[HEADING=3]Dr. Schwertner[/HEADING]
"Follow me. I know where you can get metal."
The doctor hesitated as he approached the automobile. It was unlike any design he had seen before, and large enough to be a armored truck. Of course, it appeared to have been in much greater condition than the trucks he'd seen, about as well-kept as the BMW 315 one of the doctor's former colleagues had cherished almost obsessively. Always complaining about the dirt it would collect each time he made the drive up to the labs. on and on the little man would drone about how little he paid for the car, how pristine the leather interior was kept, how the damned thing glistened in the right light. Vinzenz, for one, was glad the buffoon had disappeared with all of his other subordinates in the accident.
On the inside, it was very spacious and comfortable. Plenty of room to get what he needed. No words were exchanged between the driver and the passenger, which was somewhat of a relief, even as discomforting as it was. It meant no stumbling over words and he wouldn't have to clumsily bound over verbal hurdles in the same fashion that some kind of rubber-legged Olympic athlete would over literal ones. Instead, while the man was messing with the radio, he withdrew his notebook from his pocket and flipped through the pages so he may start looking into what went wrong in the first place. In the background, Vinzenz caught word of something related to the police, probably some criminal activity. It was no concern of his, insignificant in comparison to his work.
The moment the music reached the scientist's ears, Vinzenz was struck with a fond familiarity, something that was unexpected during the brief period he had spent so far in that foreign time. With a single finger raised from his notebook, he reflexively conducted his own imaginary orchestra in the same way that his father did. Then it dawned on his that he hadn't thought about his family, his parents in particular, for a very long time. Given the amount of time that had passed, it was more than likely that they had died years ago. Vinzenz didn't know how to feel about that. Before he could think more deeply on the matter, an imaginary hand cast the thought aside and pushed his work at the front of his mind, but he just couldn't concentrate anymore. He set the journal in his lap and, in an attempt to break the tension, looked at Alex with a friendly smile that he hoped didn't look forced, pointed at the radio, then said with a nod, "Beethoven. Very good."
"Follow me. I know where you can get metal."
The doctor hesitated as he approached the automobile. It was unlike any design he had seen before, and large enough to be a armored truck. Of course, it appeared to have been in much greater condition than the trucks he'd seen, about as well-kept as the BMW 315 one of the doctor's former colleagues had cherished almost obsessively. Always complaining about the dirt it would collect each time he made the drive up to the labs. on and on the little man would drone about how little he paid for the car, how pristine the leather interior was kept, how the damned thing glistened in the right light. Vinzenz, for one, was glad the buffoon had disappeared with all of his other subordinates in the accident.
On the inside, it was very spacious and comfortable. Plenty of room to get what he needed. No words were exchanged between the driver and the passenger, which was somewhat of a relief, even as discomforting as it was. It meant no stumbling over words and he wouldn't have to clumsily bound over verbal hurdles in the same fashion that some kind of rubber-legged Olympic athlete would over literal ones. Instead, while the man was messing with the radio, he withdrew his notebook from his pocket and flipped through the pages so he may start looking into what went wrong in the first place. In the background, Vinzenz caught word of something related to the police, probably some criminal activity. It was no concern of his, insignificant in comparison to his work.
The moment the music reached the scientist's ears, Vinzenz was struck with a fond familiarity, something that was unexpected during the brief period he had spent so far in that foreign time. With a single finger raised from his notebook, he reflexively conducted his own imaginary orchestra in the same way that his father did. Then it dawned on his that he hadn't thought about his family, his parents in particular, for a very long time. Given the amount of time that had passed, it was more than likely that they had died years ago. Vinzenz didn't know how to feel about that. Before he could think more deeply on the matter, an imaginary hand cast the thought aside and pushed his work at the front of his mind, but he just couldn't concentrate anymore. He set the journal in his lap and, in an attempt to break the tension, looked at Alex with a friendly smile that he hoped didn't look forced, pointed at the radio, then said with a nod, "Beethoven. Very good."
