant just asking to be crushed under a much stronger, heavier boot. It’s so stupid, because she doesn’t even know if what she knows is useful-- however, it’s something, and that’s more of a bargaining chip than she had before, at any rate. That, plus what she’s got in her pocket. Maybe. 

She leans forward on her toes and raps on the counter of the bar to get the bartender’s attention, her eyes glancing around the restaurant like they’re trapped in a pinball machine, bouncing off everything they meet and refusing to settle for even a moment. “I’m looking for the, uh, Englishman?” she says, half-statement and half-question. 

@alekseimakarovich

#with: aleksei #location: london #the englishman

[rivkalashnik]

in retrospect, yikes

#muse

[rivkalashnik]

Riv raps on the doctor’s office doorframe before waiting as he instructs without even having looked up at her approach. She’s been to see him before, when she’s gotten roughed up in Europe-- he’s not part of the mob, but he’s neutral enough, so. 

The issue is this: the shitty studio apartment she’s been paying cash rent for is located in Los Angeles, because that’s where she was ordered to be. And while she does have a nonimmigrant visa to cross the border into the country (semi)legally, she gets no benefits as a janitor-- especially because her wages come in cash there, too-- and health insurance isn’t really covered by the mafia. The mob’s got their own medical people in the U.S., but she doesn’t make a habit of getting too buddy-buddy with them, avoiding contact if at all possible. Which means that whenever she runs into trouble on American soil, she has no choice but to grovel to a neighbor who can stitch her up, or more commonly just suck it up and suffer through. But maybe she can avoid that, too. 

“Nothing hurts yet, Doc,” Rivkele tells him cheerfully. “I’m thinking more... preemptively. Can I...” she nods meaningfully towards the door. This conversation is one best had in private. Who knows if he’ll be amenable to any kind of deal but there are so few people that she can ask anyway that a “no” from him is a low-risk consequence, if it comes to that. Better to give it a shot. 

Location: Berlin, Germany. 

Considering how much Christopher was paid for his work, he shouldn’t complain about it. When he looked at his options, that scenario was the best one he could get, if he was being honest and took into account his past and his mistakes. Still, there was a certain amount of broken arms and common colds he could cure before getting sick of it. Maybe that was why he drank so much. Maybe that’s why he wanted a drink at that moment. 

He didn’t need to raise his eyes to notice someone entering his office. Christopher didn’t remember having an appointment scheduled for then, but there was always someone with an emergency that needed a doctor. “I’ll be with you in a second.” He scribbled something down in a paper, in a handwritting that seemed too neat to belong to a doctor, before he closed whatever he was writing and raised his gaze to the other. “So? What hurts?” Or what pills are you trying to buy?

#with: christopher #location: berlin #the doctor

[rivkalashnik]

thelaundress‌:

“What would you like?” Violet asked. “Tea, coffee, coke, water?” Fetching the drink, she nodded in agreement.  “A bit more planning’s in order. It’s not as though the post-work gridlock is a surprise to anyone,” she snarked. Violet believed herself to be an easygoing person, but she found incompetence difficult to tolerate. Well, incompetence that inconvenienced her, at any rate. “Riv, isn’t it?” She inquired, sitting down opposite the woman. She had seen her, in passing, a few times. Another one of the mob’s lackeys. “Violet.”

"Coffee.” Riv continues to glance around as the woman grabs the drink. A bit more planning for the other side, maybe. Rivkele managed to make it on time-- though she didn’t point that out. Meeting the basic minimum level of competence was nothing she should be bragging about. Not to strangers, anyway. When the other woman called her by her name, she raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Rivkele, yes,” she confirms, sticking her hand out towards Violet opposite her, intending on shaking hands. “Do you work for the same people I do, or no?” There is an English branch of the mob, she knows, though she’s mostly unfamiliar with who is involved other than the key players. Maybe Violet’s part of it somehow, or maybe not. She gives her a scrutinizing glance and tries to measure her up by sight, but it’s really impossible to tell. 

