(OOC Note ***I basically have the briefing in a nutshell and not an entire dialog. See Here and Here for a better idea of everything explained in the opening paragraphs. ^_^***)

Culture Briefing and Arrival

“First thing is first. In Romania, some of the people are poor, and do not be surprised if there are not many cars. Try to hold your tongue about the lack of riches in some places.” She explained to Martin on the plane before they had landed, and went on with, “We should dress as if we are middle class.”

“Women are not equal to men, the men are.... Well, you will see.”She had known she was probably confusing poor Martin, but she felt it was important that he be briefed on Romanian culture, and about Hungarian culture as well. “If we are to be taken seriously, we should follow some of the examples. You are the man, and therefore you should do most of the talking. You should walk on my left side, as if you are a knight with a sword, leaving your sword and scabbard free of obstruction…” She explained pretty much everything about Romania and Hungary to Martin, the cultures, the history, everything she was taught by her mother and father, as well as some of the schooling she’d had as a child, which would probably work to their benefit. Whatever she missed was probably obscure. By the time the plane had landed, if Martin paid any attention, he would know a lot of information, and maybe the mission would be a piece of cake.

Once in the hotel they were to be staying in, she bade Martin to change into something less expensive looking (though not raggedy) if he was dressed to impress, and she, herself, went to her room to change into a simple, black dress that was neither rags, nor riches, but respectable and hid her supple shape from prying eyes. Completing the look was a floral scarf she draped over her coifed head, and a pair of comfortable flats. She was not about to distract a womanizer from the money.

The Mission

It was hours later, and they were on their way to bribing the first, minor politician. She let Martin hold on to the money, whether it was actually in bags, or in check form. She also walked on his right side, whether he intended to keep to her left side or not. Xavia had gone over the papers in her beat up briefcase again when she was done talking. The first guy they were going to talk to was a Mr. Anatolie Belododia. From the file, there was a picture of the man, a portly older fellow with a beak nose and a few descriptions of the him. This particular politician was a womanizing old geezer who had little respect for those who had no money to speak with, and even less for whiney mutants because they were inferior.

Xavia disliked the man already, and she had never set eyes on him before. What an ass.

As they rode through the capitol, with it’s beautiful architecture and vast history, she spoke to Martin, in German of course, “If need be, I will translate, but I think, in this case, I should keep a lower profile than I would with the other politicians. Are you alright with that?”

Instead of renting a car, they were taking a taxi to the address given by the file, she had her folder tucked safely in the confines of the ragged briefcase, which she left in the hotel room beneath the bed. If he had his folder with him, she didn’t notice.

If Xavia was nervous, she kept it out of her expression. Indeed, she looked thoughtful as the taxi turned into a respectable driveway with the crunch of gravel. It had been a long flight with little time to nap, and now a long car drive after not napping on the plane. She felt kind of cranky, but didn’t voice this feeling to Martin, because he probably felt the same way. She doubted they would get much rest in Romania at all because of their mutations and such, and knew that there was little time to act when it came to getting the mission started. The sooner the money lined the pockets of the unsavory, the sooner the laws would change, hopefully, and the sooner they could go home.

The taxi rolled to a stop, and they were let out. She tried not to gnaw on her bottom lip as she looked at the large residence in front of them, and gave a sidelong glance toward her partner before she reached out and twisted the brass handle of the bell, which gave a loud ring the way an old telephone would, almost.

It was not long before a stern looking maid came to answer the door and see who it was that was on the stoop. She eyed Martin first, and then Xavia, before looking back to the male and saying in rapid Romanian, “Bine aþi venit. Pot sã vã ajut? Domnul Belododia ia prânzul momentan, în caz cã îl cãutaþi. Aveþi programare?” (Welcome. May I help you? Mister Belododia is taking lunch at this time, if you are here to see him. Do you have an appointment?)

She translated for Martin if he needed her to. If he gave an affirmative, or gave a reason why they were there, then they would be admitted into the large entry of the house to wait for their quarry to show up. If not, then the maid would ask them respectively to leave.



