Disclaimer: I do not own Vampire Academy or anything surrounding it (but I do own this plot :D)


JPOV

It was raining.

I was standing outside the public toilet on the platform, awaiting Harriet's emergence. Whilst I could not see them, I knew Emyl and Ibrahim were in a similar state. We had decided that, given the long hours combined with an unhealthily limited amount of sleep, this was the appropriate time to crack open some of the blood supply. Obviously, this could not be done in the open and on a crowded platform awaiting the 16:19 Southern service, which apparently 'will now arrive at 16:37'. From the shelter of the platform I could see the darkened sky from which the heavy droplets fell. I had always imagined that people were exaggerating when they said that it was constantly raining in the UK, but apparently not.

Harriet poked her head out after a few more moments which I had spent as I normally did in crowded places: people watching. If we were going to move through England with as little issue as possible, it would probably be best that we blended into normal society though I didn't feel that British culture was too far a step from my own. I had a brief moment of flashback as my mind remembered the Graduation Ball where I had stood at the side, looking on. Where I had first met Ibrahim. There was a real sense of 'how the hell did I get here?' in that moment as I struggled to fathom what had happened in the mere months that followed that last night at St Vladimir's Academy, but I found myself quick to discard any nostalgic concern as it would do nothing but make the already weighty emotional burden even worse.

In an effort to get moving, Harriet and I quickly made our way through the crowd, the former of us apologising to every person we accidently brushed as we snaked through them, to the agreed meeting point. Ibrahim and Emyl were already standing there, both expectant and a little on edge. Emyl managed to part with some of the tension in his shoulders when he saw Harriet, but still remain very much on guard.

"All good?" Emyl asked, managing to convey an entire plethora of inquiries in just two words, as was his character.

I nodded my response whilst continuing to survey the environment around me. There were too many people for my liking. Too many to keep track of, too many dangers. If only the Academy could see me now, I thought to myself as my eyes brushed past the swarm of humanity, lingering occasionally on ones looked my way or even simply reached for a cigarette lighter. The field work at St Vlads, which once had seemed so advanced and complex, seemed pitiful in comparison. I could see Emyl was having similar thoughts and we were almost glad when the train finally showed up, just to get off the platform.

Though how we deluded ourselves into thinking the train was much better was beyond me.

"How far is it?" I wheezed as I found myself pressed uncomfortably against Ibrahim's back with Harriet behind me and Emyl towering above the whole carriage.

"Two stops." He replied, managing to lean back a little to convey the information in a whisper.

I sighed, supposing it wasn't that bad, when I saw a man leering over at me with a look of startling disapproval. I frowned. "Why is he staring at me?"

I could feel Ibrahim's smile. "Because you are breaking the unspoken rule."

"What rule?"

"No talking on commuter trains."

I was suddenly very grateful for the short ride. The man was still glaring at me, even as we left; it was somewhat of a good thing that there was no room to move in that cramped vestibule otherwise I would've smacked him in the face. Minding the gap, I squeezed out of the train and stumbled onto the platform, steadied by Ibrahim. He cast me a look asking if I was okay to which I simply yanked my arm away and glared at him. Own battles, mate.

"I see you haven't lost your charm..." A voice chuckled from behind me as the train slowly pushed its way out of the station's platform, its wheels groaning painfully as it dragged its heavy body against the cold, metallic rails.

"It is an eternal blessing." Ibrahim responded whilst I turned my head to look at the origin of the new voice: a man – Moroi for sure – stood leisurely with his hands gently tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He was of substantial height, not uncommon for Moroi, and pale in complexion, again pretty common, but his features seemed softer, more pleasant and light. The sharp contours normally featured in the vampiric structure had been softened and smoothed over. He had wide eyes with grey iris' situated under think eyebrows that marked the start of a vast forehead, made wider by the line of his raven hair which had been slicked-back against his scalp and through which he, whether sub-consciously or consciously (it was hard to tell), ran his fingers.

"Abe." He greeted in a polite nod and bow, something that seemed completely normal when coupled with his thick RP accent.

With the audience made of confused and a little baffled Harriet, Emyl and myself, Ibrahim responded with a smile. "Charles."

Charles wasn't actually Charles.

