Hit The Coast

[Cookie Waterford]

"Hot sunshine beats down, offering the loyal crowds of the packed beach a golden tan as hundreds gather on the coast of Chiba for ASP's annual surfing competition. The competitors are pretty fierce this year; even those in the junior category have not escaped the eyes of Billabong for their pure, unfettered talent! The gulls are screaming, the waves are consistently delivering huge, beautiful crests, and the feeling in the air is electric." Cookie grinned to herself as she walked and wove through the ample crowds, clicking the stop button on the recorder strapped to her wrist. Drying sand caked her legs as she waled, her hair un-moussed for a change, knowing that after she had a chance to go introduce herself to some of the people being showcased she'd go enjoy what drew the people to Chiba. As much as she'd love to say she persoanlly was competing in the nationals for ASP and a pro contract, Cookie knew that work came before pleasure.... but at least work meant she'd get an exclusive skinny with Izumi Tanaka. Cookie would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't cheering for Izumi; last year her killer moves had scored big points and got her crowned as the Islands Pro Champion,

Cookie took in a deep breath, the beautiful smell of salty air more than invigorating, and reaffirmed that she wasn't human, and she wasn't a fox; she should have just been born a mermaid and saved everyone a lot of trouble. Adjusting the shoulder strap of her satchel, Cookie looked all over for a shady place to sit and write what she had so far; the morning had already been full of quick interviews and a few intense photos, and a lot of facepalming as she wished she'd been given a cooler interpreter. Sure, Mia was good at Cretan and Aerugese, but some words just didn't translate right and lost their coolness factor by, like, 20%. But as much as she loved all the sunshine, it was getting far too hot for her, and she couldn't lose her train of thought right now to go take a dip in the ocean or head back to her hotel to go have a dunk in the pool. Having an internal temperature of a dog sucked balls... How the hell did they stand it?! Even walking around as a human in a bikini top and cutoff shorts and that amazing breeze weren't enough to keep Cookie cool right now, and the last thing she needed to do was pass out from the heat while working. Massive deduction from coolness points.

Salvation!! The niche cafe on the beach offered just what Cookie was looking for and she picked up her walking speed, feet sinking in the sand as she trotted up. SHADE! Sweet, blessed, precious reprieve from the sun!! Cookie plopped down at the first open table under the deep shade of the awning, her satchel swinging widely as she nearly dove into the chair. The overhead fans spun slowly overhead, Cookie panting slightly as she waited for her body to cool back down from critical heat overload. The place was decently crowded due to the event. She still had an excellent view of the beach, and if she was lucky she wouldn't miss much action from here, not immediately wanting to head back into the heat unless she knew there was some shade orwater to dip into. Her hand came up and the record button came on instinctively as she began to rummage through her bag for some help.

"The Aerugese sun is a beautiful and cruel mistress, tempting you with the glorious heat that quickly becomes too much if you're not careful. I've found an oasis, though, in the form of a little cafe. From what I can smell, the food's good, and the happy crowd is always a good sign. I'm very glad right now that Xingese shares a lot of common characters with Aerugese or I would be at a loss, snackless and without something frosty to drink. I am alone right now, lacking my trusty companion Mia to translate; without her I am like Don Quixote without Sancho Panzas, exept instead of windmill-dragons affronting me, it's the frustration of epic language barriers. With luck, I can find someone who speakes Cretan and I can finally sate my beastly cravings for something awesome." Click. She pulled out a well-abused traveler's phrase book as she flagged down a waitress. "Soo-mee-massehn. Kurehtaago oh.. hanasheemasoo kah?" OH that hurt, even to her own ears. But dammit, like hell she could learn Aerugese that fast! She was only due to be here for a week to cover the event, and it'd taken her over ten years to get awesome at Xingese, and there was still plenty to learn.

The waitress sighed and nodded, smiling politely and trying to not wince at the tourist as she pointed to the tall red drink in the picture she wanted and worked out some decent snackage; oh thank God the characters for some things were the same or she'd be a hungry fox. Orders given, the waitress scurried off into the crowds as Cookie pulled out her notebooks and pen to start some of the first articles of the event.

[Guest]

Marcus propped up his glasses and let out a low, quiet sigh, looking down at the meal in front of him. It was hearty enough; a rather substantial burger he'd taken a bite or two from, some delicately-removed salad leaves, and a liberal helping of fries that he'd stirred around a little. Too salty. Hell, the entire thing seemed to have 'walking heart disease' burnt into it; Marcus wasn't entirely sure he couldn't still hear the fat sizzling and the cow screaming about how it didn't want to be turned into a meal with a sole purpose of blocking arteries.

He wasn't particularly hungry, either; it was just fairly hot, and, being a Cretan through-and-through, no matter how long he'd spend in Aerugo, he'd almost come to accept and endear himself to the country's notorious reputation of absolutely shitty weather. Marcus sat beneath the awning, looking through tinted lenses and over the sunlit horizon, ablaze with a solar inferno. The twinkling rays of colour danced across the pure azure waves, and all the ex-writer had to do was sigh.

