The air was thick with mist and froth, and the Ocean Wanderer rocked periliously on it's journey to Philadelphia. The passengers held onto whatever they could grab - which in some cases was each other - as they prayed to God that the half-drunk Captain could keep the boat afloat for another two hours. This had started three hours after the ship left Italy, and somehow the Captain had managed to keep himself drunk for every single hour starting from that time. The actual functioning of the ship was left to his first mate, a man with one eye and an alarming tendency to fall asleep on the watch. Then again, the ship itself was not exactly a luxury cruiser, and the people were mainly people from the slums of Italy. As such, food was nothing better than slop on the platter, which sometimes tasted suspiciously like salt water with a dry loaf of bread to go. The ship had its share of unlawful activities, most of them carried out by the crew itself. Damon held a tattered coat tightly about him, concealing a fine black suit beneath. His blue-green eyes was closed to keep out the salt foam, though the occupants of the ship learned to leave him alone for the most part. The first day had been eventful, with him throwing three would-be pickpockets off board. Nobody cared about the ones thrown off, and the rest decided to be cautious. Two more tried their luck, and got their wrists broken. Since then, he had not been approached yet, though he doubted whether he could repel any more seekers. His body already had two bullet wounds as it was, and the tasteless food had done little to heal it.

Life in Italy had been good, until the family run by his father had been attacked by three enemy families at once. His father himself led the last wave, after commanding his son to leave Italy. Damon's grandfather had worked in America, and he had died in a war between cities. His son - Damon's father - had gone to Italy to seek his fortune. "How queer that each successive generation meets the same fate" he thought with a grim smile. He intended to make his life different. "I cannot predict what will happen. But I can have hope of leaving a better future to my successors". He had been most reluctant to flee, agreeing only when his father had ordered him at point blank range. He started and came out of his reverie, when a sailor cried out the arrival of Philadelphia. He was flabbergasted, and then realized that the Captain must have gotten the time of arrival wrong. It was a miracle that they had not ended up at the polar caps, at any rate. Damon stood and stretched, his body suddenly flooded with adrenaline. The home of his grandfather beckoned, and he intended to do his name proud. But first, he had to quietly investigate his grandfather's friends. Most would probably be dead by now. He remembered his grandfather's diary, in which names like McKnighter, Apollonia, Tritium, and many others were mentioned frequently.

Not that it mattered. He intended to survive on his own anyway. But it would be nice to know more about his grandfather, and what he had accomplished from another person's point of view. The diary might have been an inflation of his grandfather's ego. Damon could not tell, having never met him. "And so my grandson will probably think of my father he thought cynically, as a few planks were laid across the ship, to the port. He was the first to descend, having nothing to pack up or carry. The air was crisp, though cold. He decided at once to use his remaining money on a new coat and a hot meal. Then would begin the task of searching for a job, and if fate permitted, enquire about his grandfather, Xanxus, and his other ancestor Wraith, who also shared a past in America. He smiled in anticipation, and let a pick pocket off lightly, preferring to twist his arm a little, and slap the back of his head as a warning. Italy or America, pickpockets would always be the same...

Trolley-Snatcha listens to the young mans speech

Nice Sir, i applaud the way your carry yourself. Sounds like the kinda trip my grandfather had back in the day. Me, I am 5th Gerneration Italian-American. Just wish people over here would take the same stong line of punishment for pickpocketers as those sailors on board did.

Do tell me Sir, Do i call you Primo or Damon?

Damon started. He had wanted to leave behind his old name in Italy. One never knew, as half the Italian mafioso came to America these days. He composed himself and turned to Trolley-Snatcha, reminding himself to remove his old name from his suit as soon as possible.

"Primo is my name here, sir, and I'd be glad to keep it that way" he drew his coat tighther about himself, so none else might read the stitching on his suit. Barely there for fiteen minutes and he already had someone knowing his true name. He puffed up his cheeks and blew out a gust of air silently, knowing he had to settle himself there, and fast. First to get away from hsi wretched suit.