On the short walk from the station to where we were staying for the night, I learnt a number of things. The first being the above. 'Charles' was actually Vincent Alexander Cronan who had grown up in the south east of England, boarding at the St Mont's Academy in rural East Anglia, which had given him a very particular upbringing. It apparently didn't help that he was technically Vincent Alexander Cronan the Third. Not long after graduating, he made the acquaintance of certain individuals who, and I quote, 'will remain anonymous', and was thrust into their organisation, who found who had found his bizarre and diverse range of magical abilities very useful.

"What do you mean you didn't specialise?" My brow furrowed at the very thought. It was unheard of that a Moroi did not specialise, or at least so frowned upon it was unspoken.

Charles – Vincent – merely shrugged. "I never had that particular calling to any of the element as Moroi are supposed to. I only settled with fire in the end to graduate respectively." He explained, running his fingers through his hair. "But my not specialising allowed me to develop all four abilities, as well as some of my own."

I deepened my frown. "'Some of your own'?"

He smirked. "Ah, that would be telling. Fear not, I do not go shape-shifting beast in the light of the moon, however entertaining that would be."

I scowled a little, already seeing the similarities between and the influence of a certain other Moroi within the demeanour of the man in front of me. "If you don't mind my asking, why does Ibrahim call you Charles and not Vincent?"

"Ibrahim? Oh, you mean Abe. It has been a long standing joke – when I first joined, I found myself in a room full of people who found my accent, love of tea and overuse of the phrase 'my apologies' absolutely hysterical and therefore gave me a name, as was their custom, reflective of my stereotypical 'Englishness'." He said with a chuckle, glancing over at Ibrahim who was in a steady conversation with Harriet behind us, Emyl loitering closely behind, ensuring the safety of the latter. "They also call me 'crumpets' for the same reason." He added, shaking his head a little.

I smiled. "Original." I remarked. Curiosity got the better of me and I could not help but ask: "Does Ibrahim have one of these nicknames?"

A dark glint flashed in his eyes as he looked over at me. "I am surprised he hasn't told you – he is quite proud of the name he got."

I inclined my head. "He is?"

"Mhmm."

"What is it?"

"Zmey."

Before I could ask that to be developed any further, our destination came into sight: a detached, bricked house walled by greenery. When Ibrahim said he was going to hook us up with one of his contacts, the picture I had envisaged was of some abandoned council estate – a network of unclean passage and alleyways under a grey and cloudy skyline on the very edge of civilisation. What I had not expected was a comfortable, quite possibly family home standing in plain sight. I was momentarily overwrought over Harriet, Ibrahim and now Vincent's safety, but then appreciated the sheer brilliance of hiding in plain sight; particularly as the building itself held so many strategical advantages in the placement of the exit points as well as the natural element. I was willing to admit I was impressed and Vincent was more than willing to take the credit, much to chagrin of Ibrahim who pointed out that this was his house.

It didn't surprise me that Ibrahim had a house in the south east of England. At this point, very little about Ibrahim surprised me. I just accepted what I saw and, like the good guardian I was ever trying to be, worked around it. If I'm honest, the most surprising aspects of Ibrahim were the normal ones.

"When did you learn to cook?" I asked, watching in sheer bewilderment as he complied together an omelette in the open-plan kitchen. For a house that I am imagined didn't get much use, it was surprisingly well kept and surprisingly modern too. With an island in the middle and no wall separating the dining area from the assembling one, there was something remarkably homely about the place. Vincent had arrived only a couple of days before us after Ibrahim made contact with him from Michael's Motel. He had set up his room near the back of the house, on the second floor. Since there were three Moroi to only two guardians, it had been decided that Harriet and I would be sharing one room and the boys would pile into the other. Harriet had immediately decided on settling in and so positioned herself at the dining table with War and Peace for company whilst Emyl thought it best to do some bonding with his new charge for the evening, which involved him helping Vincent with his broken computer so we could view our intel and go from there. That left Ibrahim and I with little to do, but the former found occupation in making dinner for us all.

Ibrahim, putting the lid back on the milk, responded: "A friend of mine taught me when I was younger – she told me you can have all the power and intellect in the world, but if you do not have anything to eat then you won't last long."

I smiled. "Sounds like a wise woman." He turned his head over his shoulder to smile at me. Something within me fluttered: he was, no denying, a handsome man, but when he smiled – note smiled not smirked as he usually did – something about him changed and he became even more appealing. Perhaps it was just because it was such a rare occurrence to see him take anything without that underlying lilt of deviousness. Whatever it was, it was very disconcerting.

