[h2]Mika Alkaev - Thunderstruck[/h2]
After the first question, Mika looked at him long and hard, the remainder of his statement going in one ear and out the other. For a moment, he was like a statue until he saw the man start stomping forward, sparks dancing around him. If there was any doubt about the masked man’s identity, it would be long gone. The courier took a cautious step back--No, that was wrong, it looked like a step, it sounded like a step, but the distance he’d moved was definitely not a step. 


“Right, right. You want your stuff, I get’cha,” He hand his hands up as assurance that he meant no harm. His first mistake - which he would realize once the staticky feeling of the man’s gloved hand landed on his shoulder - was taking his eyes off the man to sift through his knapsack. [i]‘Shiiiiiet.’[/i] In one action, even the idea of having an idea to get out of a potentially escalating situation had been erased. While he didn’t have any intent of leaving a job undone - especially not for this particular employer - the fact he didn’t have the option rubbed him the wrong way; the Russian prided himself on his uncanny ability to get the hell out of Dodge, after all.


He made a strange, guttural groan. “Yeah. Makes sense,” Mika admitted with a shrug of his free shoulder, “Not like I can disagree. Customer satisfaction guaranteed, and all.” The blond dug into his bag and, apparently unaffected by the awkward tenseness of the situation, quickly withdrew the important contents: A bulky envelope, a lead-lined briefcase, and a datapad with stylus.  Apparently the COG were very thorough with their documentation for a ragtag gang of gangs. 


“Right,” Mika began, handing the datapad over first, “Just gotta sign this to make sure everything got through. There’s a questionnaire you can fill out for a chance to win some prize-” He stared blankly at the Hand of God. “-But you don’t seem like you’ll need that. ‘Specially with this.” He lifted the briefcase - the one filled with the requisite forward payment. “Expensive stuff. If any of the gangs knew about it, I’d’ve gotten mugged crossing the first street.”


Before passing the briefcase off, however, he thrust the envelope into the mercenary’s free hand. “...But even with that cash, this is what they wanted me to make sure I didn’t lose,” he explained, “Told me it’s some kind of contract. Nothing more, nothing less. S’not my business anyway.”


“Don’t wanna know what it is,” Mika would comment if the Hand of God read it in its entirety in front of him, “Do you want your receipt?”