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Valerio Otavia

"We do what we do. If you can't sleep at night because of what you do, take a sleeping pill."

0 · 242 views · located in The Infinite Void

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by XavierDantius32

Description

CIA CASE FILE: 199178635
***TOP SECRET- CLEARANCE ALPHA-2 REQUIRED***
***FWD: NSA, FORT MEAD***
***FWD: INTERPOL, AMIENS***
***FWD: MI6, LONDON***
***FWD: GNA, BUENOS AIRES


Image


SUBJECT: Valerio Otavia Image
AGE: 48
HEIGHT: 5'6
WEIGHT: 164lbs

VISUALLY DISTINGUISHING MARKS: Walks with a pronounced limp, favouring the right leg. May use a stick. Missing pinky and ring finger on left hand. Jagged scars across throat. Speaks with a gravelly voice.

PERSONALITY PROFILE: A holder of a very grey morality, plying his trade not for profit, but for the “good” of mankind. Genial and good natured, unless crossed. Stubborn, but quick-witted. Not particularly violent, preferring to exhaust all options before using his merchandise.

KNOWN AFFILIATIONS:
-Republic of Angola
-Revolutionary United Front
-Republic of Macedonia
-United States of America
-Israel
-F.A.R.C
- The Argentine Republic
-Zetas Cartel
-United Kingdom
-Republic of South Africa
-Democratic People's Republic of Korea
-Lord's Resistance Army
-Al Qaeda
-The United Arab Emirates
-Hezbollah

HISTORY:

So begins...

Valerio Otavia's Story

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"Mr Otavia, it is unwise for you to be out at this hour. We have the deal with Mr Hassan and the Lebanese in the morning." The two men pushed their way through the door, the one speaking looking decidedly shady, his bald head and corded figure marking him out as a threat from the beginning. Beside him grinned a portly, olive-skinned man in a dark, ill-fitting suit, with a brief-case in one hand, and a pair of oakleys in the other.

"Relax, Andor." The smaller man's voice was tinged with a Hispanic accent, but his English was as good as a BBC announcer. "What is the point of being in this wonderful city if I can't grace it with my merchandise. You said we needed to shift the NTW-20's quickly, so that's what we're going to do."

Valerio continued pacing forward, settling himself into one of the red leather booths that bordered the bar, his guard taking up position to the right, the ex-GROM man settling into the booth behind his boss, one hand slipping into his jacket to brush against the grip of the .44 magnum revolver, poorly concealed by his bomber jacket. Valerio produced an iPad, whistling idly.

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With a nod to his bodyguard, and a wink which crinkled his sun-bleached face, Valerio pulled himself out of the booth, straitening his suit, and flicking on his iPad. With a light step, the ex-Colonel wandered across the bar, pulling up to the man with the unusual assault rifle slung over his shoulder, a smile on his face.

"Hello, my friend. I can offer you a functional assault rifle at half the price you paid for that. I guarantee." His bodyguard watched with a wry smile, one hand always close to his sidearm.

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"Mr Otavia, it is unwise for you to be out at this hour. We have the deal with Mr Hassan and the Lebanese in the morning." The two men pushed their way through the door, the one speaking looking decidedly shady, his bald head and corded figure marking him out as a threat from the beginning. Beside him grinned a portly, olive-skinned man in a dark, ill-fitting suit, with a brief-case in one hand, and a pair of oakleys in the other.

"Relax, Andor." The smaller man's voice was tinged with a Hispanic accent, but his English was as good as a BBC announcer. "What is the point of being in this wonderful city if I can't grace it with my merchandise. You said we needed to shift the NTW-20's quickly, so that's what we're going to do."

Valerio continued pacing forward, settling himself into one of the red leather booths that bordered the bar, his guard taking up position to the right, the ex-GROM man settling into the booth behind his boss, one hand slipping into his jacket to brush against the grip of the .44 magnum revolver, poorly concealed by his bomber jacket. Valerio produced an iPad, whistling idly as he browsed through his inventory.