"Dear Lord! You are a genius, man." The unmistakable English accent carried through the pleasantly decorated halls as Vincent walked into the kitchen, holding a strange portable machine that vaguely resembled a computer with a smug-looking Emyl trailing behind. I raised an eyebrow at my friend who winked, but did nothing else to change his expression. "Abe, where did you find this fine gentleman?"

"In circumstances better not mentioned." Ibrahim replied, plonking the freshly-made omelette on the plate in front of me. My eyebrow was once again raised. Ibrahim inclined his head, encouraging me to eat it.

I relented. Picking up the fork and taking the smallest bit, it was then I discovered the depth of Ibrahim's culinary talents. "Your friend definitely knew what she was talking about." Ibrahim chuckled and the smirk returned, which was a reassurance to know not all had changed.

"You've even managed to get rid of all the cache! How have you done that?" Vincent was still overjoyed at Emyl's improvements on his computer and there was no doubt that Emyl was rather enjoying this appraisal.

"How come when I fixed your computer, Jenny, I didn't even get a word of thanks?" Emyl said, shooting me a look that danced with amusement.

I returned the look. "Well, given that you were the one who broke it in the first place, I think I am justified." I said and he stuck his tongue out, evidently forgetting for a moment that we were no longer in the storage cupboard at St Vlad's where we used to hide out and conspire without anyone looking in. When he did remember, he cleared his throat and replaced his mask, but the amusement and childish joy still resonated in his eyes. Harriet, upon seeing the rest of us gathered round the small kitchen island, departed with Tolstoy and came to stand by Emyl as Vincent produced a stack full of paper and a recently 'fixed' computer.

"You found all of that in four days?" I must admit, I shared Emyl's sentiment: I was definitely impressed.

It was now Vincent's turn to look smug as he tried to shrug it off. "I'm very resourceful."

I had a feeling I knew what he was talking about. So did Emyl, if his hardened gaze towards me was anything to go by. So did Ibrahim, if his interruption was anything to go by: "Perhaps we can skip to what you found..." he said, giving Vincent a stern look.

Vincent raised his eyebrows but said nothing on the matter. "Righto: La Luz." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I'll spare you the history lesson, but in short they're bad news. I managed to trace that telegraph Guardian What's-his-face sent me and locked onto their location before this thing clogged out." He said, gesturing to the computer.

"Croft." I couldn't help but saying.

Vincent looked up and frowned. "What?"

"The Guardian– never mind. Did you find them?" I could see Ibrahim smirking again in my peripheral, but elected to ignore him.

"Yes, whilst there was no name on any of the documents, unsurprising really, I did manage to track down an address. I flagged it up on our system and one of the lads down at the Port got back to me: he had been watching that house due to some suspicious activity. Whoever they've got doing their accounts down there is clearly new to the game and evidently quite expendable. Regardless, we have a name: Pablo Torres."

We all perked up. "Sounds Spanish." Ibrahim said with a smirk.

Vincent, holding his own smirk, lifted up the mug on the counter, bringing it to his lips. Upon finding it empty, he frowned at the contents (or lack thereof) and resumed. "It is." He placed the mug down and picked up a file and handed it to Ibrahim. "Pablo Torres: twenty-three, orphaned boy who was nicked a couple of times for pick-pocketing but disappeared at the ripe old age of nine only to reappear at fifteen in Madrid, rather long way away from the back-streets of Cádiz..." he said, giving Ibrahim a knowing look.

Ibrahim returned it. "Quite so. I was not aware orphanage funding covered trips to France, Italy, Portugal, Turkey and Russia..."

Vincent, having flicked on the kettle, turned back to Ibrahim. "That's because you weren't an orphan."

Ibrahim looked up through his eyelashes. "Nor were you, Mr Five Million Pound Mansion."

"To be fair, that is father's."

"Could I possibly bring this back to the point," Emyl interjected, to which I was most grateful.

"Of course." Vincent replied, popping a teabag into the mug and pouring in the boiling water. "Six months ago, this little chap bought a cabfare from Southampton airport into Portsmouth and has been there ever since, getting a job working at the harbour which is in no way coincidental or indeed original. Though he could have done a better job: I had an enlightening chat with his supervisor who, shall we say, is not best pleased with Mr Torres' work ethic." I saw Ibrahim roll his eyes.

