Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger's Story

Wolfgang „Wolf“ von Krieger

“No, Mr. von Krieger you will not be the Captain of the ship nor will there be time for fun and games. There is work to be done.”

A feeble attempt at making static sound filtered through the receiver of Abe’s phone. Wolfgang was intent upon claiming plausible deniability of his responsibilities concerning this trip. Sure, maybe he was breaking the rules by intentionally drowning out the sound of Abe’s voice, well in all honesty that was not possible, his ears were so sensitive that even with the phone turned down to the lowest volume possible he could still clearly understand the words spoken, but he could always feign ignorance with the best of them.

“What’s static sound I can’t static sound losing recpet-static sound” With the end of the charade he finally hung up his phone and tossed the brick away. Maybe in a few years these cellphones will be a bit more convenient, but at the moment they’re just a nuisance. Sure it was expensive, but it’s not like I paid for it. Indeed the portable phone was just one of many perks he had this Abe person purchase for him before he agreed to take any work from the man. What he just did could be considered both wasteful and rude, sure, but it was not like he needed this job or anything. It definitely would help pay for his monthly quelling, but by no means could you say he depended upon this extra income.

The sound of flip-flops plodded along loudly as Wolfgang strolled down the docks towards his intended destination. By the looks of his you might assume Captain Ron was setting sail on yet another epic voyage, what with the unbuttoned button-down tropical shirt flailing in the breeze, white captain’s hat tilted off to the left, and comfortable shorts revealing a pair of muscular yet very pale shanks. Well, you might think I was Captain Ron if Kurt Russel was ten times as handsome and did not wear a patch in the movie! The German engineer guffawed loudly at his joke, surely anyone would have if they had been nearby, and threw his head back in merriment as he continued along happily.

On his right side was being carried a rather large duffle bag with a rather odd assortment of supposed necessities carelessly tossed inside, almost as if the traveler had merely scooped the items from a large bin. He had brought with him several changes of clothes, all very comfortable once might notice, several hygiene related items, of course, several magazines ranging from mathematics to pornography, all very necessary of course, and there also happened to be a large assortment of lubricant and condoms strewn about as well, just in case.

The salty-air stung his nostrils as the scent nearly over-powered his delicate sense of smell, but that was not the only lingering scent on the air. Whenever the wind blew his direction the werewolf would catch the scent of two individuals up ahead, one was obviously human, but the other was something else entirely. The strange one smelled of…death, oddly enough as that may be. His employer had informed him that he would be working with other supernatural beings, ranging from vampires to what have you, but he was never told they would smell so…repulsive!

Ach mein Gott, at least the salt will take away from that disgusting smell.

Luckily the docks were not a massive construction; it only took him a few short minutes to reach where he wanted, and when Wolfgang approached the two others who had arrived so far he was rather amused. The human was very thin, all skin and bones as they said here in America, but not much shorter than Wolfgang himself. He had a strange look about him, and a sense of danger pervaded from his scent, like he was a seasoned killer who did it for the thrills. The other, the dead smelling one, was actually a somewhat attractive female. Sure, she smelled awful, was extremely thin and frail looking, and didn’t seem very friendly to tell the truth, but Wolfgang’s shorts began to tighten up very quickly.

A broad grin spread across his face as he continued towards his two new associates and proceeded to seat himself next to the woman. His nose visibly crinkled up as the pungent odor was so blatantly obvious, but there were more important things to worry about right now, like the loss of blood from his brain. “Hello my little Liebschen, my name is Wolfgang von Krieger. Would you care to play fetch?“

An obtrusive amount of paper towel, skewed assortments of scented hand sanitizer, an unnecessary amount of chlorhexidine gluconate hand sanitizing liquids, organized slew of gloves tucked within the confines of the walkway dresser, cupboards chalk-full of bleach containers, and a myriad of colourful Kleenex boxes placed, calculatingly, thoughtfully, throughout the expanse of the apartment complex. It was every germaphobes paradise, so clean, so deliciously palpable. Reminiscent of a hospital, minus the sickly, scummy-faced individuals inhabiting uncomfortable chairs. Flat surfaces could be, quite literally, eaten from – though, that'd be really gross and ruin their continuous efforts to continue living in the cleanest, most immaculate, environment possible.

Sable had always been meticulous about his hygiene, even more so now that his roommate, Balthazar, had entered his private life. They'd been fast friends, despite the obvious gap in abilities and physical prowess, in their mutual abhorrence for everything dirty and disgustingly filthy. He showered twice a day (for ten minutes exactly), had a standing monthly appointment for his hair, and washed his hands before every meal. Slathering on hand sanitizer, as his repetitive ritual, didn't count. Pride, self-respect, and mild, recurrent, urges merely insisted that they kept an organized, pristine house. Every inch of every room retains the dignity of frayed ends tucked in, or simply removed with the snip-snip-snip of scissors, stains bleached with careful hands, and the absence of gathering dust. Quite honestly, it's Balthazar's interior decorating sense that keeps the apartment from looking like an out-of-place funeral home – and there's a couple of adult cats skulking around the corners, balefully regarding whoever is invading their territory. He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd found out that Balthazar ritually plopped them on his lap to brush out their fur because their coats, their coats, were perfect. Lamplight’s and interesting light fixtures were artfully anchored to the tiered ceiling, sharing an uncanny resemblance to studio lights.

Roomy bookcases lined the café au lait-coloured walls. Sable hadn't had the chance to peruse them, but honestly, he wasn't much of a reader, anyway. Beyond, ironically, dirty magazines of artistically posed nudes and the no-nonsense novel Skinny Bitch or romanticist novels like Twilight: his pursuits of literacy abruptly ended in a faint spit of boredom. Balthazar had been trying, unsuccessfully, to intrigue Sable's affronted senses of proficiency by nonchalantly leaving books in his room, on the dresser, on the night table, next to the toaster. Even if Sable annoyed him with his utter ignorance, his clumsiness, his awful vocabulary skills – they were, admittedly, two awkward ducklings with a penchant for sanitation. Hadn't he nearly begged Balthazar to let him live with him? No one else would do. Especially not that crazy she-devil who'd flicked gum on his forehead, so long ago. He didn't forget. He never forgot anything.

Regardless of Sable's initial shortcomings, the young Vampire was getting better and better at not being so damn inept, so damn useless. He wasn't bad singer, either, so that's probably why Balthazar hadn't harpooned him in the throat for belting out in the wee hours of the morning, totting his organic tea like a brandished sword. He thumped his chest, softly, with the heel of his hand. “Beggin, beggin you, so put your loving hand out baby, beggin, beggin you, put your loving hand out darlin.” Passionately, obtrusively, practically yelling, into the swirls of his coffee mug. “ Riding high', when I was king. Played it hard and fast, cause' I had everything – shit, Balthazar, how long has 'e been waiting there?”

