Description: With costs mounting for the care and feeding of several hundred Darkstalkers, Kira steps up her time table for breaking into the Western market. The results aren't quite what she hoped for but valuable insight was gained - as well as a potential client.
Besides Metro City's dominant crime syndicate, Mad Gear, another group has been sliding its slippery tendrils into the ailing city. The Skull Cross Gang, composed of criminals from Eastern Europe and Russia, along with other bit players from across the world, has set up shop here, after the city was nearly levelled by Darkstalkers. The field commander of this group, known only as Stray, is reputed to be intelligent and ruthless, and much younger than many people would have expected. Its true leadership is hidden, somewhere overseas. So far, Mad Gear and Skull Cross haven't clashed, with Skull Cross paying protection to Mad Gear for permission to operate in Metro.
Operating out of an abandoned Chevrolet factory on the outskirts of Metro City, Stray has already rigged his entire compound (purchased with money from his patron, Black) with security cameras and sensor systems of the highly sophisticated variety. He sits in his command center with an older, battle scarred Iranian man wearing desert colored camoflague fatigues. The Iranian man, former VEVAK (Iranian special forces) commando that the locals only call 'Vulture', watches computer monitors, while Stray works at a computer, a lit cigarette drooping from his mouth. He's typing on occasion while he reviews code, then glancing back at another monitor to his right. He mutters occasionally, in Russian. About the factory, there's occasionally murmurs, laughter, or even shouts of amusement, from the gangmembers that live there. A small barracks exists in the facility, this former auto factory for Stray's most trusted disciples.
It doesn't take a great deal of work to establish the kind of privacy that has been cultivated here. Metro City has long been known as one of the world's leading hot spots for violent criminal gang activity and, despite the valiant efforts of its implacable mayor, it still is. Most of the people who take residence within the outer edges of the city and the local suburbs have learned which places to avoid and take great pains to do exactly that. Only those who possess bravery or foolishness in great measure dare to tread upon the soil claimed by one of the many groups of hoodlums that have planted their flags.
Still, for whatever reason there always seems to be someone willing to ignore these dangers on a regular basis, be they over-zealous members of law enforcement who just haven't figured out how things work around here yet or rival gang members looking to settle or start a dispute in the only way they seem capable. Both get sorted out the same way.
Today, however, a different sort of guest has come to town.
A woman strides openly down one of the wide empty streets that slice through the former industrial sector in straight neat lines that carve the landscape up into neat geometrical shapes carefully designed for maximum efficiency. They, along with the towering silhouettes of broken and ramshackle warehouses and factories, provide a faint reminder of what this place once was, crumbling and ruined ghosts from a more prosperous time. Loose asphalt and broken glass crunch underneath thick boots as she wanders this urban graveyard, the broken bones of former houses scattered about before her like so much forgotten detrius.
Reminds me of home, she thinks. The thought comes unbidden and unwanted; her home is little more than a hastily filled in crater now, a shallow grave that the rest of the world would sooner forget. A sour frown wrinkles her pretty features replacing the ever-present smirk she wears but the moment is fleeting. She casually shrugs the unpleasant idea off. Pointless to dwell on the past but that doesn't stop it from popping up to harass her from time to time.
She continues on without a pause, the momentary distraction banished from her mind as easily as it came. The woman pays little mind to the few souls that appear to watch her passing. Most are little more than faint shadows behind tightly drawn curtains or boarded over windows; curious about her presence but not enough to risk drawing her attention. Those caught out in the open when she comes into view quickly move to somewhere less obvious, vanishing into alleyways and shadows. The bolder ones simply step aside as she passes or move to the opposite side of the street but none of the junkies or low-level thugs give her any more trouble than a rude gesture or a challenging stare. They get nothing in response except her faint knowing grin. Buncha punk kids and messed-up losers, all bluster and no real threat.
Ofcourse, it isn't her awe-inspiring presence alone that keeps the local scum at bay. A lone woman in a neighborhood like this would be easy prey in normal circumstance but attempting to conflate Kira with anything resembling normal would require enough mental gymnastics to make even the most zealous religious apologist's head spin. Decked from shoulders to toes in what can only be described as wargear, the mercenary has done very little to conceal her nature from casual view. Thick ballistic plating encapsulates her torso, dozens of tiny ablative blocks weaving together to create a bulwark of unmatched bullet resistance. All about her body, ammunition and weapons hang from straps and holsters, shotgun shells, hand grenades, and magazines filling pouches and pockets wherever they could be strapped on with holsters containing pistols and knives strapped ontop of those for good measure. What looks like a modified machete hangs from a pair of straps across her back, its grip firmly wrapped in leather and its blade nicked and scratched from use. A rifle with an underslung shotgun attachment rests casually against her shoulder, one hand loosely cradling its urban-style pistol grip.