"Do we know if he is still there?" Emyl asked, his arms at some point during the conversation had found themselves folded across his chest, something he was known to do when he was either irritated or really concentrating.

Vincent nodded. "My sources seem to think so."

"And do you trust them?" I asked.

Vincent looked at me with an amused smile. "Of course not. But they are usually right, so I willing to give them the benefit of the doubt."

Ibrahim finished scanning the documents and offered them to me. I took them and gave them to Emyl, who had been eyeing the file ever since Vincent had picked it up, but was too well trained to say anything. "So, are we planning on going to Portsmouth?" I asked.

"Yes, but I think we should stay here for the night and travel tomorrow." Vincent suggested.

"What if he leaves tonight?" Harriet, who had once again stayed silent, listening to the whole conversation to get as much information as possible, spoke up for the first time.

"It is unlikely, but if he does we'll know about it." Vincent said before turning to Ibrahim. "Le renard caught whiff of our little conversation and has wormed his way in."

Ibrahim rolled his eyes and sighed irritably, "God help us."

Vincent chuckled a little before spotting the omelette in front of me. "Is that Olena's infamous omelette? Oh, yes! Did you make one for me?" he said, his eyes lit up like a kid's at Christmas. Upon discovering that there was only one plate, his countenance fell into a mirror of the devious look I had often seen on Ibrahim as he looked between the omelette, me and Ibrahim. "Made just the one, did you?"

I frowned as Ibrahim scowled. "Well, I was rather interrupted by an eccentric Brit, over-excited about his functioning computer."

"Oh, sure." Vincent winked, though whether it was to me or Ibrahim was unclear. He picked up his mug and hid his smile in his tea.

I decided to ignore whatever was going on between these two and, much like Emyl, bring the focus back on the issue at hand. "What's the plan when, if, we find Torres?"

Vincent was still grinning into his tea so Ibrahim decided to take the reins. "Hopefully, we can persuade Mr Torres to divulge the location, or indeed locations, of the gang's main supply basses so we can cut them off."

"What do you mean by 'persuade'?" I asked, glaring at the Moroi before me. Ibrahim's expression darkened but he said nothing.

Thankfully, Emyl spoke up in that moment. "Are we sure this boy with know that information? From his file, he doesn't seem to be that high in the gang's hierarchy. He probably wouldn't have been told such sensitive information."

I blinked somewhat surprised at how fast Emyl was picking up the strikingly different way of life we had managed to find ourselves in.

Vincent, finally managing to compose himself, took the reins back from Ibrahim. "No, probably not. But we know that he is, for want of a better phrase, a street rat: he knows how to get information without being told. Slyness is often a great virtue and one which, we hope, Pablo has been gifted." Emyl nodded, closing the file and putting back on the island.

"How early are we planning on leaving tomorrow?" Emyl asked, his arms resuming their folded position.

"Quite." Ibrahim said. "It is probably best to catch him either on his way to work or before it."

Vincent hummed his agreement. "Yes, the lad that informed me of the movements of Pablo Torres says he leaves the house like clockwork every morning at nine. Whether to go to work or not is a little transparent, however."

I couldn't help the smirk that formed on my lips. I could see Ibrahim took suppressing his amusement. "Well," Harriet said, "early start, early night – that's what my mum used to say." She said with a slight giggle before remembering where her mother was. The sadness crossed her features for a moment before she shook them off, smiled and left the room. I followed after her, leaving the boys in the kitchen to do as they pleased.

I found Harriet in our room, she had already set out the beds and climbed into hers, settling down once again with War and Peace which I assumed she had picked up from the bookshelf downstairs. I knocked gently at the door to let her know I was there. She glanced up and smiled. "Hey."

"Hey," I said, flopping down on my own bed but not getting in the covers. "You okay?"

"As I could be, I suppose." She shrugged. "Vincent seems nice."

I considered. "Yeah, though I think there is just a bit too much Ibrahim in him for my liking."

Harriet chuckled, placing the hefty book on the bedside cabinet. "You know, I think you secretly like him."

I cocked a brow. "Apparently, so secretly that not even I know."

She shook her head. "No, you know it."

"You know, I now agree with Emyl: it was a bad idea letting you read all those romantic novels."

She burst out laughing. "No, you need a good love story – to balance out all the bad." The pang of sadness returned to her eyes.

