"I've gone through my entire life, not knowing you, and it worked out fine. You're opening old wounds," Amelia said firmly. Robert sighed, ran his hands through his thin hair. "I'm sorry, Mr. Beaumont. I really--"

BAM. Amelia collapsed into Robert's arms from the behind-the-head blow. Throwing her over his shoulder, the wonderful father jerked his head towards her possessions, and his accomplice gathered them and followed Robert into a waiting van.

"She refused, like you said she would, Sylvia," Robert commented to the woman sitting next to him, after securing the girl in handcuffs and throwing her in the corner.

"I saw it from here. It wasn't very pretty, dear. I think you could have done better. Your anger overcame you."

"I know. I was so sure she would cooperate. I am her father, after all."

"She isn't one to care. Is she salvageable?"

"Perhaps. We'll find out later."

The three adults sat quietly in the rocking van, occasionally stealing glances at the unconscious Amelia. Soon, the van slowed, stopped, and the back doors were thrown open. Robert carried Amelia into the large building and reclamped the handcuffs to a metal bed in a dark back room. Presently, Amelia woke up, but kept her eyes closed. She knew something was wrong.

"She's been asleep for an awful long time, Rob. How hard did you hit her, Cedric?" Sylvia asked.

Cedric shrugged, "Pretty hard." He walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Maybe we should fire him," Rob suggested, "He's got anger management issues."

"So do you," Sylvia sighed, following Cedric's actions.

"So, daddy," Amelia sneered sarcastically, "Why are you here?"

"I've made many mistakes in my life, and abandoning you is probably the worst. I've been trying to find you for three years. I'm going to take you home, honey." Robert reached out to touch Amelia's red streaks. "Your mother will be so happy."

"How did you find me?" Amelia stubbornly jerked her head away from her father's hand. She was not used to affection.

"I managed to track down most of your foster parents. They gave me a description of what you looked liked and the last couple told me that Washington D.C. was the most logical place you could be. You've got friends, too. I think I asked every homeless person in this city about you."

Amelia looked away. "Mr. Beaumont, I think you have the wrong person. I am not your daughter. You do not have a daughter named Amelia. She died when you stopped loving her 15 years ago."

Robert's joyous face became stern. "Amelia. I apologize. You cannot live as a homeless piece of trash! You need a family!"

"I am 18 years old. I am an adult. I do not need you. Now go away, Mr. Beaumont, before you make a scene."

"You will address me as father!" Robert shouted, grabbing his daughter's hair in his fists. "Stupid cow, you are my daughter and you will act like it!"

Amelia gasped at this sudden act of violence as tears of pain smarted her eyes. Instinctively, she smashed her knee into his stomach. "Get off!" she screamed through clenched teeth and shoved him away. Robert clutched at his stomach, surprise clearly written on his skinny face.

Das Bugeleisen Cafe was located in a shadier part of town. Not that it was seedy - it was just a bit more run down and less loved looking than some of the other areas in the city. The Cafe itself was well kept, but it looked as if it needed some modern updates. Nyla sat down at a table in the center of the room, hoping to be noticed. She order a small coffee from a waiter who came to her table, then began to scan the room. There were few patrons here this early in the morning, but there were more than she’d expected. A man in a stuffy business suit sat alone near the front window reading a newspaper, while a woman dressed in grungy street clothes sipped a black coffee a few tables down from the businessman. In the corner of the room, sitting alone, was a man with blond hair in blue jeans and a black shirt reading a copy of Alexis de Tocqueville’s “Democracy in America” - Franz’s favorite book.

Once her coffee came, Nyla walked over to the man reading “Democracy in America”.

“Excuse me sir, is that ‘Democracy in America’ you’re reading?” Nyla asked in German.

The man put down his book and looked up at her with his blue eyes - eyes that matched nicely with the faded blue of his jeans. “Yes it is.” He replied back in heavily accented German.

“Where are you from? Your accent when you speak is not familiar to me, but I find it interesting.” Somehow Nyla felt that her conversations in German felt stiff. At that moment she wished she’d gotten to practice her German with Franz to avoid mistakes in moments like this.

“It’s Dutch.”

“Are you the man Franz Krause wrote of?”

