06-24-2019, 10:26 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 530px; text-align: justify; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: .3px; line-height: 1.15; padding: 4px;"]( ooc: this is an eh post, yikes )
When denied home, people with will carved places for themselves with their fists. Malik had been a quick-footed sharpshooter once, an errand runner with an unmentioned baggage and a cargo the cops'd hang him for if they caught him. He'd ever cared for money until money had become the only thing standing between his mother and pain, between his cousin and death, and he'd suddenly been as obsessed as the hole left behind by his father. Cash created rifts, severed bonds, ruined families  Malik had had his, but it had been torn open by the absence of a man he could only fully remember asleep, when his dreams took him back to being six and stumbling in the shadow of someone who'd left him far behind.
So family was blood, but it wasn't just blood. It was the people who stayed behind even when running made more sense. It was the people who held you close and told you heaven was warm and light and full of laughter when you were ten years old, blind and wasting away from a disease that shouldn't have been eating you alive. It was the people who held ice to your cut cheek and didn't ask how it'd got there, just told you that there was always an alternative. It was the people who offered you food straight from their own bowl and who promised you their home as your own out of the goodness of their own heart. And home was the sky, the sand, the sea, the white shores of Sardinia and the winding streets of Milan.
Abd al-Malik wouldn't call Los Santos a poor alternative, but it wasn't quite embedded in his heart. He wanted it to be, in a way, but its people were slower to warm than those he'd once known. Still, he wanted to know them, and Wolfsbane was offering him the most blatant opportunity to do so he'd seen in a long while. It prompted him to settle on the hood of a nearby car, eyeing familiar and foreign faces alike. "Ciao, sono Abd al-Malik, I'm.. I've been here... ah, non ricordo..." he gestured vaguely with his hand- "some time. I know combat, e medicine, e language. I speak Italiano- Italian, Sardo- Sardinian... Spanish, e French." He kept his eyes on Wolfsbane, hands twisting in his lap. "I don' know- I don' know what my goal is," he huffed a quiet laugh. He wanted to sing, but that would hardly further the group.
When denied home, people with will carved places for themselves with their fists. Malik had been a quick-footed sharpshooter once, an errand runner with an unmentioned baggage and a cargo the cops'd hang him for if they caught him. He'd ever cared for money until money had become the only thing standing between his mother and pain, between his cousin and death, and he'd suddenly been as obsessed as the hole left behind by his father. Cash created rifts, severed bonds, ruined families  Malik had had his, but it had been torn open by the absence of a man he could only fully remember asleep, when his dreams took him back to being six and stumbling in the shadow of someone who'd left him far behind.
So family was blood, but it wasn't just blood. It was the people who stayed behind even when running made more sense. It was the people who held you close and told you heaven was warm and light and full of laughter when you were ten years old, blind and wasting away from a disease that shouldn't have been eating you alive. It was the people who held ice to your cut cheek and didn't ask how it'd got there, just told you that there was always an alternative. It was the people who offered you food straight from their own bowl and who promised you their home as your own out of the goodness of their own heart. And home was the sky, the sand, the sea, the white shores of Sardinia and the winding streets of Milan.
Abd al-Malik wouldn't call Los Santos a poor alternative, but it wasn't quite embedded in his heart. He wanted it to be, in a way, but its people were slower to warm than those he'd once known. Still, he wanted to know them, and Wolfsbane was offering him the most blatant opportunity to do so he'd seen in a long while. It prompted him to settle on the hood of a nearby car, eyeing familiar and foreign faces alike. "Ciao, sono Abd al-Malik, I'm.. I've been here... ah, non ricordo..." he gestured vaguely with his hand- "some time. I know combat, e medicine, e language. I speak Italiano- Italian, Sardo- Sardinian... Spanish, e French." He kept his eyes on Wolfsbane, hands twisting in his lap. "I don' know- I don' know what my goal is," he huffed a quiet laugh. He wanted to sing, but that would hardly further the group.