Sharp jabs indicating the window. New taxi cab, new, usually grouchy, acquaintance. Was it already time to rendezvous with the newlings?

---

Elegant spindle-fingers tugged insistently at the hem of a cuff that would not quite sit the way he preferred it, which was to say flat, immaculate, and perfectly in place. Once he was convinced that the burgundy silk lay exactly as it should, he glanced up into his hanging mirror and repeated the process with his shirt collar. His hair was never quite so cooperative, but with enough work, it retained a degree of pleasant dishevelment that he was given to believe was fairly usual among the general human populace.

Perhaps the bulletproof vest that he slid on over the shirt was less so, and the knives that slid noiselessly into thigh-strapped sheaths were certainly illegal in many places, but Balthazar didn’t much mind that. He tested the heft and balance of each before stowing it, sighting down the length of the blade for any stray speck of dried blood or grime, but of course he’d been meticulous when cleaning them, and there was no such stain along the pearlescent lengths of folded steel-silver alloy.

His flatmate’s bombastic singing voice drifted through the thick wooden door of his bedroom, and Balthazar smiled indulgently, which for him was nothing more than the most infinitesimal upward tilt of his lips. Should they come out of this monster-slaying venture with all relevant limbs intact, he might have to inquire of Sable whether or not he thought it best to go into performance. The last scion of House Shirazi was no mean pianist himself, and probably have taken up that profession were there not certain… matters that required his attention.

The smile, if indeed it could be characterized as that, disappeared when the thought took over, his mouth compressing instead into a thin line of displeasure. Smoothing it out, he slid the last knife home and glanced out his bay window. The vehicle there remained, and he supposed it would perhaps be time to get moving in earnest.

A venture into his walk-in closet produced a black longcoat, tailored to his frame, but with enough room to conceal his more unconventional accoutrements, and he paused only once in his subsequent egress, to rub behind the left ear of a cashmere-soft white kitten with half her tail missing. “Back soon, dove,” he murmured, not so far from purring himself.

He exited in time to catch Sable’s question. “About five minutes, now,” he replied with an air of indifference. This was not as much a product of his upbringing as his demeanor, for though his feathers were easy-enough to ruffle, if one knew the appropriate triggers, he did try for dignity at most times.

Allowing time for Sable to scramble around and grab his things, Balthazar took up his own small roll-along suitcase and double-checked that the cats had enough food and water for the intervening time, then made a mental note to call the girl downstairs anyway, just so someone would be there to check in case they were away longer than expected. She knew well enough not to touch anything, not that the elegant fusion of sleek modernity and sumptuous antiquity generally invited the perusal of anyone not wealthy enough to replace anything they unintentionally ruined. To the average person off the street, theirs was a very “look, don’t touch” abode, not that either of the two vampires raised in privilege knew that.

“If you’re ready, I believe we must depart. The flight leaves in an hour and a half.”

---

Had Balthazar proffered his melodious alliance, as his resolute pianist, then Sable would've clinched the deal in a heartbeat – or lack thereof. He was a mewling coward with the weak-willed spine of a jellyfish and somehow, someway, Balthazar still put up with him and even, with the confounded patience of a God, offered his advice, completely free of charge. His physical architecture held a semblance of shaking bones and awkwardly spindling lion-limbs, skinned and worn and concealed within a fancy-shmancy waistcoat with his sleeves folded to his knobby elbows. His lips idled at the mugs chipped corner, breathing softly across the creamy froth – it was his favourite, so he wasn't very well going to throw it out because of a little imperfection – before glancing over the steam towards Balthazar's closed door. Respectfully, he never interrupted his daily routine.

Fixated in front of the open window, draped elegantly with stylish, contemporary white sheers, Sable sighed loudly, obnoxiously, through his nose. How many days had it been since Ebenezer contacted them? It wasn't like he was counting down the days until their next mission, slashing unfortunate markings through the calendared nights like an overexcited school girl. Organic tea, unfortunately, would have to wait. “Doubt he'll wait any longer.” He placed his steaming mug in the microwave before scuttling away from the kitchen, inherently disappointed, like a spooked crustacean or a sullen hound dog. He soaked in that disappointment, fully marinated. Metaphorically born with twisted feet and the unbalance of a lopsided seesaw, Sable's swaggering footsteps transformed themselves into hopping sidesteps and mismanaged tumbles towards his neatly-made bed.

His fingers used to be bandaged from climbing rooftops, often bruised and beaten from scrambling across shingles and sandpaper tilings. His knees used to be plastered with horrendously coloured band-aids because his legs refused to bend properly – no longer, no longer. He wasn't nearly as useless. Thoughtfully, ponderously, Sable crossed his room and plucked his weapons from his bottom dresser, hidden in a secret compartment with his cleaning utilities. They were nowhere near as immaculate as Balthazar's weapons, but through him, he'd been able to learn how to properly oil and maintain his curved blades. His eyes crinkled, shining, observing the incandescent reflection of folded steel. These, in particular, had been Ebenezer's gift to him on his birthday last year since his family hadn't sent him anything at all. It might've been out of sheer goodwill or to keep him from blubbering in his bedroom. Either way, they fit perfectly into the grooves of his palms: lightweight, harmonized. Custom twin leather sheaths, mimicking a policeman’s tactical armpit holsters, hung from his bed frame, which he quickly snatched and strapped to his back. The blades themselves pointed downwards, extracted from the sheaths' in an easy, cross-armed motion – looked pretty damn cool, too.

Instead of automatically grappling with a snazzy, matching suit-jacket, Sable opted for his lucky leather jacket and zipped it halfway to obscure his dapper waistcoat. Anyone with a lick of fashion sense would've immediately declared his faux pas uncorrespondent, unbearably so – but he couldn't leave the apartment, on a mission, without his bomber jacket. It practically had magical properties. It was practically bulletproof. As quickly as he'd entered, Sable scurried out with an undignified bounce. He, offhandedly, pretended to fix the collar of his shirt and shrugged his shoulders. He pulled the lower compartments of the kitchen sink open, revealing a packed emergency knapsack, and hefted it over his shoulder before nodding thoughtfully, mentally flicking things off his checklist. “ Alright, alright, let's get going – wouldn't want to keep anyone waitin', would we?”

