Despite all of Oskar’s precautions, the screen door slammed against the wooden door frame before clicking shut, a familiar sound for Max, his three year old Leonberger. The massive dog scrambled up from his bed in the kitchen and ran to the door just in time to see his master walking away. With a sharp bark, however, he quickly gained Oskar’s attention. The man released a deep sigh, slowly turning around and kneeling down to the dog’s level, the screen separating the two. Max scratched eagerly at the mesh with his massive paws, tongue lolling, which provoked a chuckle from Oskar. “**Sorry friend, but I don’t think pubs here let dogs in**,” he spoke to his companion in German, the language he was trained in, as if the animal would understand it more than English. Max cocked his head in confusion. “**No, not even you. Stay here and hold the fort down, I’ll be back soon.**” Oskar turned his back on his furry friend, who let out a brief whimper as he watched his master walk out of sight. Ever since they met beneath the Watzmann, a mountain in Germany, the two were almost inseparable; Oskar took him on all his assignments, and found comfort knowing he had a friend no matter where he went. Now was one of the few occasions he was forced to abandon Max, and it wasn’t very easy for either of them. Oskar reached the small garage adjacent to his brother’s house, where two cars and a covered motorcycle sat in silence. He tore off the oil-stained sheet and tossed it aside, briefly taking a moment to admire the revealed machine. Once Oskar realized he’d be stuck in America for a while, he bought the first thing with a motor and wheels he could find, which ended up to be a rusted black 1970 BMW R75/5. The journalist always wanted a motorcycle, but with his work taking him all over the globe, lugging a vehicle around wasn't very practical; taxis always did the job just fine. In his spare time, which Oskar had a lot of given his almost fugitive status, he worked on the bike with the limited mechanical skills he learned from the internet. It almost seems as if the man had done more harm than good, stripping the motorcycle of all nonessential parts, but it was a style of sorts. Oskar donned his grey leather jacket and strapped his full face black helmet on before firing up the motorcycle. The exhaust didn’t compare to the rumbling Harleys that roamed Haye, but it belted out a pleasant tune. Oskar rolled the bike outside, warming up the old engine, and looked up just in time to notice the tall grass besides the driveway stirring. While Oskar’s brother lived outside of the city limits, it was still uncommon to see wildlife roaming around the property, as they lived in a small community with neighbors close by. That is, it was uncommon until Oskar moved in. He spotted a long snout dusted with white and brown fur emerge from the frost-tipped brush line before quickly retreating. Usually, the family of coyotes greeted him the moment he walked outside, but today they seemed skittish. _Foreshadowing, maybe?_ Oskar thought, but shook his head. _Or maybe they’re just scared of the motorcycle, you idiot._ The morning cold should have sent chills down Oskar’s spine as he drove into town, but his anxiety and fear kept him plenty warm. He tried to convince himself it was just a usual trip to the bar, grab a few drinks and meet some women, and not a clandestine meeting of magical beings that are being hunted by the government. To put himself at ease, Oskar tried to find humor in the situation. He imagined the gathering as almost an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, all of the Emergents shifting awkwardly in their chairs as they confessed their secrets. _Hi, my name’s Oskar, and I’m an Emergent. I woke up this morning and three bears were staring at me through my window._ He used this to block out what very well might actually happen; a platoon of armed soldiers barge through the door and haul him away to be experimented on like an animal. _Funny how history repeats itself so quickly._ Oskar’s grandparents, having lived in Nazi Germany, told him of the horrors that the government committed against its own people. Jews deemed “non-human”, stripped of their basic rights. Their own neighbors dragged onto the streets and beaten. Many were rounded up in the train yards and sent to die in work camps. His grandparents always reminded him of these atrocities so he would never forget, and, God forbid, so he would recognize and help stop genocide. _No, its funny how quickly people forget._ In what felt like mere minutes, Oskar arrived at the bar, The Water of Life. The streets were fairly silent, most of Haye busy at work. A few cars were parked in front of the bar, but it was practically empty. Oskar rode around the area in search of anything suspicious, though he wasn’t sure what suspicious was. He pictured men in black suits idling around with their hands occasionally touching their ear and talking, but was sure the government was much more competent than shown in Hollywood films. Satisfied with his search, Oskar rode his bike into the alley behind The Water of Life, leaving his helmet with the motorcycle. If he had to make a quick escape, Oskar figured he could dart to the back and ride off into the sunset. That was the plan, anyway. _If it looks like a trap, feels like a trap, and smells like a trap, you don’t have to walk through the door to know it’s a trap._ He wasn’t entirely sure why he stood in front of the bar doors. Oskar didn’t need friends. He had plenty back home, and even a few in town. Oskar didn’t believe there was strength in numbers, certainly in this situation; with his limited hunting experience, he knew that a pack was always easier to hunt than a single animal. A pack left more tracks, were easier to spot, and traveled much slower. Still, his curiosity had gotten the best of him though. When he was checking out a book on local wildlife at the local bookstore, the book keeper promptly pulled him to the custodial room. Oskar thought he was about to fulfill some unwanted fantasy of his involving a librarian gone wild until she said she knew he was an Emergent like her. The young girl, Emelina, explained she was organizing a meeting of Emergents at The Water of Life, and he was to come. It was the prospect of finding answers that brought him here really, and though he would deny it, maybe a way to fight back. Against his better instinct, Oskar pushed his way through the doors and into the bar. He’d been there on several occasions with his brother, and was fairly acquainted with the staff and patrons. The bar itself was, in Oskar’s opinion, very American. It looked like a puzzle, but with pieces from eight different sets. It seemed to embody what he thought of the country; hard-working hardy people coming from all over the world, bringing their own ideals and ways of life with them. It was a far cry from the uniform nature of beer halls in Germany, but they shared a similar sense of place. Inside, he only recognized two people, Emelina and the bartender, Brian. The journalist took a seat at the bar near Emelina, whose eyes were concealed by dark sunglasses. _Hung over and already at the bar? Impressive._ After attending to the other customers, Brian made his way towards Oskar. “**Good morning Brian. Shit, it is morning, isn’t it? I’ll take an Irish coffee in that case**,” he said with a forced grin. Although his German accent was quite thick, it was still easy to understand. He glanced over at Emelina occasionally, wondering how this meeting would occur with Brian present.