there is no pain, you are receding, open to someone Oli's known in the past

[Oliver Sinclair]

Oliver Henry Braeden Sinclair was nothing like his other siblings. Crisp, clean, addiction-free, and without any desire for any kind of spotlight, the Hartford born college student was more of a lost cause than anything. Employed currently as a distribution manager in New York City, next to his beloved and cultured Boston, Massachusetts, a place he now called home, Oliver was living the life true-story movies were based on. He'd seen American Gangster a couple weeks ago, and all the while he thought about what his dad may become to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, someday. Johnny Sinclair was often being investigated by special crimes units, and it wouldn't take forever for him to be picked up by the police one day and shoved into a jail cell for the rest of his days without possibility for parole. In the case of such a proceeding, the family lawyer had made plans. Lawyers were crooked, in general, Oliver found, and Johnny Sinclair's lawyer could not have been anymore so if he had tried. To be involved with and paid by a criminal on a yearly basis was just as criminal as drug trafficking in itself.

Not that Oliver had ever seen himself as incredibly moral or loyal to any side of "good." Even as a catholic baptized by the church in his early days, Oliver wasn't perfect. These days, baptism wasn't saving him either. He gave up his faith about a month and a half ago and truly didn't believe in Heaven. He had had a stint as a Taoist in Secondary school, curteousy of a stoner teammate on his Lacrosse team. None of this had to do with the loyalty Oliver didn't feel, though, and very little of it influenced the relationship he had with the Sinclair family. The only think Oliver had in Las Vegas was his name. No one knew about him as part of the crime sindicate, even though for as long as he could remember, he'd been spending summers in the hole of dirt and prostitution that was Nevada. He'd had meetings with Johnny about his future, and when he took the job he currently had it was because he couldn't say no. Everyone in his family was a gangster. Everyone owned a collection and distribution point. Laundromats, Chinese-food restaurants, Clubs, Bars, Auto Shops. The works. Oliver made the rounds a couple times a year and contracted people for important hits.

Only he didn't actually do those things. He passed the duties onto a close friend, about his age, who distributed in New York City. Oli trusted him with the days work and very rarely checked up on him. He only hoped that the friend didn't turn on him or mess anything up at all. If that were the case, then Oli'd have to take the fall or divulge a secret no one knew. He'd be disowned, probably killed, and Katherine, his sister of sorts, would have the laugh of the century. How he hated being in Katherine's presence. In all honesty, she made him fidgety. Very fidgety. Fidgety like people with nicknames like "Buck," "Tango," and "Asce" made him fidgety. As a child with a background in private schools and rich circles, those kinds of names made people nervous. They carried with them connotations people gossiped about. Those people were Oliver's associates, and at the thought, his upper lip receded and he scrunched his nose up in a disgusted and self-pitying way.

Scratch the self-reflection. Oliver Sinclair sat on the back steps of a loading platform and wherehouse at the airport in Las Vegas. He'd just flown in for who knows how long and sat brooding with a black travel duffle beside him. His face was half hidden behind the shadow of a custodial dumpster, but one could still see the shine of a globe light atop a pole flickering over to illuminate the creases between his rounded nose and other such crevices in his medium-toned skin. Taking a hand to a dark-colored sweater sleeve, Oliver pushed the shirt underneath up to reveal an unimposing silver watch. Time? 11:45 pm. Oli had no desire to take a meeting with his family members at the Sinclair mansion in 3 hours and fifteen minutes. No doubt the man listed on his birth certificate as his father was setting some bad-servng bookie on fire right now.

[Gryphon Korshunova]

Las Vegas had done something dreadful to everyone that step foot in it, even for a moment, they would be altered. Whether by ideas of �what ifs� or tempted by the fruit of a two-bit whore, or even by spending all of your money on the slots, just waiting to hit that huge jackpot that would get them the deluxe suite in the Panther. Gryphon had been altered in a very strange way, she had visited her mother. At one time, she had asked for a taxicab to take her to the Dior store, a cab! Claudette nearly had a heart attack at the question, Pouvez-vous appeler un taxi, s'il vous plait? Her manicured and thin hand snaked over her overly crisp suit, shadowing where her heart was, and gave her daughter the look of disgust.

Needless to say, Gryphon didn�t take the cab to her destination. After mumbling something akin to my daughter is a heathen, Claudette went off to consult her psychic to the wealthy to find what it was she should do about her daughter that had supposedly fallen so far down from the family grace. The young blonde woman didn�t understand what was so bad about supporting the economy of where she was at, it wasn�t terrible to be resourceful, and not a complete snob at all times, was it? Of course not. But in the eyes of Claudette, Las Vegas and New York City, whichever her daughter spent her time, had altered and corrupted her showdog.

Sadly, Gryph was all-to-happy to leave her beloved France. The flat she had in Paris was suddenly cramped with her mother�s opinions. She was extremely happy to be able to see her boyfriend, friends, and the strange and almost dingy people of Las Vegas. Although the elite of Las Vegas were completely proper, wealthy, and clean, there was definitely a flip side. Choosing to ignore the obvious darkness, she avoided it, whenever it would get to her, she would go to New York to attend all of her classes and unwind. She was completely unaware that her current beau was distributing and feeding the darkness that she fought so desperately to get away from. Call her na�ve, but there was still a bit of her that wanted to cling to the hope that not the whole world was going to hell in a handbasket. She had no clue what the Sinclair�s were up to, it was just the family business to her.

As her Valentino flats stepped off of the plane, a slender hand rubbed her tired eyes, her face bare of any makeup, her hair tied back into a tight chignon, and her clothes slightly rumpled. She looked as if she had just slept on a plane, and in reality she had. She was used to flying, but the curse of always looking retched at the end of the said flight was inevitable, and impossible to hide. It was just a curse that happened, but luckily enough, she didn�t look as horrible as others. Her long legs strode toward the entrance of the main port, her eyes adjusting to the vast amount of manufactured light. As her head moved right, then left rhythmically, she saw a profile that looked familiar. Squinting, she recognized him as she got closer. �Why, is that Oli?� Her voice was loud enough to catch his attention, but not abrupt enough to be a yell. Her lips part and she gave him a kind and toothy smile. �Bonjour Monsieur!� The French accent that had been reignited by the visit, and her light voice continued to be kind.