“Please, sit down.”

Nyla followed the command, and sat down across from the blue eyed man. “Is your English better than your German?”

“Yes.” Blue eyes replied in English. “I am much more comfortable when I speak English.

She let out a little sigh of relief. “Good thing, my English is much better than my German too. You know, I’ve found all these languages the most difficult part of my trip so far.”

“You must be the woman Franz was telling me about. He said he trusts you. I think I trust you already.”

“That’s a quick judgment.” Nyla took a sip of her coffee to keep her hands busy.

“I’m very good at passing judgments. Let me introduce myself, I’m Andre Van Hoek, as you’ve already discovered, I’m Dutch and not German, and as you can tell, my German is not the best.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Van Hoek, can I call you Andre?” He nodded his head. “I’m Nyla Dickenson, and I’m not quite sure I know what’s going on here. Would you like to explain?”

“Yes, I’d love to. I think Franz told you he started a company several years ago? The company is a company, but it is most likely not the sort of company you probably assumed it was. It is seen on the outside as an international business dealing in stocks and finance and the like, but in truth it deals in information. It deals in the truth, or the search of it at least. You see, Franz found evidence several years ago that Germany is not really run by the Chancellor or any sort of government that it is supposedly run by. Franz first became suspicious when, while he was working for the government, he accidentally ran across a list of names of important people....to be killed. The list was signed by five men who we’ve referred to as the “Penta” ever since.”

“So how did you get involved in the conspiracy theory for a country you’re not even from?”

“This goes beyond conspiracy theories. Theories are just thoughts and guesses that people back with evidence that already exists. We have encountered true proof.”

“And how have you managed to do such a thing?” Nyla couldn’t help but be skeptical about this.

“As I said before, we deal information. If somebody wants information, we retrieve it for them. When we retrieve, we make copies of it and keep the copy for ourselves. The original information is given to those who have made requests for the information or to those who have made it known that they want a certain bit of info. You’d be surprised how handsomely many pay for information, and few realize that we have retained a copy of the information. But you see, this is where we run into problems. If people discover we have a copy of the information, things start to get a little messy. We start getting killed unless we kill them ourselves. In a world of survival of the fittest, there are few of us who live very long unless we break our moral conciouses and hire someone to kill the person after us. That is the only reason I am alive now. Franz requested you meet with me, because he believes that you would be a good replacement for him on the team. You are intelligent, educated in the world and its history as we are taught, and have good judgment. Otherwise Franz would have never suggested that you join our team. So, do you have any interest in this?”

“This is a lot of information to take in all at once. I don’t know if I can give you an answer right away. What sort of commitment would these entail from me? I have a small business of my own back in the United States that I’m not ready to give up. And I couldn’t live in Europe right now.”

“That is the best part. You can live in the United States where you’ve always lived and still run your business.”

“How?”

“You wouldn’t be gathering information on or for Germany, or any other European countries, you’d be tracking and obtaining information from the United States government.”

“Excuse me?”

Andre laughed. “What? You thought your American government would not be a suspect of corrupted leadership? America is the grand-daddy of all conspiracy theories, and as much as this group doesn’t want to associate with conspiracy theorists, we can’t deny that America is a prime suspect in the category of corruption.”

“What is your group going to do with all this information?”

“We’re compiling now, uncovering. We haven’t gathered enough data to come to any solid conclusions yet. We’ve decided we want rock solid proof that covers our butts completely before we attempt any sort of revealation. We want more respect that a tabloid article.”

“Why would I want to help you?”

“Because you want to know the truth. Because you want the true story told of this generation when its written in history books years from now. Because you want fame or money or power. Or maybe you just want some fun and adventure to spice up your boring life. Whatever it is, I’m sure there’s something in this for you.”

“Who else is a part of this?” Nyla couldn’t help feel like she was grilling Andre, but she wanted to get her mind straight before she made any sort of serious commitment.

“There’s just me and three others left - Sterling Murphy Sullivan - a Scots-Irish lad, Petros Vasilakis - our good old Greek, we call him the “grandfather” although he is only thirty-nine, he is the oldest, and finally Claude Levesque. Claude - that’s our Frenchman, he’s a bit young - only nineteen - but he’s got a lot of spirit in him. That’s all we have now. There are people we occasionally call on for jobs, but we’re in desperate need of permanent information gathers. Are you in?”