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The bodyguard had begun moving as the men had entered the bar, discarding his leather jacket with all the grace of a gazelle, the chromed barrel of his revolver catching the light as he flourished it, ominously cocking the double-action hammer with a dull click. Valerio, ever genial in the face of adversity, waved down his guard, getting to his feet. Awkwardly, his head only came up to the man's pectorals as he adjusted his suit, flicking through the fistful of bills with one of his olive skinned hands.

"What exactly are you looking for? My stock is as expansive as any military's arsenal. Including vehicles and aircraft."

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Blinking slightly as he fumbled with the man's thick accent, Valerio slipped back into his seat, waving down his guard's gun, while at the same time motioning for the man to sit. His accent sounded vaguely Russian, and his grasp of English was fairly poor. Despite his confidentiality, the Argentine couldn't help but wonder where he was from.

"So you want a vehicle to transport men in? I can get you a Soviet-made BMP-3, with the one hundred millimeter cannon, a coaxial twenty mil and a pintle-mounted DSHK heavy machine-gun for a mere fifty thousand US."

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With a grin, Valerio rubbed his hands together, leaning forward over the table, setting the iPad down as he opened a lengthy spreadsheet, idly scrolling through the data, a gleam in his eyes. He jabbed a finger on the correct entry, and quickly took stock of the data.

"At this moment, I can sell you ten vehicles, and I can get you another ten by the end of the month. I can throw in a command variant and a couple of the 2S31 models with the one-twenty mil mortars on them." Even before he had finished speaking, Valerio had calculated the figures, the grin on his face getting even wider. "That comes to a million US. Is there anything else you need?"

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Valerio looked up, his expression giving the impression that his entire mental capacity was devoted to fulfilling his client's wishes. He made a few swift movements on the tablet, opening up a sheet of prices.

"I can get you a couple of ZSU-23 vehicles. They have four-" He held up the appropriate number of pudgy fingers. "twenty-three millimeter cannons. Could get any aircraft in half. Even the A-10 warthog will go down after enough shots. Or I can get you a couple of Chinese Type 95. Four 25mm cannons, and a four shot air-to-air missile rack. They'll be slightly more expensive, and will take a bit longer to procure, but the missiles are worth the wait."

Smiling, Valerio set the tablet down and smoothed his mustache, itching a mosquito bite on his neck.

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Idly turning down the corners of his mustache, Valerio ran a hand through his graying hair, eyeing the man across the table from him. "The manuals shouldn't be a problem. And if your crews are inexperienced, I should be able to source some people to instruct them in the use of the APCs, and the triple As."

Setting aside the tablet, Valerio took up the stack of bills, thumbing through it with a smile. "I'll take half the money now, and the rest when you've had a look at the vehicles. I wouldn't want to cheat you out of anything. And, as you're making such a large purchase, I'll throw in a crate of Denel NTW-20 anti material rifles. I need to get them off my hands anyway."

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Swamped by an enormous shaggy fur coat a small, portly gentleman would swagger into the bar. His dark, mischievous eyes were hidden behind a pair of gold-rimmed aviators, a bushy moustache hanging down over his top lip. He leaned on a silver-topped cane, a battered leather briefcase clutched in his other hand.

Shadowing him like a spectre of death came his bodyguard. With a skeletal figure and piercing blue eyes, the minder looked like a Halloween ghoul reanimated, his long greatcoat giving him billowing bat-wings. One hand remained permanently close to the inside pocket of the coat, where an ominous bulge indicated the presence of some serious firepower.

They made an odd couple, sure to draw attention as they took a corner booth, the genial Hispanic gentleman pulling a cheap-looking laptop from the case, whilst the brooding guard stood watch.

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Swamped by an enormous shaggy fur coat a small, portly gentleman would swagger into the bar. His dark, mischievous eyes were hidden behind a pair of gold-rimmed aviators, a bushy moustache hanging down over his top lip. He leaned on a silver-topped cane, a battered leather briefcase clutched in his other hand.

Shadowing him like a spectre of death came his bodyguard. With a skeletal figure and piercing blue eyes, the minder looked like a Halloween ghoul reanimated, his long greatcoat giving him billowing bat-wings. One hand remained permanently close to the inside pocket of the coat, where an ominous bulge indicated the presence of some serious firepower.

They made an odd couple, sure to draw attention as they took a corner booth, the genial Hispanic gentleman pulling a cheap-looking laptop from the case, whilst the brooding guard stood watch.

