GILLIAN & CIAN -- OUTSIDE THE CLINIC: 5:00PM.
At the sound of the woman’s voice, he turned, preemptively irritated and ready to tell her to piss off, until he recognized her face. Hard not to, really – it was unique and fairly memorable, and while their professional circles hadn’t crossed, exactly, he knew who she was. She was one of those people someone if his profession did well to know. A merc, they said, discreet, did good work for good and not-so-good people. Pricey, but apparently worth her weight in gold.
Mercs were tricky; you never knew if they’d help you, stab you, or haul you to the Peacekeepers. It depended on who had hired them.
So he smiled, slightly, though the ensuing chuckle was entirely devoid of humor. “People getting antsy right and left,” he told her. He noted the car – too expensive really to belong to anyone else in sight – spotted a figure through the window. “Guess you and yours know about that, too.”