#with: violet #location: london #the launderer

[rivkalashnik]

fatherpatrick‌:

I shouldn’t be here, Patrick thinks as The Transporter all but shoves him through the doors of the club. I shouldn’t be here, he thinks again as they immediately disappear into the throng of people, high as hell on something he can’t– or doesn’t want to– see. I really shouldn’t be here, he thinks for a third and just as useless time as he finds an empty seat at the bar. This is no place for a priest. Hell, this is no place for anyone.

It’s like this: the mob wants The Transporter, but they can’t get them without help. The Floreses have The Priest, the dumb and flighty Priest, who will do whatever The Consort says if he calls him brother and invites him for a steak dinner. So, the mob gets The Priest and The Priest is stuck doing whatever the fuck The Transporter says because the mob wants The Transporter.

Did you get all that?

Patrick sighs heavily and orders what he hopes to be a whiskey. He doesn’t speak German. The Transporter doesn’t, either, but they wanted to go to High Roller ( Patrick was too afraid to ask why ) so here he is. Doing what is asked of him. If only he had the same unyielding dedication to God.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Patrick asks Riv loudly, over the music. She should be asking him that question. She looks almost at home here; he’s nervous as hell. He breaks into a rather pained-looking smile, to show he’s joking. “I’ll bet you everything I own that if anyone dies tonight, it’s me.”

Riv reaches out towards him, slugging the priest in the shoulder to express her joyous surprise as a smile immediately crosses her face. “A job, what do you think?” she replies equally loudly, turning in her chair to face him. “Few hours to kill before flying home, and because I came to the lion’s den already, it makes sense to stay for a drink. This place is heaven and hell at one time.”

The real question is what he’s doing here. She knows that he has a light mob affiliation but to end up in a club like this was to be dropped in the deep end of a pool with no floatation device. From the father’s nervous appearance and strained smile, it seemed like he was treading water, but only just. “I don’t take stupid bets,” she jokes in response. “I won’t let anyone kill you on my watch.” Riv takes her two remaining vodka shots and offers one to him, while he waits for the bartender to get him the drink he ordered, before she advises, “Don’t look so worried, eh? It may be an overused saying, but people, they smell fear. Why are you in Berlin?” 

#with: patrick #location: berlin #the priest

[rivkalashnik]

dishonorabletask01: a deep deep dive 

Describe your character in a few words.

Sociable, impulsive Ukrainian tries her best 2 survive. 

What do you know about your character that they don’t know yet?

Rivkele thinks she can kill someone else to save her life with no problem-- a Flores, in this case, according to the deal. If the terms are upheld. However, while she puts her own self-interest above others every day just by nature of her passive participation in the mob’s workings, she’s never willingly taken a life with her own hands in order to better hers. The distinction is a thin line but a real one, and she’s going to find herself a lot more morally conflicted than she anticipates, I think. 

What are your character’s major flaws?

Her lack of self-control and her fear. 

What would your character give their life for?

Almost nothing-- she’s a fighter, tooth-and-nail, to the point where self-sacrifice isn’t a viable option. The only situation I could think that would even come close would be if someone was holding a random innocent child at gunpoint and made her choose between her or the kid. And even then, in the back of her mind she’d be certain that the kid was in on it and it was all a setup. 

What is your character’s greatest asset?

Her mind-- she’s sharp as a tack. And an associated asset would be her open-mindedness. Everybody’s got flaws, and she knows that, so she’s willing to get to know people from varied walks of life. 

What would completely break your character?

Good question, good question. I think-- if she finally does manage to kill a Flores and it turns out that the whole thing was pointless and she can’t get out of the mob even then. 

How does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

Usually, what you see is what you get with Riv-- although in situations with new people, she tends to try to appear more apathetic than she actually is. 

What is your character afraid of?

The main two would be being tortured & being trafficked. 

Where would your character fall on a politeness/rudeness scale?

She doesn’t purposefully try to be rude but it sometimes does happen if she can’t control her brain-to-mouth filter, so I’d put her at a 6/10 leaning towards rude, but usually non-intentionally. 

If your character could choose a different identity, who would they pick?

I don’t think she would-- though maybe herself, but with a few adjustments. 

