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Omar Durrani

Omar Durrani was appointed and confirmed as Director of Central Intelligence in 2008 under President Maynard.

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a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Ylanne

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Photo Credit: Eric Bogosian. All rights reserved. I will remove immediately if contacted and requested to do so.

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So begins...

Omar Durrani's Story

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#, as written by Ylanne
Omar Durrani 's writer wondered where in the world was Jahan Iskander-Dannaoui, and why he'd been mostly removed from the events surrounding Ilse Klein Gauner in her absence. Durrani himself, however, was only a few steps behind the latest entrant into Gambit's Bar, stooping so his hulking form would fit under the door. When he straightened, he was taller than most people, though not the MEA Director, who had been conspicuously absent for some time. Durrani's eyes fell upon Seno Miyagi and Claire Angelique, though he didn't approach either of them, his face impassive as he made his way to the bar, requesting a shot of whiskey.

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Omar Durrani had a reputation as cold and unfeeling, unaffected by nearly anything and everything that could happen. It hardly fazed him, though most who met him found the CIA Director to be quite intimidating. Here, though, he accepted the shot of whiskey, downing it in two swigs before turning to let his gaze follow Yuriko Matsui, wondering what the hell she was talking about. If it was a situation involving any Americans, he certainly hadn't been briefed.

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Omar Durrani looked over to Seno, fingers resting gently on the side of the shot glass, before he set it down on the counter, clearing his throat before speaking. "We haven't spoken in a few days, no. But my door will be open for him, whenever he has the time to speak concerning Hataf." Then something vibrated inside his pocket. The CIA Director lifted two fingers as he turned back towards the counter, reaching for his Blackberry. He pulled it out, holding it against the counter as he glanced at the message on top, scrolling through with expressionless features.

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Omar Durrani asked the tender for another shot of whiskey, which he sipped at leisurely, scrolling through messages on his blackberry for several moments before responding, glancing up from his Blackberry and over at Seno as he spoke. "Personally, no, I have not," he answered. "I highly doubt they have much to say at this time. Hataf has been quiet in the past few days." He looked back to his Blackberry, hitting several keys before taking another sip of his whiskey.

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Omar Durrani listened with well-disguised interest, the look on his face revealing nothing. Even the most trained eye might only detect a hint of carefully planted boredom in the way his fingers lazily moved about the keypad of the Blackberry, occasionally lifting his shot of whiskey with his other hand to sip at the drink, not imbibing more than a bare minimum. Just enough to keep up appearances. Dressed in a somber, black suit and tie, Durrani looked every bit the part of the cliched secret agent. And he didn't mind, not one bit.

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Omar Durrani let his slide upward and over from his Blackberry screen, thumb resting on its keypad, as he looked in Morgan's direction, letting no emotions play over his stern, unmoving features. It was a part of who he was, who he was known as. Omar Durrani was not affected by the petty things others said. And this one seemed like a case for Ayasha Ziedins's agency, anyhow. "I do all I can to uphold American values and American national security," Durrani commented calmly. "If that is not ethical, then I do not know what is."

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Omar Durrani slipped his Blackberry back into his pocket as he turned toward Morgan, Claire, and Seno. "I appreciate the advice, Morgan, but I am quite aware of where I stand. To answer questions like the ones you pose, I would refer you to President Maynard... or perhaps a constitutional law forum at some university?" Durrani eyed the newcomer from behind his dark glasses, taking stock of her form. Certainly not your average terrestial mortal. Definitely one of Ziedins's ilk. "Peace is only attainable when you are the one with the best weapons."

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Omar Durrani stared at Morgan for another moment before turning away again, sipping the last of his whisker before requesting another shot from the tender. This time, he hardly touched the shot glass. The celestial being could talk all she wanted about the Taiyou Empire, like she was privy to some secret knowledge the Director of Central Intelligence wasn't. He wasn't oblivious to the Empire's intentions or capabilities. It was his job to monitor them.

He shelved these thoughts, though, for the moment, concerned with more pressing matters, of a domestic nature, rather than an intergalactic one. Durrani slipped out his Blackberry again, squinting at the message on the screen. He made a mental note to speak to 'Muneera' again this week, as well as to find one Javid Alfarsi. The name had just come up from the Agency's latest pandora box.

