Gideon [Brink]

[Micah]

A man waits behind an old wooden desk. The office is tucked within one of the numerous ornate buildings that comprise Downtown Ponta Delgada. To the outside world, Micah is a self-employed financial consultant and he performs this role with admirable success. The business is not so much a front as it is a way to facilitate Micah’s need to have all his bases covered. Jericho might be comfortable leeching off the funds a life as an esquire provided him with, but Micah can find contentment only through constant work.

Today he will not be going over reports. He will not be analyzing numbers and positing solutions to companies in crisis. Today Micah is seeing to the other half of his life, the one where wolves and their culture reign. Ponta Delgada carries the scent of wolf but it is understated and nowhere near as thick as in Boston’s atmosphere. The conclusion he reached is that the native wolves are concentrated elsewhere, likely in one of Sao Miguel’s smaller towns. That does not mean they are content to let the intruders be. The attack against Jericho made it clear that Micah and his associates are not welcome.

They could leave and find less hostile territory, but Micah is committed. It is not a fever dream of paradise that drives him, but an intrinsic need to follow through with a plan once it is in place. To leave now would not only feel like failure, but it would deviate from the goal Micah has mapped out before him – and the mere thought of deviation makes the werewolf’s skin crawl. Besides, he has grown accustomed to the climate and has found it acceptable.

His grand plan is not a detailed blue print. The lines are dotted suggestions that together create an overall vague picture of an end goal. How he arrives at the last step is less important than arriving there. What Micah knows is that to accomplish anything, he requires the dedication of able-bodied and able-minded individuals. As of now, he has the support of Nathaniel, his brother, and a handful of werewolves either thrown out from the local pack or newly arrived. Hardly an army.

Old connections prove useful and Micah has used them in hopes of bolstering his roster. He did not ask questions beyond testing how committed the offered associate was, and whether he was capable of following instruction. What was promised was a bruiser, a killer, a dangerous individual with the capacity to send wolves running. Micah did not press because answers would not be forthcoming. The nature of the supernatural is to pray at the altar of discretion, and to remain devout.

With the local pack finally taking action against Micah’s fledgling group, he hopes that his old colleague will make good on his promise. Blue eyes linger on the wall mounted clock. The stranger has fifteen minutes before he is considered late. Twenty, before he is considered a broken deal.

[Trent]

Seventeen minutes was the count when the handle twisted.

There had been that prickling at his scalp, a faint pressure in his chest, the warning of his own diligent other half-- careful, careful-- as he laid his hand upon it. If only a mindless beast, Trent knows better than to ignore the urgings and signals it sent him in violent, erratic bursts. Fizzling popping radio static and then duck run dodge fight. Here, wariness was its suggestion and led him to hesitate almost an instant, fingers lingering in open air-- nearly half a day spent on flights, airports, cars and far too long since he had been given a decent job-- before snapping open the door. In this instance, he opts to throw aside the bears caution and hope for the best.

He has never liked the supernatural, even with the odds it not-so-insignificantly tipped in his favor. The odd, implacable variable that staggered hand in hand with the otherwordly. Ordinary businessman sprouting teeth and claws on a whim, goblin-children with sharp little teeth that bit and tore, an unnamed horror dragging itself out of the sewer in a slum outside Dubai-- plus there had been a particularly nasty experience with a dame who had taken up to collecting herself these little oddities.

The feel, the smell, is inherently canine. That much he can tell, like some mangy mutt had been dragging its ass on plush carpets or peeing in the corner. A continent and ocean away, his last job had been less savory. Gunning down drug-runners for some rival cartel. Too hot, too humid, too many people babbling in a language he could barely grasp. But at least there had been no werewolves. And the man was most certainly a werewolf.

A precursory nod from the disheveled shifter, and simply, "Mr. Malik."

Up to this point, Trent held little interest in empires, regimes, coups, or anything related. He was here, standing before the man behind the desk. He didn't know what dark dreams had built up in his head, what grand schemes he orchestrated or what he would bring to the native inhabitants, just that he was the one with need of Trent's abilities and presumably would be the one paying. For that, he would snap bones, disessemble, and bury whoever the big bossman instructed.

He was simple that way.

[Micah]

Blue eyes flick upwards to regard the stranger with an unreadable stare. Micah shuts a folder, places it neatly onto the desk and says nothing. Seconds pass until the minute hand of the clock twitches; it is then that Micah reclines and rests his cheek against the back of his fingers. ”You’re not what I expected.” The words are allowed to drift, to sink in, to draw up whatever conclusions the shifter is predisposed towards. ”That is a good thing.”

Caution is the key. The ability to weave in and out of the public eye unseen, an asset. The man before Micah is rugged and haggard, but does not inspire any mental red flags. ”My associate went over the monetary details of this…assignment with you. Otherwise I doubt you would be here.” He proceeds matter-of-factly, watching the shifter intently all the while.

There is a distinct aura of otherness radiating from Trent, but Micah is unaffected. Whether this is due to the catatonic state of the man’s wolf, or his natural apathy is difficult to discern. ”You come highly recommended.” The words practiced killer come to mind, yet Micah shows no hint of intimidation. ”You’ve a very impressive résumé – and an extensive history of violence.” They are leading statements; Micah wonders how controllable someone so capable might be. It is something he intends to test.

”I am sure they will serve us both well, but before we proceed, I need you to understand something—“ Micah meets Trent’s gaze dead-on and holds it. ”You answer to me, and only me. Not my brother – no one else. If anyone in the pack comes to you with an offer or an order, you run it by me first.” Micah is the pack boss, but the aforementioned terms are born from a more personal perspective. Though Micah possesses a sharp mind for business and politics, this serves him only as far as the human world extends.

The animal world is a different matter entirely. A capable man knows his weaknesses and Micah intends to fill in the pieces of his armor by use of individuals like Trent. ”Is that understood?” If the answer is negative, then Micah will kindly remind Trent where the door is.

It would be such a shame to waste all those travel expenses.