In what or whom is your character’s greatest faith in?

I think her greatest faith is in her own resilience. 

What was the best thing in your character’s life?

When she was still on top of her game, she owned her own apartment-- owned, not rented-- that actually had a bedroom instead of just being a studio. It had a giant window, and wasn’t on the first floor, and hardwood floors. And for a span of about eight months she also had a dog, a huge black Newfoundland named Andrei. She loved that dog. She had to sell the him, and the apartment, but they were the best things in her life at one point. 

What was the worst thing in your character’s life?

Essentially, everything that has happened since she had to sell her dog. 

What is your character’s biggest nightmare?

Anybody finding out what she’s been tempted to do re: the Flores family. 

What seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

She remembers exactly which floorboards creaked in her house when she was growing up; she remembers the first song that was playing in the background when she won her first big pot (Fergalicious, from the tinny overhead speakers); she remembers the exact feeling of air on her face when biking down the big hill outside her house when she was a kid. 

What is your character’s secret wish?

Her secret wish would be to go back and re-do the last half of her life again so she wouldn’t be one foot in the grave before she finally has some measure of freedom again. 

What is your character’s greatest achievement?

Winning when the odds are against her. In general. 

What is your character’s deepest regret?

That she never kept in contact with her older sister. 

What is your character’s deepest disappointment?

That she’s 38 years old and her life still continues to suck, on the whole. 

What is your character reluctant to tell people?

She doesn’t ever want to admit why she works for the mob, especially to other people in the mob, because she’s worried they’ll think she’ll turn out to be a traitor (especially because they’re not technically wrong??). Her allegiance is out of necessity and not loyalty, which she always avoids mentioning.

What is your character hiding from themselves?

I think deep down she wants to find people she can genuinely trust, but because that seems impossible, she buries it deep enough to pretend like she doesn’t care. On a separate note, she also struggles with guilt because she’s complicit in such shady dealings on a daily basis-- but also, she doesn’t want to take responsibility for her actions, even though technically it’s her choice to continue participating in the mob’s nonsense. So I’d say she’s hiding from dealing with all of those paradoxical feelings just by... ignoring & burying them, again. 

What makes this character angry? What calms them?

Direct personal insults. If you try to belittle her, or try to pull one over on her like she’s an idiot, she will get pissed. Yelling usually calms her down, in that situation. She’ll eventually wear herself out. On a daily basis, though “calm” doesn’t really cross her mind except for maybe popping in some earbuds. 

List situations in which your character would not have control over themselves.

Too many to list.

How strong is your character’s emotions? Controllable? Uncontrollable?

They’re pretty strong; 8/10.

What wakes your character up in the middle of the night?

The guy in the apartment on top of hers doing jumping jacks at all hours of the night, or maybe sirens of police cars rushing down the street. Otherwise, she sleeps like a rock. 

Describe a recurring dream and/or nightmare.

She’s drowning and there’s absolutely nothing and no one nearby-- just dark black water as she sinks. 

Describe your character’s family.

She hasn’t talked to her mother or her sister in years, so it’d be difficult to describe them now. In her memories, her mother is perpetually frowning, which nicely balances out her sister Rina’s laugh. 

Name your character’s favourite person and why.

Father Patrick. He’s not at all what she would expect from a priest, which she finds terribly amusing. 

How many friends does your character have?

I don’t know that she would consider herself to have any friends. “Friends” is a loaded word that implies some loyalty and level of mutual truthfulness, and I don’t think she ever feels like she’s in a place where she can reach that level of real connection. But she’s friendly with many, many people. 

How many friends does your character want?

Again-- the general concept is asking a little too much of her, honestly. 

How would a friend or close relative describe your character?

Loud. Scrappy. Clever, yet also incredibly stupid. 

Who depends on your character? Why?

No one really depends on her? She’s pretty replaceable, in most regards. Which makes it even more annoying that they won’t just let her leave. 

Who does your character most want to please? Why? 

As obnoxious as it is to be worried about his opinion, she wants to make sure she doesn’t disappoint the Englishman. Among others. Just for her own safety’s sake. 