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Omar Durrani dialed a number, holding the phone up to his ear as he faced away from Claire, Morgan, and Seno Miyagi (who was still there and had been the whole time). "Line 107," he said, speaking in low tones. "Nonsecure line." He waited a moment while the call was transferred. "This is the DCI, nonsecure line. Sitrep."

"A few names, nothing else. Green light next stage?"

"Not yet. But soon." Durrani hung up without further comment, slipping the Blackberry back into his pocket as he stared expressionlessly down into his shot glass.

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Omar Durrani turned toward Seno. "So noted," he said, sliding his shot glass toward the tender as he moved to follow the Taiyou man out the door. The DCI drew himself up to his full height, long stides carrying him across the room. Just before he made it there, though, he turned back, nodding to Claire. "Good night," he said, and then continued after Seno. He would meet with Gouda soon enough.

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Omar Durrani nodded to Gouda. "Will do," he said. "Contact me when you need me." He offered his card to the man before continuing on his way, his detail invisible to all but the most expertly trained eye. The DCI was not one for pretense and pomp; rather, he preferred remaining in the background until absolutely necessary.

The setting changes from dead-end to Gambit's Bar

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The arrival of several black SUVs with heavily tinted windows heralded the presence of some shadowy figure or another. In this case however, the SUVs outside Gambit's Bar carried American US Government plates, along with heavily armed, well trained soldiers, hidden behind the metal doors. They pulled to a simultaneous stop, and after a moment's breath, one door opened.

A man emerged, waving dismissively in the direction of the SUV's windows, and a few of them peeled off, no doubt cruising about on side streets nearby. He approached the door to Gambit's, his form growing closer, revealing a tall, muscular figure dressed in a charcoal gray suit, his features expressing no emotion. He pushed aside the door, sliding in with powerful strides, at once a dark, commanding presence as he made his way, alone, to the bar.

The trained eye might note that though the newcomer was alone, he was armed, his gun in a quickdraw holster at his side, covered by his suit jacket. The well-read eye might even recognize the man as America's formidable Director of Central Intelligence, here in Wing City. Omar Durrani leaned toward the counter, murmuring to the tender, "Beer, please."

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Durrani took his beer, sipping slowly at it, as he kept his meaty and wrapped around the cool glass, as he glanced in Halo Zhang's direction, hardly twitching an eyebrow at the man's obvious drug addiction. "That needle sterilized?" he asked, his voice surprisingly soft for the man reputed to approve of torture in interrogation of terror suspects. The Director of Central Intelligence had once worked in the field himself, and with his training, was well aware of Cashmere's attention, though he did not overtly acknowledge it for now. He was alone, and he was having a drink. There.

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Durrani took another sip of his beer, letting the rather disgusting liquid slide down his throat before speaking. "Drink," he said simply, holding up the beer with two fingers, seeming to stare directly down at Halo Zhang, being somewhat taller than the other man. He wasn't too thrilled at being referred to as "a suit", but that was what he got for wearing his Office Uniform out of the office. Being Director of Central Intelligence was not the same thing as working in the field, incognito, with constant danger, completely unknown, and, hopefully, invisible.

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"Yes," Durrani answered shortly to Cashmere. "Durrani is my name." He did not comment further, his face revealing no emotion.

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"Average is a matter of opinion," Durrani commented, setting his glass down on the counter. Over two thirds of the beer remained, brown liquid sloshing gently against the sides of the vessel. The Director of Central Intelligence brought the full bearing of his gaze down on Cashmere, taking her card between two fingers as he slipped it wordlessly into his inner breast pocket. "I know you, Ms. Cashmere?" he asked, his features still expressionless, her face mirrored in his dark eyes as he spoke.

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"Name's Durrani, not Suit," Durrani corrected Halo Zhang, though it was with a tone of mild amusement, lacking his characteristic severity as he spoke, before tapping his finger absently against his glass. "The Agency deals with a Schultz. I doubt I'd find anyone better than her," he said, referring to the FBI's Natalie Schultz. If Cashmere did indeed have dossiers on most of America's important officials, there was probably one on Schultz there too. The Director of Central Intelligence kept his gaze roving about the bar, wondering why business never left him alone, to drink, in a bar, like any normal man.

