Description: Marisol, on the prowl for Wellington and the missing Preston ... uh ... Preston II ... uh. Well, Marisol finds Wellington -- that is, James Wellington, the brother of the Duke! Will she find the information she needs, or is she about to walk into a pinch factory?
It was a dark and stormy night. Especially stormy. Of course, given that it is winter in Japan that just means heavy snow fall. The harbor is thick with ice, but that doesn't matter right now, even if it does annoy Godzilla a fair bit.
But the weather won't stop an intrepid adventurer. Spin-offs are seldom successful, but for this night and this night alone, Marisol P.I. is on the case. And that case has led her down to the docks, past shivering vagrants and bums warming their hands over big cans with fire within them.
The weather is treacherous, but it's not dangerous to go alone; not for Marisol. The fiery half-Spaniard has her nose to the ground, likely not literally, to a scent that threatens to go as cold as the weather.
A simple phrase, yet powerful information; Wellington, the father of Preston Alistair Wellingon the II that they all know and ... know, dropped the name of a relation. The brother. Preston's uncle, whom he trained with daily. And Marisol O'Connell -- ever the plucky leader that she is -- set off down to the docks to find just that person.
Thus, it snows. There are a lot of warehouses there to be searched. Finding a Wellington here may be like finding a needle in a haystack. Wherever will she start?
On this particularly dark and icy evening, Marisol is out on a mission.
Wrapped in a thick pink down jacket and jeans, the half-Spaniard stalks through territory she likely shouldn't be. These are the docks, a less-than pleasant place to be - especially if you're a young and nubile thing that looks very much out of place amongst dock workers burning the midnight oil, or the bum huddling around a fiery can for warmth.
Yes, Marisol does not belong here normally; today, however, she has a purpose.
Pás mentioned in passing she heard a curious tidbit from the elder Wellington in their encounter. Wellington the I had a brother in town, Preston's mysterious uncle and trainer. She had never pursued looking into whether or not the young fighter was full of shit or not. But now, more than ever, she has a reason to be looking for a member of the Wellington lineage.
She went ahead, without Pás. Would the Brazilian girl be upset? Marisol isn't sure. But she had to find out something - anything - to the whereabouts of her teammate.
But currently, the half-Spaniard girl finds herself face with a predicament. There are numerous warehouses to be investigated, and only one Wellington present - if she's lucky. Gray eyes survey the rows of warehouses, full lips pulled tightly across her sun-kissed face. Where would he be..?
"WELLINGTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!" the girl decides to roar at the top of her lungs.
"COME ON OUT! I KNOW YOU'RE HERE!!"
Hey, it's a start?
The best laid plans of mice and men. This would not be one of them. Into the frigid air, Marisol screams her lungs out, demanding an audience with the elusive and the unknown; which Wellington will she beckon forth, if either?
Silence is her answer.
Time ticks by.
Then there's a soft chuckle. An American speaks from the side, over by the can of fiery warmth. Disheveled, homeless, and wearing the tattered brown of a beggar, he could well be anyone; a tourist left stranded, a billionaire playboy on a search for inner being, the next victim for a madman in a limousine.
But tonight, perhaps he's destined to be Marisol's guardian angel. "You won't find anyone that way. If you're looking for someone, I'd suggest you try the office down that way," he informs her, pointing the way she was already facing, towards the squat little office building.
"Not sure if anyone's there this late though, but it's worth a try," he adds, returning to the warmth that only a can full of fire can offer for the homeless.
Unfortunately, yelling out the Wellington name into a cold, unforgiving night. Truth be told, Marisol rushed into this a bit unprepared. But as far as the redhead is concerned, they don't have a lot of time to dally around. Any day he could leave the country. And if that happens?
Well, that douchebag Briton would accomplish precisely what he set out to do. And if there's one thing the girl refuses, it is precisely that.
But it would appear that her efforts are met with nothing. The darkness replies with little more than uncomfortable silence, drawing a scowl across the girl's tanned features. It can't end like this. She can't come this far, to find nothing.
