Hood generally avoided driving through Moscow. The place was a hot-bed of terrible drivers and traffic jams. She had chosen a very public venue; a place with lots of people, and from which one could easily excuse oneself. Smarter than he had expected her to be; he wouldn't have been surprised if she had invited him straight to her home. Maybe the damn wasn't an endless wave of terrible life choices. Just breaking into monster infested old factories and admitting it to cops.

Whatever the case, Hood drove her ridiculous little eco-friendly junk pile to Izmailovsky Market, arriving almost a full hour early as he managed to avoid the worst of the city's traffic. The market wasn't as much an 'open air' affair that time of year; even for Russians, it was too cold to be standing outside manning a market stall all day. But there were plenty of large, open-floor'd buildings, their walls removable in the summer and insulated for the winter, in which the markets could run all year.

Hood found his way to the entrance of the building they had agreed upon, which was close to the metro station she was likely to emerge from, but far from the public parking lots. He was dressed much as he had been the previous night, and stood leaning against a post near the doors, his back to the corner and surveying the thin crowd of people wandering the market hall, bickering over prices or talking about the day's news.

To those in the States I hope you have a good fourth of july and remember what this country means to us. Be safe!

To everyone: Hope you have a great day!

Michael was woken by an immediate summons to the Kremlin. He did not know what time it was, but any time was too early and too cold for him to be up and ready within the hour.

Unfortunately, he arrived at the Kremlin's military precinct with ten minutes to spare, deciding to use the black coat he had been given the day before. He also wore thick gloves and boots of military grade that only just warded away the snow's chill.

Also unfortunately, he decided to take the prudent path to leave the power untouched. After last night's incident, he was not foolish enough to tempt fate.

Upon arrival, he found himself being ushered into a room in the depths of the military wing, where the population grew steadily less until he was alone with his guide, who finally stopped, gesturing towards a nondescript door.

Michael nodded and entered without further ado. Three faces met his as he entered, only one familiar as the head of Military. The air in the room seemed uneasy and no-one seemed to want to break the silence.

Michael looked toward the foremost man in the Custody's military force. A man who had the greatest army in the world at his disposal - upon the Ascendancy's command. "Good morning, Sir. What are my orders?"


"You will find out in due time, Commander,"
the man replied with a smooth face.

Michael nodded, somewhat surprised, but satisfied nonetheless. "I see,"
he said, cautiously taking a seat at the round table fixed in the centre of the room. So, Nikolai had orders for him. Or perhaps he would announce his execution. Both seemed equally likely possibilities although in truth the latter was highly doubtful.

He should have realised the immediacy of his orders had come from the man personally. Careless of him, he thought he would have had a chance to rest, but this suited him fine.

The only question was, what would Nikolai's answer be?

Michael waited with his three companions for the Ascendancy's arrival.

"It hasn't been all that long since I went on a date, Francis."
Drayson sipped a cup of coffee and looked over an anomalous expenditure report out of one of the local police stations that had caught his interest. It wasn't his job, technically; there was an entire Internal Affairs department to deal with such things, but he liked to poke his nose into things from time to time. It was the best way to keep track of the corruption that was so damnably prevalent in Dominance I.

Francis had called him twenty minutes ago, and had been badgering him ever since. Hadn't even tried to beat around the bush on the motive, just went straight to the point. And all the while, Drayson had payed him half a mind while widdling away at the stack of paperwork on his desk. Well, figurative paperwork; he didn't actually do everything the old fashioned way. There were only so many trees in the world, after all.

"Think about it Drayson. I'm betting the last one was the one I set up for you. And that was two years ago."
Francis was leaning on his own desk, peering into the screen, and more importantly, at the side of Drayson's head to observe for any sort of reaction to the statement.

"What? No. It was with..."
He paused, brows furrowed deeply as he mulled it over. Francis was right. Had it really been two years already? "...yes. Two years. Your point?"


"My point is that you're not getting any younger. And this woman, she's just like you! All work, no play. Hell, maybe it won't be you missing the second date this time!"


He sighed quietly; the numbers didn't add up. Someone at that station was dipping into the pot, and they were being sloppy about it. Corruption was the norm, but so long as it didn't get out of hand, didn't cause trouble, he could turn a blind eye to it. If not, then he would have had to try to arrest every rich-and-powerful in the damn city. But to find such sloppy work in his organization; and in his mind, it was his. His responsibility, at least, if not in actual ownership. Well, it was an insult to himself, and to the people of the CCD. They expected the police to protect them, not to steal their tax dollars. It was going to be rectified. Quickly.