How does your character feel about sex? 

Sex is fun, but only with people she doesn’t know. 

How does your character feel about romantic relationships?

Ew. Then they have to deal with your problems, and you have to deal with their problems when you already have your own... she’ll pass on that. She’s not the romantic type anyway. 

If your character had to live in utter seclusion, what six items would they bring?

A warm blanket, a pack of playing cards, a pack of cigarettes, a fully-charged ipod mini, earbuds, and a bottle of vodka. 

What is your character’s most noticeable trait and most noticeable physical feature?

Her incredibly tight red curls. Just a massive amount of hair. 

How does your character feel about work?

Inescapable. Shrug emoji

Write one headcanon.

She was raised in a Jewish household, but as an adult, she isn’t super engaged in religion & she doesn’t keep kosher. 

Write one additional thing about your character.

Riv’s first languages were Ukrainian and Yiddish-- and Ukrainian is pretty close to German, enough that she can get by in a German conversation. She learned Russian in school so she’s pretty fluent in that. Her English skills are so-so; she won’t be able have a deep, philosophical conversation in it, though. 

#dishonorabletask #muse #about riv #[ this was fun ]

[rivkalashnik]

Riv takes her hands out of the pockets of her long black coat as she’s ushered into Jones Supply Co. by the woman at the door-- she prefers to keep her hands free for this sort of thing, just in case. She represses a sigh as the woman mentions that traffic is holding up the hand-off, and not for the first time. But there’s nothing to be done about it, so she peers around the room curiously. She’s never picked up anything here before. “Ah-- yes, I would like a drink,” Riv replies in a thickly-accented English, before dropping into an empty chair and settling back and stretching her legs out in front of her. The woman had said to make herself comfortable, after all. It couldn’t hurt, for ten minutes. “Too many people in one city, this is what happens with the roads. What do they think will happen? Everyone always late.” 

It was after hours at Jones Supply Co., and Violet was the only person remaining, She wasn’t usually one to linger (perks of being the boss), but today there was a handoff to complete and she preferred to see to those herself. It was a rush order, albeit a small one, and she was still waiting for the corporation’s delivery person — the tyranny of London traffic imposed itself on everything, including illicit firearms sales — when the mob’s gofer arrived. “Come in, come in,” Violet ushered the woman into the plush visitor’s area at the front of the office. “The goods are stuck in traffic, unfortunately, but they should be here in the next ten minutes.” She shrugged, annoyed. “In the meantime, make yourself at home. Want a drink?”

@rivkalashnik location: london

#with: violet #location: london #the launderer #[ this is perf! thank u ]

[rivkalashnik]

friendlylocalrussian‌:

Minder duty was a new low for Filipp. Not that Aleksei gave personal attention to the loose ends of the organisation, but Rivkele was property under lien. Wouldn’t do to get dents on it. It was therefore with great regret that he lowered his watered down tequila (it was his secret and the bartender’s) and heaved a sigh. God, he hated the sound of it. It made him feel like a kindly old uncle.

“Maybe you should put your money away,” he said. Maybe he should have stuck to his original plan of keeping an eye on her movements from the building across the street. All this Boy Scout behaviour was giving him toothache. “Didn’t know you had hundred bucks to part with on…” He gestured vaguely at the rapidly escalating violence around the table from hell. “Of course, in this case, giving it to me’s the same as handing it straight to Mr. Makarovich.”

She blames the poor lighting at the club for not immediately recognizing Filipp whatever-his-surname-is, and an uncomfortable twinge at the back of her neck runs down her spine, having been called out. It’s like getting caught misbehaving by a teacher. A teacher roughly the same age as you, who also works directly with the principal-from-hell. And to make matters even more annoying, he’s not even wrong. She knows she has maybe $175 in U.S. currency in her bank account, total, and only a small portion of that in cash. Which is technically meant for food (and vodka, now). But that non-withstanding, she’s certainly she could rack up enough cash to cover the hundred over at the poker tables... though that’s the whole point of being over here and not over there...what a drag. 