The sight nearly made my heart break: I could not bear to see her hurting. "Fine, I'll indulge you: I am in love with Ibrahim Mazur. Happy now?"

She cast her watering eyes towards me and laughed gleefully yet silently. "Very."

I shook my head and rose of my bed. "I need to pee, but I'll be right back. Don't miss me too much."

She smiled. "Thank you, Janine."

I smiled. "Anytime, Harriet."

I stepped out of the room and walked down the corridor only to run into Vincent coming the other way. "Oh, I am so sorry."

"Not a problem." He said, waving my apology off. "Are you okay?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, just going to the toilet."

"Ah," he said, stepping out of my way. "Say no more." I rolled my eyes and laughed. "Janine – it is okay to call you Janine, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"How long have you and Abe been friends?"

I frowned at the slightly unexpected question. "Couple of months, why?"

Vincent raised his eyebrows and ran his fingers through his hair, "No reason. I don't really hear from him very often and it's nice to keep track. He's not actually one to open up, if you understand." I didn't, not really at least, but I said I did. "Well, thank you, Janine. See you in the morning. Good night." And with that he walked, down the corridor and into the larger room where he, Ibrahim and Emyl were sharing.

I frowned after him. Not freaked out, but definitely confused by this new addition into my life. Vincent Alexander Cronan the Third was certainly a puzzling character – though thankfully not as much as Ibrahim. Sighing, I shook my head and went into the bathroom, putting all thoughts of enigmatic men to one side for the rest of the evening.

Dawn broke and I found myself curled around the comforts of a soft duvet. The light from the south-facing window seeped in between the borders of the blinds to rest on my weary eyes. I groaned. I was not unaccustomed to waking at the crack of dawn; nay, it had become something of a habit for me. But neither was I accustomed to this level of comfort in a bed. Having spent the last few nights of my life either on a plane, in a cheap (sorry Michael) motel or just on the ground, this bed was a welcomed comfort. Nonetheless, I forced my limbs upward and stretched out – effectively waking everything up so I wouldn't be tempted by sleep again. I staggered to my feet when I heard a whimpering from Harriet's bed. I quickly found my balance to rush over to her, shaking her awake.

"Mother!" she screamed as her eyes opened with alarming violence.

"Harriet! Harriet, it was just a dream." I soothed, breaking my usual inhibitions surrounding personal space and enveloping her in my arms.

"Oh, Janine," she murmured, silently sobbing into my shoulder. She held me tighter. "I am so sorry."

"You have nothing to apologise for," I reassured, the authority in my tone unquestionable. She merely nodded and continued to hug me. After a few moments, I felt her grip release and I let her go. She sat back and calmed herself, nodding when she was ready to leave the room.

We made our way down to find Emyl already up and about – pacing restlessly until he caught sight of Harriet. There was a moment of relief followed by extreme alarm when he took in her downcast expression, watered eyes and reddened nose. I gently shook my head and he nodded, knowing not to ask any questions but just to be her friend. The others seemed remarkably calm. Vincent was sitting by the table with a newspaper and a tea whilst Ibrahim leaned against the island with a coffee in his hand. He had changed out of his worn and slightly tattered shirt and suit bottoms into an entirely new one, black and complete with a rather eccentric red scarf and matching handkerchief. Upon seeing me, he smiled and the fluttering feeling from yesterday resurfaced. I ignored it and smiled back before asking what was happening.

"We're getting the train that leaves in half an hour. I already went out and got the tickets and the train station is five minutes away so there is time for coffee." Emyl answered, practically reading my mind.

"Hallelujah." And with that I set about making my coffee.

Once fully caffeinated, the five of us left. I texted Guardian Croft, giving him the update he had requested, using one of the burner phones Vincent had given me. The expenses went through whatever the organisation he and Ibrahim were apart of's accounts, encrypted of course, which was nice but not enough to redeem it.

We once again found ourselves on a commuter train, so I therefore had the hindsight to not say a word. In all honesty, I was quite glad for the silence; the sound of only the train groaning on, seemingly content in its repetitive cycle – safe in the knowledge that this is what it will be doing all day, every day, for as long as it is able. The outer world whizzes past in a strange blur: ever approaching but lasting for only a second. I lean my head against the plastic window – thankful that the five of us had seats as I wouldn't have wanted to stand in this stuffy carriage for an hour and a half.