((Thank you Circe for correct translation ))

The Arrival: After he got off the plane, gone through the necessary checks to enter a foreign cpountry and retrieved his belongings from a conveyor running in circles in a hall full of people (without Xavia he would have had to swallow the gem in his pocket already to even understand the signs, most of which were only printed in a language he assumed was Romanian), he found himself seated next to a still constantly talking Xavia, who after having informed him on most cultural and geographic traits on the plane, now put finishing touches on her quick education of the alien. An education that, though he could see the benefits of, was putting him in the difficult situation of being quite unable to concentrate properly. What had to be done had to be done,wasn't it?
Commendable enthusiasm it was, commendable effort, most of it not in vain, though he had had to strain himself to listen until the headache he got earlier had subsided. Yet even after his head had cleared up, all she got from him were hums and „Yes.“ like sounds. Nods and groans before that time mostly. She seemed quite irritated by that fact, but when committing information to memory, Martin was quite unidirectional. Things went in and did not come out.
Their ride to the Hotel was quiet, as far as quiet went on such busy bustling streets, but quite pleasant. He could understand now, quite well actually, though the sorting of different languages in his mind was quite a challenge.

The Mission:

Martin was dressed in a simple suit, white shirt (wrinkled), black tie, shoes (dirty) and gloves as was appropriate. It was an outfit that held an air of slight neglect that came with people not putting it on often. Something that a worker might wear to a wedding or burial. Formal yes, but expensive or well upkept? No, that it was most certainly not. On his side was hanging a bag, he called it a shopping bag actually, nondescript, that he had found in the hotel. It was left in his room, either by one former inhabitant or it was intended for waste disposal. Not it had another purpose. It held writing material and a host of other clutter. But mostly it was a distraction from the money that he had stored in the inner pocket of his suit. A few checkques, with sums on them that made him rise his eyebrows.

A few minutes earlier he had taken a short trip to the bathroom to ingest the deeply blue crystal he had been given. Quite interesting was the feeling of having to gulp down such a large pill, but he still refrained from drinking much of the tap water to help it on its way down his throat. What just might happen to it on the other side, he thought, before putting the finishing touches on his dress and gettng moving to meet Xavia.

He greeted her with a smile and offered his right, just as they had talked about earlier. He was not exactly a knight in shining armour, but hi current appearance would have to do. And he was more dangerous then a knight anyways. Her dress prompted no reaction. It was only noted and then of no other concern. What was of concern though was getting to their target. The thought of the name Anatolie Belododia was one thing on his mind, the picture appearing before his inner eye instantly, as well as the correct pronunciation of the name. The other was, that only a centimeter of cloth separated the young Miss Worshalai from oblivion. As always, he could not quite keep the concern from showing on his face, the slight grimace of uncomfortability. It might just work to their advantage here.

The sights and sounds of the capitol of Romania made their way to his ears and eyes, bouncing off him, like rain from an impregnated surface. Pretty sights and sounds were captured though, and enjoyed, only visible through a slightly fixing stare on one or more of the objects. He actually spent an hour looking at a gothic church they drove by, examining the gargoyles and other demonic creatures that adorned its outside.

Then Xavia spoke, and he smiled back at her, trying to focus on the power of the thing that rested in his stomach. Hopefully that...thing...would refrain from giving him the constipation of his life. “I don't think that will be necessary. Our language needs have been taken care of by the company.” He spoke German for one last time that was. Whispered in her ear, while pointing at one of the buildings, as if they were having a secret conversation between two...close friends and did not wasnt the taxi driver to know. A double deceit.

The arrival at the home of the moderately important low-level politician was interesting. They drove in front of a huge house, prompting the question of how this person financed his lavish lifestyle. Seeing what Xavia had said about Romanian politicians, this was only a confirmation. Just the extent of the mansion and boldness of display foreboded nothing good for them. This man seemed to be used to earning lots of money.

When the maid came out to ask them Welcome. May I help you? Mister Belododia is taking lunch at this time, if you are here to see him. Do you have an appointment? he looked at Xavia and gave her arm a slightly tighter grasp. It was supposed to be a reassuring gesture, one that symbolized a firm foundation. But he felt odd doing it. He was nearly pressing his skin against hers. His old, useless skin. His harmful skin...STOP. He smiled cordially at the maid, while trying to decipher as much f the body language she spoke as possible, while keeping an eye on their surroundings. He slowed the progress of things again, to be able to see much more then what Xavia would be able to notice in the few seconds they were exposed to her. There were the little black glimmering stones that indicated camera lenses were present, looking, filming, seeing who was there and what their intention was. In the far background there was the figure of a man dressed all in black-a quite broad and well muscled specimen- walking, trying to keep out of sight. His failure to do so though was the interesting part. Either he was badly trained, which was well, but unusual for this style of housekeeping, or he was there to distract them. Or he was just careless and overconfident. He liked the last two options best. But back to the Maid. Martin had only been slow to lower his head a little and then speak to her in perfect and totally usual middle-class Romanian. “Good Day, Miss. We are indeed here to see Mr. Belodoia as representative to a certain interest group.” This much should tell her that they neither had, nor wanted an appointment. It was detrimental to their business to leave traces.