He leaned back in his chair, flagging the expense report for further investigation, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "She isn't fresh out of university this time, is she? I am a bit old for that."


Francis laughed; the last date he had set Drayson up on, the girl in question had been 22 years old. The age gap hadn't proven to be a problem for her, but the fact that they had had to reschedule their second date four times in a month had been a deal breaker. "No. She's much closer to your age."
Nearly ten years his junior, but Francis wasn't about to admit it. Drayson was fishing for an excuse to call it off. "And she's eager to meet you, really! Already broke the idea with her, and she's all for it. Excited."
Also not entirely true, but that was besides the point.

Drayson sighed quietly and faced the image of Francis, "Alright, alright I'll do it. Might be nice to get out for a change."


"Exactly! So, where are you going to take her? Somewhere nice I hope! Ah! Do Cafe Pushkin again! It's a very inspiring place."


-----

The actual date was arranged for five days later; a Thursday, 1900hrs. It was the earliest Francis could arrange for the two to actually meet, and even then Drayson had had to rearrange his schedule. It hadn't been difficult for Drayson to get a reservation; he had been to the Cafe Pushkin before, and the owners enjoyed the presence of the city's more powerful individuals. While Drayson was rarely known to use his title for personal gain, he was known to them and an a table was found for him without any fuss. Honestly, he expected that they had his number on file, and knew who he was before even answering the phone.

Drayson arrived early of course, and was seen to their table with all the usual hollow fan-fare one expected of a high class restaurant. The maitre'd recognized him; likely a scanner hidden above the door imaged who ever was approaching, and pulled up their particulars for the man to peruse before they reached him.

He was decked out in his finest suit; a brown tweed number, well tailored and perfectly fitted, but not of the quality one might expect of a person seen in so prestigious a restaurant. Of course, Drayson never cared so much about such things. A light blue dress shirt contrasted nicely between his dark skin and a tie of a somewhat lighter shade of brown from his suit. Also tweed, of course. He liked the pattern of the fabric rather then the more plain solid appearance of more common, expensive suits. It had more personality to it. And, of course, they were durable, serviceable, and inexpensive.

At that hour of a week night, the restaurant wasn't teeming; the place never was. It was intentional that not all tables would ever be occupied, allowing for a buffer between guests. He was seated on the upper level of the Library Hall, in view of but far enough back to enjoy the musician duet, playing a harp and flute.

The first few days had been highly eventful. The new job proved to be exciting and scary all at the same time. Meeting the woman who could be the dreaded hybrid offspring of Autunna Luna and her father made Alex worry.

The night after meeting her Alex called her father. Her mother answered the phone. They chatted about things, but when Alex asked to speak to her Father, her mother became worried. It was unusual for anyone to want to speak to him. Alex reassured her mother, but it would do little good once her father told her mother about the conversation.

Alex's heart jumped in her throat the moment he answered, "What is wrong Alessandra?"

In a whisper, "I think Autunna Luna's offspring survived the Atharim, in their own society even."
Alex didn't know why she was whispering there was no one in her apartment, much less close enough to eavesdrop around her, she was sure of it. Her senses were stretched wide. She'd know if anyone came anywhere near her door.

There was a long pause on the other side of the phone as her father thought. Talking on the phone was always disorienting for Alex, she was so used to feeling the other persons emotions run through their minds. But then again she was sure she didn't want to know what ran through her father's head.

"Why would you say that? The Atharim kill us on sight."

Alex sighed, "I know this Father. But she is Sentient, and she is Atharim. I know for fact both, she bears the same exact tattoo on her left arm as Autunna Luna."


Giordano was a hard man, he was a strict father, and an even stricter leader among their kind. He was respected, and feared by the Sentient community. Alex didn't want him to come to Moscow, but she knew he would, long before he told her.

"Did you get her name? Give it to me child. I will be there in a few days."

Alex gave her Aria's name, and said she'd have a picture waiting for him. She had taken it from the cameras at the station. Highly illegal, but this was family business, not a police matter.

Continued from Ciudad


To the locals, crisp morning air greeted Dane when he stepped out of the taxicab. Having come from Moscow by way of London, the air was stifling, and a heavy sun was clouded by smog despite the hour.