A sneakered foot stomps harshly against icy asphalt, her eyes hooding sharply as irritation takes over. Breathing in deeply, the redhead begins to draw in a sharp breath, to scream at empty air once more. Maybe..!
But her efforts are cut short by a voice.
Whipping around, the girl eyes the beggar by his fire, brows lifting in muted disbelief. Office..? Furrowing her brows, Marisol squints at the man, before she turns to follow his finger.
"Oh, thanks!" she chimes, pivoting on her heel and jogging for the office. And when she gets there?
The girl kicks the door in.
"Wellington?!"
The beggar returns to his life of fiery warmth. As Marisol runs off down the street, a limousine pulls up. The window rolls down. A hand comes out...
Bang goes the door, forced upon under the strong heel of the boxer. Wood splinters, but it definitely gives way, allowing access to the office within. And as one would expect, it's an office. There's a front desk, but the lights are off.
There's only one person home. "Nani?!" a voice sounds from down the hall.
Cleaning services are here, one woman in particular. She probably knows a lot of things and is good with knots, but for the moment she ducks her head out from behind a turn in the hall to see just who this intrepid adventurer is.
Also of note; she is armed with a wet mop, and she is not afraid to use it.
The door swings open wide, banging wildly against the adjacent wall. Gray eyes are wide as she calls out the familiar name, staring into that darkness. It draws a scowl across her lips, hands curling into fists before she swings a hand out. Her palm strikes the wall, groping around the darkness for a light switch. Distantly, the half-Spaniard catches wind of the surprised cry down the hallway. Someone is here..?
The moment the woman peeks her head out from the corner, Marisol's eyes lock on her. Without missing a beat the redhead marches forward, right for the mop-wielding woman, hands stuffing into her pockets as she marches forward. As the girl sees it, if she has her hands in the pockets of her coat, maybe she won't seem AS threatening.
"Hey," the girl offers, eyeing the woman as she draws near. "I'm looking for someone around this part of town. His name is probably Wellington? He's also probably British...and foul mouthed...and maybe racist...?" If the Wellingtons are all the same, that is.
Marisol figures that they very likely are.
"Have you see him? I need to talk to him as soon as possible."
Putting one's hands into one's pockets of a coat and then approaching is not always the best of ideas. The woman has a frightened moment where she thinks Marisol is hiding a pistol within the jacket. Then the strict gun laws come back to mind.
Plus there's the fact that she's armed with a mop.
Holding it in front of her, she keeps Marisol back, listening to what she has to say. She frowns slightly, parsing the words, before finally she starts to get really excited. "Ah! Ah! I know who you mean! You mean Wellington!"
Then, she looks very upset. "He pinch bottom! He fresh! You no want to see him, he pinch your bottom too!" Her fingers pinch for emphasis, threateningly, but she doesn't go through with the deed.
She does, however, stand firm on her declaration; surely Marisol, a lovely young girl who kicks in doors for a living, doesn't want to go and see that barbarian of a man known as Wellington with his pinching fingers.
Mindful to give the frightened Asian woman her distance, Marisol keeps her hands in her cozy pockets, her gray-eyed gaze fixed on the tiny woman with her mop. Red brows furrow softly as the woman frowns in response. Is that a bad thing? Maybe she doesn't know where Wellington is after all? A sigh begins to escape the girl's lips. But then--!
Unexpectedly, the Asian woman gets animated, waving her hands about and making pinching gestures. So he's a fresh? Somehow she's not surprised; the very thought brings a wry smirk to the girl's lips. "Well, it's kind of important that I DO, so." Sighing, the half-Spaniard lightly tosses her head, casting stray locks off her shoulders.
"Please tell me where he is? I need to meet with him about his nephew. It's very important. So, if you would..?"
"You crazy! You no want find him, he pinch you!" It's one last attempt by the Asian woman to dissuade Marisol from a fate worse than death, but it seems that the young half-Spaniard will have none of that. She did kick the door in though, so that may be a good sign... but this janitor has seen Wellington do worse.