---

Off Sable scuttled, like a crab with slightly mismatched limbs, and privately Balthazar had determined that if he didn’t try so hard to impress, he’d have much more success with it. Such contradictions were only observed with time and never believed when spoken frankly, so it was not a piece of advice he could simply offer as he had offered the services of an old-fashioned whetstone one idle afternoon when a mission was done but the grime remained. Earnestness would get one so few places in life; fortune favored the reserved, the reticent, the consciously-mysterious, if for no other reason than because their secrets were more likely to remain that way.

Sighing to himself, Balthazar opened the microwave and sniffed, determining the precise blend of tea Sable had used and how strong he’d made it, then dumped the contents of the chipped mug down the sink and washed it, placing it neatly into the drying rack before removing a more travel-worthy vessel from the cupboard and filling it with the still-hot water from the kettle. In went the teabag, and when this lot smelled the same as the last, he removed it and affixed the lid to the travel-mug with a decisive click. He preferred coffee, himself, but then tea had its uses.

His- what? Comrade-in-arms? Partner-in-crime? Flatmate? Only friend? For Sable was indeed all of these things to Balthazar, in some odd combination that meant only the most cursory of boundaries really existed anymore- emerged right around then, and the Persian man quite nearly pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, stopped only by the fact that was holding the tea in one hand and his apartment key in the other.

Shaking his head, he handed the first to Sable and dropped the second in his pocket. “You,” he pronounced slowly, “are truly hopeless.” It was uttered with all the gravity but none of the sincerity of a much more dire proclamation, but in the end all Balthazar did about it was step forward and tug at Sable’s collar until it lay flat. The jacket, he had long learned he could do nothing about, and so he left it be. Since neither man was much for prolonged physical contact, the exchange was quick, both perhaps somewhat assuaged by genuine knowledge of the other’s cleanliness, but then Balthazar stepped back, and opened the door to usher the other man through, locking it behind him and picking up his suitcase to head down the stairs.

As it turned out, they made the taxi in plenty of time, though that did him no favors when he really thought about it. Public transportation was something that Balthazar quite supported in theory, but that theory at no point involved him actually having to touch its surfaces. To distract himself (mostly unsuccessfully) from this atrocity, he spoke.

“Myanmar this time, as I understand it.”

---

How much had he jammed into that backpack? It sagged considerably on his back, reminiscent of a repulsive slug-creature trying to jockey itself on a succulent host. Yeah yeah – he watched too many horror flicks. Too many anonymous, underrated movies he'd practically forced Balthazar to watch, too. Weren't they pretty much like study materials for future missions? He rubbed the kinks already pinching his shoulders, massaged between his knobby knuckles and slender digits. If it hadn't been for the deliciously wafting smell of freshly brewed tea, Sable wouldn't have noticed Balthazar's reappearance until he stood directly in front of him. Everything Balthazar did was reprehensibly, resolutely, passive: a viper's cunning slither. A panther's rolling shoulder blades, demonstrating it's sheer competency. A gazelle's jaunting haunches prepared to leap forward with unending grace – and a number of other African animals that had the ability to tear things apart or, however unlikely, flee before you could flap your gums. He admired him. Balthazar's expression, needled, nettled, and piqued, was always tolerant. In one hand, keys. The other held his lucky mug.

Like a preening mother he – albeit sans annoying clucking – or a nitpicking old ditty who'd done it all before – Balthazar resumed what he usually did whenever Sable bustled out of his bedroom looking a complete mess, far too busy trying to keep himself firmly planted on the ground. He felt the jingling keys drop into his front pocket and happily accepted the advancing thermos, grinning like a floppy-eared puppy who'd been rewarded. This wasn't his mother. This certainly wasn't his father. But in him, even if he hadn't initially planned it, he'd found a fast friend, an appreciated mentor and an unfathomably tangled mess – not in the literal sense, heavens no – that continued to puzzle him. “And what would I do without you t' straighten me out?” He responded breezily, jutting his chin unnecessarily forward to appear inexplicably thankful without coming straight out and saying it. Cleanliness and awkward displays of emotion held hands in the dark. Straightening the straps of his heavy pack, Sable ambled out of the apartment and led the way down the stairs. Balthazar always locked the door, anyway.

Sniffing indignantly. Squinting sternly. Mentally proposing some kind of truce with the taxi cab's dusty door handle with a hastily retrieved Walgreen's antiseptic wipes. He took intensified care to wipe down the areas he knew he would touch before doing the same to Balthazar's door, then slathered a hooping blob of smelly antibacterial liquid. Might've been strawberry. “Myanmar? Burma? Whu—.” It was almost a wheeze, or an intake of breath through the gaps of his front teeth. Of course, he hadn't heard any of the details because he probably hadn't been listening. Ebenezer usually relied on Balthazar to fill him in. His eyebrows furrowed, knitting together: concerned. Grumbling noises. Slowly, cautiously, Sable entered the vehicle and flicked his wrist at the taxi cab – airport, respectively. He didn't really want to clutch the back of his seat like a child, considering he didn't know how many people had draped themselves across it prior to him, so he twisted around to face his companion like a chortled rooster.

“ Balthazar. Diseases. There's so many diseases there.”

---

“Mmm.” His noncommittal answer was blocked from further elaboration when the driver of the cab slammed on the brakes, swearing at great volume in Spanish invectives which Balthazar understood but had no desire to translate. Were his balance any less finely-tuned, he would have been slammed face-first into the seat in front of him. As it was, he threw a hand out sideways to spare Sable a similar fate, though his dark eyes were fixed ahead, assessing the cause of the incident.

A light blue vehicle of some kind had apparently cut off the cab in traffic, and was now speeding ahead at an impressive rate, towards the airport. Balthazar blinked and shook his head, adjusting his posture to compensate for their altered speed, and exhaled from his nose. Some people, truly.

Hadn't it been for Balthazar's feline-like reactions, then Sable's face would've mashed itself across the dashboard. His reaction time and balance were as skewed as a one-legged man attempting to ride a unicycle, so he grinned shakily, more out of pure, unadulterated fear than anything else, before steadying himself by gripping the vehicles overhead sidebar. His eyes darted towards the light blue vehicle, speeding ahead – but for a split second, he would've sworn he saw a breezy mass of grey hair whipping past the woman's shoulders. It was a woman, wasn't it? Even if she wouldn't see it, Sable still flipped her the bird and grumbled: “Crazy coot.”