“I mean, ah, you don’t have to have a hundred bucks in your pocket, exactly, if you choose the right guy to bet on...” she drawls reluctantly, drilling her fingers on the bar. “What the hell, I could just tell you to put it on my tab with the Englishman, right?” Not like she was ever going to get it all paid off anyway. She glanced around behind him apprehensively, hoping not to see the Mr. Makarovich in question. 

#with: filipp #location: berlin #the double agent

[rivkalashnik]

carayamamoto‌:

Cara had a team downstairs. Two of their worst. Big brutes who knew how to hit and not much else. In these casinos, of course, that was all the Mob needed. If the bankrupt gambler proved hard to scare… well, then it would be her turn (words could not describe how badly she hoped that was the case.) 

She had been vaguely aware that Rivkele would be here - completing the sort of mundane task that Cara would never bother to take notice of. Over the years Cara had become very good at not taking notice of many of the jobs completed by the Mob. 

Seeing her out on the floor, however, evidently only a push away from falling back into her old vice, well it was an opportunity she did not want to pass up. Cara did not trust Rivkele. She never had. She did not understand gamblers - they took risks normal people would never dream of. It made them hard to predict, and even harder to control. All gamblers who built up debts were, in Cara’s mind, best dealt with as they were currently dealing with her friend downstairs. What Cara did not understand had always scared her. So she kept a careful eye on their gambling associate, waiting for the moment she stepped out of line. 

She stepped up behind Rivkele, just in time to overhear her bet. She spoke up, her cold gaze a clear message to the man she had addressed her question not to talk. “I will take your bet. Better me than him, I am more… acquainted.. with your odds.” She gave a small smile, closing the small gap between them to stand fully in Rivkele’s space, “Did you miss me so soon, moj mali čistilec.” 

The broad-shouldered man at the bar leans forward at her voiced offer, and he just barely has time to open his mouth to reply when a clear and wretchedly familiar voice behind Riv speaks up first. All of the color drains from her face instantly as she turns around to see-- whoa, she’s closer than expected, but yeah: Cara Yamamoto. Great. 

It’s not that she thinks Cara will do anything to her right here, right now. Though she does have that kind of power. It’s more that-- well, Cara seems to be the puppeteer of the worst of the mob dealings. The real bad shit (and none of it is ever good shit to begin with) happens under her supreme direction. Whatever she orders is how it goes down; nobody dares disobey. And of course, you know it’s really disastrous if she gets personally involved rather than ordering from a distance. Her being here most likely spells ‘bad news’ for somebody. Hopefully somebody else. 

Riv’s mind whirs-- though its really more like the stuttered buffering of a screen gone blank-- as she tries to remember if she’d done anything to piss anybody off. She hadn’t let her tongue wag to anybody this week, hadn’t handed anything off to the wrong person, hadn’t missed a trade, hadn’t ignored an order, hadn’t skimmed any drugs lately. Cara’s surely not here for her. She’s not! It’s fine. 

Still doesn’t make her feel any better. Riv offers the other woman a weak smile, a pathetic attempt at seeming not-scared-shitless. “Yeah, yeah, long time no see...” she trails off with a falsely casual tone, glancing around nervously before knocking back her second-of-three shots of vodka just so she can avoid Cara’s eye contact for a half a second. Run into someone familiar, and the typical question at the tip of one’s tongue is what brings you here, but Riv’s absolutely positive she doesn’t want to know. “Never would’ve pegged you for a betting woman,” she says instead. 

#with: cara #location: berlin #the enforcer

[rivkalashnik]

#face

[rivkalashnik]

What are Riv's thoughts on the underground crime circuit? Does she know the extent of it all, yet?

Rivkele definitely doesn’t know the full extent of it– just how far the arms of crime reach would almost certainly surprise her. 

But she knows the basics, and more-so the details about (some of) what the mafia’s been up to. Even if no one’s told her directly, she’s perceptive enough to begin putting pieces together (or at least she thinks she is).  

It doesn’t really matter what she thinks of it. It’s all happening, and she’s stuck being part of it regardless, so!!

#anon #about