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To say that his vacation so far was dissappointing would be an understatement. The ship's engines suffered a failure and delayed their arrival by over 8 hours, from when they were supposed to disembark at 4, to well past midnight. He could not get off the ship fast enough. He-- as much as he liked travel, could not tolerate extended trips over the vast broad ocean. Something about rocking about on a substance you could not drink, could cause hypothermia, could not support your weight or allow you to sleep, and very easily cause a nasty death by a manner of hostile creatures as far as anyone could see did not sit too well with him.

The hotel, he learned via a quick cell call, had lost his reservation and was now so choked with weary travelers they could not add him in also did not sit well at all with him. A certain CIA travel agent would get an earful in the morning.

Agent 011107, dubbed Pariah was nearly bristling when he learned as he stepped off the ship, hardly pausing when the warm strains of a guitar floated past from nearby. His keen ears naturally turned to listen, but he stalked off without two glances at the player; catching only the glimmer of prematurely silver hair, and an exposed chest with what seemed a music note or some such painted on his chest in gold. He paid no mind-- he needed to find a hotel, and fast.

But-- He'd never been to this port before, neither this late at night, and the only directions he had were to the full hotel. Pariah stalked about the docks for a bit, before deciding to ask the locals for directions, only to find it dispairingly desolate. He suddenly remembered the man playing the guitar, and decided he was his best option, and quickly turned heel to entreat him, only to find he had departed.

Pariah scowled as he heard muffled shouts and heavy bootsteps. He needed to talk to someone, and hastily persued. Unlike those who ran before him, his steps were as silent as a cat's.

Pariah hovered just out of eyeshot of the four in the darkened alleyway, plastered against the wall. His silhouette melted into the shadows, and even the polished glint of his clothes seemed to mute with his desire to remain unseen. The scene unfolding was not unfamiliar to him, though this time, it seemed there wasn't that much at stake-- a guitar, a case, and some cash.

But-- Pariah was off duty! It was his vacation for cripes' sake! But, he needed directions, and the three louts in the alley needed to realize that every time you hassle someone, you risk pissing the hell out of the wrong person. Pariah fondled at his hip. No badge, but he had a gun, still fully loaded.

He could hear the deep voice of the minstrel, and from what he could hear, one of the thugs was small, the others sounded big. He...could not determine who had weapons, but they were flanking the minstrel quickly. Pariah unhooked his trusty semi-automatic, and a whisper faint click turned the safety off.

Something made his heart leap into his throat.
"Smell thissun, Gino. 'E smells like a girl. All clean..."
A hot spark nestled itself into his groin, reminding him sourly of one of his deviant reasons for seeking out this area of the world. A split second was all it took to remind himself of his duty, and he moved into action. Green eyes took in the dark scene all at once, verifying what his ears had told him. He slid up behind the Lout the street player was pressed against and loudly cocked his pistol, aiming it at his head.

"Sorry to interrupt the party, boys, but unless Mikey also likes the smell of brains scattered along the pavement, I reccomend you set the goods down."

Pariah used his 'take no prisoners' voice, which was very snarly and surly sounding, just like his mood. By this point, he was certain the other two could see him, and the very large gun poised behind their friend's brain.

Pariah expected this, but it was worth a shot anyway. Actually, it was worth quite a few shots as he pegged Mikey in both calves as he dove at the street performer, before realizing a guitar was being flung at him. Pariah caught the instrument in his left hand as he aimed for the other three assailants.

Pow.

Pow.

Pow.

Three shots aimed so closely together in time they sounded almost in unison as he fired three riot control bullets at the others. Yes, Riot control. His last assigment, the one he had just gotten off of, was to protect the new mayor of a fledgling democracy overseas of a much smaller nation. However, since his presence was not overall a welcome one, he was not allowed to kill anyone, at all, lest it spark a war. Thus, his ammo was all a high powered cell that discharged a high voltage upon contact with life. AKA, Taser bullet.

And at the moment, watching the crippling effects would be very satisfying. Pariah's one good green eye glinted with focus as he tried to incapacitate the others before they could flee, the guitar still tightly clung to in his left hand.

Mikey flailed wildly as he dropped inches before the performer, his limbs suddenly siezing and becoming unresponsive. The other three followed closely, spasming erratically on the dirty ground. Pariah cursed inwardly. No cuffs, no rope, no nothing. He couldn't bother arresting them.

Thwhip-shhink!

Three long blades flipped out of their sheathes on his guantlet. He thrust it menacingly toward Mikey.
"Listen up you louts, if I ever see your mugs again, these blades will be the last thing you ever see."

He roughly kicked the tall man up to his feet and gave him a sharp boot. He stumbled but fled the alley, turning only once to shout at his friends, whom were only now regaining the use of their limbs. They scuttered to their feet and retreated as well, leaving the alley silent after their footsteps had faded into the night. Common thugs.

