[i]Anastasia Lytvyn[/i]

Anastasia, sweating softly under her jacket, had her attention evenly divided between where she suspected Sam Clarke was sitting and a small pigeon that was busy feasting upon the smorgasboard of discarded food. When the festival came to town, the birds had trouble flying for the next few days, that much was certain. She watched the little guy with a quiet smile, testing herself on his genus, phylum. She couldn't remember the latter, but didn't feel too bad-she stuck more to songbirds. They were beautiful, and resonated in a...want what you can't have sort of way. Sipping (more quickly than normal-Anastasia was used to colder weather, and with that, cold weather clothes. This damned summer heat was not appreciated, and she hadn't yet had the time to assemble a new wardrobe that was more practical. She'd suffer the heat for now) on an iced coffee, she returned her focus to the spot that shimmered a few moments ago. Anastasia was not gifted with supervision-well, her sense of sight was sharper, but not enough to pierce Mr. Clarke's little veil. No, she merely had experience, which was worth far more than any preternatural ability genes could bestow. She knew what to look for, and she knew where to watch. Her guess had been off by a few feet when he finally re-materialized, but it was close enough for her to feel a touch of smugness. [i]Don't get cocky now, dear. These boys-this whole city-is dangerous.[/i] Anastasia frowned, soft pale features twisting up as she heard the tell-tale slurping of an empty cup. Damn. This iced coffee wasn't quite as popular back home-she rather liked it, having endured a grueling career of poorly made, name-brand black coffee. [i]One day I'll open up a coffee shop.[/i] This notched onto the increasingly long list of "Things Anastasia Lytvyn Will One Day Do". Still, she was young (relatively) and had some capital. Starbucks had better stay on its toes.

Grabbing the small backpack next to her (one that weighed, perhaps, more than you would expect a small pack to) and slinging it casually over her shoulders, Anastasia threw the cup away, gently placing it on the top of an overflowing mountain of trash. She pitied the trash collectors come tomorrow morning. This was certainly an interesting festival-and an interesting city. Lots to buy, lots to do. She could stay here a little while. Of course, if this job (and Anastasia still wasn't sure how she felt about signing on with KINGFISHER, of working with an organization that seemed a little too like NEST, a little too like the meta-regulatory-on-paper-, political-wetworks-in-practice group she'd come running from) came through, perhaps Verthaven would be home. At least for a while.

Nomads have more fun than the rest of us. For a while.

She crossed the street, pausing wholly before smoothly and briskly gliding across the asphalt (some young thing sprinted right past her, not looking either way-careless, these American children). She looked at Michelle, standing watch. Alert, focused. Anastasia watched her for a moment, head tilted to the side, a strange mix of cute features and harsh scars. [i]Little soldier with your gun. What're you fighting for? Or maybe, I wonder, who?[/i] To put it bluntly, Anastasia had not exactly seen a great multitude of African-Americans in her life (not far from the Caucasus, this was, perhaps understandable), and had never seen a woman this tall or muscular. With NEST? She hadn't quite made up her mind about America's superhuman agency yet. It certainly seemed more on-the-level than Russia's, but she was tentative of the West. For now, she'd stay out of their way, which was generally how Anastasia preferred to do business. She was quiet, in every possible sense, and if there was anything NEST excelled at it, it was being loud.

Anastasia slipped past a goateed man and stood near the line of the Pad Thai restaurant, designer sunglasses masking her icy blue eyes. She arched her head up, seemingly gazing at the menu while keeping an eye on Clarke. There was a figure, slightly ominous and entirely out of place ([i]Makes two of us, little darling[/i]), standing in the alleyway. Were she law enforcement, she would've expected a drug dealer, a terrorist sizing up a crowd for a pipe bomb. But Anastasia was not law enforcement, not yet. At the moment, she was in a more grey occupation, and as such, she merely expected a trap. Officers, bless their souls, were rather predictable once one left the agency, looked at them from the outside. To the average onlooker, perhaps it seems impossible that criminals can evade the police. It's more of a never-ending struggle: neither exists without the other. They simply fill the void, chasing round and round...

Contemplating the sort of cycle that would make Hegel weary, she did her best to stay on-guard, ready to spring into whatever action she could muster. This harsh daylight was irritating her, and not merely because of her jacket and heavy (if stylish!) jeans. She had a GSh tucked within her coat, concealed well. A dagger tucked in the boots. Her hands and forearms began to tense and tingle, burning with that energy that always came before a job. She'd practiced, and experience was nudging at her, wanting to coax her hands through the old motions. But no, that wouldn't be necessary. Wouldn't be necessary at all. Because Mr. Clarke and the mystery cloak wouldn't get into any trouble whatsoever.

It was that sort of optimism that got people killed, Anastasia figured. Ah. She continued, attention split once again, but this time between the Pad Thai food and her potential coworker. While she didn't want to risk distracting him and getting him caught off-guard, she figured a heads-up wouldn't be amiss. Anastasia reached into her pocket and pulled out a track phone, the sort that, ironically, got sold a lot in Verthaven for entirely different reasons (or maybe Anastasia wasn't too far off from the drug dealers). She punched out a quick message to Sam-[i]I'm close if needed.[/i], ran it over once or twice-she'd been paying for some pretty high-quality English lessons, and learned a bit while she was back home, but wanted to be sure. She punched send and slid it back into her phone, watching Fiona surreptitiously. If she was Fiona, she'd jump when (and if) Sam checked his phone. If she was Sam, she wouldn't check her phone. Fun games for car rides-Anastasia was full of them.