He'd made arrangements for living conditions prior to the decision to stay in Mexico City. As such, last minute accomodations were organized on the ride from the airport. He paid little attention to the surroundings as they went, caring more about the the destination than the journey.

What remained was the destintion he'd arranged on such short notice. The area of the city was known as Lomas de Chapultepec. Lomas meant hills apparently, and compared to Moscow, Dane found the description apt. There were several areas known as the Lomas, but this one, Chapultepec was the original upon which all the others were duplicated. It was the oldest and most affluent residential area of Mexico City. Despite the age it was also very well organized. The streets were laid along formations of the hills to preserve the natural beauty. Trees were planted appropriately or otherwise undisturbed.

From the sidewalk, Dane peered up the height of a six-story building wedged between two others. Glass balconies were built off the front. The architecture was modern and sleek. Although the curb in front was stained with black and decorated by a pathetic garden, the interior lobby of the long-term suites was acceptable.

The location of the building, Las Suites, would also suffice. He was on the border of the Lomas area, adjacent to the affluent colonia of Polanco, which was otherwise home to government, business, and the rich entertainment district of the city.

The driver traded Dane's luggage off with the valet after barking shared communication in Spanish. Not understanding, Dane frowned and vowed to download a translation application to his Wallet as soon as possible.

He tipped both men with CCD dollars which was as good as gold here. Besides, Dane has little interest in bothering with conversions to pesos.

The place he would be renting for now was only vacated yesterday and had yet to be cleaned. Dane refused to so much as tour it until it was adequately cleansed of its former inhabitant. A virtual tour sufficed for now. It was an oversized loft-style studio. Upon entering the front door, a high ceiling stretched a level overhead, amplifying the appearance of space. Beneath a cable-suspended staircase to the bed overhead was nestled a kitchen outfitted with surprising amount of current technology for the present Mexico City. The furnishings were likewise stylish and modern. They felt hollow to Dane, who grew up surrounded by antiques in the french boarding school and the heavy, solid finery of his family's English-country estate.

His luggage was deposited upstairs and the rent paid for several weeks, Dane aimed to seek breakfast and shopping. He was told about the Avenida Presidente Masaryk, a thoroughfare through the nearby affluent Polanco neighborhood. Masaryk as it was commonly called was also one of the most expensive shopping districts in the world: or else it used to be.

Dane held high hopes for the avenue, but upon closer inspection found it to be a joke. London, Paris, Milan, and gods imagined, Moscow were shining beacons of fashion and prestige while Mexico City's equivalent wallowed in squalor. There was perhaps three blocks of acceptable designers, but the shops were worn down, in need of paint, and overseen by guards at the front doors. The experience was hardly welcoming. Of those three blocks only one was worth his time.

Following a strange breakfast of cuisine inspired by local flavors, Dane was forced into the shops for attire befitting the heat of the days. An array of cool, crisp button down shirts were the first to be purchased that he would wear with the sleeves rolled and the top-most buttons undone. As were a pair of round, designer sunglasses. Neutral colored chinos in white, navy and khaki were purchased as well in varying lengths: long, cuffed and to the knee. His fine leather belts were sufficient to transfer to the Mexican arena, therefore he spent time accessorizing his outfits with beautifully printed pocket squares and airy scarves. Some basic tees and polos were necessary, as were suede slip-on loafers and leather sandals.

Finally and perhaps most important was the selection of black driving gloves. He purchased many pairs, far too many for someone who did not intend to drive himself through the tangled jungles that constituted Mexican roads. They were snug and fit his slender hands well.

A goodly amount of money was loosened that day. Enough that his family's bankers called to confirm the purchases were legitimate. On the way out, however, he added a strangely inexpensive rounded straw fedora with a lovely silk band tied around it. He smiled when he put it on and saw himself in the mirror. He was an altogether new man in Mexico City. Having traded the heavy wool of Moscow for the floating classic lines of Mexico, he was finally at ease. After slipping the sunglasses on his face, he was fully satisfied with himself not even minding the thin scruffiness darkening a jawline in need of a shave. He left the shop in decision to walk the streets of Polanco to see what adoration he could glean from those he passed.

Michael made his way home after Nikolai dismissed his guests. He had apparently impressed the head of military enough to warrant his particular attention. He wasn't sure if it was true interest or prompting from the Ascendancy but it was somewhat enlightening. The man was very good at his job but far too focused on might rather than strategy for Michael's liking.

