Barbarossa Harrick stood outside the club, his back against the wall directly aside from the door. The expression articulated by his round, boyish features was pure menace, the feeling further evidenced by the white-knuckled hand hold his mobile phone as he flipped through text messages, it's bluish glow casting an eery light on his features. After a few minutes of punching buttons, he flipped the almost archaic device closed with a growled, "Sumbitches." It was just like his friends to tell him how great this place was for the three weeks they had talked about coming to Berlin for vacation, then ditch him in what looked to be a bad part of town, in a country where he knew only the basics of their language.<br/><br/>Shaking his head, he took out an old, tarnished brass Zippo out of his brown leather bomber jacket, flipping it open and shut thoughtfully.<i>Screw them</i>, he decided silently.<i>I'm almost twenty frickin' years old, I don't need a chaperon to go in a club.</i>He shut the bulky lighter with a click of finality and entered the club, waving his ID at any bouncers with massive arrogance. Hell, he was as big as most of these rough housers. He could take care of himself.<br/><br/>He went down the stairs, taking his jacket off to showcase his abs through the black cotton shirt he wore underneath, along with a pair of forest-pattern BDU trousers and black combat boots. He was a strong dude, with a broad, stocky frame and muscles that made up for his height of five-foot eight inches. He took care of himself, and worked on a farm back in the States, so he didn't think he had much to worry about in the way of looks. Once he was in the main room of the Bunker, standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring around at the screens showing what they did, he realized he had a totally different problem.