Kate’s breath plumed out white as she stepped out of her car (an unremarkable blue Ford Taurus – the intention was for it to blend in with the other cars on the street), locking the door almost absently. A gust of wind plucked at a loose strand of red hair and she absently hooked it back behind one ear before she shoved her hands in her pockets as she made her way to Central Square. Her boot soles crunched on the rock salt and semi-melted slush as she walked down the street, her eyes scanning the people around her. It seemed the … people … the FBI were working with could be as cagey as her own superiors. A name, that was all she’d been given, and the question about what they looked like had received an odd answer: he’ll be wearing a blue knitted hat. She hadn’t known at the time whether to laugh or roll her eyes. Remembering that moment now, she couldn’t supress a slight smile. She hunched her shoulders, pulling the dark folds of her black coat closer against the cold. Underneath she wore a high necked white blouse and a black jacket, along with black tactical pants (her favourite clothing since training) and Hi-Tec walking boots; the soles copied with slippery conditions well. She was as unremarkable as her brilliant red hair would allow her to be; she’d thought about dying it or cutting it short before now, but a streak of stubborn pride made her keep it as long as she could get away with while still meeting the ‘neat and professional’ FBI guidelines. Her grandmother had always seemed so happy that the colouring thought of as typical for people of their Irish heritage had come out strongly in one of her grandchildren that the thought of dying it seemed almost like a betrayal. She caught a glimpse of a blue hat – a very bright blue hat – that looked rather incongruous against the grey sky. Then her eyes dropped to the man wearing the hat and the word ‘incongruous’ didn’t even cover it; it looked almost absurd on him. She met his steely blue gaze and felt a slight shiver go through her. To her there was something that said hunter, predator in his gaze. But perhaps that was because she’d been told what he was. She walked over to meet him, her path slightly wandering as though she was simply making her way in that direction by chance rather than intending to meet someone. Closer, she could smell that it was hot chocolate rather than coffee in his cup – another incongruity. “Joseph Grant?” She asked. “I’m Kathleen O’Connell – Kate.” She offered him her hand to shake, her already pale skin whitened further by the cold. [i]No X-Files jokes, please; I’ve heard them all already,[/i] she almost added, but didn’t; he didn’t look the sort who would make jokes – certainly not about such things. “I believe we need to talk. Preferably somewhere warmer.” She glanced at his cup. “Care for a re-fill?” She invited, nodding towards the nearest Starbucks.