The National Museum, Manhattan, New York 1938
[March 14th, 1938 @ 9:12 am EST]
A day and a half has passed since the ill-fated fundraising gala at the Diamond Eye night club. It had taken Marcus Brody the rest of that Saturday night to appease and refund the majority of the outraged attendees. Other guests had simply stormed out though, so his phone had barely stopped ringing on Sunday. He expected much the same this Monday morning, and braced himself for some more snobbish chagrin when he picked up the first call.
However, the gala attendee calling turned out to be far from disgruntled...
"Now that I have given you the location, Doctor Brody, it is up to you." The female voice at the other end of the line is soft, despite the clipped German accenting. "The idol of the Chachapoyan fertility goddess will be returned if the price I quoted is paid. And if that payment is delivered in person by your colleague, Indiana Jones."
"Surely, Madam..." Marcus Brody begins, but he's cut off by an additional imperative from the woman.
"Alone!"
"Surely, Madam, you can't expect us to meet such demands without some assurance that"
click
The static-heavy connection is replaced by dead air.
"Damn it," Marcus mutters to himself, still holding the receiver to his ear. He hangs it up, and on the desk before him, his pen stops moving at the end of a set of hastily scribbled notes. He takes a moment to read them back to himself, and pauses to double-underline the word Brazil. He doesn't like this; not one little bit. But, ultimately, the decision is Indy's.
He reaches for the phone again.
"Fairfield-586, please..."
Many miles away, a petite woman recradles a different phone handset and turns to the tall man who is standing nearby. Their relative heights are not the only contradiction. Her bright blonde hair and alabaster skin are no match to his dark locks and tawny war-paint daubed complexion. And her safari suit and high boots are starkly contrasted by his ragged loin cloth and bare feet. Nevertheless, they appear to be companions of sorts.
"It is done, Xomec," she informs him.
The warrior's face is hard and expressionless. He gives a simple nod of acknowledgement.
"The idol is already yours," she continues.
Said golden effigy is sitting right there, on the same table as the phone. The back of a well-manicured fingernail traces down one of its contorted cheeks.
"And soon, Indiana Jones will be mine!"
[OOC: Adapted from The Further Adventures of Indiana Jones #10, by Marvel Comics.]
A day and a half has passed since the ill-fated fundraising gala at the Diamond Eye night club. It had taken Marcus Brody the rest of that Saturday night to appease and refund the majority of the outraged attendees. Other guests had simply stormed out though, so his phone had barely stopped ringing on Sunday. He expected much the same this Monday morning, and braced himself for some more snobbish chagrin when he picked up the first call.
However, the gala attendee calling turned out to be far from disgruntled...
"Now that I have given you the location, Doctor Brody, it is up to you." The female voice at the other end of the line is soft, despite the clipped German accenting. "The idol of the Chachapoyan fertility goddess will be returned if the price I quoted is paid. And if that payment is delivered in person by your colleague, Indiana Jones."
"Surely, Madam..." Marcus Brody begins, but he's cut off by an additional imperative from the woman.
"Alone!"
"Surely, Madam, you can't expect us to meet such demands without some assurance that"
click
The static-heavy connection is replaced by dead air.
"Damn it," Marcus mutters to himself, still holding the receiver to his ear. He hangs it up, and on the desk before him, his pen stops moving at the end of a set of hastily scribbled notes. He takes a moment to read them back to himself, and pauses to double-underline the word Brazil. He doesn't like this; not one little bit. But, ultimately, the decision is Indy's.
He reaches for the phone again.
"Fairfield-586, please..."
Many miles away, a petite woman recradles a different phone handset and turns to the tall man who is standing nearby. Their relative heights are not the only contradiction. Her bright blonde hair and alabaster skin are no match to his dark locks and tawny war-paint daubed complexion. And her safari suit and high boots are starkly contrasted by his ragged loin cloth and bare feet. Nevertheless, they appear to be companions of sorts.
"It is done, Xomec," she informs him.
The warrior's face is hard and expressionless. He gives a simple nod of acknowledgement.
"The idol is already yours," she continues.
Said golden effigy is sitting right there, on the same table as the phone. The back of a well-manicured fingernail traces down one of its contorted cheeks.
"And soon, Indiana Jones will be mine!"
[OOC: Adapted from The Further Adventures of Indiana Jones #10, by Marvel Comics.]