After meeting another two dozen important people, most of whom had little interest in him beyond his momentary notoriety, he arrived in the waterfront house a little weary and mostly frozen.

He seized the power before entering, checking for any potential Atharim threat but was otherwise content to enter, change into warmer clothes and head upstairs to bed.

As he did every night he had the chance, Michael spun webs of practised knowledge, improving his speed and familiarity. Most were webs of death and destruction paired with their counterpart defences. Some webs he had not figured out how to counter, perhaps some could not be, but he gave the matter little thought and funnelled his concentration into spinning his chosen web to near completion before letting the more dangerous dissipate uncompleted.

Mornings he set aside for creation, when his mind was sharpest. He had not created anything truly unique since his first conception of wardings, mostly making minor tweaks or more complex forms of that which he already knew.

Tonight, his mind was clearer than it had been in years. Icicles of fury no longer pricked at his calm constantly. They were still there, as sharp as ever, simply encased in opaque towers; memorials not to be forgotten.

For all the gravity of his position, Michael felt free in a way he had never done so before. His webs were vibrant and unhindered by doubt or frustration. Danger loomed greater than before, but he no longer had to hide. His birthright was war and for once he embraced it.

Until Mecca, he had never understood, not truly, his own mind. The thrill of the challenge was not borne of a desire for death and hurt. It was greater. War was his realm, the struggle of life and death. The cause was his to choose, the execution his burden.

All roads led to war no matter how he attempted to avoid it, all that was left was his choice. A choice he was content with, whatever the future held in store.

In peace he was born, and where hoped to leave the world, but it would be in flames that his flower was in full bloom.

Name:Camila Yoselin Garcia Muñoz
Alias: La Muñeca
Age: 26

Occupation: Freelance Computer Consultant: emphasis on data retrieval and analysis.
Location: Mexico City, Mexico.

Supernatural Abilities:
(Prophet/Oracle) Camila can see fragments of the pattern, through blood be it animal or human. The ending of life allows Camila a broad view of events and allows her to see the pattern in general, while blood sourced from a creature that remains living creates views with specific ties its past or future. Currently, she is unaware of the role life plays in her visions and believes that the difference lies in the distinction between human and animal blood. At the moment, her visions are fragmented and do not make much sense. She has no way of telling whether the things she sees involve the past or the future. As she grows stronger, it will become easier to separate the past from the future, and the fragments will become smoother more coherent visions.

Psychological Profile:
Camila Muñoz is a hard woman. Her life is centered around the eradication of the various drug lords that torment Mexico. Having survived five years in forced prostitution, she is not free of emotional scars. While she doesn’t hate all men, she does not allow herself to grow close to any of them. As a result, any sort of intimacy is non-existent unless she feels she is in absolute control. Often described as velvet covered steel, Camila has become as cold and hard as the very drug lords she hates. However, can be calculating and is willing to obtain information on the cartels’ movements by any means necessary, not excluding taking advantage of the pretty face that had once condemned her to a life of slavery.

Biography:
Camila has a long list of reasons to hate the cartels. Not only have they poisoned her country and people for decades, but she’s fallen victim to them as well. At sixteen, Camila was rounded up along with various other girls in her town and kidnapped by the Nuevo Leon Cartel. Her family was told she was held for ransom, and were asked for an exorbitant amount of money.

In truth, while her family scraped to round up every cent they could, she was sent to Mexico City and forced into the prostitution ring. She was a victim of the human trafficking trade for five years. During this time, she observed and did as was necessary to survive, silently feeding her growing hatred each day she remained under their thumb.

She escaped five years later. After having seduced one of the overseers to distraction, Camila stabbed him with his own switchblade. The pain, anger, and trauma of five years culminated in a lack of control she hadn’t experienced before or since. To this day, the details are fuzzy to her. The woman only remembers stabbing over and over, until her hands were covered in his blood, making away with a good amount of the cartel’s money.

At the time, she suffered what she believed to be hallucinations that made little sense to her. Images of fire and people screaming overwhelmed her. It wasn’t until weeks later, after she had managed to escape, that she understood the meaning of the things she had seen. The fire that destroyed the building where she’d been kept all that time made the headlines at the time. Her heart ached for the girls she couldn’t take with her the night of her escape, but she felt the cleansing flames as surely as if she’d been standing in the midst of it all.