“Who pays for my flights?”

“We do.”

“I’m in.”

In the bathroom of the hotel room she frantically scrubbed the blood off her hands with the hotel’s little flower-scented bar of soap. Tears ran down her cheeks as she hysterically sobbed. What had just happened? She needed to get control of herself before she did anything else. Nyla staggered into the bedroom and lay down on the bed, her arms hanging limp off the mattress. She let her head fall to the side. As her eyes focused on the close flower pattern of the blanket next to her, she noticed the letter Franz had given her. She had nothing else to do now, at least she knew of nothing else to do. She grabbed the little folded up piece of white paper and unfolded it. It read:

You are beautiful. Thank you for filling my last days with joy and pleasure. Please consider what I’m about to request seriously. If I have handed you this note, I have been found and killed. I am a part of a secret underground operation to discover the truth. Isn’t that what everyone wants to know? I know that things in the government (here and everywhere) are not anything like they seem. My group has plotted to uncover the truth and do something with it. What we are going to do none of us are sure. But we are sure that we want to uncover secrets. Unfortunately many find us meddling in their business to be annoying. And so there have been great sacrafices made. If I am dead that means there are only four main operatives left alive. Go to Das Bugeleisen Cafe tomorrow morning promptly at six. There will be a man there who can explain more than I can here. Please consider the offer he makes you, I know it will change you and make your life seem very different. Keep in mind, his offer can be very rewarding. Burn this letter.
Signed with Love,
Franz

With confused tears blurring her vision, she struck a match and set the letter on fire. She let it burn until the flames began to tickle her fingers. She threw the last minute bit of the flaming note into the toilet, and she flushed it down into Berlin’s sewers. Now Franz was completely gone. But she would trust his word and meet the man in Das Bugeleisen Cafe tomorrow morning. All she had to do now was wait.

Lunch had been nothing more than laughs and, as the Julie Andrews song puts it, “getting to know you, getting know all about you”. Nyla had learned that Franz Krause had grown up in Mainz, Germany, before moving to Berlin to go into business management. He now owned a small company in the city, which he’d started several years ago. She even learned that his favorite book was Alexis de Tocquville’s “Democracy in America”. Nyla had grown fond of him and accepted his invitation to meet again for dinner the next day.

Dinner turned into more dinners and lunches until the two had spent nearly an entire week together.

“Franz,” Nyla looked to her new friend as they walked along a river in Berlin. “I have to leave in two days, although I don’t want to. This has been the most fun I’ve ever had in a week.”

“Well, I’m glad I could make your trip worthwhile. Berlin is a beautiful city, filled with history.”

“Yes, there are many things I love here. But I can’t stay because there are too many things to be done in the United States. The dull, boring things that have to be done so I can continue my meager exsistence.”

“Don’t feel so bad if your life is boring - you should feel lucky that you have a comfortable enough life to be bored.”

“Oh come now, your life doing business I’m sure can be exciting, but there must be times when you’re downright bored too.”

“Well - “ Franz looked away for a moment, out into the distance. His eyes seemed to catch on something before he turned back to look at Nyla. “Sometimes I wish my life was boring, but at others I cherish every moment of it. Here, there is something I wish to give you.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small note, which he placed in her hand.

“Just a note to say goodbye and thank you for spending your vacation time with me.”

“It’s not going to make me cry, is it?” Nyla let out a little melancholy smile.

“Be - “ Franz was never given a chance to finish. At that moment a bullet whizzed through the air and lodged itself into his brain with pinpoint accuracy. Franz fell forward towards Nyla. She just managed to prevent herself from falling and slow Franz’s fall to the ground. When she lay his head down onto the ground, a sticky red river began to run from his dark hair and into the street. Nyla was barely able to hold back the scream that was building up inside of her as his blood covered her hands. Her hands smeared blood all over as she checked the pulse on his wrist, clinging onto hope. But there was no hope. He was dead - shot by someone.

It was at that moment that Nyla realized that she too may be in danger if the sniper was still around. With one last glance at poor Franz in his pool of blood, she raced away to her hotel room.

