Luke stank like hell and looked like it too. In the darkened English streets, any passerby could smell the thick musk of gasoline radiating off him like an aura. A day or two without showering. Not a lot of time for personal grooming when g-men with big orders and thick skulls rip you away from home. He felt like a fish out of water, still wearing a blue jumpsuit with his station's name engraved into the breast. "Luke's Gas". It was simple, kinda like him. Nothing really going on and full of gas in the litterally sense.

England seemed nice. People tended to mind themselves or just not care. Most looked scared, with the husks of buildings giving good reason why. Apparently something called "The Blitz" happened that caused a good chunk of destruction. Nazi assholes most likely. Blitz seemed to be their calling card. Luke passed through another alleyway quickly, trying to not let his scent stick to too many places and found himself just where he needed to be. The New Crown Pub.

"Time to get some answers," Luke told himself as he crossed the street and entered the establishment. The smell of alcohol and metaphorical depression overbeared him for a moment. At least he wouldn't stink up the joint. Luke immediate walked over to the bar as he reached for his wallet. The barkeep was already taking care of someone else farther down, grabbing her a bottle of vodka. Luke opened up his wallet and pulled out a few singles and figured that after exchange-rates, he would have enough to get extra sloppy if need be. 

Luke shoved his wallet back into his pockets and looked at his arms underneith the lighting of the bar. His veins glowed a sickly yellow under the artificial lighting, another strange cosmetic change thanks to his "condition". He always forgot how strange he must look in public, like some plague victim or something. After looking around a bit more, Luke had trouble finding any g-men. He probably couldn't find any others like him either if he really tired, which is what the agent who directed him here promised he would meet. And get his answers.

He hoped that the others like him had better luck in the genetic lottery then he did. He didn't know much about genes, but he did know that something was wrong with his. People weren't made to piss fuel and set their blood on fire. If he spat on the next drunk Brit to accidentally bump into him and lit a spark, the poor bastard would set like paper. Weird shit was about to go down, he could feel it.