However, as punishment for her actions, her family was slaughtered. Perez’ men moved swiftly and no traces of her loved ones were left by the time she managed to make it home. Having nothing left, Camila used the money she stole from the cartel to finish her schooling and eventually get a degree in computer science.

Her experiences have created a deep rooted hatred for all the cartels, especially Nuevo Leon. She hopes to do all she can to eradicate them and free Mexico. In the end, she freelanced as a consultant, a career path that gave her enough free time to pursue her vengeance against the drug lords.
Edited by Camila, Oct 17 2014, 04:40 PM.

Continued from Let the show begin

Hood hadn't dallied in that shit club for long. After Jaxxen left, Hood excused himself from the ladies and took his leave. The music was garbage, the atmosphere brutally shallow, and the company entirely boring. Not the sort of place where a good brawl was likely to break out, and the only enjoyable about one happening in a place like that was watching all the rich boys try to fight. Oh sure, most of them claimed to practice some sort of martial art, but none had actually thrown a punch in anger before, and it always turned into some pansy hair-pulling homo-erotic roll-about on the floor.

The transition from shit-club to his place was a quiet one. He didn't bother with a driver to take him back, relying instead on the metro, holding some hope that some shitbird would try jacking his wallet or mugging him. But he got none of that, just an awkward conversation with an old woman rambling on about the good old days. Not a bad conversation really, and Hood put on his 'charming' face for it. No reason to be mean to a crazy old lady, right?

It took a few hours to get back, but it was still easier then trying to drive from the heart of Moscow to the outer slums. Traffic was always thick in Moscow. He did his usual circuit, walking the perimeter of his place, making sure there was no obvious signs of recent activity, then a similar circuit inside. The three dogs were present as usual, huddled under the front porch and away from the cold. They were out of the wind, and it was a fairly tight space, so they were well insulated enough to survive the night without too much gripe.

Like was proper, Hood discarded his suit and saw it properly hung. A solid half hour was spent just making sure it was free of debris, stains, and wrinkles before it was set into it's suit-bag, ready to be carted off to the dry cleaners the next day, leaving him in a pair of sweatpants and little else.

The accommodations were kept cold; Hood could easily stomach a chill room, and there was no point in jacking up the heating bill. He hadn't made any major changes with the place now that the renovations were complete. The smell of fresh paint had faded, replaced with that of gun oil and a general sense of clean. The place was spotless, kept neat and tidy and hardly a speck of dust to be found. He wasn't the sort to sit idle, after all.

By then, Jaxen was either in a shall grave or had made good his escape. The man was a slimy one, and had someone survived as long as he had less from personal skill and more for luck and opportunity. Hood could attest to that luck, considering the last time he had met the man had been in the undercity, on the menu for some Rougarou.

Or, maybe they had come to realize that not everything the Atharim said was evil was actually evil. The man was greasy, sure, but about as harmless as any other spoiled rich kid. He somehow doubted they had come to that conclusion though. He had no trouble killing folks, he just generally preferred a good reason. Like they were trying to kill him, or were at the least dangerous. Wasn't any fun otherwise. Some folks out there considered humans the ultimate prey, but Hood considered them not worth the effort.

He walked barefoot into the chill night with some leftovers and a bowl of water, which were stuffed under the porch for the fleabags. The water would be frozen by morning, but they'd be able to get their fill before then.

Then he just stood on his porch, nothing but sweat pants and a cigar, puffing away and surveying the dark neighborhood around him. He made a point of not smoking inside; it was just bad manners, even in one's own home.

His phone, not a Wallet but an actual dedicated cellphone (outdated, but harder to track then a Wallet, and cheaper to toss and replace), disturbed his moment of calm and he dug it out of the pocket of his sweats, glancing at the unregistered number code before answering. The news was less then pleasing. It was all code of course, but the gist of it was a hunter was wounded. And if the voice was that Seth fellow, it probably meant that Rune was the one that was hurt.

He'd have the place ready for them when they arrived. A few more puffs of his cigar and he scowled in annoyance before extinguishing it on the rail of the deck. A perfectly good way to ruin a very excellent cigar. He brushed the ash away so it wouldn't stain the wood, then moved inside, where he began readying what he'd need to patch her up.


Edited by Hood, Jun 30 2014, 06:38 PM.