And apparently it was quite usual, for they were admitted immediately into a lavish waiting room, that had some Roccoco elements worked into it, via a side door. The maid neither asked more questions, nor gave them any indication, of when their prospective business partner might arrive, but she did not leave. Her watchful eyes followed more him then her, as he let his eyes wander around the room they had been granted entrance to. The room had two doors. One from the outside, the other probably led into the bowels of the building. There were some chairs, ornately decorated, covered in striped cloths that told of antiquity. Mahagoni wood was common, as were the colors gold and red. But somehow the furnisher had managed to put so many elements together that the room seemed stuffed and crammy and only held the slight hint of flair. It just looked expensive and showy. “Do you want something to drink, Sir?” Apparently the maid did have something to say after all, breaking the silence, just as she had concluded that the guest had seen all of the households offerings. “Id like a red whine. Dry.” He did not even look at Xavia and then ordered water for her. The maid left through the second door. They were alone. For a short time.

She watched the interaction between the housekeeper and Martin, keeping her mouth shut tightly so as not to say something idiotic and ruin the whole plan. He asked for wine and water, kind of perturbed at him ordering her drink for her, but she knew it was just part of the act. Or was it? Bah.

Xavia took a look around the expensive furnishings, walking silently with her hands clasped behind her back, expression neutral in this case. The housekeeper ignored her, for the most part, and went off to get the drinks. Not long after she left, did the old codger show up. The man was slightly stooped and used a cane to walk, descending down the grand staircase as if he was a king.

HAH!

Xavia swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at the overpowering scent of his aftershave. Really now, how musky did he need to be? She wasn’t even near him and could smell him. She fought the urge to use her mutation to make a more pleasant scent fill the room.

The old man approached Martin first, and as he was introducing himself, his pig like eyes darted to Xavia and just… stared. A leering and lecherous smile twisted his lips, showing of gray and yellow teeth that often showed up in the mouths of the elderly typed gentlemen such as himself. “Welcome to my home, please, let us go to the drawing room and sit down.” He gestured toward the left, and moved to offer Xavia his arm.

She swallowed back another round of disgust, looked at Martin with the first ever expression of panic on her face, but it was only briefly, before she allowed the old man to take her arm and escort her into the drawing room behind Martin.

Quicker then he had anticipated -or was it just his judgement failing?_ they were joined by the head of this Household, descending into the room via a flight of Stairs to join them. Descending with a pleasant smile that was usual at business meetings. And then he came close to them... He was the most disgustingly reeking old man he had ever...smelled. Honestly his face wasn't pretty, his voice raspy, in short: He was a walking attack on every last sense humans commonly possessed. A walking chemical nightmare. And he was staring at Xavia as if she were something delicious that he could take a bite off. It was quite logical, that he never would, but judging from the demeanor he had shown, his presumptuous, pompous style that filled these room, filled them with an air that was as musky as the mans scent, he was quite unsure whether he would ever get that little piece of information. Logic dictated that he would never get anything more then a quite sound beating from the two mutants, should he offend them, but luckily he did not know them for what they were, for right now he was still obviously at ease and quite utterly convinced of his own manliness it seemed as he offered Xavia his arm.

Her look of panic was something he rather had avoided, as they both knew they had to play a good act. If there were cameras here then they might get into trouble soon. But not right now. He let go of Xavia with a stern look, gave her into the quite flamboyantly viscous care of their host, who seemed glad to know this timid woman his guest. At least he smiled more broadly. There was of course the possibility, that he... Martins thoughts would not wander there. That was so utterly foolish, he could not even presume that the man was so stupid without insulting him in his head. Lead through other kitschy rooms, that reeked, not of the perfume, but of money unlawfully acquired and of the taste that appeared when people who had had little money got rich suddenly. It was no taste at all.