With a sigh of defeat, she explains how to find the person the fiery-maned girl is after. "Warehouse 49," she repeats several times, pointing further down the wharf. All of the warehouses are numbered, large and obvious, in plain numbers as opposed to the Japanese.
But she gives one last warning. "You be careful! He pinch!"
What a dire situation the girl must find herself in now. But the walk ahead is only moderately long, the warehouses counting up towards the one mentioned. Warehouse 49; it's somewhat rundown, and there's a door to the side which is unlocked.
But this girl kicks doors, right?
"I don't care!" the girl argues swiftly, eyes wide as she shouts back. "I'm in a hurry here! I have to talk to him, and my ass is the last thing on my mind!" Indeed - Marisol could care less. Her interests are more vested in finding the other, mysterious Wellington and seeing if she can get some help. Any help. If she doesn't, well...
To the delight of Marisol, the janitor woman gives up the warehouse. Immediately the half-Spaniard girl's face lights up with glee, gray eyes twinkling like stars as she beams a bright smile. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaims, bowing her head politely before she pivots on her heel. "Warehouse 49, got it!" A hand lifts over a shoulder in parting. The woman's words grace her ears. Pinch?
"Got it!" she calls, jogging out the door. Without pausing the redhead jogs along, counting every warehouse along the way. And when she reaches 49 the girl plants her heels, skidding lightly against the ice-coated asphalt. Gray eyes briefly survey the dilapidated building, head tilting lightly before she smirks.
"Finally."
She doesn't bother opening the door. Instead, a sneakered foot shoots up and forward, kicking the door in like before.
"WELLINGTON!?"
With only one care in the world, Marisol starts off again. The half-Spaniard charges, jogging without pause for her own well-being. This late at night, the dockworkers certainly watch her progress; she only has to dodge two forklifts however, so it isn't too bad. But eventually, she reaches her goal.
And bang goes another door.
This one doesn't give in as easily, but it gives in. Tonight, the half-Spaniard is fueled by other forces than her own, her genuine desire to seek out and find her lost teammate paramount and at the forefront of her mind. It gives her kick extra umph. Nothing can stand in her way this evening, in her pursuit of justice.
The call rings out inside the warehouse. Her immediate view is that of a pile of massive metal shipping containers, but there's a path leading to each side. Once she clears the containers, the interior of the warehouse is obvious enough. There's a big training circle in the middle, and a variety of hanging ropes, along with quite a lot of coiled, heavy rope. There are also anchors. The place looks fairly shady to say the least; particularly the big row of crates down the back there, where people should not pry.
A few walkways run from the roof, and there's a second level with a doorway up there as well... but for the moment, it seems that there's no one inside. That is, until a presence suddenly slams down behind Marisol!
And a hand goes for her hiney--!!
Marisol doesn't care one bit. All she concerns herself with is finding this man, following the one and only lead that she and her team have been able to discern from the mysterious elder Wellington. At the moment, nothing in the world worries her. No bums, no weird foreigners; nothing. Tonight she is fearless!
Reaching the warehouse, the half-Spaniard kicks the door in and calls out into the darkened facility. Gray eyes search over the area before her, the curious set up that is laid out and the odd anchors and ropes littered about. What the hell?
"This has to be the place," she murmurs, hands stuffing into her coat pockets once more. "Hello?!"
Stepping toward the ring, Marisol loiters about, searching over the crates and everything her eyes can see. But before she can really get a good look of the place, a sudden presence makes itself known to her, hitting the warehouse floor behind her with an audible THUD. But before the girl can swivel around and meet it--
--She's pinched on the ass.
Screaming loudly, the girl whips around with newfound zeal, eyes wide and furious as she barks, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! JERK!!" A leg swings out shortly afterwards, attempting to kick...whoever... in the junk.
