incognito [prp]

[Joe]

Never before had Joe been given any job of real importance by Malakai, so when she offered him the role of spy, he figured that it was an excuse to be rid of him. Apparently his only use was lap-pig and an outlet for her dramatic flair. Or maybe she was sending him out to be killed. That seemed just as likely.

Nevertheless he accepted the charge with as much grace as he accepted anything in life--

"Aaaww, c'mon Mal! I don't fuckin' wannnnaaa."

There was little room for argument when it came to the shuck, but he endeavored to do so anyways, even protested such injustice by flopping on her desk and making dying whale noises. To no avail. Normally, the shifter would resent such abuse, but he'd grown use to it and he was enjoying Boston too much to risk being verbally or physically disemboweled.

Eventually, when he picked himself up off the carpet, Joe snatched away the address and stomped down the stairs to a sleek black car awaiting on the street. It was freezing outside. He had no jacket. He'd make sure she knew about that afterwards. The heater on full blast, he pulled away from the curb and nearly took out a bicyclist.

Joe didn't actually have a driver's license. Or much driving experience. Bravely, he muddle through, only assaulting two street lights and one pedestrian as he argued with the GPS-- "I CAN'T FUCKING TURN HERE STOP TELLING ME TO TURN!!!"-- before reaching the hastily scribbled address. So began the stalking. Which wasn't as fun as you'd expect. He understood even less now why people did it. She, the girl he was supposed to creep behind for the foreseeable future, lived a perfectly ordinary life doing perfectly ordinary things and it made Joe want to cry out of boredom. Eating, breathing, walking, so mind-numbingly dull that he thought he was going to shrivel up and die in the driver's seat of the scraped and scratched car. She was pretty at least. That was a small consolation.

For three hours, he cruises behind her car, ditching it on occasion, when circumstances deem necessary and when a hotdog vendor caught his eye.

Eventually, the pretty girl enters an apartment. Joe, well Joe, sits for an hour and a half in the car and leaves Mal six messages to make sure she understands the inconsiderable burden she has placed on his shoulders (plus one extra to make walrus noises and bitch until the machine cut him off.) Fiddling with the radio, then the GPS (it now spoke with a Swedish accent), he failed to see his target leave the building

and spot him.

and head straight for his scrawny ass.

[Sabra]

Sabra felt like she was walking on air. James' scent was still heavy on her skin and the warmth of him was still about her, more than enough to ward off the chill of the Boston winter. A pick me up between shift changes did wonders to improve the mood, as well as distract her from the reality of wolves and ever changing monarchs.

For a few moments, life was good.

Then she sees the car parked across the street, the one that she had been sure was tailing her for a better portion of the day. She recognizes the shiny black vehicle, and the guy sitting behind the driver's seat. Before sense can enter the equation, Sabra has crossed the road with set teeth and a curled fist.

She gives Joe the courtesy of pounding against the window before grabbing the handle and yanking the door open, lips pulled back in an ugly snarl that showed one too many pearly whites. Tenuous control is near to the snapping point in the face of such a threat to her territory, to her pack. "What the fuck do ya think you're doin'? You spyin'?" Her questions come rapid fire and while one clawed hand reaches to grab the collar of his shirt the other reaches for the knife on her hip and flicks the blade out with a speed come of long practice. If Joe manages to dodge the grab, there will still be the issue of the knife, held with white knuckled fingers.

It takes little more than one inhale to establish the 'who' of the mystery and Sabra's anger does nothing but escalate. That snorting hog in the office is this man here and she curses herself for not thinking of that variable, of the capabilities of a shifter to hear and see, hidden behind the cloak of a dumb animal. The type of damage they could inflict once they changed back. "Malakai's 'lil squealer, eh?" A glance is spared to the outside world, even Sabra is not completely blind in the hold of the wolf. Thankfully, James' neighborhood is a sleepy place and the streets are empty, absent of witnesses.

The man she guards so viciously is asleep in his bed, where she left him and if she plays her cards right, won't ever be the wiser to this incident. She slides in the passenger seat and closes the door with surprising gentleness, although the look she gives Joe is far from that. "Drive." The order might not be so intimidating coming from a woman that has to lean forward to look over the dashboard, but the inhuman growl that follows it might convince Joe to listen.

That and the serrated switchblade.

It's a scene straight from one of those Law & Order episodes, but god damn it, Sabra has nothing better up her sleeve. James was more than capable of taking care of himself, if she thought rationally about it, but there was also the matter of his little girl--and really it was the principal of the whole thing. Spying on her own cousin. Using a pig.

Sabra felt damned insulted and unfortunately for Joe, even having been laid a few minutes prior wasn't enough to dull the edge of the wolf's rage, nor her's.

"I'll cut you throat to asshole if you don't tell me exactly what you're doin' here." She narrows her eyes at one of the street signs and the squawking of the automated voice on the GPS system. "Take a left."

"Recalculating."

[Joe]

By now, one would think Joe had grown used to death threats and possibly fatal situations. He had had a knife pulled on him (on more than one occasion), a gun pointed at him, faced down an angry boar-hunter, been run over by a rickshaw, and been bitten by a possibly rabid child. All this, of course, was leaving out everything that had happened since his meeting with Malakai. The innumerable ghosts, exorcisms, and dinner parties he had since endured should have prepared him for the meeting that was soon to come as he suddenly sat bolt upright in his seat and turned towards the danger.

She was looking at him-- right at him-- walking towards him.

'Aaaah fuck me, this is bad' he mentally assessed, as his hands skittered for the power-locked button. The target, now deemed THE THREAT, pounded on the window while he succeeded in adjusting the side mirrors and opening the sunroof. Comes close to being pulled out of the driver's seat as the door is yanked open and he makes a failed attempt to slam it shut. "What the fuck do ya think you're doin'? You spyin'?" Scrambling backwards, he's halfway onto the passenger seat, trying to place as much room between himself and the knife that materializes in her grip. Quick hands keep here from getting ahold of him, but there's still a blade too close for comfort. "I -- WHA T -- UH--" Mal you motherfucker.