The drawing room as designed as counterpoint to the Roccoco entrance hall in the modern Swedish style of cold lines, black and white, though it missed the wide open Windows and the lights to both give the room good qualities for drawing and a light atmosphere. Beauty had also not been part of the concept it seemed. And indeed they sat down on hard chairs, Xavia next to the host, Martin across from them, looking into their faces. Martin was silent. There seemed to be no readable mimic or body language emanating from the boy, which gave him the appearance of being at least five years older then what he looked. A yuppie in a way. A Romanian yuppie perhaps. Or -seeing his ragged clothes- just a professional dealer in matters of money transfer. As a courtesy there stood on a metal table between the chairs, a round chair that bore three glasses. One long and globular held a ruby-colored liquid. Another one, small and plump held amber liquid, the third, and by far the smallest of all, held some clear liquid. It was as if glasses appropriate for water were missing in this household. Perhaps they were. It stood right before Xavia, whereas Martin had gotten ruby and the host took the liberty of already taking the first sip of his glass. “I know you're here to do business. You got 5 minutes.” His smile never faded, he even rocked his chair a little closer to the womans, but his voice held clearly demanding tone.

So Martin started the dance. In perfect Romanian, tinged slightly by an underclass accent that was just a little too perfect to be real, and beneath that one, there could be heard some faint sound of another eastern language in the voicing of his consonants. Russian perhaps. Those gems were a godsend indeed. A reminder he chose carefully. A reminder that was deliberate. Just to rock that mans chair a little more. A slight insecurity, a slight bit of darkness. But that smile of his. It did not reach the eyes, it was bodig nothing good. Or so Martin thought as he started his speech, arguing with slight gestures of an untrained hand to aid the words. “I am sure you know that this world is changing one, changing so swiftly, that one -or even a country- is at persistent danger of falling behind the times and being overrun by history. And as I am sure you know that certain policies of the Government in the last weeks have done nothing to decrease that danger. In fact they have rather served as a way to increase the pressure on this, our beautiful Romania.” here he paused slightly and took a second, a second only in real time, to analyze the politicians body language. He was relaxed, sitting arm around Xavia now and looking at a far away point over his shoulder, as not to seem to interested in the words of this representative. And there was something more. A darkness in his eyes. Just a trick of the light. Need. Want. Desire. Lightplay, Shadowtrick, Illusion. He cast down his own eyes in response. Maybe just not to look to obviously at Xavia to check on her. “So for the best of our Country... “He could see his mouth form the words again, as if he was looking in a mirror. A mockery perhaps. Perhaps something else. Who could read that mimic?..: “...my client is prepared to offer their help for you to help change the useless and utterly senseless persecution of the elements called mutants.” It was out on the table. The offer veiled with the barest of cloth, nothing at all if one was correct. Help, such an ambiguous word. Thinking of the implications alone.... The smile of Mr. Belodoia was wide. It made him look much more unappealing then before. Even Martin could not quite elude the vivid sense of looking at a gaping hole to hell. Unpleasant. His arm was still tightly clasped around Xavia. Maybe even a little tighter. All he asked was one question. “All kinds of help?” His face turned to her. Blink.

Xavia was absolutely disgusted by the man and his overpowering scent of aftershave. And now he had his arm around her like he owned her. Mr. Belododia was into her, that was for sure. She shot Martin a wide eyed look when the man tightened his arm around her and bit out a reply to her partner, one which she hardly heard because she was so focused on the foul breath that seemed way too close to her face. She could feel the tightening of the old man’s hand at her nape, as he went on to say, “Mutants are putrid and need to be eliminated. Money can only go so far to make me pretend to change my mind.” He then took it upon himself to untie the knot of her head covering, gingerly so, as if carefully unwrapping a gift. “Perhaps if you just let me have a moment or… two… alone with this lovely morsel here… She might change my mind.”

Oh god, what a pig!

She started to squirm, popping a sweat to fight her instincts. No, punching him wouldn’t change his mind. But she couldn’t, nay, wouldn’t let this disgusting, rotten smelling, fork tongued devil try to worm his way up her skirt. Oh hell to the naw!

