So far, so good. Arn was surprised that he hadn't been arrested the second he sat down. If he was being somewhat honest with himself, he had expected to be arrested. These people just stood out too much to not be S-K operatives. It had just seemed too good to be true. But no, it was real. This was happening.

He nearly seconded the scarred woman's offer of shelter. He, too, had a place where the runners could stay. But no, he couldn't offer them refuge. His father would flay him, and his grandfather would likely die from the shock.

Aeon remained silent, sipping from the soykaf paper cup in front of him. It was the cheapest thing the place offered. Worse than water, worse than rotgut, but if you had next to no money, or wanted to keep yourself off the radar, it worked. The Fljót's soykaf was better than some places, and he'd gotten used to the stomach churning feeling long ago.

But the Chinese-looking man bought up something Arn could relate to. "I know where to drop things off," he said quietly. "Around here, there is only one place which any of the street vermin trust. Herra Skáp's place. Lord Locker. There is no better fence in Vesturbær that I know of." Arn glanced around, then clarified. "I have been raised here since I was young. Most of my life has been spent in New Reykjavik."

He tilted his head, and Skuggi leapt down onto the table. The little cat meowed once, then settled down to nap. Arn shrugged. "If you need to know your way around, I can assist with that. However, we will need to work slightly on your manner and style. Many of you are sore thumbs. Les étrangers, lǎowài. We must change that before any missions in this area. It would suck to be captured due to negligence of camouflage."

A hand settled on Skuggi, stroking the feline form. "I am Aeon," he said, to start the flow of information. They would have to build trust with each other to survive this, wouldn't they?