---

Fortunately, Ebenezer had long ensured that his two armed veterans did not have to pass conventional airport security, and their plane, too, was private, the windows treated to filter out UV rays and thus ensure that the both of them were considerably more comfortable than they would normally have been. It helped that every surface was polished to shine, and enough of their home had seeped into the air transport that Balthazar even had a decent collection of reading material for the journey.

“Diseases are far from the worst of it, I’m afraid,” Balthazar mentioned as soon as the aircraft took off. They often spoke in this manner, picking up threads from old conversations that had petered out It was not as though they often forgot things, after all, and if they did, well, it was not such a trying thing to continue anyway. The man with the dusky complexion did not point out that they were immune to diseases, because it was the principle of the thing and not the actual risk. “My understanding is that this is an escort mission, and there are to be… others.”

“Others?” The less-than-subtle scraggle-hound snorted while he absently shuffled through various magazines and discarded those that didn't interest him in the overhead compartment. Fortunately, Ebenezer understood his limited taste in literature. There were plenty of magazines to his liking. His eyebrows furrowed, dramatically, as his thoughts went rampant. He generally didn't play well with others because they thought he was annoying – more of a bother than an actual companion. Regardless, he'd been making real progress since initially being called by Ebenezer. “As long as there's no gum, no dirty fingernails – can't 'e ever enlist normal help?” He counted each offence off the tips of his fingers, ticking them off and tucking them closed. They couldn't all be bad, right?

This last was perhaps not so unfortunate, but frankly Balthazar was not a ‘people person.’ Polite, yes, and a good candidate for intellectual conversation, but the folk Ebenezer tended to pick up were not usually inclined to appreciate either of these qualities, and he had little else to offer save a steady hand and a repertoire of less-social skills.

---

The two men arrived at the docks in time for a raucous laugh to be carried towards them on the wind, and Balthazar cringed inwardly, removing his small case from the trunk of the rickety Burmese cab and extending the collapsible handle. He took a deep breath, which registered mostly ocean and slightly too-old fish blood, and shot his companion a sidelong glance. The expression was grim, but for all that his mouth retained a neutral cast. A job was a job, and it would be done, one way or another.

“Shall we?”

Reluctantly, Sable disembarked from the safety of the vehicle and surveyed the area with a quick sweep of his eyes. Dingy docks chock-full of smelly fish. It seemed like the prime location where Ebenezer would send them all to meet before a mission, right along with abandoned barns that were ready to fall apart with the slightest creaking winds – filled to the nuts with hungry, dribbling vampires. He wished he'd actually listened to Ebenezer's droning mission statements, or payed more attention to the dossiers he occasionally slid them. He nodded solemnly. It came off as a nearly robotic jerk, like a puppet's whose strings were tightly wound. If he'd started walking like his knees had less bones and less connectible muscles: it certainly wouldn't have been surprising. Faint silhouettes indicated an already animated group – probably the ones' they were supposed to meet. It was only when he heard a particularly lecherous voice crooning that his older, much barefaced self crept out of it's hole:

“Hello my little Liebschen, my name is Wolfgang von Krieger. Would you care to play fetch?”

“If I threw something in the water, would you jump in, slick?”

The more time passed, the more his mind began to drift. The currents must have been to blame, cascading and crashing rhythmically as a ticking clock or a heartbeat. His thoughts delved into darker depths, around where the fish had antennae that glowed like fireflies. Why do people drive on parkways and park on driveways? he wondered as a vehicle slid into view. And why, pray tell, is it that transporting something by car is called a shipment, whilst items transported by ship is called cargo? Such inexplicable phenomena had never occurred to him before, and he found it distressing. So distressing, in fact, that he didn't note the shadow of a silhouette until the shadow began to consume him.


"D'AH!" he hollered when she neared, jolting in a manner similarly to those blow-up car dealer nylon dolls. "Who are you!" His hands, so resembling roots used in premodern medicine, hovered protectively near his head. When he saw it was merely a woman who proceeded to sit like a tail-wagging dog, he reeled forward, slapping his chest as he exhaled a long held breath. His lips felt sewn up, undulating with every sharp, flaking bit of skin, and still he retained a deep-set uncertainty in his shuddering eyes. They prickled at her presence, likely due to the prevalent smell of smog. He was no stranger to the cigarettes himself, as there were many back in Italy who would lean precariously from their balconies, puffing and spewing swirling masses toward unfortunates who dwelled in the narrow streets below. But before the woman could answer him, another figure appeared on the scene, rendering Micah even more speechless. Why, that... what... That was a pick-up line, wasn't it? How... daring? If not unexpected. Perhaps he succeeded more often with the element of surprise? Micah nodded to himself, mulling over bringing it into play as soon as he mustered up the courage (which would be 'never,' he dimly realized). More gentlemen appeared, the first with darker skin than the former (causing him to cross out the idea of their being brothers), and he grew increasingly anxious. He'd not been aware that he would be traveling with such a large group of people. One of the newcomers--Micah sniffed the air, brows furrowing for a moment--arrived in time to hear the first man's words, and saw fit to respond. Oh, Dio. Conflict. Micah began to panic, hastily glancing left and right to find an escape route lest he be caught in the middle of a brawl.

His savior came in the form of a little old lady, and the skinny Mr. Ames heaved another breath, this time of relief. "Excuse me dear but can you help me?" she had rambled sweetly, "One of my bags is stuck in the backseat of the car and I can't seem to get it out. If only a strong man could help me..."

This, this was familiar. Campania did not receive as many tourists as the bigger cities, but he had his fair share of strangers ambling over, requesting directions with language booklets and travel pamphlets clutched like lifelines, smiling meekly and handing him a fragile photographic device with so many buttons. He supposed being often seen in a uniform did him favors in appearing approachable. He remembered this one time, a young woman and her pessimistically bored boyfriend came up to him just after he'd finished burying a body in a hedge maze. He had to tell them he was the gardener's cousin, helping out... Snuffed out as quickly as it lit up in his mind, Micah pushed the memory aside to tend to the matter at hand. She wished for help with her bags. "Yes." He replied, but in then recognizing her fluent American English, tried to blend in with less awkward vocabulary: "Sure."
He straightened, taking care not to touch or bump into anyone during his retreat, and made for the old woman's car like a terrified water skeeter scuttling across ripples. He'd noticed the black shining barrel of a gun only recently. Was he just coerced into helping an old woman unload her things at gunpoint....? He didn't know what to think of this, not at all. It was easy to tell which vehicle belonged to her--it was the only one untended, and the only one with its trunk flaring open like the enticing legs of a prostitute. Oh... that was a discomforting thought... Carefully gripping the bag and lightly jolting it from side to side, he managed to dislodge the thing (momentarily losing his balance--it was heavier than he'd expected), and closed the trunk behind him for good measure. "Er," he said then, looking meekly at the elderly lady as a means of inquiring where she wished him to put it. She couldn't be one of those people that suddenly expected him to carry her things everywhere for her... right...?