If Martin watched her body language as closely as he did with the old fart who smothered her with his lovin’ worse than Pepe le Pew on ecstasy, he’d see her grip the arms of the chair with a white knuckled grip, and her foot begin to wiggle. Her eyes bore into his face, giving him a look that screamed for him not to pimp her out to this lech, so help her god, or she would kill him. Don’t you effing do it, oh no you don’t.

But then, the old man hooked his fingers under her chin and she was forced to relax her expression, and he examined her face with a tight grip on said chin. “She is a rare beauty. Romani. Gipsy. Tell me, does she dance as pretty as she is? And such a good little flower, she is, too, meek and mousy. I suppose I can change that…” And with that, he tugged at the updo she had going, and let her hair loose.

Martins eyebrow rose as Xavias hair fell down her shoulders. In a way he was right, she was somewhat pretty, exotic in a way, especially in this country. But in another he was quite not right.. Was he really so stupid to think that he would sell her to him like she was an object? It might be a solution to their problem in a way. He even considered it for a while, about two second in real time, eyes wandering over their figures, checking for little details, seeing through them in a way. Beyond the first mask lay other ones, did they not? before he drew a conclusion. There. Was. No. Way. He'd. Get. To. Touch. Her. Ever
The temperature in the room dropped by about thirty degrees, Martins eyes blazing with freezing and radiating an air of coldness that hammered down on the politician like a sledgehammer. The once youthful face had taken on an air of age, age beyond comprehension, force beyond understanding radiated from, almost physically visible. And his answer was but one word.

“No.”

He spoke with perfect clarity. Perfectly aware of the consequences that this had for their plan. His voice was oddly light, devoid of the accent that had tinged it before, devoid of any reminders. He offered this little man a look behind his first mask. Well maybe a peek. No matter what he did, this man would not die. Not today at least. Unless he did not do something really stupid. Eyes still blazing in a cold fire, he raised his voice a little, though he still kept it sharp like a scalpel, a microtome slicing through the air.

“I am offering you one minute to reconsider. After that you will have to bear the consequences of your actions.”

He on the other hand now wore a wide smile, smug almost, and shook his head once, only by a fraction. “If you are not willing to do even this small favor for me...” Martin did not blink.

Her head started to swim with the waves of panic she was feeling from the man’s touch. His hand paused in her butt long hair, gnarled fingers curled within the strands that could tighten any second and jerk her head back. The old man was the kind of womanizer that would take what he wanted if he desired to do so. And, well, he wanted her. Bad. To have the imputant little weasel across the room from him deny him access to the gem who’s hair he now played with, well, it made him angry. Xavia gasped as she saw stars when her hair is yanked, and her head IS pulled back.

“If you want to save the wretched little freaks on the streets, you would do well to grant me this one favor. Or I could simply boot you out of my house and take what I want.” He didn’t look afraid, even when the air seemingly "chilled" around him.

Xavia had been toyed with long enough, too long for her tastes, and was angry enough to let a small bit of her mutation hit. The man yelped when his hand was stabbed by a bunch of thorns that protruded briefly from her skin at her nape, and he pulled back the bloodied appendage with wide eyes. But when he looked back toward her neck, which was now showing signs of bruising from his grip, he saw nothing there that could have caused his hand to bleed. “……….. What the deuce?”

Her expression calmed, but a look of smug satisfaction glinted in her eyes, before she looked toward Mr. Belododia with false concern, and still said nothing, pretending she was the meek girl he spoke of.

Oh Martin could not see the thorn, as he was seated across from them, nor knew he enough about Xavias power to speculate on its effects of her physique, but what he could see, was the bleeding hand, the close-minded politician was drawing away from, after he had loosened his tight grip so suddenly. If Xavia was watching his eyes, she might see the small glimmer of satisfaction that appeared there for a second before being wiped away. He had dared to hurt her. Dared to attack them. There was no other way for this dialogue to progress anywhere meaningful. He had made his intentions clear, they had made theirs clear. Everything was crystal clear, especially in Martins head, where words were battling each other to come over his lips. Bigoted bastard was one of the friendlier alliterations. And never before had he felt responsibility press down on him so hard. The young woman was his charge on this mission after all. She was supposed to learn, not become someones toy or price for signing a contract. There would be other ways. And responsibility pressing down on his was preventing him, from considering murdering the man on the spot for more then but a few picoseconds. It was a thought that came to mind. That alone counted in his timeless really, where only the flow of ideas marked the hours, minutes seconds, that passed on the outside of his little world. Bigoted Bastard indeed.