Pariah rehooked his blades, and clicked the safety on his gun, holstering it all with his right hand, the guitar still gripped, undamaged miraculously tightly in his hand. His one green eye was focused now on the Minstrel, absorbing every detail about him, now that it was deemed important. His gaze had an almost eery intensity to it, and a curious near luminosity in the right light. Pariah didn't bother to force a smile.
"Are you hurt?"

Pariah watched Mistral with curiosity. He'd seen some strange folks around, but...Well the more he looked at it, the more the man's body paint seemed more like a tatoo, and the more it seemed to glow. Pariah's tail twitched slightly from side to side as the performer checked his beloved instrument for damage. He was glad he hadn't dropped it in the excitement, it seemed as though it was worth a lot, and without his help, he would have lost it for sure.

Pariah stood empty handed as Mistral packed up his things, moving only after the guitar was packed up to scoop up the loose bills he'd made, folding them into a tight wad and handing them over.

"I'm called Pariah. And don't mention it."

He stood there silently for a moment, regarding the words to come intently before speaking out.
"Listen, I just got off the boat you were playing by about a half hour ago, and my hotel canceled my reservation. Do you...know of any decent places nearby I can stay the night?"

He didn't bother asking this Mistral's own means of getting by-- prying wasn't his thing unless it was needed for a mission. For now, all he wanted to do was get off the streets, and get some sleep for tomorrow. He had a busy day being a tourist to come. Besides, anyone could get robbed, it didn't mean he couldn't take care of himself.

Pariah knew he should have trusted his instinct with the performer.
"Considering the state of the ship, I doubt I'll be leaving anytime soon." Pariah replied, trying to match the grin, but all that emerged from his eternally sour countenance was a slightly less-surly expression. As unhappy as it was, it wasn't a dangerous expression, at least, not at the moment. Sour wasn't the right word for his neutral expression, serious was. He was a very serious person.

Pariah was lithe, and taut with well defined muscles, apparent of his active lifestyle. His bodyarmor, while very protective, was thin and flexible, pessing smooth against most of his body. When not in motion, he was extraordinarily still. No nervous shifting, pacing, fidgiting, and hardly any motion of breathing. The only thing that continued to move aparently was the tip of his golden tail.

One eye was tightly bandaged off, but under his fall of hair it was hidden anyway. As far as weapons went, he had at least one boot knife, his semiautomatic pistol on his thigh, the guantlet blades, and probably a few other hidden goodies. His cases were still on the ship, and who knew what all they contained.

"We have to make a slight detour though. My things were to be sent to my hotel-- but since there was a slight change of plans, I have to pick them up. Do you mind waiting a moment by the ship, so I may get them?"

Pariah had an eyeful of Mistral while the performer was packing his precious guitar. The open jacket revealed his torso from throat to waist, the fall of his pants almost revealing more, so low slung were they. For all his clothes seemed loose, he had a few tight fitting items on himself, such as the silver chain strapped around his thigh.

Pariah was tanned himself, but not from an excess of sunlight, as his almost complete clothing blocked all of that out, but from his heritage. Mistral should be glad he had the capacity to tan-- some just turned bright red, and never the sunkissed olive. He was built with more curves, more like a woman was, but most assuradly male, with his broad shoulders, the smooth expanse of chest, the gentle sway of his obliques, and that...that tattoo, that always drew Pariah's eyes toward his heart. Musical through and through, he supposed.

He walked beside Mistral as they exited the alleyway, though only one pair of boots sounded through the streets. Pariah's one eye drifted from corner to corner out of habit, scanning the surroundings for any hidden dangers or figures.
"All of the ships engines cut out at once, and the engineers couldn't figure out what was wrong with them for approximately eight hours." He answered simply, his eye sharply turning toward Mistral. Just a fidget from the musician, nothing important. He looked away.

The ship groaned quietly as the hull scraped against the dock holding it. They kept the walkway open, but had guards posted, as some people had left to try and find a reservation. Pariah nodded to his companion and walked up to the ship, slipping inside wordlessly, and emerging carrying two black cases. One obviously a suitcase-- the other rounded with a tapered end, almost in the shape of a guitar case, but not quite.
"Please lead the way." Pariah said as he came within earshot, his tone noticibly more relaxed now that he'd be off that blasted boat for a few weeks at least.

Pariah stepped down the ladder connecting ship to dock gingerly, until he was finally planted two feet on solid ground. He toed the cement lightly with his shoe, almost as though testing the true solidity of it. Mistral turned to him from where he was chatting ship matters with one of the guards posted at the ladder's edge, and inquired if he needed to retrieve anything else.

"Nope, this is it." He replied quietly, shrugging his shoulders to jounce the cases lightly. Dispite the deceptively small size, they seemed to be quite heavy, and no rattles emerged from within to indicate what might have been inside. "No thanks, I can carry them." He replied to the second question, stepping a little out in front of the boat before stopping to consider the third question.

"You know, I was going to just skip it and wait until..." a pause; "Breakfast, but I think I would like a little something for dinner. They weren't prepared to feed us another meal."

Pariah punctuated it by sending a last glance at the ship, before turning back to Mistral. "Anywhere is fine."