Name: Nyla Dickenson
Age: 27
Birthday: November 19, 1975
Height: 5' 4"
Weight: 123
Hair: naturally dark brown, it is currently auburn
Clothing: occasionally professional (button up shirts, slacks, skirts), but at other times casual (jeans, t-shirts, sweats) What she's wearing depends on the occasion.
Eyes: brown
Background: Nyla grew up in Pennsylvania and went to the University of Pennsylvania for college. There she mastered in History and minored in Communications. She has a thirst for learning new languages and is currently fluent in Russian and Spanish, and dabbles in other languages. Her parents are both retired, live in Rhode Island, and manage a small seaside Inn. Nyla has an older sister, Elena - an advertising executive in LA, and a younger brother Walter who is a dentist in Virginia. Nyla owns a small antiques shop in Philadelphia and gets a *very* modest revenue selling antiques.

Name:Amelia
Age: 18
Birthday: February 25, 1984
Height: 5’4”
Weight: 110
Hair: Chin-length; black; streaked with bright red
Clothing: usually in a black turtleneck, a plain long-sleeved shirt, or a hooded sweatshirt; baggy jeans; sneakers or boots; old trench coat; beanie
Eyes: gray
Background: Amelia was born in the small suburb of Bloomingdale, outside of Washington D.C. Amelia’s parents were wealthy and well to do, but abandoned her when she was 4 years old for unknown reasons, leaving her in an orphanage across town. Her new home was modest but treated her well. At the age of 13, one of her foster fathers taught her how to play the guitar, and gave one to her on her 14th birthday. She went through several sets of foster parents before running away from an abusive couple at the age of 17. Amelia deciding to try her luck in nearby Washington D.C. However, she had barely any friends or money and has been living as a homeless for a year, playing her guitar for money.

It was a good day for Amelia. Better than most. She brushed her hair out of her face and into her hood before gathering the dollar bills and sundry coins from her guitar case.

"1...2...3...4..."

She paused and examined a strange coin. Canadian. Amelia shoved it in her pocket and continued counting her income of the day. 15 dollars. 15 dollars and 75 cents. Smiling, she neatly stored her money in the individual compartments of a well-worn wallet. Dollars in the long pocket. Coins in the pouch. She placed her beloved guitar into its case, snapped it shut, shouldered her backpack and started for the nearest fast food restaurant. She was going to have a Big N' Tasty at McDonalds for dinner.

Passersby and those who listened to her play would be surprised if they knew that the petite homeless woman was a rebellious orphaned teenager. She lived alone, had few friends, and oftentimes turned to thievery to survive. She was a lonely, skinny girl with nothing to live for but her music.

An hour later, she returned to her favorite bench along the Potomac River. It was a beautiful cloudless day and she absentmindedly swung her legs while eating. Presently, a faintly French-accented voice disrupted her thoughts.

“Hello there, Amelia. They told me I’d find you here.”

She turned her head, surprised to find a stranger standing uncomfortably close to her. Watching him closely, she stuffed the last bite of burger in her mouth, chewed carefully, swallowed, and took a drink from her water bottle before speaking.

“Who are you?”

“Robert Beaumont. So we finally meet again.”

“Right. What do you want? And why the hell do you know my name?”

Robert Beaumont smiled. “Oh Amelia…I would never ever think that you would grow up into this rude, dirty-mouthed little rebel.”

At this, Amelia stood and glared. “Leave me alone.”

Robert’s smiled only grew larger. “I finally find you after all these years…I am not going to leave you alone. You see, my dear, I am…your father.”

“Father?” Amelia scoffed. “I have no father.”

“Um. Alright then. I am…your biological father.”

Elizabeth told me that we're based in Washington D.C...that's all I can think of. Is SULUS and WHI [the law firm] our cover?

Meha, this is an RPG like the Royal Court. Except this time, instead of it being a fantasy based RPG, we're all spies. Just about anything goes. Maybe we should each post a brief bio on each of our characters. That way you can read about our characters and get an idea for your own if you'd like to post too. It is set in the present times. That's all I can really think of to tell you. Can anyone else add anything?

ey.. what do we write about? I'm a bit confused..... as usual:)