Oh he did not look afraid even bleeding, he was so sure of himself, so full of himself, tat it was not even funny any more. Data mined during this little excursion of theirs piled up in his head in a neat little stack, filed away to be written down later. Thoughts flew by, were caught in a new and set right beside them. This man would fall. It was all just a matter of time. “Mr. Belodoia, it was a pleasure talking to you. If you would excuse us now?” Of course the startled man could refuse his request. That was one of the big risks he was taking right now. A calculated risk. He rose from his seat as he spoke. “Let me point out to you again, that I am just here to speak on someones behalf. There would be no sense in keeping us, neither in asking us for information.” Being asked for information by this person was something he'd rather avoided. He could see, how those questions would be asked by a man like him. “So I kindly request a taxi be called for us.”

Belodoia seemed much too intend at staring on his own marred flesh to hear him, but Martin had seen in his calculating eyes. Blood was dripping on the desk between them lazily, steadily flowing, little red drops falling. He knew that this man would act what he could, what he thought would serve him best. And a politician was always served best by hearing on his intelligent advisor that talked sense. If he held them, he might anger a powerful eminence that was pro-mutant and had probably access to forces beyond his control. And he might loose credibility in the back rooms for holding a representative that held no information. It was business as usual. Representatives are left untouched. But they had touched him. Or hadn't they? Why was he bleeding? Were they maybe?
They needed to get out. And then he might make plans for their disposal.

Such and similar were the thoughts of the politician as he grabbed the phone and waved them to leave the room. It was a shame that the Romani could not remain, but surely she would be his one day, when the plan he had just made had come to his completion. Yes. Then it would be either him or the camps. Not that anyone would refuse him anyways. It was only the presence of that awful Russian that had made her uncomfortable anyways, yes? He took another good measure of his drink to dull the pain of the wound he had in his hand.

Martin and Xavia were escorted from the premises swiftly not by the housekeeper, but by one rather hulking man, that seemed to be quite unable to speak one clear word. Measuring the ize of his head against the size of his body, this fact did not surprize Matin. Escorted they were, and orderly so, to a cab, which was ordered by Martin to drive into the center of the city. To a random tourist attraction, that lay far off their course. Then, coming close, having ridden with the smoking driver for a while and talked about some nonsense, mainly Martin and Xavia being a freshly married couple from rural Romania -thanks to the gem he just had the right accent up his sleeve to complement that idea-, yes it seemed that that was the case, for Martin was apparently unable to take his eyes off his wife, stop turning around to look in her face. Or that was what the driver would be seeing, for his eyes never truly touched his partner, but seemed drawn to the back window of the car instead.

Then Martin pretended that he had forgotten something at the last attraction they had been to and ordered the man to the dome. Martin was grinning and joking about his own stupidity, but Xavia might see, that the coldness had not left his blue eyes. They spoke to her in a way that was very clear. They were being watched and he hoped to shake off the followers in the masses of the city.

She couldn’t get away from that son of a biscuit fast enough. Something about him was just wrong, obsessive, almost. When she stood up to walk out with Martin, she turned around long enough to smile at the man who’s hand was bleeding, who luckily was staring at his hand and not her at the moment, and then she turned around and left with Martin. Once they were in the Taxi, she let out a breath, and rubbed at her abused neck underneath all that riotous hair. She had not bothered to grab her head covering, or the clip that had held her hair in place, and nor did she want to go back and get them.

Xavia was silently raging. How dare that disgusting pig touch her in that manner? She was angry enough to give Martin and anyone else a good silent treatment. She had nothing to say. The plant manipulator tapped at her knee and stared toward the window in the front, while Martin stared out the window to her right, which looked like he was staring at her the whole time they were in the car.

She said nothing when they went on “Touristy” trips, which she thought was a waste of time and effort, but did not voice her opinion. Nothing was said when he introduced her to people as his wife, and still, nothing was said about them being watched. Indeed, this was a rage far different from any rage she had ever had. Her tension was enough to cut with a sharp knife.