What a sudden and inexplicable change of events this scenario undergoes. Standing there, searching in vain for the owner of the warehouse, Marisol O'Connell suddenly finds herself assaulted by an unknown figure! Dropping down behind her, fingers pinch down firmly into her fleshy posterior, truly sampling the derriere that the unique blend between the Irish and Spanish can create!
Thus she turns, and what a sight is before her. Tall and broad, like all of the Wellington's, it's easy to picture this one as being a part of that lineage. Shoulders seem to go on forever, and the hand that just grabbed her rear is held up to the dangling lights overhead.
"Ahh, another victim on my wall, another rear to memorize for all eternity!" the man bursts with glee. Long hair, thick and bushy, seems to go out of his head from every direction. Shirtless, clad only in three-quarter length pants, he's definitely tanned. His voice is deep, certainly British, but it's the glee that's so out of place.
What other member of the family has ever showed such happiness? Certainly not anyone that Marisol has met so far.
A glance down to see how successful her foot was should show that it wasn't. His other hand has neatly caught the foot, holding it in place. Those pinching fingers pinch up at the overhead lights. "Ahhh, so soft," he murmurs the words sweetly.
And then he grimaces, suddenly hunching over, releasing her foot entirely as he clutches at his side. Upon closer inspection, he's rather bruised.
For the briefest moment, Marisol is stunned by what stands before her. Unlike Preston or Wellington the I, this man seems almost like some sort of weird antithesis. He certainly has Preston's perversion, but the two..? Well, it's almost like looking at night and day. But that's the last thing on her mind for that fateful moment.
Because a foot reacts instantly, swinging up and punting the man straight in his junk.
Or tries to, rather.
Her foot intercepted, the redhead just scowls in response, her leg jerking as she tries to pull it back. "Let me go, pervert!" she exclaims, yanking hard. "You're a freak! Just like your nephew and your brother! What is WRONG with the Wellington family, anyway!?"
Stepping back and away, the girl is clearly on the defensive, eyes wide as she watches the every move of this strange man. Surveying him more thoroughly, she notes the attire and the crazy hair. Can it be..? This man? His uncle? No way.
Wrinkling her nose, the girl asks, bluntly, "Are you a hobo?"
But suddenly and quite unexpectedly the man hunches forward and holds onto himself, drawing a bemused expression across her features. The half-Spaniard hesitates, her hands in her pockets curling into loose fists before she asks, cautiously,
"A...are you okay?"
Any attempt at answering the questions is put on hold as the big bronzed man folds over, grimacing and clutching at his body in obvious discomfort. "Ah, t'is just a flesh wound," he explains, waving a hand -- dangerously close to her bosom -- in an attempt to prove that he's perfectly fine.
With a groan, he finally just sits down, provided Marisol doesn't help him down there with another kick or potentially a punch. The girl is a boxer after all.
Heaving a sigh, this Wellington looks up at the girl. Upon even closer inspection, he's wearing an eye patch. "Did you call me a hobo?" he suddenly asks, pausing in the hurtful rocking motion he was managing so well. "I'm not a hobo!
"I own this warehouse! I eat like a king! I even own a boat or three!"
His arms spread wide, as if to gesture to his domain. But then he hunches over again, groaning from those injuries that paint his body a fanciful color. "And you must be that delicious Pas that Preston keeps talking about! Your ass is just as firm as he told me, ha ha ha!"
The laughter cuts off to coughing though, and the tanned Wellington simply lies back, groaning as he mildly writhes in what would appear to be agony.
Squinting at the man before her, the girl decides he's an awful liar. Her hands slide out of her pockets, folding neatly under her bosom as she just stares at the man with an expression of obvious disbelief. The hand near her bosom is noted, but she says nothing. It doesn't bother her - in fact, she's pretty used to people going for her chest. If anything, her expression darkens.
It lightens a bit as he seats himself down in front of her, however. Fortunately for the other Wellington, the half-Spaniard girl just offers a lopsided smirk, gray eyes hooding in mild amusement. "Yeah, I called you a hobo. You LOOK like a hobo," she clarifies. But when he gestures, those eyes drift, eyeing the warehouse as she listens to his proclamations.