Calvin departed from the train and checked the time. Sighing in relief, he moved quickly. He should be on time, but it was always better to be early for job interviews; prospective employers loved seeing people enthusiastic to get to work on time. After the hunt with Sierra, Calvin had returned to town and ordered some dark colored contacts to hide his eye color; after a day of keeping his head down or facing the stares of people wondering what was wrong with him, Calvin had decided to keep his eye color hidden from the view of the general public. The contacts were the cause of his rush this morning. They had arrived the day before and it took him over a half hour to get the things in his eyes. Calvin had almost given up, but on second thought, the contacts would be a better choice for the interview. There was no better way to bomb an interview than to freak out the boss.

Calvin had seen the posting for a mechanic at Viktor’s Garage the day after he had returned to town. The job would be perfect for him, and Calvin wasted no time in applying for it. Two days ago, Viktor Volachov called and set up an interview with him for this morning. Calvin had time, but he wanted to arrive at least fifteen minutes early to show his punctuality.

The garage itself was located in a fairly nice part of town. It was in the business district and the white painted building, although it was old, was very well maintained. It didn’t have the look of many older car repair shops in the United States – chipping paint, with corroded engine parts scattered around. Viktor’s in comparison, appeared to be recently painted. The area around the garage was clear of debris and the sign itself wasn’t corroded and could be easily read by any passers-by. The bay doors were open, and Calvin could see the tidiness inside the garage as well. Viktor obviously took pride in his work.

Calvin smoothed a wrinkle on his light blue shirt and adjusted his tie before entering the shop. A woman sat at the desk behind the counter talking to a man. She wore a white blouse and her black hair was in a ponytail. She was surrounded by typical secretarial equipment – a computer, phone, lots of forms, and office supplies. The man stood on the opposite side of the counter. He was taller than Calvin by a couple of inches and had dirty blonde hair. The bruises on the man's face were prominent, but had partially healed. He had with him a laptop and some USB cables. As he approached, the woman caught sight of him.

”Excuse me.”
she said to the man at the counter and turned towards Calvin. ”Can I help you sir?”
she asked politely a smile on her face.

Calvin turned towards the man, ”Pardon me, I don’t mean to interrupt.”


The man’s response was courteous and professional, ”No problem. Go ahead.”


Calvin gave the man a smile and turned towards the woman. He got a glimpse of her name plate on the desk that read “Amelie Avalov.”

”Good morning. I have an interview with Mr. Volachov this morning.”


”Oh, you must be Mr. Johnson,”
she said and Calvin nodded. ”His office is right over there. He told me to send you in when you arrived. I’ll call and let him know of your arrival.”


”Thank you.”
Calvin turned towards the man, giving him a nod and a smile. ”Thank you, sir. Both of you have a wonderful day.”


Amelie smiled at him and the man responded, ”Thanks. You too man.”


Calvin offered them both a nod and moved towards Viktor’s office. He first passed through an employee break room and on the other side was an open door leading into an office. The office inside was neat and an older man sat behind the desk, talking into his phone. He wore a typical mechanics coverall with a patch on each side of the chest. The patch on the left had the same logo from the sign on it, while the patch on the right bore a stylized “Viktor.” He bore a few wrinkles and a white beard. The twinkling in the man’s eyes gave the man an even greater illusion of Santa Clause. The man was cheerful, even while talking on the phone. Calvin approached the door and saw on the window the words “Viktor Volachov” confirming the man’s identity.

Calvin waited until the man had set the phone down before knocking on the door. The man looked up, smiled, and stood. He walked with an energy he wouldn’t have expected from a man his age, reaching his arm out for Calvin to shake.

”Viktor Volachov. You are Calvin Johnson, I presume?”
Volachov asked as Calvin took his hand.

Calvin was surprised at the strength of the man’s grip. Regardless of his age, the man was very healthy and Calvin immediately liked him. The condition of his shop was a testament to the pride the man held for hard work. His demeanor made Calvin think that the man had a deep respect for those he employed. Not to mention, you can tell a lot about a man from his handshake.

”Yes, sir,”
Calvin responded returning the man’s bright smile.

Viktor nodded and gestured towards a chair, ”Good. Please sit.”


Calvin did so and Volachov sat on the other side of his desk and pulled out Calvin’s resume and application, ”So shall we begin.”

Edited by Calvin, Jul 1 2014, 03:34 PM.