By the time they got back to the hotel, and up to their floor, she stiffly marched to her room, which was adjacent to his, and fumbled for the key-card. As she got her door open, she pivoted around and looked at Martin with glittering eyes, clearly very angry, and she spoke in a rough voice, “I am starting to like being uniquely talented.” Now what was that supposed to mean? If that question came up in his head, she never gave him a chance to voice it.

She slipped into her room, firmly shutting the door behind her, leaving a thickly sweet scent of rotting flora behind her. NOT a good sign.

The shaking off was something that would be left to him apparently. Good. So be it. After a trip through the inner cities small passages he was quite sure, that not only he, but also any follower was thoroughly confused and therefore unable to keep following them. At least he had not seen anyone follow them fast the fourth passage clogged with people standing around an animal pen.

When they arrived back at the hotel, Xavia left him standing puzzled. Her whole behavior puzzled him. He had shoved and pushed her through the city, not spoken a single word and maybe even ruined their careful plan. But she was in her room almost as soon as they reached the hotel. HE was... confounded. He would need to make a protocol of the daily events and do some planning. He would need to do so soon, as the events would fog in his mind during the next hour or so... or what might be a minute. And then there was Xavia, who was in a mood, that he could not describe. It was reminiscent of his ice, but much more...organic. It was so alive and so alien. Not his feelings at all.

So he would have to decide. Help Xavia...or do the protocol?

The protocol was finished with accuracy first, as it was the part that was vital to their mission. It took him half an hour, before he had written everything into his notebook and clasped it shut tightly, before storing it in his pants back pocket. Now to the other problem, he said to himself, was he walked out of his room and turned to his left. Her door was still closed. He knocked.

“Xavia, would you mind to open the door for me?”

His tone still carried business. Too much business maybe. Some even would say, that he was insensitive.

After she had entered her room, she sat in front of the big window and looked out at the bustling Bucharest with silent contemplation. Rage was an understatement to what she felt, and the reason she shut herself in her room in such a hurry was the fact that when she was this angry, she had less control over her own body. She was so mad that she didn’t completely shut the door, either.

So, when the time came for him to be done with protocol, the door eased open further under his touch, and the smell of flora would probably smack him directly in the face. Not the nice smell of flowers and springtime, but the smell of dead foliage, heady and thick. If he entered the room, she’d turn her head in surprise, and try and cover herself from his gaze. Nobody, save for people looking into a window and the few people at the youngster’s school, had ever seen her as a full out plant. And there she sat, caressed by the sunbeams that filtered in through the window, skin green, vines curled around her form, leaves unfurled all around her to give her a bush-like appearance.

If he did not choose to enter at that moment, she would at least have time to hide herself from his gaze, but he would still be able to see evidence left behind… Leaves on the floor, twigs, the various brackish that covered the floors of a forest, would be everywhere.

“Go away!” She said in horror, whether he entered or not, for the simple fact that she thought she was a monster when she had no control over her own powers. She felt helpless and useless.

The door eased open under his knock, creaking open ever more slowly as the momentum he had given it on its way was diminished by time and resistance. A small crack widened into a wider one. And then Martins full face was visible. He had full view of the room Xavia was staying in, whether he had wanted it in the first place or not. The smell of death was something that he had not expected to be so strong here. The stench of decay was of such unbelievable strength, that at first he stepped back from the wooden opening with a grimace on his face. The lingering odeur seemed already to have taken hold on his clothes and begun to crawl into his very pores. A smell no gardnener liked. But a smell that a gardener knew full well. In a way. He associated it with pictures of long rotten plants, of upturned earth, barren from mold, laden with spores. They were pictures that came with his disguise, with one of the masks he wore.

None of them was pretty.

He entered, strangely rashly and with heavy steps, covering his nose and mouth with a part of his ovegarment, the cheap cloth rubbing against his nose, tingling, not quite unlike the gloves he wore in the garden. He would root it out, the evil thing that had entered his realm. Well that was the reflex he had at least. As soon as his eyes fell on Xavias green figurine, sitting in the sun like a queen of flora, intertwining limbs with branches, hair with greens., there was another thought. He felt like peeking in on something very intimate. On a metamorphosis of sorts. His shoulders drew closer together as his cheeks reddened a little.

Masks shifted.

