Enrique Ramirez

Enri has never been a guy of ample means. He came from a large family that was always working to make ends meet. If they loved one another, they had a shitty way of showing it. And he left as soon as he was able to get away from both.

He'd learned from a young age that making friends opened doors, so he's made as many friends as possible wherever he goes. In fact, that's priority one when he enters a new place. Friends mean stability. Friends mean a hot meal and a roof when you're in a rough spot. Friends mean favors and protection on the backstreets in the dead of night.

Even now, when he doesn't work nearly so hard to make ends meet, Enri has carried these habits with him. Which actually serves him well - he continues to build connections and networks constantly. What sticks, sticks, and what doesn't, he doesn't pursue.

Enri's insists he's on the straight-and-narrow and that his job is legitimate work for businesses in another town. However he never does say what that means, and the businesses named are only ever ones that sound vaguely familiar... It's all pretty suspicious when you think about it.

But he hasn't been arrested for anything, so surely he can't be that bad... right?

Whatever it is Enri does for a living, he certainly loves music. One day he wants to make it big as a singer, composer, and entertainer. Yes, all three.
He seems to have the talent to pull it off, at least...

Enri is terrified of leaving no legacy behind. So even when he's pulling strings in the background, he makes sure some sort of calling card remains.

He's willing to do anything to leave the legacy he wants.

Enri didn't ask for this added complication in his life. As always, it came and found him.

He was on his way back from a job schmoozing with producers from the local record labels. He remembers that (unsurprisingly) the night went well, despite how much he disliked the snotty, classless bastards. Each thinking themself a rockstar, when they only had as much style or charisma as bratty schoolkids.

He felt that annoying prickling and felt eyes on his back, but knew better than to stop and turn around. Checked his pockets and left behind anything he didn't remember having placed there himself. But the feeling didn't end. He got to his apartment and the sensation continued all the way to his door.

Upstairs they were throwing another loud party, and Enri dreaded the lack of sleep that would come from it. Their shitty music and the shuffling of furniture at 3 am... he almost wanted to turn around, get back in that elevator, and go fight them. But he went inside and swiftly shut the door.

The feeling of being watched stopped, but the prickling didn't and his apartment felt bigger than it was. Emptier. Stale air pressing down on him. He turned on a fan to get some airflow and thought it odd that the motor and rattling blades weren't as loud as usual.

Then he realized that he couldn't hear the music. No squealing shrieks, no shouting drunks, no thumping, un-rhythmic drum and bass. His apartment was eerily quiet. Even after he turned on the radio as loud as it would go and threw a load into the dishwasher. You could hardly hear them from the next room.

He spent entirely more time than he should have, trying to make the place louder. He fully expected people to come bang on his door, half-convinced it was just his brain playing some cruel trick. Other people should have been able to hear... But no one came. And when he stepped into the hall, he realized none of the sound was making it past the walls. Even with the door open, the radio - all that extra noise - sounded like a hushed drone in the background.

Enri went to fetch some things from his special closet - the one with the salt and sage. Things like that.

You probably should have thought of that before you left this morning, was the sudden impression he got and the sensation of being watched returned.

When he turned around, there she was in all her disapproving glory. The size of a mountain lion, with a similar general shape, but a face more like a Siamese or a Sphynx cat. Her brown points and other markings gave the impression of kabuki theatre makeup and she scowled bitterly at the man.

A second impression occurred to him, almost as an afterthought. But if you had, you would not have been able to enter your own home.

Briefly the creature looked smugly pleased. As she turned to walk down the hall, her already long body appeared to stretch before the rest of her caught up. And a final impression caused Enri to murmur in confusion: red mushroom, white spots, maybe it's edible, maybe it's not.
"Amanita...Why-- Is that your name?"

Over time, he came to understand what was going on. Especially when he found himself getting jumped in broad daylight. Each bit of information Amanita revealed entered Enri's mind as though it were an observation he'd come upon himself or was a reminder of something he already knew. She never actually spoke. Not even once.
One time she wrote him a note and it was something he'd rather never see again.

Preferably, Enri wouldn't have to see any portion of her again, but since when does he get what he wants? Wish or no wish, this competition is far more hassle than it's worth.

A train ride, a bus, and a long walk over the better part of the day. That's what it took to get here and have this... great... conversation.

"Oh, come on, Big L. Just a refresher!"

"Nuh-uh. Dunno what yer caught up in. Don' care. Don' need the cops sniffin' 'round here."

Enri sighed, watching his scowling friend with tired eyes.

Big L-- Lance. Darringer. A burly sort, shorter than Enri but not by much. Red hair that he used to keep short, back when he cared. Glowering green eyes, dark-rimmed and puffy from too many years of poor sleep. Too many years seeing ghosts of a different kind.

"Please, Lance. I'm already fucked. I just want a chance to get out alive--"

"Then run. Run for yer life." He shrugged, green eyes glowering. "Yur pretty good at that, what I seen."

"Yeah, and you'd know." Enri's eyes flashed, and he hissed through bared teeth. "Had a great view, running right along next to me."

Lance Darringer was known for many things. His temper and a vicious uppercut were top of that list.

When their fight ended, both men were bloodied and wheezing on the ground. When they finally got to moving, they moved inside to ice their wounds. And have a drink. And got to talking. And another drink. Dinner, TV, more talking, and crashing on the couch. Their old routine.

By the time Enri left (more than a week later), he could almost shoot as well as Lance. In straight shooting, anyway. Trick shots would be forever out of Enri's reach. And the art of the quick-draw would take some practice.