"You do?" she asks. "I'm not sure if you should gloat about living in a WAREhouse."
But when he mentions who she possibly may be the mysterious Brazilian girl of her team, the girl's features darken considerably. "NO!" she barks, as the groaning Wellington lay back groaning in agony. "My NAME is Marisol, you ass!" Only after does she move, circling around the man and peering down into his face with her hands on her hips.
"Now tell me where I can find that dickhead brother of yours. I need to get Preston back and away from that freak." A finger jerks forward, thrusting in the man's face. "So tell me where I can find them!"
Whether his intention to try and grope her was deliberate or otherwise, the man isn't successful however much Marisol attempts to get her arms in underneath said bosom and push it into reach. All of the ladies want James to touch them! That's probably why the Wellington Brothers don't get along in the first place.
Lying back and getting her name wrong seems to raise the ire of the fiery half-Spaniard. That hair of hers flaps, snapping like true flames as her words spit forth. "Ahh, ahh, gomen!" the middle-aged man manages, waving his hands apologetically.
A hobo, though. Clearly he's a pirate.
"You must be the mean one who he says has a rod up her backside then! Well, don't sweat that, his little crush won't taint my opinion of someone until I've seen this rod for myself! And so far, you're soft in all the right places!"
There's more laughter, followed by more coughing. Finally he just leans back and groans up at the ceiling of the warehouse. Did she ask him a question? It doesn't seem like he heard it, but ten again he likely did. He's probably just not answering.
Maybe he needs something... sweet.
Maybe this was a mistake?
That's the first thought that crosses the girl's mind, as the old self-proclaimed 'pirate' lays down and tries to recover from his bruising and wounds. But there's no time for this, the half-Spaniard girl reminds herself. She needs to find that idiot Preston and his stupid father and rally the others to beat the shit out of Wellington..!
But, ah. She's getting ahead of herself.
"Tch!" the girl remarks, tossing her head lightly to one side as he apologizes for the obvious confusion. But when he clarifies, the girl's face flushes, her eyes wide before she scowls visibly, angered at the very idea. Maybe Preston is better off going back to England, she wonders in that moment of anger.
"I'm not going to let you touch me, you fucking creep!" the girl cries, jabbing a finger at his face as she leans forward. "All I want to know is where that asshole brother of yours is, and where I can possibly find your nephew. But you're not being ANY help!"
His lack of response just cements this belief. Her expression darkens.
The moments tick by, and with every passing second the girl gets increasingly irritable. Glaring down at the older man with angry gray eyes, Marisol's full lips pull tightly across her face. Does he even care? Does this all even MEAN something to this hobo pirate?
Marisol exhales loudly, shoulders sagging deeply.
"Look," the girl states. "Just tell me where he is and I'll call a doctor or something. Judging by what I've seen thus far, I can probably guess right that your brother stopped by to pay you an unwanted visit, right?" Peering intently at the old Wellington, her hands rest akimbo on her hips.
"Or maybe YOU tried to get him back? Either way, you're hurt. You probably need a doctor. I'm willing to help you out, if you help ME. I think that's a bit fair, don't you? ...now."
Pausing, the girl bends forward even further, long red locks falling past her shoulders as she stares down at the pirate Wellington.
"PLEASE tell me where I can find the both of them!"
Getting ahead of herself and not working the right direction to get information out of the injured hobo pirate, that's the problem Marisol currently faces. But she persists; she always persists. The girl is a natural fighter, and there's no denying that her drive... may just get her through.
The injured Wellington simply remains lying there, watching as she speaks on and on to him. It's clear that he's not being helpful, and he must have his reasons for it. But once she all but begs him, leaning over him like that, he spends a very long moment staring up at her.
In that moment, he sees the drive within her.
His brow furrows. He reaches an inner conflict.
"You really think you can get him back?" he asks quietly, hinting that perhaps, indeed, James has come to blows with his brother concerning this very situation. He leaves it at that, his question delivered without the usual rancor and near-giddiness that the rest of his actions seem to have.
