Two fingers slowly ran in circles across a temple trying their best to appease the demons of disrupted circadian rhythms. The backlash of decisions from a night before as a mistake's worth of drinking finally came to a head, currently winning a decisive combat against the stalwart defenders of morning, a shitty sludge-like substance that could be considered coffee in some rare circumstances. Yet despite any internal anguish like always Gwen presented herself with a level of composure and general put togetherness that betrayed little of her current state.
 
She was dressed simply enough in the inconspicuous stylings of the nouveau riche inhabitants of SoHo - jeans, small black men’s t shirt and some sort of black bomber jacket of indiscernible origin. All in such a way that she could've easily been confused as a marketing manager or some other upper middle class bullshit. Hair was pulled back into a short ponytail a few loose strands having fallen away and landing across eyes, the indiscernible lovechild between grey and a pale blue casually looking outward from her position with her shoulder propped against a nearby wall. 
 
There was a small nod and something reminiscent of a smile at the corner of her mouth when her ‘name’ was mentioned nothing overt but done with enough care to show that she was actually paying attention. Yet juxtaposed against the current tableau that her cohorts had cast the woman looked decidedly out of place. Her posture emulated little of the swagger of the Australian, the ill-conceived bravado of the man with the machete, or the don’t fuck with me attitude of the other woman in the room, it was much more causal and there was something to be said there. Gwen wasn’t in the business of making statements, Gwen was in the business of being forgotten about, you lived longer that way.
 
She watched as the other woman questioned her role with something of a mild curiosity. She held her tongue, she didn’t know anybody here really,  friend of a friend that used to work with SASR had put her into contact with the Australian when she had run aground in the States, and she found that if had the capacity to just shutup and listen you could learn a lot about people. 
 
Almost as quickly as she had spoken the one playing with his machete had jumped up to defend her. Lecherous sort with wandering eyes that Gwen rather didn’t appreciate and an accent that she couldn't quite discern like some debris from the caribbean had washed ashore of several different continents, judging from posture alone he looked like he thought he was hotshit, in short a loser. 
 
Such arguments early on did little in the way of reassuring her of the longevity of this gang of thieves but it was an interesting thought experiment itself seeing how their leader would react to it all. The small ghost of a smile flickered across her features once more as she followed the conversations gaze as it moved back towards Sharp giving him a sympathetic shrug of the shoulders but still choosing not to engage directly. This wasn’t her fight and she wasn’t about to make it hers either.