At least I know what the people standing up were glaring at me for this time.

The ride was principally uneventful. Harriet was enjoying herself, watching the world pass her by at considerable speed and tapping on Emyl's arm as she had in the plane coming to Court for the first time, however this time Emyl seemed much more at ease given that he wasn't on a plane. Vincent seemed quite contented sitting next to Emyl, dozing off on him at one point, and just watching the world around him in silence; his eyes wandering around, resting on certain people whereupon they narrowed before moving on again. He particularly found it entertaining to study the man sitting opposite him and next to me, Ibrahim, who found it equally amusing to glare him away. In all, a rather mundane start to the day.

That was until we got to Portsmouth Harbour station...

"Ibrahim, is that...?"

"Yes, it is."

I was shocked at how quickly the next few seconds panned out. Pablo Torres was standing quite casually, if a little tensely, on the platform where our train stopped when I spotted him. And then he spotted us. His dark eyes widened at the oncoming threat and he made a break for it. But Emyl was faster. Pinning him to the ground in seconds, Pablo's flight didn't get very far. I flanked behind the Moroi as the five second spectacle had caused quite a scene, with many a human casting us strange and unnerved looks.

Thankfully, that is where Ibrahim stepped in. "Fear not, police business: carry on with your day." The coolness in which the speech was delivered was, in itself, enough to convince me that the five of us were coppers, even if we were not in any sort of uniform. But just in case it wasn't enough, Ibrahim produced a badge and wallet from his suit pocket. Vincent then pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and I seriously began considering that this was staged.

"Buenos días, hermano. Como estas?" Vincent whispered into the young man's ear. Pablo scrunched up his face and squirmed, managing to turn his head enough to spit of Vincent's shoes. "Charming."

In spite of his protests, Pablo was made to walk. Vincent, taking the initiative, handed Pablo over to Emyl which rendered any hope in Pablo's mind of escaping void. With not much choice in the matter, particularly now the working day was about to start, Vincent quickly lead us off the main roads and towards a more deserted area of town. Pulling out his phone, he punched in a number and brought it to his ear.

"Jamie, hello, are you home?...No?...No worries. Do you mind terribly if I use your living room?...Wonderful! Key still under the doormat?...Excellent. Many thanks, my dear friend. Catch up soon." And with that he hung up.

Five minutes later, we were at another house.

Unlocking the door, with the key which was indeed located under the doormat, we piled into the home; Vincent closed the door behind us, closed the curtains and plonked one of the wooden chairs around the kitchen table in the middle of the carpeted floor. "Put him there." He said to Emyl who obliged without complaint. Ibrahim had disappeared only to reappear with a wire chord which he presently wrapped around Pablo, securing him to the chair. I watched the whole scene with considerable alarm, an expression that did not go unnoticed by Ibrahim who was continuously looking over at me, watching my reaction. I felt Harriet tense behind me, and decided it would probably be best to take her out of the room. I made to leave with her, but Emyl stopped me.

"Let me." He said and I nodded reluctantly. I remained placed by the door, parallel to Pablo with Ibrahim to my left, standing in front of the poor man. He shot me one last indecipherable look, before turning to the man wrapped tied to the chair in front of him.

"Mr Torres, my name is Abe Mazur – I'd just like to ask you a few questions." His voice was different. The pleasantry and charm was still there was there was a deep-rooted eeriness about it that made me shiver.

Pablo too looked uneasy, though I suppose you would being tied to a chair. His eyes darted all over the room, avoiding the piercing and fiery gazes of both Vincent and Ibrahim. "No hablo inglés."

Without missing a beat, Vincent began tutting in the corner he had assumed to Ibrahim's left. "Now, now, there is no need to lie."

Pablo glared over at Vincent, but refused to say anything. Ibrahim signature smirk returned a little and he stepped towards the Spaniard. "Oh, don't mind Charles – he is just in a bit of a bad mood." Pablo still remained silent and now not looking at either Ibrahim or Vincent. "We just a little information and then we can all go home. Personally, I quite fancy drink. Bourbon, though really any type whiskey would suffice. Do you like whiskey?" For the first time, Pablo met Ibrahim's gaze, just for a second. As though he was testing the waters. "Not a fan of whiskey?" He still remained silent. "No, you seem more like a cocktail guy." Still silent."You know, this conversation thing is not really going to work if you don't speak."