From what she's seen so far, it isn't hard to tell where Preston -- the one Marisol knows and cares for -- gets his more defining traits from. But there it is, that serious edge in the prone pirate.
Reaching up, threatening to do something very, very gross. His hand nears that eye patch, and he flips it back--!!
Revealing a perfect good eye beneath it. "You know what he's capable of. You really think you can win?"
Part of the half-Spaniard figures the hobo pirate Wellington is merely skirting around the subject at hand, his intentions likely meant for the best. If he can frustrate Marisol into giving up pressing him for answers, then maybe the girl will just give up and move on. If so,well…
He's not going to succeed at it. Marisol is far too determined to get the answers she wants and make right this perceived wrong.
Leaning forward at the waist, the redheaded girl just stares the older man in the eye. She waits on pins and needles for the answer to come to her. Will he cave in and help her out? Or will he shrug her off?
Surprisingly, the man speaks to her. It causes the half-Spaniard to blink in muted disbelief. Can they get him back? "Of course!" she replies, still peering down at the wounded man with her hands on her hips. Despite James' wounds, the girl does not seem ruffled by the idea there could be dreadful consequences for the actions of...well, everyone who wants to punch the elder Wellington in the face.
Standing at full height once more, the girl turns away from the reclining man and paces a few steps from his prone form. "Yeah, how many times do I have to tell you before you get it through your obviously dense skull?" Glancing back over a shoulder, the girl's full lips pull into a thin line.
"So stop repeating yourself and tell me where I can find them! I'm tired of asking!"
The unveiling of the eye patch proves to be quite the anti-climax, as it turns out that the supposedly hobo-pirate James Alfred Wellington is simply acting the part of the pirate. Although those crates in the corner speak another story entirely, but that isn't why the young half-Spaniard is here.
Clearly injured, lying back for ease of breathing, it's clear that the man is in little condition to actually be of assistance in the quest that Marisol has been charged with. But it seems he's not needed. This young girl is full of self-confidence, not even slightly disabused from the notion of rescuing the missing member of Pacific Resistance.
As she walks away, James simply watches her. Yes, he decides. This girl has spunk. And he certainly wouldn't mind, if he were younger--!!
"He could be in a few places. You'll need to check them all, but he's had his son for what, three, four days now? Probably longer. I'm not really sure when he swooped into town, and I sure didn't know he was coming until last night.
"That brother of mine is a handful."
Still though, he seems reluctant to tell her the exact location. "The Navy has a few little outposts, but he won't keep him there. This isn't above-board. He's doing it on the sly, since he's got that Admiralty Board of his he likes to swing around." James rubs the side of his face, as if he'd been hit by said board. He very likely was.
"More likely, it'll be one of the places sailors stay at. Some place with a back room. Maybe a pawn shop, but..." James shrugs. "That seems slightly unlikely.
"You'd be looking more at warehouses, sailor-friendly places. There's a few bars you could check at as well; see if you can find his men.
"He's a smart guy. I don't think he'll have an obvious sign out."
"He kind of appeared out of nowhere, really," the girl replies, peering at James from over a shoulder. "At least, I would have never expected him to sneak into Southtown and forcibly take his son home." She grows silent a moment, brows knitting softly before she lightly scoffs in disgust. Honestly, it's pathetic! But she's straying from the situation at hand.
Turning on her heels, Marisol faces the hobo-pirate of Southtown's harbors once more, features fixed in a stern expression. Resting her hands on her hips again, the half-Spaniard girl listens closely to the man's advice. Maybe they've gotten themselves into more than they can proverbially chew, evident by the man's condition and what they've endured separately...
But she just doesn't care.
"'Admiralty Board?'" she asks, looking puzzled by the phrase. She considers pressing the matter further, but...would it matter?
Shaking her head lightly, she dismisses the thought for now. Her concerns are in finding and getting revenge against the elder Wellington. "Alright, so warehouses and bars?" Frowning lightly at the very idea, the girl's hand lifts, idly rubbing her neck as she mulls. This won't be an easy endeavor - for anyone involved.