Rambo would be impressed.
Without any hint of subterfuge or stealth, the heavily-armed blonde continues down the road at a leisurely pace making her way directly towards the old factory. As always, she's done her homework on the group she's about to approach. Bunch of refuges from a former gang that got torn up in the last big attempt for the local government to put the pinch on crime. It was moderately successful but, as always, hives of scum and villany have ways to survive when the rest of the world moves on to bigger more pressing concerns. Fortunately for her, these poor souls are precisely the sort that make excellent customers for her personal business.
As Kira nears the factory, which was once dead and condemned but now has lights of activity coming from within (not to mention vehicles parked outside, many of them belonging to gangbangers and detailed appropriately), a brawny man with a gut and military attire steps out of the entrance. He holds in his hands a shotgun, propped up on his shoulder and held by the grip with his finger on the trigger. Sunglasses covering his eyes and his head shaved into a mohawk, plus one of those huge beards you sometimes see on white supremacists or woodsmen, he watches Kira coldly. He's soon joined by a couple shorter men in leather jackets, one of those jackets bright purple, the other one black and covered in chains, both of them with claws on either hand. The one with chains snickers uncontrollably, either psychotic or on some drug. The trio watch Kira. When she's within earshot, the big one raises his hand. "State your business!" his voice booms, with a Baltic accent.
Meanwhile, in Stray's command center, Stray is still working at code, while the Vulture is sitting at a computer. He's controlling a camera on the roof with a small finger joystick, zooming in on her face and taking a still. He then uses Skull Cross' line into the Russian military to search their databases for a match, a quick automated program combing through records. Stray idly plucks his mostly dead cigarette from its mouth, and puts it out in a large glass ashtray, populated with more than a few yellow-orange filters like the one he's just deposited it it. He looks up at the cameras, adjusting his sunglasses. He pulls his gloves on, complete with their spiked knuckle rings.
Kira takes note of the well-armed guards, as she was meant to, but her gait doesn't slow in the slightest as she makes her way towards the only obvious entrance of the repurposed factory. The blinking red LEDs of security cameras and functional fluorescent lights make it pretty obvious to even the casual observer that this place is no longer abandoned, as if the heavy gang decor and stylized vehicles weren't a huge give away. They might as well have a giant neon sign that reads 'Bad Guy Hideout' plastered across the front wall. Ah well, gangers were never a bright bunch.
"Well, well, aren't we formal for a bunch of slum rats."
The merc grins and comes to a halt a few feet infront of the Three Stooges; far enough to have time to react if Twitchy gets any funny ideas but close enough that not even a cross-eyed bat could miss with the small arsenal strapped to her body. With her free hand, Kira draws a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and slips one of the slender sticks into her mouth, replacing the pack with a small flip-top lighter a moment later.
Kira takes a drag from her smoke and tilts her head up towards the camera that has been following her movement since she got close and blows a small gray cloud into the air that spreads out infront of her face, winking up at the unknown operators after the few seconds of obfuscating smoke dissipate into the air. It doesn't take very long for the computer to find a match for her face and the information it provides is both detailed and yet frustratingly useless.
A name - Kira Volkov, estimated age - early thirties, and a list of her affiliations - former FSB, now rogue mercenary leader. A few screens of information about the various illegal activities attributed to her follow, most of them classified as paramilitary or terrorist in nature, however, there is also significant evidence of involvement in a world-wide black market, and finally something about the recent dark stalker event.
"I'm here to talk to your boss. I have a... business proposal." She taps some of the already burnt ash from tip of her cigarette onto the ground. "Let him know how honored he should feel, I don't usually do personal house calls without being paid first."
There's a brief, muffled electronic voice behind the three, coming from what is probably an intercom. The two punks move back inside, while the big one gestures at Kira. "Follow me." He grunts, apparently disliking her already, but turns around and begins moving through the factory, shotgun still on his shoulder. He takes his sweet time as he ambles through the factory, across the assembly line floor where cars were once built, hooks hanging from above, and along conveyor belts where smaller parts were assembled. He looks over his shoulder at her once, before rising up a flight of stairs to a hallway, lit by dingy, flickering lights. He points to a door at the end of the hallway, with a frosted glass window dominating the view. This was apparently once the manager's office.
