He didn't need the crutch as often anymore. Rigorous effort to grow used to the prosthetic and regain control of nerves damaged and muscles injured by the accident-cum-assassination attempt he still didn't really remember had slowly enough seen him regaining some control. Even running,though nothing like back home where pressures of the job, thd closet, as nd the perfectionist streak that accompanidd most high-achieving men of color had pushed him to marathons. But while strength was returning, stamina was slower. The crutch was a sentence that started with a truck. Today it was punctuation.
Jasper had dressed in as normal a suit as possible and had even shaved before heading over, hoping to project as familiar a presence as he could in this alien place. He tucked the champagne under his arm and worked his way up the three flights of stairs to the bright pink floor.
It wasn't the worst floor. The idea of just moving into a room was tempting fof the pool alone, if not the instinct of bold capacity for redefinition that made him an excellent spy. But it was hard to envision Victoria Hand here.
But apparently she was. Jasper found 815, knocked on the door, and waited.