The dismayed thought lingered for a moment, but he'd caught sight of someone else meandering over. Another woman, with thinly braided hair. What were they called... corn fields--no, cornrows. They were longer than any he'd ever seen, hanging over her small shoulders past her ribs, and beaded with something that shined in the light. Seashells? How quaint. Contrary to his expectations, she was blonde, and quite lacking in hints of Southeast Asian descent. She was wearing a cropped denim jacket and slimming pants, which was probably what made her limbs seem so skinny. Yet despite that, there was a bulge protruding from her center. Ah... Pregnant...?

Oh, no no, it was merely some sort of large parcel wrapped in a dark fabric or paper. A rounded thing, perhaps a ball or a pot. She grinned in greeting when she was close enough to see them. "Hi there, mister and granny." She paused to appraise them coming to a halt in front of Micah. There was that funny smell again. "This isn't your mother, is it?" teased the girl, before laughing like a sprightly thing at his expense. Micah couldn't recount a time he was more flustered, and though he blubbered silently, he said nothing comprehensible.

Besides, she was already moving on, balancing the object with one hand at the pit of her stomach, and the other hand waving in a wide arc. "Yooo, guys!" she called. "Ylaine here! That Ebenezer guy told you about me, right?"

Wolfgang „Wolf“ von Krieger

“If I threw something in the water, would you jump in, slick?”

Why did this sort of thing always occur when he was preoccupied with a woman? For some reason he was never able to pay attention to whatever else was going on around him if women were involved. In all actuality it would have been better had he not take his focus off of his intended target, but as they say, "The best laid plans of mice and men.” The woman seemed like a cold-fish anyway, so there probably wasn’t much ground lost to be honest.

The werewolf almost wished he had kept focused on anything else though, because as soon as he let the outside world back into his realm of attention his superior senses were assailed by a cacophony of sensations. The acrid smell of burning rubber, brake fluid, and dead flesh slammed into his nostrils like a brick whilst squealing brakes, chattering women, and obscenities from none too far off battered his ear drums. An old woman with a strange accent was inquiring for some assistance from the dangerous-smelling man, just another reason Wolfgang never wanted to live to a ripe old age, if he couldn’t take care of himself it was time to go.

There was too much to respond to, but first things first. The flowery one with the comments was first up on the list. He reeked of death as the rail-thin woman from earlier, which was simply awful. The German uneasily lifted himself from his seated position, using his right hand to lean against the crate for a few moments until he could regain his composure amidst the overpower stench in the air. The other man smelled of death as well, just great this was going to be an awful boat trip, he would definitely need to pay attention to which way the wind blew whilst on the ocean, and of course he was going to Captain the ship and whatever Abe said be damned.

After settling his knees enough to walk again Wolfgang waltzed his not so merry self towards the one who spoke up, pale and short like all but the one with the dark complexion. When he came within two feet of the tiny man he laid his left hand gingerly upon the other’s shoulder and bent forward to speak in his ear, not much of an easy feat given the putrid stench emanating from him. He spoke very quietly, barely louder than a whisper, he imagined this one might have extraordinary hearing such as his self and if the others did he did not necessarily want to start any trouble right off the bat. He did need to work with these people after all. “There’s a pair of large balls in my pants if you care to find out friend, otherwise let us keep the wise-cracking to a minimum, ja?”

With a hearty laugh and slap on the shoulder Wolfgang straightened himself and gazed upon the others gathering around so far. A strange bunch to be certain, and it seemed the rail-thin woman had something to say, or at least she looked like she did what with the standing up and what have you with a “keep the peace” kind of look plastered on her face. If only she knew he detested violence then she might not have wasted the precious air reminding them of the fact. "No need to get testy, boys. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks. Sallie Harris, former FBI. This charming gentleman," the sarcasm in her voice was heavy, "has already introduced himself, but we could start the round all over again if you'd like.”

“Ah, why ja definitely. How could I have forgotten my manners at a time like this? Wilkommen gentlemen! My name is Wolfgang von Krieger, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance!”

Before he could even being his splendid self-introduction the toxic smell of a cigarette assaulted his delicate nose quickly after the FBI woman asked them quickly, "You boys mind if I smoke?" Wolfgang coughed lightly to clear his throat as the smoke coated his lungs without permission, sure she didn’t blow it straight at his face but that hardly mattered when you were dealing with senses as acute as his own. Two new figures caught his attention though, one in a good way and the other in a bad way.

"Yooo, guys! Ylaine here! That Ebenezer guy told you about me, right?"

Now THIS was right up his alley of expertise, or however the Americans put it. She was small, in all the right ways, blonde, and fairly attractive, plus she didn’t smell of death like three others he need not mention, which was definitely a plus in his book right now. The other man though, he seemed like a pretty boy and cocky as well, probably the man who was swearing earlier, he would definitely need to divert this Ylaine’s attention from this man’s general proximity. Not that he was competition or any nonsense like that, no one was competition for Wolfgang’s stunning combination of beauty and brains, but it was always a good idea to hedge your bets.

“Ylaine you said? What a beautiful name you have Liebschen!” As he started with his moves Wolfgang quickly walked up next to the pretty young Ylaine and draped his right arm around her shoulders, holding his left hand out towards the package grasped in her arms. “Are you in need of any assistance my dear? Ach mein Gott, I am so sorry, but proper etiquette slipped my mind after seeing you. My name is Wolfgang my dear, and I am both ashamed for Ebenezer and insulted by the fact he told me nothing of your coming here!”

While continuing on with his small speech, or whatever you might call it, the werewolf began slowing urging the woman away from the pretty boy newcomer and closer to the docks. “So my dear what are we gathered here for? I am eager to start with my first assignment, when do we leave?”

Looking back at the others in their motley crew Wolfgang put an earnest and somewhat stern look upon his face before speaking. “So are we ready, ja? Is this everyone or is it time to go? I’ll be piloting the boat, ja, so you should hurry before both Ylaine and I leave you behind!”

Sable saw fit to open their acquaintance with this group by leveling a quip at the… werewolf. Yes, that certainly had to be what he was, if the large frame and scent of wet dog that lingered about his rather comparatively disheveled self were anything to go by. Of course, the last werewolf he’d met had informed him in no uncertain terms that while he was the cleanest vampire she’d ever met, he still smelled worse than that. Having grown up with it himself, he was bound to disagree.

