Anarchy in England

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Nov 30, 2009, 8:31am

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Anarchy in England :: England :: London :: Arrival

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Topic: Arrival (Read 11 times)

Kavick
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See, Believe, Feel the Wolf

Joined: Oct 2009
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Arrival
« Thread Started on Oct 26, 2009, 10:32am »

England. A country that is a part of Britain. England is a part of the United Kingdom. The continual rivalry of the now separated Irish and British was legendary, even to those overseas. The history of Britain was ancient, a majority of it lost in the sands and fires of time and guess work to the historians and archeologists who continuously found artifacts and items that baffled them over their uses. London itself, the heart of the country of England, was rich in rumors, in history, in blood and gore and fame and glory. It was beautiful by many. Ugly, maimed, and forgotten by others. Kavick, upon his arrival to London via an air plane, thought it was a wondrous sight. It was quite different than New York City or any other city he had seen. The cities he lived in and he had visited were mere flecks on the time line of existence and still had had not cultivated their own culture and language. But London, ah yes, London... It was said to be the place for his kind to go. It was risk for him to come, but with more of his kind around, the more job opportunities. There was no place like London...

He had now been in England for a little over a week. In the distance, he saw lights blink into existence in unison in the distance where the town was. The breeze was light and peppered with sand and a coolness from the water behind him. If he had not chosen to have the small house he rented on the beach taken off the power grid his house, too, would have turned on the wanted appliances. Instead, to save money and because modern technology was for the lazy, he bought candles and before the sun set he climbed onto the roof to draw the setting sun over the beach.

He would have liked to enjoy his arrival more but as the plane landed, there was a twinge in his throat that caused him to cover his mouth with the crook of his elbow, and a mild spasming in his lungs. He would have growled; if he had done so, he would have attracted unnecessary attention to himself. It was coming and of all the damn times. By habit and by experience he knew he had roughly another twelve hours before he was to be in the red zone and that meant he had a lot of work to do. As he slipped off the plane, he walked into the airport to be greeted by a concoction of voices that spoke every language, by humans who greeted arriving passengers and offered assistance if needed. Sweat, perfumes, deodorants, food stations and restaurants ran by the living. There were monitors that flashed LCD signs to instruct and advertise. The news rambled on about another supposed Mafia attack on a slaughter house and two civilians had died and then religious protests in the United States by Scientologists. It was one of the old science fiction movies come to life, except in an airport.

With ears that rung from the constant noise assault Kavick made his way to the rental car booth and was relieved to see an actual person there. One sniff told him she was human and the smile she gave him was hopeful, perhaps hoping that he was not what he was. He returned the smile and told her his false name. She asked for his credit card information. He reached into his pocket to remove the hacked card that was smaller than a card and carried all his necessary information.

"Peculiar," he said as he waved it beneath the beam of light that scanned the card. "That it is still called those here."

"Ayh, yah, I must admit, it's a bit peh-culiar," the woman behind the counter said as she confirmed the information. "Ol' slang, ya know." She paused after she asked him to sign the monitor before him and give his finger print. "Ya must not be from aruhnd here."

"No, certainly not," Kavick agreed. "New York. Damned Yankee."

"Yar accent is a bit off."

"My mother was Japanese."

"Ya dun't look it."

"No, I imagine I was kidnapped."

Kavick laughed along with her, though she did not know he was being serious. As he left with the tiny key bouncing in the palm of his hand and the smell of real air with its false floral scent outside he thought the woman's accent was a little off as well. He avoided the snapping jaws of a Pomeranian who thought it was a Mastiff and made his exit to the parking lot. The air had a bite to it and beneath the subtle exhaust fumes was the aroma of real leaves and damp soil. There were people rolling their luggage, their attention buried into the conversation on their speaking devices. There were children clutching their little bags and comfort toys as they tagged along behind their parents. Kavick watched this scene, a capture of the lives of these humans. How different it was from New York. Despite how many people there were in this parking lot it was considerably empty compared to the air ports of New York. It left him feeling nostalgic and missing his home city. The Pack that had territory in New York City was a young pack and they kept their distance from him as long as he kept his. Now he was in unknown territory, full of unknown Lycans, in a city run by Lycans...

After studying a map and entering directions into the GPS and still managing to lose his way a minimum of twenty times, Kavick found the town and he found the beach. A real estate agent and the internet had found him this little house on the beach for a rental price within his budget. Tomorrow, he aimed to return the rental car and use public transportation that was still far superior to that of the States. He had stopped by a store to buy tobacco, a kettle, a mug, tea and honey. And he had settled down for the storm. And it was a storm. A week long storm that left him sweating beneath a thin blanket he had brought along and throwing up in an old mop bucket between periods of consciousness. It was never pleasant; it left him completely vulnerable, completely open for attack. He had been lucky so far but who was to say his luck would continue along the way that it had?

Kavick snuffed the butt end of the cigarette on the roof. It was a traditional roof, not a solar paneled one that many of the roofs were these days. There were five potential clients. He would be lucky to get two out of the five and he was due to meet one at nine thirty in a restaurant on the beach. It was about a quarter of a mile away. The sketch pad that depicted a charcoal drawing of the sunset was closed and stuffed beneath his arm, hidden by the light jacket he wore, and he hopped off the roof and began his journey down the beach.

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