Inside, Stray sits at his desk, and the Vulture stands in front of the desk, to Stray's left. The office is covered in computer equipment. Monitors, cables, laptops, servers, computer boxes, and a table under a worklamp full of bare electronic equipment in a state of partial repair. Stray looks at Kira from behind his sunglasses, sharp knuckle spikes in front of him as he holds his right hand in his left. "Miss Volkov," he greets her in English.
Kira gives a dismissive shrug and accepts the invitation. She expected a bit more chest-thumping from a group like this after her obvious attempt to get under their skin but it would seem that whoever is running the show isn't quite so easily flustered. Or maybe he just wants to do his posturing in person. Whatever the case, she's in the door which means the hard part is over. Either they're willing to hear what she has to say or they intend on trying to ambush her. Both possibilities lead to potential profit.
The short trip across the factory floor reveals little that she didn't already know or suspect. Little of value can be found upon a cursory glance. Most of the factory machinery is either long gone or covered in rust. The dangling hooks might look menacing if she were the sort to be easily intimidated but Kira gives them no more than a quick glance. Upon reaching the stairs, she flicks her mostly used-up butt to the ground and rubs it out with the toe of her boot leaving the smouldering refuse for someone else to clean up. Up the stairs and down the hall, Kira moves towards the indicated door and steps inside withouth hesitation.
Inside the office, she pauses to take stock of her new surroundings. The desk with its pair of occupants is the most obvious feature but she also notes the bits of half-assembled machinery and scattered components along with the plethora of more functional electronics. Some sort of command center, she guesses. It takes only a few moments for the mercenary to process this information, her hawkish gaze sweeping across the interior in one smooth motion that quickly circles back to rest on Stray and his lieutenant.
Kira smirks, tilting her head to one side. "My enemies call me Miss Volkov," she says, emphasizing the obvious accent she possesses. "My friends call me Kira. You are neither, mm? Maybe in the future, if you are a good boy, but for now, you call me Dragon."
"Dragon," the man with long purple hair intones with his notable Russian accent, placing him somewhere in the Ukraine from its inflection, if one were to know these things. "I am Stray." He frowns, looking to Vulture, before he looks back to Kira. Vulture steps forward with what looks like a gieger counter. "I hope you do not mind if my associate makes sure you are not bugged. One can never be too careful," he says with a dispassionate frown, his right hand clenching briefly into a fist within his covering left hand. The Vulture steps forward and to Kira's side, moving slowly so as not to alarm her, sweeping the bug detector first over her front, then her back. After ensuring she's bug free, the Vulture moves back to his guard position, nodding to Stray silently. Stray reclines in his office chair, the kind made of black leather with a high back, and shifts his hands to steeple his fingers.
"So, Dragon," Stray murmurs lowly as he regards her with cool scrutiny. "What do you offer us today." It is spoken as less of a question, more of a statement, as if he is either unused to the language, or using a strongarm tactic.
A small twitch, almost imperceptible to someone who isn't watching carefully, pulls the corner of Kira's mouth down into a faint frown for a few fractions of a second as Stray introduces himself but the slip is covered up quickly with an amused smirk as the gangster approaches with his gizmo. The mercenary chuckles under her breath and shrugs, holding her arms up slightly to allow Vulture full access to whatever nooks and crannies he cares to wiggle his little wand.
"You know who I am and yet fear my involvement with authorities? You are a bit paranoid, I am thinking." She waves her hand at the air dismissively after the inspection. "No matter. Satisfied? Good, we have real business to discuss."
With the 'formalities' out of the way, Kira gets right to the pitch. One of the many tactical pouches on her belt is flipped open and a small thumb drive withdrawn. She tosses it to Vulture.
As you may already be aware, I am the sole proprietor of a very powerful business. You call it 'black market' here in America. A place to buy and sell things that authorities do not want you to possess."
This is, ofcourse, common knowledge to any sizable gang operating for any length of time in a large American city. Local dealers are always on the lookouts for new customers and a crew like the Skull Cross would be high on the list. In all probability, the vast majority of illegal contraband in the city that doesn't come from petty theft likely passes through the underworld atleast once.
"But, there are many problems with American market. Many laws that interfere with business, heavy regulations, officials that must be bribed, middlemen who take a cut - too many fingers in one, pie, mm? It hurts everyone, but most of all, it hurts customers." Kira gestures at the data chip. "I do not have these problems. All my goods, I can import directly through private transport. No middlemen, no re-negotiating a dozen times, no lowlifes skimming from the top. On there, you will find catalog. Guns, drugs, ammunition, slaves - whatever you want, I can get and you pay less than what local swindlers charge."