He noted but did not specifically acknowledge the human man and the older lady he went to help, though he swore there was something just a touch familiar about that vehicle, which was of course impossible, since he had never in all of his extensive travel been to Myanmar before.

All was put from his mind anyway when the werewolf, who’d predictably taken machismo-laden offense to Sable’s commentary, placed a hand on his flatmate’s shoulder and loomed over him, his retort crude as Balthazar would have guessed, had anyone asked him to hazard an opinion. The annoyed hiss that escaped the Persian man’s teeth was barely-audible to human senses, but of course humans were a minority here, weren’t they? One side of his upper lip lifted, an almost involuntary sneer that flashed a pearlescent fang.

How entirely reprehensible, to use your size and physique to intimidate when you had been challenged on another level entirely. Perhaps his mind was inadequate to the task, but this in itself was no excuse.

Perhaps fortunately, the situation was dissolved a good deal more civilly with the intervention of the group’s third vampire, and Balthazar relaxed, smoothing his face out again before his display, subtle as it was when compared to the main event, became too obvious. He was not an emotive man as a rule, but certainly, those he kept closer than arms’ length, while few in number, were his most obvious triggers. He made it a point to give the woman a courteous half-bow. “FBI?” he repeated with some faint trace of amusement nearly imperceptible beneath his usual accented lilt. “I do some work with Interpol, myself. Balthazar Shirazi, at your service.”

This last was directed at the group, which by now seemed to contain all of its members, including three humans (though the more youthful of the two males seemed a tad…off somehow, but Balthazar was no expert in humanity, so he might well have been imagining it), the werewolf, and the three vampires. Interesting; he’d almost been expecting a witch or two, but then perhaps one of them was. No herb smells, though, but… a faint hint of metal? From the elderly woman, no less. If he was surprised by this, Balthazar chose not to show it.

He certainly did not mind the scent of cigarettes, as his father had been quite fond of Cuban cigars for much of Balthazar’s life, and those were considerably worse than their slimmer cousins. He noted Wolfgang (ah, but the irony of such an appellation- was it his birth one?) seemed uncomfortable, and supposed that was the trade-off for a nose better even than a vampire’s.

By the time that anyone else who wanted to make introductions had done so, there was a shout from not too far off, and Balthazar turned to see a young female approaching. This, already predictably, set the German hound to baying like a fool puppy, and he introduced himself for what must have been the third time.

Charming.

His hastiness was even more problematic. “Only a fool runs headlong into a situation without understanding it,” Balthazar cut in with cool tones. “Miss Ylaine, Ebenezer was rather sparing with the details of our task. All we were told is that we were to escort someone or something somewhere, and that doing so involved travelling by boat. If there is any other information you would be willing to part with before we begin, I’m sure it would be most helpful.” He might have mentioned that Ebenezer hadn’t even mentioned her, but every species he'd ever encountered were alike enough in their desire to be important that he supposed this notion might be mildly offensive, so he tactfully omitted it.

It's the little things that always counted. The irrelevant quips that sloughed from his flapping tongue before his fangs could rattle them to a close, and so Sable's mouth twitched into a slight smirk before trembling back into it's usual frown – clearly worried that this hulking menace would grab him by the throat and throttle him like a restless turkey, ringing his neck until he plopped across his feet like a broken marionette. He wasn't going to end up one of the man's dirty barbie dolls, if that was what he was thinking. It was never the big things that threw him off – always and only the little ones. The collar of his leather coat was pulled up to hug his slender neck and chin, and the dark circles under his eyes only revealed a fraction of how exhausted he actually was after such a long day. One his innards aren't panicky and his heart isn't thumping hollowly in his chest and spurred about so restlessly. His pulse ran sluggishly, as always.

Certainly, this werewolf was going to chase off all the women or earn himself a sharpened heel straight into his pelvic area, crushing all the important bits – if he pushed enough, if he spat enough slime at them like a tweed-suit wearing creep in A Night at the Roxbury. It wasn't difficult to picture him thrusting his hips, arms flailing fruitlessly as he crunched himself against several other bodies in an attempt to rid himself of whatever rapid hormones that ailed him. Thankfully, there weren't any appalling stenches that assailed his nose. It might've been because he, himself, smelled like death. The awkwardly soft smells of an open coffin or a room belonging solely to cleaned cadavers: grey flesh, dying molecules and a smattering of flavoured hand sanitizer. These were the scents that made up Sable's caricature: a dying fruit bowl, albeit without any swarms of fruit flies.

The muscles in Sable's arms immediately tensed, sending tendrils of dismay through his shoulder blades and biceps. It felt like pebbles had crept under his skin, pushing uncomfortably against his flesh and making them, quite, impossible to move. The larger German's fingers twitched, then he was suddenly moving away from the amalgamation of crates surrounding the woman he'd been smoothly attempting to accost. His eyes widened, quickly, then narrowed into sharp corners and angles. Had he ever had any altercations with the other group? Surely not. They'd treated him little more than a silly pup who hadn't learned his place but now – this creature, this mass of muscles, was stomping towards him as if he'd pulled his earlobes between pinched fingers. There wasn't anywhere to retreat to unless he wasn't to back in the ocean and plummet to it's depths, drowning in it's noticeably murky waters. It certainly looked dirty from where he was standing. The man's hand clamped down on his shoulder. He swore that if he'd wanted to crush his collarbone, he could've. It was in the subtle tension of the man's probing fingers, so gingerly, so softly depicting what could possibly happen.

Inadvertently leaning backwards, trying to disentangle the man's fingers from his person, Sable's mouth curled distastefully from the threatening whisper. “N-No need to get your panties in a bunch, I don't play fetch.” He threw his hands up, finally, defeated. He didn't want his head bashed in before the mission was complete – or really, at all. The vampire's composure shifted. It wasn't quite like a dog's whipping tail tucking between his legs, pressed against his abdomen, but it sure was close. This guy was the embodiment of flexing, muscle-pumping body builders. He could snap him like a twig if he so wished to, but more or less, Ebenezer would take the proper precautions, wouldn't he? He wouldn't let his only loving nephew be fed to the sharks, would he? “Wise-cracking. Minimum, got it.” His fingers, like thin harp strings, wiggled in front of his face as if he were making a solemn promise.