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"Mental state?" Durrani tilted his head to the side as he regarded Cashmere. He knew Schultz's reputation painted her as more than a bit odd, but he was unaware information about her specific diagnosis had made its way outside the small circle of senior agents and administrators in the national intelligence community. "Schultz does good work. She works counterterrorism." It was the most words the Director of Central Intelligence had strung together at once in the conversation.

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Omar Durrani did not give any immediately apparent response. It was his manner not to affect expressions of emotion, and had been so for years, even before his stint in captivity, many years back. In his line of work, revealing one's emotions was also a way of revealing one's weaknesses to any potential enemies, and this was to be avoided at all costs. For weaknesses can be exploited. Durrani merely nodded, once, in acknowledgement, taking another sip of his beer. Fully over one half of it still remained.

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"You too," Durrani said to Cashmere as the woman left, his voice quiet, possibly inaudible as she moved. He watched her as she went, remaining standing by the counter, idly tapping on the counter with long, dark fingers protruding from a meaty hand, the CIA Director a silent, commanding presence in Gambit's, and, strangely enough, still alone.

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Omar Durrani did not finish his beer. In his line of work, it could be dangerous - a matter of life and death, even - to allow one's mental state to become diminished or incapacitated, whether through alcohol, drugs, or sex, and it was the CIA Director's habit to avoid such things if he could. Watching those who still remained in the bar, and the newcomers, Meldraenei and Reile Vando, Durrani ignored the soft chattering in his earpiece, hidden carefully in his dark, curled hair to all but the most expertly trained eye. The agents outside apparently had nothing better to do than stick around the Director of Central Intelligence. A boring job.

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Omar Durrani had requested a glass of water, and now drank freely from it, to wash down what little beer he had consumed. In his parents' religion, drinking of alcohol was strictly forbidden, but the Director of Central Intelligence had never been one for organized religion and its structured system of control. He preferred to be in control over his own beliefs and actions. Accountability to himself... and to the country to which he had pledged his loyalty every day as a schoolboy, and again before the Senate not two years ago. Who would have guessed the son of immigrants from a place no one had ever heard of would end up becoming the Director of the CIA? Durrani stifled a chuckle at the thought, maintaining his impassive expression. He set the empty glass of water on the counter, beside the half-full glass of beer.

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Omar Durrani finally moved to leave, leaving enough money and a tip on the counter as he turned toward the door, powerful strides carrying the CIA Director across the barroom as he made his way outside, only to be greeted by two clearly junior agents. He hardly looked at them. "Car," Durrani said, "now." The two scrambled for one of the black SUVs, as Durrani disappeared from sight.

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Three black sedans with government plates pulled up across the street from the bar heralded the arrival of the Director of Central Intelligence, who had been here before, sometime recently. He climbed out of one of the cars, leaning over to an open window, in which for a moment, a man's head could be seen, before standing again, as the three cars peeled off, presumable to other locations nearby.

Omar Durrani was a tall, lanky man, whose stereotypical black suit was mostly hidden by a long, dark overcoat, which only accentuated his height as he strode up Main Street, pushing open the door to Gambit's. He closed it quietly behind him. The Director of Central Intelligence was not one for flashy, showy entrances. It went against everything he did. Once inside, he took a few steps in from the door, surveying the surroundings with an impassive look.

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Against his own wishes, he had an earpiece tucked beneath several errant curls of dark hair, and he could hear voices crackling in it, discussing the safety of the Director. The smallest of frowns played upon his lips as he tuned them out, not at all concerned with their petty remarks. Durrani could take care of himself. After all, he'd been doing it for years.

"Can I help you sir?" Durrani's gaze slid over to one of the bartenders, who gave the Director of Central Intelligence an inquisitive look, holding up a bottle of beer.

Durrani shook his head, giving the man a dismissive gesture as he moved towards an empty table near the door, sitting down, as he pulled out a file folder from his briefcase, opening it on the table, one hand resting over the pages.