Registered citizen of the Terran National Government
Description
Photo Credit: (Jahan) Salman Butt by milchin, from Deviant Art. (Kwang Bin) Pure by Lareverie, also from Deviant Art. If you do not give permission for your photo to be displayed here, contact me and I will promptly remove it. 
Jahan is a muscular, well-toned, lean young man with olive-toned skin and dark brown, almost black hair brushed back over his face. His face is somewhat square, with angled features, an aristocratic nose, and distinctive eyes. He is somewhat tall, though not particularly so, and though well-trained and muscular, not easily identifiable as someone who cares for his physique. He dresses to blend in, and is an expert at altering his appearance, though he tries to do so with minimal effort, which, Jahan claims, is an art. Jahan's body is marked by several scars along his arms and legs, the marks of jobs gone wrong and confrontations he found unavoidable.
Interesting note:
Jahan's alias is John Alexander.
The name Jahan is the Urdu variant of the Anglicized name "John" (which derives from Hebrew Yochanan, which traveled through German Johannes). Yochanan means 'Yahweh is gracious'.
The name Iskander is the Arabic variant of the Greek name "Alexander", which means 'defender of mankind'.
Equipment
He has several knives and daggers, as well as a gun and a sidearm. Jahan also has an expertly forged Virginia driver's license under the name "John Alexander", and several passports also under that name. He has several business cards that simply say "John Alexander, Clandestine Services" with a phone number and email address.
When the need arises, he will arm himself further, and also owns things such as body armor, bulletproof vests, stabproof vests, grenades, smoke-grenades, battering rams, poisons, and such things.
History
Known to his clients as John Alexander, not much is known about Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui. According to law enforcement, he is a ruthless killer for hire. According to his past clients, he is an adept businessman who puts the customers first, going above and beyond the contract agreed upon between parties. He either has no family, or no one related to him is willing to disclose that. What most people do agree upon is that Jahan is incredibly skilled at what he does, making assassinations look like natural deaths, or complete accidents. He can also make deaths seem to be the responsibility of another individual or organization. . . It is also well-known among those who know of him that Jahan is of Pakistani extract, though no one is sure whether Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui is even his true name. Though wanted in several countries for his crimes, Jahan is not notorious, and not nearly as well known as the infamous Tahira Ali, whose organization Hataf has often retained Jahan's services.
Jahan's partner is Kwang Bin Yim, a man with a military background. Kwang Bin is a North Korean fugitive known for his unique combination of deadly military expertise and expert computer programming and hacking skills. Kwang Bin, like Jahan, is fairly nondescript and inconspicuous, and the two have been a pair for nearly ten years, after Jahan failed to successfully kill Kwang Bin, at the request of the North Korean government, which now wants them both dead. Kwang Bin is infected with the PK47 infection, which is spreadable by physical contact.
Their other permanent associates include:
Emanuel Secada, a Cuban who previously served as the Chief Interrogator of one of Cuba's prisons under Fidel Castro, and is known for his expertise in brutal interrogation methods. He is a man of average height, somewhat stocky, muscular, well-built, with crew cut dark hair and a round, almost babyish face. He wears a gold saint medallion around his neck, and dresses to intimidate. Emanuel's specialty is psychological torture combined with liberal doses of physical pain.
When contracted, the symptoms of PK47 are as follows:
Approximately ten to twenty minutes after infection:
- a burning sensation around the eyes. This is followed by redness and inflammation of the eyelids and overproduction of tears.
- inflammation of the soft pallet, discomfort when swallowing.
- a dry cough.
These symptoms commonly last no longer than an hour.
Approximately twelve hours after infection:
- elevated body temperature.
- dehydration.
- dry, itchy eyes and mouth.
It can take between 72 hours and a week for the characteristic white, horse-shoe shaped lesions to appear, and they can cover anything between 1% and 70% of the body. They are painful to touch, dry, and leak a translucent white fluid when cracked, as they are prone to do. The lesions last for several days before clearing up, though they scar badly. More lesions erupt even as the previous spate are healing. A bout tends to last for two weeks before there is an intermission period and then a relapse.
