Izaya Orihara.
Upon hearing this name, Alois noted two immediate details; firstly, he recognized its Japanese origin. He was used to working with people of various racial genes but somehow, in this case, it seemed to strike him as unusual. Secondly (and altogether more importantly), he could not help but detect the rather poignant belligerence with which this name dripped from the tongue of his underling; had Orihara already established a reputation for himself?
His own particular gang lived tightly packed into a guest house at the corner of one of the more infamous red light districts within East London. They were quite well known, quite threatening, and particularly well respected. But the other gang members were all already huddled into their bunks and hammocks upstairs, indulging in an evening spliff or cigarette; none of them would have heard Izaya approach.
In the private lounge, ejected shell casings littered the carpet and dim chandelier lights polished the tubes of brass a bloody gold. Alois had assumed an isosceles shooting stance, right leg quartered back for balance, left knee flexed and both hands on the pistol. He spoke slowly and clearly.
“I’m sure you’re here for a reason,” he said. “I want to know what that reason is, then I’ll put this down, yeah? But the thing is, Izaya, I can’t just let people in. I guess you understand why, don’t you? So, go on… I’m listening.”
Considering he was a ‘long way from home’ as some people would put it, Izaya wouldn’t be surprised to hear of people’s surprise that he was where he was. Of course they knew nothing of the circumstances that took him from Ikebukuro all the way out to London, but consider yourself lucky if you did learn why; even if it was as simple an explanation as Izaya leaving Japan for awhile because he could.
Of course Izaya’s curiosity for humans and having fresh stomping grounds for observations, learning the city and who the particularly interesting inhabitants were led him to learning of the seedier groups that made up London’s underground. Old habits died hard apparently, simply can’t escape the pseudo gang life.
Alois Trancy.
That name too had a rather ominous sound to it when said in the right tone. Apparently he was the head of a rather prominent gang here in London, not something he would’ve expected for a country that used to be known for its tea. When he heard the name London, he wouldn’t have thought to accredit it to a notorious gang population, even with its interesting red light districts. So when he had an opportunity to get some face time in with the leader himself, just like that, Izaya found that interesting. Letting a complete stranger, to both himself and the city into his territory just like that. Also interesting that he viewed him as enough of a threat to be met with the barrel of a gun the second he sauntered through the door and observed the room around him. At a glance he’d appear unarmed, but in reality Izaya’s hand was flicking his flick blade in between his fingers as much as his jacket pockets would allow. Sure it wouldn’t do much against a bullet fired at him, but Izaya hadn’t earned a reputation in Ikebukuro for being an easy target now did he?
It almost took him back to not long ago when instead he’d be facing down a vending machine or a trash can flying at him. Almost.
“Relax, I didn’t come with any murderous intentions if that’s what you’re thinking. I am interested in the fact that you seem to know enough about me already to let me in, but point a gun at me right away. I’m here just for observation, nothing else. That’s basically all there is to say to answer that question of yours.”
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