Realistic or Modern The Damascus Institute (IC)

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South of Santa Barbara
07:22 AM

The tumultuous cover hanging broodingly above, had an uncomfortable green-grey shade about it - at least to the eyes of the captain, his narrowing eyes watching as patches of yet darker skies rushed along with the the distant, howling winds - traversing eagerly and in doing so draping the world in curtains of opaque downpour. The hard man, skin tanned and etched with time, grunted at the spectacle on display, unimpressed as it was nothing he had not seen before. He spat along the wooden walkway he was traversing, having just gotten off a small shuttle boat, making his way towards the end of the gangway. Captain Josiah McDonough pulled his loose fitting and windswept jacket closer, cursing bluntly under his voice - the slick weatherproof fabric sticking to the sweaty skin of his arms and neck, peeling off as if covered in molasses with every unintended, exaggerated movement.

There was a choice to be made in these situations. One could get wet either from the water in the air or the sweat along his skin - but wet you will get - and while McDonough would have chosen the former any day, he had only one uniform about himself - and the people he was told to meet later in the morning expected him to look - if not sharp, at least presentable.

His paymaster had been clear.

Josiah felt as his mind moved away from the sombre early morning gale, away from the long fingered spectres of night cast with the failing South-Californian sun, and it had him instinctively peering across the bay towards the city in the distance - where street lamps remained on, people woke in the morning and lit their rooms with yellow and white interior light - and for a moment he wondered if he really did hear the sounds of sirens dancing along the air. He stopped his movements.

No. Nothing. Nothing but the wind and the howl. And his heavy boots as they met the complaining wood beneath his feet. He continued walking, his eyes darting around in the dark, a weak whistle failing to distract from the unnervingly lonely quiet.

The hair at the back of his neck stood upright.

Whispering under his breath - money… money… money… The mantra aiding in rising further his attention into his imagination, distracted eyes no longer seeing the obscured lights of the city in the distance, placing him instead in a place where the water upon his face was that of a warm tropical ocean, where he had a rare and obnoxious drink in his hand and found some gold digger willing to humour his pocket for the night.

He had money - he could stop. Every job was enough to retire. Sometimes he wondered if he wasted it all because he had a job - or because he was afraid one day he might actually say no.

It was not as if he could deny them.

Not forty years ago. Not now.

Pulling the jacket around his body once more, ignoring his cloying discomfort, he found himself standing close against the wall of a small shelter along the docks. He turned his back against the rain, resting his head against the drenched walls - the rough wood finish cool against his brow, and he raggedly breathed in the wet air. At least it felt a shade cooler than earlier - but Josiah realised that might have been his imagination. Anything even vaguely a comfort seemed suddenly all too seductive to his distracted thoughts.

Pulling his shoulders closer to the wall, he imagined he heard a sound behind him, and quickly turned his head - finding the space empty - no car, no traffic, no one… just darkness. He turned his face away from the rain once more.

Unlike the city, there were no lights here.

He was alone.

He closed his eyes, shaking away his discomfort, trying to spirit himself away towards his little paradise, the sun, the sea… His desperately serene expression hidden from all the world, suddenly turned darker and confused - finding among the warm sands and the pretty girls… a face that did not fit his escapism. It was a face he had seen many times. He had first met her about ten years prior. He had last seen her only three days ago.

Her and that sister of hers…

A shiver ran up his spine once more and lingered there, his breathing becoming heavier and his fragile morality threatened to creep across his resentful consciousness. It happened often enough - yet never regularly enough for him to know for certain when a job would be there. And yet - job or no, there was always payment. At first the money was flattering, tribute to his ego - and the things he got from it were easy enough to enjoy without worrying where it came from. But then he did not work for two years and made more in those than he had in any other. And then when he actually did something the bonus he got would have set up any sane man for life…

Yet here he was.

His head slowly turned, the wood creaking faintly as he did so, peering at the vast yacht anchored not far off. The thing was beautiful. Comfortable. She had been refurbished exactly three times, each overhaul worth more than any new ship might have been on its own. The model was a relic when he had first captained her - and that had been… Forty years ago.

And in those forty years…

In that lifetime...

She had never changed her captain. And she never changed her owner. And she… had never carried the man either. At least to his own memory. Josiah was sure it was a man. He had heard the staff mention “him” more often than anything else - and A… the ominous letter had lingered in his mind often enough for it to resemble more a name than a moniker.

A mannequin in his mind - faceless. Formless. Nameless outside of that infernal A.

His generous benefactor.

A week ago The Wodehouse had been docked near a tropical island and her captain had been drinking, dancing, relaxing alongside a pool with the staff and the locals - played ball on the beach. Living life in much the same way he had over the last four decades. And then - as it always had been, he was told to be somewhere - Southern California, and they all boarded and they rushed the route - and then they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And then…

Another sound behind him had Josiah jumping around, his head moving quickly from side to side, his hand - drenched in rain and sweat rubbed across his eyes, trying to offer himself some sense of sight in what felt like a desperately reclaiming night. They burned and he blinked them fast, cursing his stupidity. Once they cleared of white spots among darkness, he peered up at the skies - desperately wishing for the sun to break through, but as if taunting him, there was a sudden flash before a rumble reverberated across the skies and along his bones.

Olivia was her name. The woman he spoke to. Her sister who always drove her around would remain nameless. She had given him a docket - carrying faces never names, and… that same old little envelope.

The money felt old - and at first it worried him - but remained legal tender, and it always made him uncomfortable. He knew it was not stolen - at least the ones he had checked and whose serial numbers seemed to be in no database as acquired criminally - but it still felt… wrong. Money without an owner. As if it all had lain in some pit somewhere and was fished out whenever someone needed it. And when he found random notes from a hundred years ago that fetched a good price on ebay or a coin here and there that sent auction houses into a frenzy - it only served to make him more confused.

And more nervous.

And then they would come. Kids - no, they were at least what? At least of age - right? The faces ran across his mind - the best he could recall, and he struggled - catching himself adding beards and wishing them taller than he thought they actually were. Their faces… those were what always gave him the strangest sense of dejavu whenever he thought back on them. It had happened a few times now. A set of them - rushing over and onto the yacht with him - and then… then they were gone. And he had his money - and he never asked questions.

He bit down on his lower lip, that usual sense of disgust lingering in its endless battle with his greed. Angels and demons of pragmatics whispering into his ears that he was just doing a job - and that the money was legit… strange it might have been. Strange it might be. He stopped himself from asking the same question she had asked so many times before. He knew that he never could answer them. There were no answers.

Yet here he was.

Another shiver as the wind turned, and the rain suddenly directed itself directly into his face - and he turned quickly, rushing around the wood, hiding there in the even deeper shade, away from the downpour. What could a… man… God, he must be old by now… What could A want with these ki- these people. Did they work for him? Like Josiah did? Maybe they were special. Smart. Maybe they got some sort of financial support from him - his eyes looked at the yacht again. A, whoever he was, surely knew how to waste money.

So much… money.

His mind filled again with a beautiful beach and drink and food and shelter and sex and everything else that could and had brought him peace throughout his life. He shook his head. He had a job. He was just following orders.

There was a sound, and Captain McDonough looked up, seeing headlights peering through the rain at where he stood, waiting. He cleared his throat - and hoped that the first one to arrive did not roll towards him in a pram and diapers...
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