"Malakai's 'lil squealer, eh?"

The name gives him pause, steels him for at least the brief moment. "I'm not 'er bitch if that's what yer sayin'! I'm not her type." he snaps back at her. Apparently wood-nymphs or some weird shit like that was what got her going. it really wasn't any of his business. Each to their own, yeah? "Oh wait, I see, 's a pig joke. Yer certainly a funny one aren't you, sweetheart?" Of course, despite the show, his eyes never leave the tool with which she could most certainly cut him. Looks psycho enough to even do it. Fucking werewolves. Fucking Mal.

Still, the fact that she knows who he works for is more of a relief than a further cause for fear. Knows that he is in in fact pretty much her bitch, then maybe she'll be less inclined to knife him. Knows that anyone who knew the almighty Malakai would at least pause before crossing her, and in that brief moment before she's murdered, maybe he can get away. That thought, that simple little thought, emboldens him. Then she climbs in the car (he's now pressed up against the door, still trying to keep a distance) and that courage shrivels up a little and there's a churning in his gut. Maybe it's the three hotdogs he's eaten since this escapade. Or maybe it's willpower. Who knows.

"Drive."

Fer fucks sake." He's being threatened by a angry werewolf munchkin and you know what, he's getting real sick of this shit-- being told what to do and refusing and then ending up doing it anyways. Teeth grind and he punches the steering wheel. The horn goes off and startles him. This is not going to end well for one or both of them, but he throws the car into drive. Or thinks he does. Foot stops down on the gas and they shoot backwards into a parked car. "MOTHERFUCKIN--" Throws it into drive and they peel out, angry screeching tires matching his declining mental state.

"I'll cut you throat to asshole if you don't tell me exactly what you're doin' here. Take a left."

Shoots a look her way, a deepening frown tugs his mouth down in judgement. "Okay okay we get it, you have a fuckin knife like wavin' it around wasn't enough to get the point across. Turnin' left." What if he just plowed into a wall. Probably have a better chance of surviving that than his current predicament.

"Recalculating."

Like he didn't have enough going on, like Mal sending him to his almost certain death and this gal trying to murder him, there was this electronic motherfucker telling him where to go. Well, no more. NO MORE. "SHUT YOUR DIRTY MOUTH YOU USELESS PILE OF SHITE. YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU'RE FUCKING GOING YOU WHORE." Rips the cord out and throws the entire device in the backseat. Clearly empowered, he turns towards his captor, he shrieks, "And neither do I, so why don't ya fucking tell me where it is that you think you're taking me?"

[Sabra]

Malakai's lap-pig responds reasonably well to commands; she must have trained him. If Sabra didn't know her dear cousin was a clam digger, she'd figure that Joe was kept around for a whole different set of reasons--other than making for an errand runner. People with money to spare did that type of thing, had plenty of sausage on the side. Sabra guessed Mal preferred having a good stock of fish about.

Not much of a spy though. He keeps his eye on the knife, mouth running like a motor.

"Call me sweetheart again and ya won't think I'm funny no more." She narrows her eyes with a snarl that doesn't belong in a human throat. It'd been a while since she had cornered prey, the type that bleated and squeaked and did all those interesting things that made the wolf just salivate. Sabra wonders what Joe's pig form would look like on a spit, slowly roasted over a roaring fire with liberal application of a spice rub. It's been a while since she had real home style barbecue and the thought makes her stomach growl. What could she say? James had given her a real work out and threatening to gut people and all the effort that went along with car jacking made her awful damned hungry.

It could be considered cannibalism, but since he was only half human and she was only half human, well...it wasn't a moral conundrum, not to her at least. Sabra found she wasn't often afflicted by such quandaries of morals.

The car reverses with a squeal of the tires and the blasting of the horn, more than enough to temporarily jolt her grip on the knife. "Jesus!" Her efforts to avoid attention are for naught, and wide-eyed she hangs onto the ceiling handle, debating on jamming the tip of the knife into his leg just to teach him a lesson. They get honked at and Sabra hears more than a few Boston voices of "FUCK YOU," and "LEARN TO DRIVE, BUDDY." Right now, she's calculating how hard it'd be to explain to James why she needed a body moved and a car dumped in the harbor. Who'd miss him?

The whine of the digitized Swedish woman cuts off abruptly as Joe yanks the GPS from its cord--and nearly brains her in the process. By this time, Sabra has half a mind to stab herself and spare her ears the pain of the pig man's wailing. "Take another left at the stop sign." She deadpans, eyes shifting from the road to the shifter in the driver's seat.

Sabra is quiet for a long moment, thinking it over. There were plenty of options, she could just as easily lead him back to her apartment and have a nice sit down talk accompanied by a whole range of instruments that could be used to usher Joe into an opera career, singing in soprano. Still, there's the matter of her growling stomach and the growling wolf. "We are gettin' somethin' to eat and you are payin', dumbass. Turn right in a coupla miles, you'll see the place. Got a hog on it." Thankfully, they were close to one of her favorite restaurants, who happened to serve good pork and knew her well enough that the waiters greeted her by name.

When they arrive at their point of destination, Sabra flicks the pocketknife closed, returns it to her hip and pulls down the car mirror to smooth her hair back in place and make sure her eyes weren't as blue as the beast's. Had a tendency to freak folks out.

"Pull yourself together. I got a hankerin' for a side of ribs. An' we need to have a lil' talk. Clear ya up on some things."

She slams the door shut and waits for James Bond to follow.