[ namely, whoever was carved into in search of chestbursters.
shortly after 17.00, jason gets a 👌, when fitz exits the office, though it takes him nearly half an hour to reach the bar from the corporate district at rush hour.
doors swinging open as they register the neural IDs of prospective drinkers (and flag previous troublemakers, rejecting their entry), the venue itself is high-tech, if cobbled together from spare parts and upgraded on the fly. the clientele varies, with some notable regulars at the fighting rings, races, and botfights, especially those sporting cybernetic augmentations. even from a cursory evaluation, it's obvious the fixtures are designed by individuals rather than the big corporations (a close look at the aircon units, especially, shows parts stripped from recycling transports and old vehicles). the bar buzzes at this hour — though there are mismatched tables with holo games and low stakes gambling about the area.
if jason asks the bartender about fitz, he'll make a comment about this being the second dark-haired newbie that the lad has dragged in here in recent days (sorry, babe). other than that, gossip is sparse: fitz is a rising tech for the hi-jacks with impressive mechanical work, doesn't cause trouble, well-liked but not too notable.
and he gets a little salute from the bartender as he emerges from the happy hour crowds. fortunately, jason's height makes for easy identification. 'course it helps that bobbi knows how to distill someone to their most spyable features. for his part, fitz remains unassuming. a tad scruffy, with the beard and a black button-down rolled to the elbows (in this miserable heat), rucksack slung over one shoulder and padlocked. ]
Surprised you didn't stand me up, Mr Malone. [ slung without bite, as he elbows his way beside jason at the bar. ]
no subject
[ namely, whoever was carved into in search of chestbursters.
shortly after 17.00, jason gets a 👌, when fitz exits the office, though it takes him nearly half an hour to reach the bar from the corporate district at rush hour.
doors swinging open as they register the neural IDs of prospective drinkers (and flag previous troublemakers, rejecting their entry), the venue itself is high-tech, if cobbled together from spare parts and upgraded on the fly. the clientele varies, with some notable regulars at the fighting rings, races, and botfights, especially those sporting cybernetic augmentations. even from a cursory evaluation, it's obvious the fixtures are designed by individuals rather than the big corporations (a close look at the aircon units, especially, shows parts stripped from recycling transports and old vehicles). the bar buzzes at this hour — though there are mismatched tables with holo games and low stakes gambling about the area.
if jason asks the bartender about fitz, he'll make a comment about this being the second dark-haired newbie that the lad has dragged in here in recent days (sorry, babe). other than that, gossip is sparse: fitz is a rising tech for the hi-jacks with impressive mechanical work, doesn't cause trouble, well-liked but not too notable.
and he gets a little salute from the bartender as he emerges from the happy hour crowds. fortunately, jason's height makes for easy identification. 'course it helps that bobbi knows how to distill someone to their most spyable features. for his part, fitz remains unassuming. a tad scruffy, with the beard and a black button-down rolled to the elbows (in this miserable heat), rucksack slung over one shoulder and padlocked. ]
Surprised you didn't stand me up, Mr Malone. [ slung without bite, as he elbows his way beside jason at the bar. ]