Vulture swats the thumb drive out of the air, his hand catching it then freezing, before he sets it on Stray's desk. Stray picks it up, turning it over between two fingers as Kira speaks. He's heard of this operation in whispers, here and there. "We have quite an extensive network for these things, Dragon," Stray says, finally, as Volkov finishes her pitch. He puts the thumb drive down on his desk, saving it for later. "We are not your average group. Our leader has gone through pains to recruit an elite group from many corners of the world. Metro City has proven ripe for his base. We are not a...For profit...Group, Dragon. We have something far different in mind." He strokes his chin, looking at her. "Guns...We have an expert...Drugs...We have several experts...Ammunition...We ship it in...Women...We have that too, from around the world..." His lips curl into a gloating smile. "We even have an expert on rare contraband like ivory and endangered species for the wealthy to feast upon..." He picks up the flash drive and slips it into the pocket of his green trenchcoat. "Tell me...Can you obtain anything more..." He raises his eyebrow. "Exotic?" That smug smile is still on his lips, as he reaches into his desk for a bottle of vodka and a pair of shot glasses, placing both on the desk. He pours himself a shot as he waits for her response. The vodka is a cheap brand, from Russia. They probably did not pay the full customs value on it.
Kira looks mildly nonplussed by the casual dismissal but she wasn't entirely unprepared for something like this. Americans tend to be the sort that prefer homegrown businesses, even when it comes to criminal enterprise. She's pushing up against establishments that have been in place for decades, if not centuries; no one ever said breaking into the U.S. market would be easy but, considering her accomplishments in Africa and eastern Europe, it's going to take a whole lot more than a few mobsters to keep her from making a move on such a lucrative market.
As Stray rattles off his reasons for being uninterested in her offer, the mercenary files away the little nugget of information that he let drop which she was not already in possession of. It's not particularly unheard of that a smaller group such as this would be part of a larger organization; it actually makes quite a bit of sense considering that they only recently managed to pull themselves back together. However, that means that her information was incomplete and she might just be dealing with the wrong person here. Having gone out of her way only to be turned away by some mid-ranking mouthpiece would most certainly not be a fantastic way to start things off.
Hiding her growing suspicions and annoyance, Kira steps forward and snatches up the glass that was clearly meant to be Stray's and tosses it back in a single gulp. She swallows hard, letting the cheap liquor burn her throat, and sets the glass back on the desk without so much as a blink. "You wish for 'exotic' merchandise, mm?" She smiles again, eyes narrowing slightly. "I think I might have something that will pique your interests."
"Perhaps I can make your job easier," Stray says with annoyance in his voice as the shot is snatched away, pouring himself a new one. "We are a consortium that seeks to exploit the money to be made here in America, via this area, to make a political change in our home countries. By making money here, in America, we can buy off politicians, police, generals, et cetera, at home. I am in charge of our leader's operation here in the States. So it is not enriching ourselves that we are interested in, although that is a step of our strategy. No, money is not the end of our means. Regard us as..." He kicks the shot back, making a low ragged sound as he slams the shot glass down. "Freedom fighters. So, if you have anything unusual to this end, please, inform us." Kira, being from Russia, may recognize this as a Russian Mafia strategy, since their organization in Metro resembles a KGB operation, combined with the funnelling of money back home to influence politics and corporate oligarchs for their own gain. "Most of our business is quite legitimate overseas, we merely require funding that is off the books to grease the skids."
Upon having it laid out for her, Kira immediately picks up on the familiar tactic. She was never a part of the KGB back in the old glory days of 'Mother Russia' but its successors, such as the FSB, inherited many of its old tricks. As a counter-terrorist specialist, she endured firsthand experience with quite a few of the more unsavory elements of government security, not the least of which was their involvement with the mob, which turned out to be quite useful when she eventually went rogue. Most of the tactics she used to drive out local competitors in Africa were based on things she saw in Russia, when she didn't just kill everyone who got in the way.
"I see," she says, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. This adds yet another layer of complication to the problem. Mobsters are far more annoying to deal with. Thugs with pretentions of honor and purpose but ones that tend to be rather obstinate about their delusions of grandeur. Not her first choice for where to strike the earth but backing out now would make her look bad.