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An angry scowl followed the woman from the door, to her seat. The Pole stiffened, brushing back the lapel of his jacket to reveal the blued steel of the .357 revolver holstered under his arm.

In complete contrast to his hulking minder, Valerio flashed her a broad smile, extending a liver-spotted hand across the sticky tabletop. "Good evening, madam. How can I be of service?"

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This didn't seem quite the place to peddle his wares, Valerio thought as he pushed the door open. It reminded him of the early days in Buenos Aires, selling Bulgarian-made AKs to Colombian terrorists, and Mac-11's to street gangs.

He adopted his trademark swagger, the tip of his cane tapping on the polished floor. A reflexive gesture pushed his gold-rimmed aviators back up his nose, a tilt of his head checking that the ominous presence of Vinz, his bodyguard was dogging his steps.

The gaunt Pole carried a brown leather briefcase in one hand, the other supporting the strap of a silvered container, sealed with two conventional locks and a five digit combination. The man's blue greatcoat bulged under his armpit, making light of the not-so-well concealed firearm.

The pair made their way over to the bar, the diminutive Argentine going out of his way to smile at the women conversing at a central table.

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As the man saluted, he would be greeted by the skeletal frame of the bodyguard in an out-sized greatcoat, a faded peaked cap pulled down over his shaven crown.

"Mista Otavia is capable of gettin' his own drinks." The guard spoke with a thick eastern European accent, setting down the backs to brush open his coat, displaying the varnished grip of the revolver cinched under his arm.

After acquiring a tumbler of whiskey, propping his cane up against the bar, Valerio turned to address the young-looking man and his guard. "I apologise for my man's rudeness. Years of fighting have stripped his social graces."

The portly Argentine sipped his drink, flapping a liver-spotted hand at his guard. "Put that thing away, Vinz. Go get yourself a vodka, or whatever gut-rot it is you Poles drink."

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They had retired to a booth. It was thrown into shadow by an armoured buttress, Valerio's small frame almost absorbed by the darkness. The large silvered case was on the table in front of him, under the watchful eye of his bodyguard.

The Pole had discarded his heavy greatcoat, revealing a dark turtleneck sweater, criss-crossed by webbing straps which supported a large holster rig, in turn carrying a nickle-plated .357 revolver.

The gloom was punctuated by the glowing tip of a cigar, smoke wafting out from the alcove in the breeze created by the air conditioning.

Clearly these men only wanted to be seen by those who knew they were there.

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"Loose the muscle."

Voice laden with menace, the bodyguard pushed away from his position against the wall, his already thick accent thickening to almost unintelligible proportions. "You don't deal with Mista Otavia with all that hardware. Back the fuck off."

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The diminutive Argentine retreated further into the shadows, stubbing out his cigar against the marble table top.

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A cough broke the eerie stillness that followed the odd child's utterances. Pushing past his guard, Valerio faced the boy. He leaned on the silver-topped cane, the other hand tucked inside his jacket, fingers resting against the butt of some concealed weapon.

"I do not deal with children. Go away."

To add a deal of emphasis to his employer's request, Vinz unsnapped his holster, letting the oversized handgun drop into his bony palm.

Assuming that his instructions would be followed, Valerio turned towards the other patrons, seeing all of them as potential customers. Especially the fellow in assault gear who had just entered.

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This didn't seem quite the place to peddle his wares, Valerio thought as he pushed the door open. It reminded him of the early days in Buenos Aires, selling Bulgarian-made AKs to Colombian terrorists, and Mac-11's to street gangs.

He adopted his trademark swagger, the tip of his cane tapping on the polished floor. A reflexive gesture pushed his gold-rimmed aviators back up his nose, a tilt of his head checking that the ominous presence of Vinz, his bodyguard was dogging his steps.

The gaunt Pole carried a brown leather briefcase in one hand, the other supporting the strap of a silvered container, sealed with two conventional locks and a five digit combination. The man's blue greatcoat bulged under his armpit, making light of a not-so-well concealed firearm.

The pair made their way over to the bar, the diminutive Argentine going out of his way to smile at the women conversing at a central table.