He'd already decided that Wolfgang was frightening even if he wasn't tearing his limbs into a mess of beef jerky. Sable laughed awkwardly when the werewolf slapped him across the shoulder, carrying himself as if nothing had truly occurred. “We will – be living side by side, that is.” Wolfgang von Krieger? If Ebenezer hadn't strictly told them that a werewolf was involved, then he wouldn't have noticed the faint smell of wet dog wafting from the man before him. He wasn't very perceptive to smells unless he was pressing his face into said article, which did not seem like a promising thing to do given Wolfgang's alternating moods. He took note of those who'd already introduced themselves and shuffled the names away with conventional, insatiably silly, words so that he'd remember them later. Nicknames were useful enough, so long as no one was testy enough to correct him. Sallie was all cigarettes and lipstick stains and something else that reminded him solely of business and piles of work sheets haphazardly strewn across the floor. Wolfgang – as he'd described before – reminded him of a large shaggy hound who'd mistakenly eaten steroids for the majority of his life. The older woman, who he'd been squinting at moments before, reminded him of that crazy coot who nearly drove them off the road. He didn't have experience for older lasses. He didn't have any dotting nannies cooking him blood cookies as a youngster, nor was he allowed to speak to any of his older ancestors unless he was spoken to: which, was clearly, not very often. The oddly grinning fellow had already bumbled forward with his offer to take the older woman's luggage, shuffling uncomfortably, while regarding the nannie's flashing gun barrel.

Another man entered the unusual scene, dressed purposefully well. If it hadn't been for the fact that this man had been invited by Ebenezer himself, then Sable would've guessed that he was a wayward model who'd lost his way and stumbled onto them, coincidentally. There was something off about him. He discarded his neurotic thoughts and shrugged his shoulders, offering a slight nod that seemed jerky, mechanical. He was still rattled. His plexiglass eye itched, so he knuckled it thoughtfully, glancing upwards until he caught sight, from the corner of his functional eye, of another woman who looked as if she'd missed the bus headed for a roller rink. Her optimism spilled over the brim of her cup. Sable couldn't help but flash a smile, waving a little more chipperly. Ebenezer hadn't mentioned who'd be guiding them, but he'd slipped out that, this time, it was a woman. She looked as if she sang off tune and didn't particularly care what she sounded like – it put him at ease. Optimism, optimism, optimism. Balthazar and Sable had little use of such things.

He shrugged, nonchalantly, when Sallie asked if anyone cared whether or not she smoked. Inevitably, even if anyone had any qualms, Sable doubted that she'd stub it out and respect their wishes. He didn't care either way. His lungs were feverish with poison and rot – what would a little tar and chemicals do to them? Absolutely nothing. After Balthazar had introduced himself with a quick, courteous bow, then Sable bobbed his head forward and added: “Sable Valante, or Mink.” Clearly, if anyone knew the mysterious phone-caller's last name, they'd know he was related to Ebenezer. Sadly, this fact never worked in his advantage. He was never treated any differently, anyway. His eyebrows flashed up, then sidled down when Wolfgang's eagerness to introduce himself to another woman, equipped with bouncing breasts, introduced herself. Honestly. Were all werewolves like this? Perhaps, there were reasons why Ebenezer hadn't told Wolfgang that there'd be women involved. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and promptly clinched it closed.

When hadn't Ebenezer left out all of the important details, allowing them to stumble forward and figure out things for themselves even if it meant attempting to scale rooftops and smashing your face, unpleasantly, against rotten shingles. Junctures of skin and bones and tepid memories. It was enough to say that ridicule did not spill from his pores, anymore. His attention turned back towards Balthazar – the one who'd always known just what to say, just how to press the wrinkles out of their conjunctive missions. There was nothing to add, so Sable merely slipped his hands into his pockets and waited for a better explanation.

The gentlemen had an accent, one that Annabelle couldn't quite place, but agreed to help her out none the less. She mentally remarked how fast the foreigner ran to her car; like someone lit his bottom on fire. It was suspicious, even more since there was a hint of...fear? Was it fear in his steps? Or hesitation? The old lady took a deep breath, reminding herself to be mindful of her surroundings.

On that note, she finally noticed the commotion that was occurring beside her and finally understood what he was running away from. He was just like my daughter Mary, never liked confrontation, running with her tail between her legs at the first sight of it. Of course, Annabelle knew it wasn't kind to compare a fully grown man to her daughter when she was sixteen. The fight that was brewing seemed to be an almost stereotypical challenge the old lady saw too much of back in Texas. Two men fighting over a girl. The idea was something only men can think of: if a guy beats up a lady's boyfriend, she'll leave him, and go to the man who's stupid enough to throw punches in the first place.

The really stupid girls are the ones who actually go along with it.

It brought her back thirty-five years ago sitting in a bar, sipping on some beer, when two gentlemen she didn't know tried to court her. Neither had the eye to see the ring of a married woman placed ever so precariously on her left hand.

One of them was a tall, strong fellow, who dressed like he was going on vacation, wearing a ridiculous captain's hat. He reminded her of her son Ronnie, the running-back for the Houston Texans, and she was going to assume he was just as dumb until he started to laugh the situation off. Annabelle managed to crack a smile; surprised he saw a man who's muscles didn't crush his brain. The other two men had an air of professionalism about them, one who was as white as the ghost and had been the one issuing the challenge while the other one, which Annabelle was quick enough to assume, was Indian. Both of them were rather scrawny at first sight. It was rather odd how they came out of the same car, and both dressed alike in suits. For a moment, the old lady could have sworn she saw the white one of the two before...but she couldn't place her finger on it. Her mind was a bit busy trying to decipher the relationship between those two...were they..? Naaah.

Tossing aside the ridiculous notion, the gentlemen with her bag cam back, and just as she was going to think him, the final stranger appeared. A young looking lady who had her hair all bunched up like some of the black woman she saw in New York when she went on a "business" trip. On the other hand, she looked like one of the free-spirited hippies who'd protest in the front of the white house with those seashells stuck to her head. "Ylaine" her name was; an awkward name to say if Annabelle dared to read it from a list. Still, it was nice to see an enthusiastic face in here. The rest of the group started to introduce themselves, making it easier for Annabelle to distinguish people rather then using "he" "she" or possibly "the brown one". Everyone had relatively simple names, slightly relieved the Indian one had a name that was easy to say, arching an eyebrow at Wolfgang's too enthusiastic behavior.

She perked up as the small woman introduced herself as Sallie Harris; freaking FBI. Sallie...Sallie...