The cold came, as if he had called for it. He hadnt, but that was a matter that would find attention later. He straightened up and the cloth dropped from his nose. His whole body language shifted from one slightly afraid to something altered. High he stood and straight in Xavias room as her scream washed against him like waves against a rock. They were broken. His face wore a smile. He did not smile with his eyes. He lifted up his right hand, gloved, lifted it up and spoke in a very clam, much too calm, too quiet tone. He saw, that she was deeply distressed. And he had no intention of leaving, no matter her state.

“Ms. Worshalai, please calm yourself.”

Look into my ageless eyes, see where past and future lies, see the times of love and fear....

His tone was calm and confident. His body language accentuated. He could have been at a business meeting right now. But he wasnt.

"Please calm yourself."

He repeated. And still.... There was no emotion in those words.

The plant mutant went into a crouch and began to stalk toward Martin, “I said, ‘go away.’ Please…” Even her eyes were different, no longer the caramel brown, but completely greened over, including the whites. She leapt at him then to push him out, not knowing a thing about his mutation, and having no ill intent to do him harm. Her palms jabbed toward his chest as she tried desperately to get him away from her.

She then reached up and went to push at his head with a yell, “Nobody can see me this w---“ and froze for a short moment, perhaps 10 seconds or more, hand poised at his forehead as she stood there like a motionless statue. Why couldn’t she move?! What the hell? Was this why he wore gloves?

His new acquaintance had, quite obviously some problems with her skin. And also quite obviously those problems were not to be cured with bit of make up of the newest kind. The one that makes all wrinkles disappear in seconds. Heck; she was green. Not to mention her wrinkled barkskin. And the fact that she was angry. And then she started to make good attempts at hitting him. A very good attempts. Her arms made whipping sounds in the air, as they descended on him quickly.

Her first shove to his chest made him stumble backwards while exhaling sharply. “Ms. Worshalai, if you please....” calm yourself... His words were cut short by another attack on his physique, loosening his train f though into the direction, why women had to be so volatile, but this time she had aimed quite right. If she had intended on hurting both him and her. He had to watch, as her arm crept slowly toward his head, where a little bit of his blank skin was exposed at all times. Minimal risk was his policy, had always been since the dawn of his power, but never, never ever had he imagined this situation- A plant slapping him in the face- as a possible thing to prepare for. His confidence wavered. If he hadn't thought of this, how many more things were there that were unexpected, unlooked for. It would probably take musing, a lot of musing, to correct these things. Some voice in his head said, that there wasn't much more to be done, that he could not do much more. And he knew that voice was right. But it did not stop the pain. Little girl what have you done? The outstretched appendage was connecting to the skin of his forehead in slow motion.

The connection was as usual in its cruel silence. Time dropped its dominion almost willingly to him, surrendered, while his eyes turned to sand, spilling parts of the now volatile eyeballs to the ground in a steady stream, letting his masks fall for the first time in a long while. All his masks. There was no pretense of humanity. There was no pretense of friendship, calmness, meekness. There was no pretense of vulnerability. All those masks he usually wore, all those parts that were him, they were gone. There was just Martin Stein. The timemancer. And stone crumbled at his touch.

It was over too soon in his experience. Much too soon. The hit connected, he slumped to the ground. Scrambled backwards a few feet. Just away from her. He rose. His hands were shaking. Violently. His legs were feeling like they might give up carrying him soon. Just a little bit.

He did not turn around. He did not excuse himself.

He left.

A door fell shut.

And Martin.

Fell.

Shadows were greeting him warmly. They knew no time.

The fear in his eyes was slow motion as she hit him in the forehead. Her own eyes widened excruciatingly slow as she watched him fall backwards and start to crawl like a crab toward the door. It was as if someone had pressed a button, then, for things sped up to normal speed just before he left the room.

The plant mutant stood in shock as the door slammed shut. Confusion was a war within her brain while she silently thought of what had just happened. He was afraid of her? She hadn’t meant to scare him… And what of herself? How was she not afraid of him after what had just happened.

Xavia slid to the floor onto her knees, the wind taken out of her angry sails, which was at least a good thing in all of this mess. She was slowly returning to her normal self, her olive skin, her black hair, and her pretty, caramel eyes… But it did not change the fact that someone had seen the full out monster she could be.

It would probably do no good to go after him, either. He would probably turn her away after what had just happened… Was she so ugly that he now hated her?