"I have something that can help you, though perhaps not in the way you might expect." Kira digs into her plethora of pockets again, this time withdrawing a small rectangular piece of hardened plastic. She fiddles with it for a moment and it flips open, revealing itself to be some sort of digital pad, one which has been modified to be more durable. Her fingers tap away at the screen bringing several small thumbnails to fore which line up in a neat row along one edge of the display.
"This," she says, tapping one of the images and causing it to inflate to fill the entire display, "might look familiar to you."
She holds the datapad up so that both Vulture and Stray can see the picture. Rendered before them is a large humanoid, its body hunched over into an awkward crouch. A thick coat of fur covers its heavily muscled body from its twisted beastial face, which extends outwards in a muzzle of savage fangs, down to its digitigrade legs which end in massive heavily taloned claws. Blood and viscera smear the surface of its hands and snout, the remains of a fresh kill still steaming in a small pile between its legs. Only the presence of a pair of heavy iron manacles and a thick collar, each connected to some unseen structure beyond the frame of the image, provide any sort of indicator that this 'thing' was in captivity at the time of its rendering.
What they're looking at is a werewolf. A dark stalker.
"Demon," is all the Vulture can say in disbelief as he looks at the picture. Stray takes his sunglasses off, revealing bright blue eyes, and squints at the picture, analyzing it carefully, noting the manacles and collar. He slides his sunglasses back on, and leans back in his chair, considering this with a rub of his chin via gloved hand.
"Hmmm..." Stray murmurs as he looks at Kira appraisingly. "I am interested. But after what happened here...You and I both know that these creatures are intelligent, and can be difficult to control. If it was not for Mad Gear working with the police, they would have killed everyone here. Tell me...How are they deployed?" Stray asks with a purse of his lips, with a curious expression on his face. He adjusts his sunglasses, as the Vulture gives Stray a long look. Clearly, the Iranian commando does not like the looks of this plan, but Stray sees some potential profit. Perhaps the Vulture is being too superstitious, Stray thinks. Stray is far more open minded, particularly when he's as skilled with electronics and high technology. Although he's not sure if he can control a Darkstalker with his level of computer savvy, as impressive as it is.
"As you say," Kira nods in response to his short summary of the dark stalkers. "They are sentient, smart enough to be comparable to the average human. However, that is their weakness."
The woman smiles again but this time her expression carries with it a noticable hint of insidious glee, as if the topic brings something dark inside of her out for a breath of air. She taps the pad again and the image shifts to something new. This time, instead of a single dark stalker, entire droves of them are lined up in tight single-file lines. It looks like something out of an old history book, dozens if not hundreds of figures linked together by a single massive chain that runs through the manacles on their feet as they are marched out of the cargo bay of a massive helicopter at gun point.
"What you may not expect from 'demons' such as this is that they form familial bonds with each other just as humans do. And, just like humans, they can be 'persuaded' to play nicely by applying pressure to the right place."
She brings up the next picture, this one showing a large bull-headed creature that towers over the human figure next to it. A scientist clad in a hazmat suit is in the process of injecting something into the beast's thigh. From the look on the thing's face, it's not enjoying the proceedure.
"There are, ofcourse, other means of control. So long as one does not burden themselves with silly notions of morality."
Another picture comes up, this one showing Kira standing boldly between a pair of women who appear to be part cat. She has each one by the scruff of the neck, their mouths bared to reveal nasty looking fangs but neither appears to be attempting to claw or bite her. If anything, they look embarrassed by the ordeal rather than angry.
"So you see, they can be controlled... if you know how."
Stray looks at the pictures, somewhat skeptical. He's more of a hacker and organizer - the actual gritty details of crime still turn his stomach sometimes, and this particularly gets a sour look on his face as he feels the cheap vodka in his belly shift. He looks away, and shifts his chair so he can look out the window behind him, peering out at Metro City's buildings. "Da....A dangerous proposition, but it may be worth examining..." He looks at Vulture, who is refusing to look at the pictures, and is merely staring at Kira with a look of burning hatred. "My colleague does not like this business. But I think it shows some promise..." He rises from his desk, his black boots scuffing the floor as he moves to a filing cabinet. He opens it up and pulls out a small cellphone, of the flip variety, perhaps from the late nineties or early 2000s, and not American in design. He offers it to Kira in his hand. "When you have a product demonstration ready, inform me. I will bring a forward advance to purchase a unit, in prices you demand. We will not deploy these in America, but I think my boss could have some use for your product."