He wasn't here to watch the surfers, or get something to eat. He'd happened upon this little niche spot by pure coincidence, and the noise created from some sort of contest was merely a byproduct of Murphy's Law, a regulation that seemed to bind the administrator far tighter than any other being in a hundred-mile radius. No, Marcus alone had come here to do what he did every week. To sit, to try and grasp solace, no matter how impossible and insurmountable a task it was, and just think: about his writing, about his family... about Maria. About his son.

"Leon," He muttered, raising a trembling sun-brushed hand to wipe his right glasses lens, blissfully unaware of the approaching reporter who sidled in and sat down only a table away from him. He was lost totally, entirely, and completely in thought, garbed in Hawaiian-print swimming shorts, dryer than the very sand he'd walked upon to get here, and a fairly basic tee - even then, it was still sweltering beneath the relentless sunlight, and the heated air seeped into the café, even if it was just a touch cooler. "The Aerugese sun is a beautiful and cruel mistress, tempting you with the glorious heat that quickly becomes too much if you're not careful. I've found an oasis, though, in the form of a little cafe. From what I can smell, the food's good, and the happy crowd is always a good sign."

It wasn't the journalist's tone, presence, or even her speaking at all that caused Marcus' ears to prick and his mind to break thought, his neck pivoting to concentrate on the source of the noise. She spoke with fluency that he was familiar with, a type of fluency he understood. Had he... "I am alone right now, lacking my trusty companion Mia to translate; without her I am like Don Quixote without Sancho Panzas, exept instead of windmill-dragons affronting me, it's the frustration of epic language barriers. With luck, I can find someone who speakes Cretan and I can finally sate my beastly cravings for something awesome."

The last simile gave it all away entirely; this wasn't any amateur blogger, or some half-wit local sports correspondent... this was a learned woman, and clearly a frustrated, learned Cretan woman. And... that? That made all the difference. She knew her literature, smiling as she flagged down and confronted a nearby waitress with her jagged, butchered Aerugese. A smirk, and Marcus clicked the pen lid back over the nib of his most valued piece of equipment, using a clip to push it onto his trusty notebook, now clasped between his hands, in a short gap between the spine of the cover and the pages themselves - almost a ritualistic process for the Yakuza administrator.

A few months ago, he would have never considered approaching someone on a whim like this, even with this coinciding opportunity as it was. But, as twisted as it was, as Marcus slipped the notebook-pen combo back into his satchel, he mused on how being a member of a world-renowned notorious organised crime syndicate had at least helped his people skills. Moving up from his seat, he skirted around to the journalist's table, anxious to learn more, taking a deep breath as he approached her.

"Excuse me," Always start politely, of course. "I overheard you talking into your recorder," A haphazard gesture in the direction of her wrist. "And couldn't help but notice that you seem to be fairly... stuck," He smiled, chuckling a little weakly and nervously as he continued just a little further. "I mean... well..." Don't fuck it up now, Marcus... "I'm Cretan, and, uhm, I know Aerugese, so, I thought maybe... I could help you?"

Being in the Yakuza had helped his people skills, but, unfortunately, not by enough that he could exactly be considered a smooth operator; at this point, Marcus had to hold back every ounce of energy he had to ensure he didn't flush tomato-coloured in his presence, starting to feel more and more like a moron with every moment he stood there, not sure if he should sit down or stay stood, should she reject his offer, or, even worse, make him look like a complete idiot and ignore him entirely. He felt the piercing gazes of other café patrons bore through his blind spots and into the back of his head, as he tried desperately to soothe his brain, now running on overdrive... oh, Marcus... "I deal with thieves, arsonists, murderers, and Mako on a daily basis... and now I'm screwing up in front of one damn reporter?"

[Cookie Waterford]

Notebooks and pens quickly began to scatter themselves around the little table, the pen twirling in Cookie's fingers as she clicked its button every few turns. It seemed annoying, and there were times han wanted to tape her hands together for it, but it helped her think and plot out what she'd write. Sure, she had her handy recorder to give her those notes about what her thoughts were as they came, but Cookie was a lot more organized than nayone who didn't know her would often give her credit for, and she rather liked making blobs and lists and then figuring out what they'd be. At the moment, Cookie's brain was a scattered mess of blurbs, words, half-translations, and wondering where in God's name Mia was while trying to shove it all aside in favour of anticipating the beautiful smoothie that would be coming her way.

The pen clicked again, tiny waves and a surfboard doodling themselves on the edges of the notebook's page, Cookie's foot swinging over her knee idly as she sat in thought. It was kind of a shame she wasn't competing, but the fact that her pass got her in to rub elbows with international champions was beyond wild. Adverts for Billabong and Ripcurl were everywhere, and now that the shade was finally starting to help Cookie cool off, she could appreciate the smell of the salty air more. Now was one of those moments she was definitely glad she didn't run around in her fur, really hoping the dog-owners brought tons of water for her furry cousins.