The plague can take several months to be eliminated from the body of a healthy individual; those weaker or more susceptible can suffer several years and have recurrent relapses.
The illness does not kill, though it weakens the immune system of the sufferer considerably.
-As provided by AugmentationAudit
Current Targets:
Ilse Klein Gauner Mel Elisabet Ibrahim El Ghamry
So begins...
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui walked into the bar, standing against the wall as he scanned the room for his contact. He had been told that several persons of interest frequented Gambit's Bar, and so was hoping that those he sought would be here this evening. Jahan looked around nonchalantly, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he removed one and lit it, all the while watching, watching and waiting. . .
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui noticed Lee Hitsugaya, speaking to Claire. Hearing the man's words, Jahan frowned thoughtfully, though he didn't so much as glance in the conversants' direction, so there was no possibility of either of them noticing that he took in every word. Hitsugaya, this man Jahan had heard of before, through some source several years ago, in passing. How strange that he should see him here now, at such an unexpected time. After all, a name is only a name, but to connect it with a face, a living, breathing body, and a vivacious soul, in such a place as this? It was quite a novelty indeed!
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui half-turned to Ilse, immediately noting the weapon-shaped bulge under her shirt, barely visible to the untrained eye, but his was well-trained indeed. He smiled easily, reaching for the pack of cigarettes again, noticing Angeline from the corner of his eye, as he handed one out to Ilse. "No problem," he said congenially, "you just owe me an arm and a leg." If she listened very closely, the faint vestige of an accent could be detected, but Jahan had worked long and hard to hide it.
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui slipped the box back into his pocket, shrugging casually. "Believe me, it wouldn't be the first time I've heard that," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall next to Ilse. "It's been a while since I've had a chance to speak to someone as beautiful as you," he said flirtatiously, winking at his companion. "You have a name?"
Jahan seemed to be watching Ilse, but in fact, his attention had wandered to Gambit's infamous bounty board on the back wall, noticing the familiar photograph of Tahira Ali. Another surreptitious glance, made expertly without seeming to move either face or eyes, and Jahan caught sight of his own face, half-hidden beneath a stranger's. He frowned, considering taking it down, but in the end, decided against it. It would draw too much attention.
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui realized that Angeline and Lee Hitsugaya were watching him. He frowned thoughtfully. Every time someone made him more conspicuous than he was, it became suddenly very uncomfortable. Jahan's entire career and its successes were built upon anonymity, the ability to fade into the background unnoticed. "Ilse," he repeated, looking at her, really looking at her as he took the cigarette from his mouth, holding it out in his right hand, his left still in his pocket.
She seemed familiar. . . Was she one of Viktor Sodoro's people? The name was right. With a jolt, he realized the face was too. He resisted the urge to take her right then and there. She was one of the jobs he had currently on the backburner, Ilse Gauner, and here she was, right in front of him. If he had believed in a god, Jahan would have dropped to his knees. As it was, he determined to keep her there.
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui "I'm John," he said, giving a name he often used. Similar to his own, it was easy to remember, and such a common name, impossible to trace. Jahan put the cigarette back between his lips and extended his hand to his companion. "It's nice to meet you," he said, meaning it.
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui shook Ilse's hand. His own handshake was firm, short, and professional, a well practiced maneuver. "Work," Jahan replied shortly, in response to Ilse's inquiry, shrugging, as he kept a wary eye on Angeline and Lee, ready to draw his gun or knife if either showed hostile intent. He sighed, taking another drag on his cigarette as he seemed to watch Ilse. "Work can easily control your life. . . it dictates when you sleep, where you go, who you talk to. . ." Jahan trailed off.
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui frowned more deeply then as Lee Hitsugaya approached. He turned to the newcomer. "I don't know who you are," he said, and then turning back to Ilse, "You don't know the half of it." Jahan removed the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it onto the floor as he stamped on it, stubbing out the flame, all without so much as glancing down at it. "My work is fun."