The woman pointedly ignores the daggers being shot at her from Vulture's eyes. The underling of an underling, she cares basically nothing for how he feels about her business, much less how he feels about her. She's dealt with people hating her for most of her life for one reason or another; hell, she practically goes out of her way to make enemies at times. Why, exactly, this man would despise her so much for enslaving a race of monsters is not entirely clear. Perhaps he's allergic to fur.
Tucking away her datapad into the recesses of her pouches, Kira accepts the phone and gives it a quick once-over, quirking an eyebrow at it. "A bit quaint.../da/?" She uses the Russian slang-form of the question in an obviously provocative manner, unable to keep the burning desire to poke fun at Stray's accent in check. As if to ram the point home, her voice completely changes pitch and every trace of her own regional accent melts into a rather good impression of a Midwestern American.
"Well don't worry, I think your colleague will change his mind once he sees a proper demonstration of what one of these things can do. Or...maybe he already has, mm?" Kira turns and grins at the Arab, resting the hand with the cellphone against her waist in a posture that practically projects disdain. "Seems a bit strange for a grown man to be cowering at children's stories. Maybe you should leave him at home." She leans in and sniffs. "They can smell fear."
Vulture glares at Kira, a scar across his face twisting as he snarls. His hand slowly moves to his waist, where he has a knife, before Stray catches his wrist. Stray jerks his head towards a monitor bank, and Vulture removes his hand from the knife's scabbard, still staring at Kira. The Iranian moves back to the monitors, and Stray looks at the woman. "All stories come from somewhere," Stray says to Kira. "The more religious people in this city believe those creatures to be the work of the devil. I, however, am more scientific. We could learn a lot from studying them, da?" He smiles at Kira. "Call me when you have the demonstration ready. One condition..." He raises a gloved index finger. "This demonstration does not happen in the United States. That is all. This country is wired to detect unusual traffic. It is not paranoia to believe that big brother is watching you when you operate here. You merely need to be careful." He pats one of the computers, grinning with teeth faintly yellow where he inhales his cigarettes. He gestures at the door. "We are done here, Dragon. Thank you for extending us the offer. And..." He reaches into the pocket of his green trenchcoat, withdrawing the thumb drive and holding it up. "If we need a secondary source of merchandise due to unforseen circumstances, we will call on the more mundane services you offer, of course. Goodbye." He turns about and moves back to his desk, lighting up a Menthol cigarette.
Oh, and just when she was about to have some fun too. Kira doesn't respond to the lieutenant's anger openly, beyond a slight tightening of the grip on her gun, but anyone who knows anything about fighting would have felt the tension in the room go up about ten notches. Vulture was a few inches from some very unpleasant moments in his life. Boringly, Stray acts responsibly and stops his underling from making that mistake.
"Hmph." Kira's fake American accent vanishes quick as it came. "Demonstration can be prepared at any time. I will return to Africa and send you coordinates once I have arranged for a suitable showcase. Expect my call soon."
With their parting words exchanged, Kira turns on her heel and stalks out of the office with a predatory grace. Once outside of the factory, she heads back the same way from which she came, earning another round of stares and beligerant cat-calls, all of which are ignored.
Well, things didn't go quite as she planned but they could have been worse. Finding a new market for her dark stalker captives is certainly a promising possibility. She'd expected such novelties to sell out in a hurry but it turns out a lot of people share ol neckbeard's sentiments and are either afraid of their captives getting loose or that their mere presence will taint them with evil energy or some other absurd nonense. To date, she's only managed to move about two dozen of the three-hundred or so captives she took which means footing the bills for their care and feeding. Turns out a couple hundred werewolves need a great deal of food.
Kira gives the cellphone another look. Rather antiquated by this point but it should still be servicable. The bit of plastic vanishes into her pouches and she withdraws a much more modern phone. She taps out a few numbers and is greeted with a dialtone. A few moments later someone picks up and for the first time since arriving in the U.S. for this trip she lets a genuine smile reach her face.
"Z? Yeah, it's me. Looks like the fish are biting. Yeah, they took the bait. With a little finesse we can reel em in for a big score." Kira turns to glance over her shoulder, peering at the faint outline of the factory now some miles in the distance behind her. The thought of living in such squalid conditions again sends a shiver through her spine and that makes her frown. She's slept in far worse places. Maybe success is making her soft.
"No, don't bother." Her attention returns to the present just as a dull thumping sound fills the air marking the arrival of the large helicopter she'd left waiting in the nearby vicinity."I'm coming home tonight. We have work to do."
Log created on 20:12:40 11/27/2015 by Kira Volkov, and last modified on 01:15:07 11/28/2015.