A few sloppy Xingese kanji dotted around the paper between the doodles of waves, the reporter's brain whirring with thoughts but feeling as heavy as the sand she'd trudged through to get to this reprieve. Needed... refreshment. Cold things! Cookie let out a little breath as she resisted the instinct to pant slightly, praying the smoothie and iced noodles would hurry and get there when someone brought her attention upward. "Excuse me, I overheard you talking into your recorder and couldn't help but notice that you seem to be fairly... stuck." Cerulean eyes blinked in mild confusion and surprise. The man standing beside her table was.... out of place. Sure, he was dressed like a lot of the poeple on the beach (or at least like some of the tourists), but he totes didn't fit the description of a beach bum. He was smiling nicely and had a nice face, but he seemed uneasy there. But what stuck out most? his Cretan.

The man's Cretan accent was that of someone born and raised in Creta and living here as an ex-pat. "I mean... well... I'm Cretan, and, uhm, I know Aerugese, so, I thought maybe... I could help you?" ....A random Cretan ex-pat fluent in Aerugese who could be a proxy for Mia? THE DAY WAS SAVED! Cookie's smile broadened, the reporter picking up her notebooks to clear a space for Marcus at the table. Something as rare and lucky as that happening, how could Cookie refuse? It'd make things a hundred times easier!

"I'd, like, have to say 'Welcome to the table.' I really needed a hnad with this, too; kinda hard to ask interview questions with they, like, dunno what you're saying." Cookie let out a soft chuckle, clearing the space fully and moving her noteboojks over, indicating for Marcus to ahve a seat. "Name's Cookie Waterford. Mag X Zine. So, like, thanks for the assist, man."[/color] Yeah, Cookie knew he'd probably never heard of Mag X since they'd only started printing in Creta pretty recently, and even though her feature articles that had won awards were put under the name of Cookie Waterford, most of them never went past Xing's borders and leaving only a few to drift into some news circles in Creta, it never hurt to introduce yourself with the company you write for, just to toss that out there.

[Guest]

"I'd, like, have to say 'Welcome to the table.' I really needed a hnad with this, too; kinda hard to ask interview questions with they, like, dunno what you're saying." Marcus' ears pricked at this particular and rather unfamiliar dialogue of Cretan, one he remembered from his history - education, specifically. It arose several memories of the few shining specimens in his old school that had managed to break through the private-ed barrier and give the place a truly Cretan feel. Valley girls. He shuddered at the thought.

Something twinkled in his eyes, and the faintest remnants of a cracked smile weaved themselves together just an inch on his face. That old Marcus began to shine through, dozens of the thousands of rays of light piercing through and sinking through each of the little crags, but everything came back to home all too quickly, and the ex-writer shrank once more as reality hit him like a left hook from Mike Tyson. Minus the ear-biting. "I know the feel," He said, nodding. With Aerugese's regular and Kansaiben dialects, things didn't quite translate entirely perfectly sometimes, leaving him at a loss occasionally when it came to Mako, blinking and wondering just what the hell had been said.

"Name's Cookie Waterford. Mag X Zine. So, like, thanks for the assist, man." He nodded, looking to the space she'd cleared and seating himself quickly into it, nodding, as the waiter arrived with whatever Cookie had ordered, looking then to Marcus. "And you, sir?" Another smile, a different, weaker smile stretched over the pale, Cretan face, and the man nodded with years of regret and ton upon ton of sombre burden sitting heavy upon his shoulders. "Diet cola, with ice, please," The waiter bowed, and vanished back into the labyrinthine innards of the beachfront café.

Marcus turned quickly back to Cookie, smiling frankly up at her. Real name... or one of many dusty, long-unused aliases? Bah, fuck it. He'd faded more or less from mainstream recognition, so unless she had a photographic memory, was big on poetry, or was a heavy crime reader, she wouldn't recognise the name outright. "Marcus Frostbrook. Good to meet you. And, please, I'm happy to help," As much as being recognised as a big figure in crime literature would be nice, it would pose a LOT of questions to his current occupation and identity, and attract unnecessary reputation. Half of him was hoping she did notice, and the other half praying she didn't.

Fame was a double-edged sword in most situations, but here moreso than ever before. Either way, under his breath, Marcus chuckled as he reminisced about the good old days of when he'd had to avoid reporters, as opposed to helping every single one he caught on the beach out. She seemed nice, though, and from what he'd heard of the monologue, was definitely stuck. It was at least a refreshing jet of cool air, now he'd worked on his social skills a little more with the Yakuza, to know that he could offer to help someone and actually be obliged. He didn't feel quite so shitty all the time, any more. "So,"

Of course, Leon and Maria, god bless her, still weighed heavily on his mind, along with the fate of that damned Esparez and his legions of thuggish bodyguards. God, half of him wished he could reach for one of Mako's many pistols, despite seeing the many horrid things the man could do with them, and just put a bullet in the brain of that bastard if it would soothe these storms of regret one bit, or help his situation at all. But above everything else, Marcus' greatest and most horrific bout of indecision was over the hypothetical scenario which could very possibly come to be: if he had to kill his own father-in-law to liberate his son, if it came to it... would he?

He tried to push the guilt back down and hoped she wouldn't see the colour draining from his already-pale complexion, with a smile, taking a quick look into the distance of the beach then turning back to her, realising he had indeed spoken. "What's the first port of call, Cookie?" Certainly an unusual name if he'd ever heard one...

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