To think that just a week ago he was running for his life, or at least that is what his pursuers thought, Frank had managed to change his fortunes. Of course Frank was not suddenly rich, but strolling into a small, podunk town in the wee hours of the morning was a far better time than running. He hated to run, hated the fact that to keep up appearances he had to run, but these were not ideal circumstances either. Being abandoned on a foreign planet with people who looked like him on the outside was not Frank's idea of a good time. Still he had assimilated into human culture fairly well from a survival standpoint over the last five years.<br/><br/>To be honest, which Frank rarely was with his past, being on Earth was all his own fault. He had boarded the cruiser without permission, and when the Captain caught him Frank was lucky to have been given permission to live. Of course he wasn't allowed to return to Phoron, but rather exhiled to Earth with all the right documents needed to make it. The beings on Phoron had studied human cultures effectively enough to give Frank a social security card, put it in the system, birth records, and any other document he required. Money was not provided, and that was where Frank struggled most.<br/><br/>While his governments had studied Earth humans Frank had not at all. He was given minimal explanation of what Earth was like before Klorgon Philloneus was no more, Frank Endar was his new identity, and Frank hated the smell the second he arrived in New York City. The air was foul and putrid, but supplies were bountiful so Frank sacrificed his senses for fuel. Age was merely a number to him, Phoronians lived for thousands of years, no particular number could be placed, and death did not come easily. The guns he ran from would have been like throwing small pebbles at a brick wall, just an annoyance to Frank, but he played the game for now. The cops had been after him for stealing some food, clothes, and a few backpacks. His face though had not been seen, and even so he had one other ability, to shift his facial features. It wasn't much, not a complete morph, but it was enough to fool the human eyes.<br/><br/>Gravel now shifted beneath his boot, an old pair of desert combat boots a soldier had worn. They fit his size nine feet and his five foot nine inch frame looked ragged in some ways. An old gray Yankees hoodie and dirty light blue jeans adorned his body. He had ditched the stolen clothes, a trade with a homeless person, in exchange for these and the duffle bag of clothes and canned chili, peaches, and peas he carried on his back.<br/><br/>The man had wrinkles under his eyes, though soon they were smooth, a fifty year old face suddenly down to his late twenties, and Frank arrived at his new hometown. A truck stop diner was not too far, and as he approached a pair of sparkling green eyes caught his attention. Around them were the features of a beautiful woman who clearly had seen her fair share of demons though her elegance was still clearly there. He didn't dare approach her, not now, not yet. He knew nothing of the woman, this was not the time, nor the place, for random meetings.