"Why you not let me go then?" Pablo snapped meeting Ibrahim's gaze.

"Ah, you can speak. I was getting worried for a minute." Ibrahim said with a devious glint.

Pablo looked away. "I am not telling you anything."

Ibrahim waved him off. "You don't have to if you don't want to, though it would make it a little easier. All we want to know is the location of the supply bases. Then we'll be right on our way."

A fresh glint sparkled in Pablo's eyes and a re-fixed them on Ibrahim's. "They do not tell me these things."

Ibrahim inclined his head. "But you know..."

"I do not."

Ibrahim smiled. "We shall see." Turning to Vincent and inhaled and asked softly, "Shall we start nicely?" Vincent opened his hands in a gesture for him to proceed. Ibrahim nodded his thanks and turned back to Pablo. "Britain." Pablo frowned and looked between Vincent and Ibrahim (I think he had forgotten I was even there).

"No." Vincent's voice interrupted the silence.

"Russia." Ibrahim said and this time even I frowned.

"No." Vincent again responded.

Ibrahim looked momentarily surprised at that but continued anyway. "Spain."

Pablo hardened and looked over and Vincent. I too watched him carefully. His eyes were narrowed as they were on the train. After a moment, he spoke again. "No."

More surprise flashed on Ibrahim's face, but he quickly suppressed it and concentrated. "Mexico."

Again, Vincent's eyes narrowed, but this time a smirk came on his face. "Yes."

Pablo's head snapped up and Ibrahim's own smirk returned. "Ah, now we're getting somewhere." I was dazzled. What on Earth was going on? "France."

"No."

Ibrahim shrugged. "Well, renard can rest easy." Vincent chuckled as Ibrahim continued. "China."

"No."

"USA."

"No."

"Germany?"

"No."

"Italy?"

"No."

"Turkey?"

A pause. "Yes."

Ibrahim blinked. "Interesting." He stretched out his arms and walked back to lean against the front-facing windowsill. Pablo could not have looked any more alarmed. Whatever Vincent was doing, he was doing well, as the man shifted in his chair in a very agitated manner.

"What is he doing?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Ibrahim stopped stretching and looked at Pablo with a smile. "He is speaking. Perhaps, you would like a go?" For a moment Pablo spluttered, so dazed by what the hell was going on he had no words to say. "No? Alright. Egypt."

"No."

"Shame, I hear it is lovely this time of year. Japan."

"No."

Ibrahim sighed, his face contorted into a frown and his eyes rolling to the right before settling down again on Pablo. "Canada."

"Yes."

Ibrahim smirked, as though Vincent's response confirmed a theory. Pablo, on the other hand, looked absolutely terrified. Ibrahim's eyes caught my own and softened a little. "Do you have enough, Charles?" Ibrahim asked, not removing his firm hold.

"More than enough."

He smiled. "Wonderful." He pulled his gaze away and looked back at Pablo. Inclining his head a little, he offered Pablo a pitied smile which seemed to put the man in an even further degree of agitation.

"What has he enough for?" The squirming man asked, his eyes darting around the room panicked. They met me, I think perhaps for the first time, and a new wave of terror flooded into him. Vincent pushed himself from the corner and walked slowly towards Pablo. That got his attention. With each step, he became more and more squeamish until Vincent was directly in front of him. Slowly, Vincent crouched down in front of him, making his head level with Pablo's. He brought the man's eyes to meet his and spoke in the softest tone:

"This may hurt."

Without given Pablo any time to prepare, Vincent put his palms either side of Pablo's head and held them there. I was anticipating a scream. I was anticipating pain and terror and a whole manner of perverse and horrible things. Apparently, so was Pablo. He was crying as soon as Vincent's skin made contact with his own, expecting all of the above...

But it never came.

The surprise on Pablo's face shone through his tears. Vincent just crouched there: his hands on Pablo's temples and his eyes closed, as if in a meditation. He remained there for a while, Pablo in too much shock to do anything but sit still. But after that while, Vincent reopened his eyes, smiled and got up.

Ibrahim looked at his friend expectantly. "Success?"

Vincent's smile widened. "Vancouver, Monterrey and Istanbul." Ibrahim smirked and Pablo's face dropped cataclysmically – the despair across his features clear for the whole world to see.

Me? I just had one question: what the hell just happened?