The name was too familiar. Annabelle knew she heard it before but where? Working with the cartel? FBI were a problem in her line of work but was it somewhere else? It only took a moment to realize she wasn't breathing; somehow forgetting to exhale. Former FBI. Former FBI she kept thinking to herself, steadily taking breaths. There was also another character, one who hadn't introduced himself yet, just looking at everyone. It was safe to say he was letting out creepy vibes. Annabelle turned to her attention to Ylaine; for her turn to introduce herself.

"Oh, it so nice to meet you dear. Ebenezer told me all about you-" He hadn't. "-oh, how rude of me, name's Annabelle, darling. I own a gun shop called 'The Silver Bullet' back in Texas." The old lady said cheerfully, omitting her illegal occupation and last name. Trust was something that needed to be earned; not given after all. Amongst all of the introductions, Annabelle completely forgot about the awkward gentlemen who went to grab her bags, leaving him holding about 30 lbs of metal.

Wolfgang „Wolf“ von Krieger

Ylaine had deftly escaped Wolfgang’s grasp, seeming both mildly amused and very uninterested at the same time while maintaining a semblance of no hard feelings. What is with these women? The werewolf mused calmly to himself. No matter, there’s never been a hunt I haven’t enjoyed yet. He was displeased with the current turn of events, but there wasn’t much he could do about things but go along with whatever they were supposed to do, and it would take that much longer if they didn’t hurry up.

The man with the dark complexion, he had heard him state his name as Balthazar, who had arrived in tandem with the small man who had decided to introduce his presence with a wise-crack remark had decided to slight him as did his companion. Are vampires always this rude? Maybe their bad smell is supposed to be an indicator of their bad manners. His musings would make sense, if the world made sense that is to say. However the world rarely made sense so all he could do was make the best of his current situation.

There everyone was again, just standing around twiddling their thumbs and wondering what was going on. Didn’t they know that walking and talking were two activities they could easily accomplish at the same time? This is what happens when you deal with non-Germans, they simply have no clue as to what the word productivity means. “The only true fool is the man who cannot walk and talk. The longer you stand around asking questions which could wait for the boat ride or even the WALK to the boat is that much longer it will take us to finish the job. If you don’t trust your employer then find a new one ja?”

With that left between them Wolfgang continued his trek towards the docks, which boat he would be piloting was a mystery thus far so there was no point in walking much farther. His exceptional hearing allowed him to catch all of their conversation as he finally stopped around ten paces from the others, probably the halfway point between the party and the water. He turned around quickly with his bag, held lightly in his left hand, thrown haphazardly across his left shoulder, the zipper had come undone somewhat and the rather explicit image of a woman splayed across one of his magazines showed through loud and clear with the positioning of the moon.

A large grin once again spread across Wolfgang’s face as he gazed over the motley crew he had been coerced into working with whilst under the employ of Abe. He was disgusted, aggravated, aroused, and somehow amused all at the same time. It was a strange amalgamation to say the least. “Please, forgive my ill-manners. I tend to become a little over-enthusiastic when it comes to work. I’m not a man to waste time is all.”

"Ooh, yes!" Ylaine said, perking up abruptly. That was an idea she approved of! She wasn't one to enjoy standing idle--especially without mint gum to occupy her maws. She made a quiet note to put in a good word for Wolfgang, assuming she would have the capability to do so after all this was said and done. "Go time--uh... I don't suppose you guys have a team name of some sort, do ya? Like the A-Team or Thundercats?"

Her flippant nonchalance evaporated when she overheard Sallie's quip. She directed her attention to the object the older (hm... no, younger) woman referred to, and then Ylaine's left brow propelled straight up. She wasn't blushing. Goodness knows it's been a long time since she last blushed, and something as standard as a bit of risque was not about to make her start anew. What the bundle of bouncing pornographic pamphlets did do was remind her just how long they were expected to hang out in the middle of the ocean. Ylaine loved the ocean and loved being in it, but she couldn't say the same of being on a gigantic, wholly sinkable metal construction.

It wasn't a big, hulking thing that awaited them. As anyone acquainted with Ebenezer's benevolence would expect, it was modest; save the sleek coat of black paint, with nary a barnacle in sight. The vessel was no cruise ship, but a sensible cargo ship: its wooden tongue rolled out in welcome from the center of its body. Two crewmen punctuated the sides of the plank bridge. Their heads were bowed reverently, but it was neither for Ylaine nor the Monsters in her company. When all were aboard, the men would murmur a few anxious southeast asian words, to Ylaine and to one another, then made themselves scarce behind the locked doors. Every other working member of the ship seemed to emulate the behavior.

Annabelle was oddly surprised to look at the poster in Ylaine's hands, meeting their escort, a pot. Yes, a pot of some sort wrapped around a cheap advertisement from some magazine. The elderly woman wasn't an expert in these sort of things but somehow she had a different mindset of when "escort" came to mind, someone who was an important figure in politics or witness to a large conspiracy, not a...pot. Perhaps she watched too many spy movies. Maybe there's something inside it she thought, before turning her attention elsewhere. It was the gentleman who'd lifted her bag of munitions from the trunk of her car, obviously struggling, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Oh dear, just drop it right here alright?" Anna said to her helper, who did so right at the end of her sentence, all tired and worn out. She went to the bag, grabbed the handle and with the push of a button, extended it upwards. "Thank you very much, dear." She said to Micah. The really large fellow, the one who feigned over woman so easily, suggested they walk, which she did while pulling the luggage with the help of two black rubber wheels on the bottom. Although when something dropped from his bag, the elderly woman motioned to pick it up, and just as quickly reversed that action as soon as she caught sight of the naked woman splayed across the page. She pretended that she couldn't hear a word of what Wolfgang said. Denial is a skill, a skill that only improved with age, especially with awkward situations like this one.

Having found the boat at the end of the docks; Annabelle was rather glad that the ship was inconspicuous enough. The thought of going on one of those large cruise ships just packed with old people going on vacation was something she abhorred. The only thing that can possibly be any worse were one of those dilapidated retirement homes that kids would drop their elderly parents in. The cargo ship even had a crew of it's own, filled with foreigners, mumbling something to each other. This was Mexico all over again; everyone talking but she couldn't understand a damn thing. It was the only reason she learned the language in the first place. Well, it wasn't, but it was one of the more important ones. Paranoia slowly crept on Anna, who turned back to stare into the faces of the ship-mates, in an attempt to assess the situation. They seemed confused to see them going on board.

"Does anyone happen to know what they're saying?" The elderly weapon called out to her fellow 'monsters', having her free hand close to the handgun under her trench-coat in case this was going to get out of control, the white purse hanging on the nook of her elbow in the same fashion that she approached Micah with.