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui had failed. He had killed four of them, but not the fifth, and the survivor was standing next to him. Of all ironies. Jahan found it unsettling that a living reminder of his only failure so far was speaking to him, though he hid it well with a disinterested, casual expression, the kind common among casual conversants who really didn't care how the other one was, or how the kids were, or about anything they talker about at all, talking only to kill time, fill space, murder silence. "When you find something you're good at, you should do it," Jahan said, and then, looking Ilse in the eye, "and I'm very good at what I do. There's the occasional fluke, though, unfortunate and unavoidable."
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui returned both his hands to his pockets, standing against the wall in a pose that to anyone else would communicate only casual observance. "Life exists in a vacuum. You are born, you live for some time, and you die. Only the blind and religious insist there is some greater purpose for it. There is no beauty in life, only the reality of its purpose - a precursor to death."
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui seemed to look upward, staring at the ceiling of the barroom. Though he noticed Ilse's subtle movement with his well-trained eye, he simply didn't respond to it. "Life exists to feed destruction, to increase entropy. That's all. Your fish and frogs and laughter only exist because they have not yet been destroyed." Jahan paused then, blinking slowly. "I used to want to believe in something else, in a greater purpose, in beauty for the sake of beauty alone. But time changed that. There is only time to live and to die, to kill or to be killed. It's a lion's world, and we are like lambs, fearful and preyed upon, if we do not seize every opportunity we get. That's what we're damned to - always running from death, knowing in the end that it will overtake us."
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui dropped his gaze from the ceiling, twisting his neck to look at Ilse, though he didn't quite look her in the eye. "I'm sure you already know," he said softly.
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui "Always do it yourself," Jahan muttered. "Never trust someone else to do they work; it's a guarantee they'll do a shoddy job and shortchange you." He looked Ilse in the eye, his own expression unflinching and remorseless. "I received fifteen million to make all the deaths look like an unfortunate terrorist hostage situation gone wrong."
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui laughed openly. "They say war is beautiful, but only because they don't understand the finality of death." Jahan shook his head ruefully. "You'll have to come up with a large down payment," he said, "if that's a deal you really want to make. I'm very cautious in the way I handle my contracts. I expect at least 40% up front, another 20% as collateral within the week." Jahan recited his figures humorlessly, studying Ilse's features as he spoke. She really was a beautiful woman. But it was not for him to seek out beautiful women. . . only to serve his purpose. And his purpose was to kill.
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui "If you can find me, whenever you have it," Jahan said, his cool dark eyes emotionless as he stared at Ilse. "I won't kill you today. Tell you the truth, I didn't come here looking for you. But if I were told to, I would have absolutely no reason not to kill you right now, where you stand. So don't get the wrong idea."
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui hesitated, but then shook Ilse's hand again, this time looking her in the eye as he did so. "You'll find no mercy in me," he said finally, "just another creature caught in the cycle of life and death and decomposition. Your time will come, whether by my hand or someone else's." He sighed, then reached inside his pocket for a small white business card. "Take this," Jahan said, "in case you ever need anything. But if I come calling before you do, you might not be so lucky."
The card he proffered to his companion read: "John Alexander, Clandestine Services", with an email address and phone number printed under the alias. It was all good and well though, a name Jahan had been using for a number of years, the phone a prepaid number, the email address a proxy. But both were reliable and used with most of his clients.
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui frowned more deeply, as he watched Ilse closely. "It's not more or less of an honor to be killed by one person or another," Jahan said, clearly confused as he rested one of his hands on his hip, no weapons visible on his body, concealed or overt. "You die, or you escape death only to die later." He shrugged, standing straight so that he was no longer leaning against the wall. "But when you have the money, do let me know."
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui watched Ilse as she turned to leave. "I respect you that you don't panic at the sight of me, knowing who I am," Jahan said quietly. "I sincerely hope we cross paths again. It's a rare individual who is calm in the face of the certainty of death." He let his arm fall to his side so that he was simply standing, as if there were nothing else he could do, or ought to do. "Ilse - you should know. . . Viktor is not like that."
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui "But you don't show it," Jahan said simply, "and that makes all the difference." He offered her a half-smile but it was forced, and then he glanced away before looking back at Ilse. "If you obtain the money, a deal is a deal. I don't go back on my word."
Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui watched Ilse as she left, and then, after several more moments, followed, leaving the bar as well.