The girl delivers a light, frustrated yelp, hands dropping to her sides. "He's your brother!" she cries. "Don't you know where some weirdo like him would be in a town like this?" Exhaling in frustration, Marisol paces back a few steps, arms folding over her chest as she further contemplates.
Time ticks by, but ultimately her frustration... earns her very little.
"It's not like we're bloody close," James Alfred Wellington declares, frowning momentarily up at the irate, frustrated girl. What does she expect? This is a family that beats each other up as a means by which to say hello; they don't seem the type to exchange pleasantries, or would-be secret hideouts.
The information she should need has been revealed, but it seems that Marisol proves lazy, wanting more, unwilling to simply get out there and do the hard search herself. "He didn't spell out his itinerary while he was punchin' me in the ribs, and he didn't go droppin' a bloody set of matches with the hotel he's stayin' at either. Try ringin' the consulate, see if they can direct you in the right direction."
A touch exasperated himself, Wellington gingerly rises to his feet, nursing his ribs still. Like a bear, he looks about ready to try hibernating for the rest of winter, if not simply drown his sorrows in a pint or three.
"Like I said though, check where sailors hang out. Try the Maulin' Gypsy. Odd bloody name, but they serve warm beer.
"That always gets the sailors in."
"I never presumed you were!" the half-Spaniard argues back, eyes narrowing swiftly as she thrusts a finger at the man's face. "But you should know him better than anyone else here in Southtown. And since Preston is obviously not here, you're the only other person we have left to turn to!" Frowning sharply, Marisol's features lighten, giving way to a regretful expression.
"It's not like I wanted to bother you anyway. I'm sure you have your own things to do." Exhaling deeply, her shoulders sag as she gently shakes her head. "So I apologize. But you're the only lead we had. And we need your help, if we're going to help him. You want to help your nephew, right?"
But his suggestion draws her once-regretful expression into one of bemusement, eyes widening ever so slightly. He's giving names, now? Blinking once, slowly, the half-Spaniard's lips pull into a tiny grin, features brightening. "Maulin' Gypsy?" she echoes, tapping a finger against her chin.
"You think so, huh?"
Well, if that doesn't work, she wagers...there's the consulate, as he suggested.
Marisol shrugs amiably.
"Okay then, Maulin' Gypsy it is. Thank you, mister Wellington." Politely, the girl bows her head to the man, long red locks spilling past her shoulders. A moment later she lifts her head, a brilliant smile plastered across her sun-kissed features, her expression sincere.
"I mean it - thank you. I owe you a lot." She pauses.
Her features shift, expression stern.
"And nothin' gross."
Does the would-be pirate wish to help his nephew? There's a begrudging nod given as the question is made, but it seems that James is simply unable to take part in the fight that is to come. From the sound of it, this girl may win Preston back through sheer tenacity alone.
Or sheer annoyance. She does seem a touch annoying; he really must berate his nephew for such an awful choice in... well, whatever she is to him.
For his part, it seems that this Wellington -- certainly more helpful and colorful than his brother -- has done just that, his part. The information given, he gingerly picks himself up off the ground and starts forward, limping in a direction past the young half-Spaniard. "Don't mention it. If you get him back, I mean it; don't mention it, especially not to his father."
The bad blood that runs within the Wellington family and their dukedom seems rather thick. And this Wellington looks tired, defeated, bruised and deflated. "Good luck though, kid," he says as he passes her by.
"You're bloody well gonna need it."
With that, he slaps her right on the ass for good luck, before he shambles on to his office. The ball is in her court now, and she intends to run with it, he can see that. The guard is starting to be passed on to the younger generation. Marisol O'Connell will find the information she's after at the Maulin' Gypsy.
Then all she has to do is rally the troops.
Log created on 23:48:12 02/10/2008 by Wellington, and last modified on 02:35:00 03/01/2008.