Archie Mercer narrowed his eyes as the first of his Employer's picks wandered into the station, sipping gingerly at a hazelnut latté from the Costa Coffee tucked away in the corner of the main floor, near the ATM block. He narrowed his eyes further as the second one entered - and more so with the third and fourth. He was, of course, looking at them through the reflection of the glass panel on one of the coffee shop's windows, just like he'd been taught. He couldn't let himself be known overtly until the last minute, as per the instructions of his Employer.

Casually, he glanced over his shoulder at the Irishman, grinning over his own coffee - flat white, just as boring as the man's politics - and the knockout beauty sitting next to him, putting up a good show of falsified comfort as the gaelic psychopath squeezed her gently. Of course [i]they[/i] were the couple. Sometimes, Archie wondered if the employer was messing with him too.

It would hardly be out of character - although Archie usually got a turn playing lover with María before the operation had ended. His favourite part of the job, usually.

He sipped again at the coffee, turning to face the criminally conscripted properly, and striding towards them, smiling a politician's lying smile at them as he approached, his black peacoat just faintly wet with the remainder of this morning's rain, from his own trek to the station to arrive at 5:00AM, long before the Employees did.

Finally, he reached a point roughly in the centre of where the four young adults had naturally moved to about the station hall, and turned to look pointedly at each of them in turn. The Employer's next automated text would come through in a matter of seconds, as always it did, and they would be prompted to direct their attention to him - a very pleasing sort of coordination and timing that Archibald had grown to appreciate on the part of his Employer, even if it were symptomatic of yet another serious psychological condition. 

Ding, each of their phones went off, or buzzed silently, in almost perfect unison.

"Direct your attention to the center of the station hall. The man you see there, dressed primarily in black and holding coffee, is now your chiefest authority. Approach him, taking note of the three others who do. Give this man your name, your age, and your choice of degree at university. Once your identification is complete, he will present you with further instruction. Under no circumstances is he to be disobeyed."

There it was. Archibald already knew what they looked like, and had been briefed thoroughly on their observed personality traits, career goals, core motivations - and most importantly, the means by which they were originally coerced into the employ of the Employer - but it was nice to hear their phones go off, and know he'd been given good information as usual.

He refreshed his smile, having let it slide from his lips partially as their phones rang, and waited. 

Patiently.

As usual.

[center]________ ________ ________ ________[/center]

[color=green]"There he goes. Off again. Meeting people and doin' things." Dowle grinned at Archie as he moved out to the middle of the station. "Wish I got to be the front man just for once. I can be charming when I want to be."[/color]

Knowing this was most certainly not true, María kept to herself, maybe shrugging a little.

[color=green]"Ah, what? Not a pretty enough face, you think?"[/color]


Again. Kept to herself. Laughed a little, to make it seem to any third party like he'd just told her a joke. To make it all seem normal - which it wasn't, couldn't be, and never would be. She missed Spain, she missed the sun. Fuck this country, and its fucking rain.

[color=green]"Don't worry your little head, pet. I know why I ain't fronting for us well enough."[/color] Dowle smiled softly at her. It almost looked genuine - maybe it was, she couldn't be sure with him. Sometimes, he talked too much. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes, he would talk both sides of a conversation with himself - a conversation with [i]himself.[/i] Not another personality, not another fragment of self, but actively holding a conversation with an entity he recognised to be himself.

[color=green]"What do you think of them?"[/color] She asked quietly, never once breaking her smile as he tightened his grip on her, hugging her just slightly closer. It wasn't so bad. He wasn't so bad. She just didn't like this kind of thing in public, and it was cold.

[color=green]"Well... they'd've never made it far back with my old boys in the Republic, that's for sure. But I s'pose we don't really need 'em to be all that tough, so they look alright to me. What about you?"[/color]

This was one thing she actually did like about the Irishman. He was unpredictable, dangerous, and frightening at times, but always asked for her opinion. Not everyone did, and it seemed like a redeeming quality of Dowle's that he cared.

[color=lightsalmon]"The men don't like being told what to do. They either think of themselves as powerful, or are so fixated on becoming powerful that this kind of thing is getting under their skin already. They're not scared, they're angry - although men sometimes show fear as anger, so I guess I don't know for sure. The women... one is scared out of her skin, the other is a depressive I think. The scared one is a musician, and takes very good care of her hands - possibly obsessive compulsively. The other seems dead inside. I can't read her like this from afar. They all seem a bit fucked up to me."[/color]


Dowle narrowed his eyes at her.

[color=green]"I thought you'd not read their files?"[/color]

[color=lightsalmon]"I did not."[/color]

Dowle frowned for a moment, then nodded appreciatively.

[color=green]"I think you're right, love. Mostly, at least. People ain't really my strength, after all."[/color]