[h2][center] Fremont Lundgren [/center][/h2]
In the backseat, Lundgren’s ears twitched, papers held loosely in an oversized hand. With his legs across the seat and his back pressed to the door, there was almost enough room for him in the back, but it was too tight. Clothes they gave were too tight, too. Made him tense. He picked at the ankle bracelet. A tracker. Another chain, different day. 

Fremont grunted in the affirmative, a low growl from the back of his throat. Papers held a lotta good info, but nothing he hadn’t expected. He needed a little more, though. Fan didn’t seem like a bad man, but he acted soft. Didn’t mean much, but could be an issue down the line. Didn’t mean the lawyer didn’t know his shit. That courtroom felt like a fucking formality. Soulflame’s legal team was that damn good, or he was getting roped into a group with a little more pull than the old gangs. Either way, he was out of the slammer. Maybe the damn wolf would finally shut up. 

The former inmate waited long enough for the pause to likely be uncomfortable for the driver, sharp eyes shifting to the reflection in the rearview before he responded. He'd been new to a system before, meant he had to establish his place quickly. They wanted a scary motherfucker, he had to act like it. “Few things.”

He moved to set the papers on the floor before leaning forward, steepling scarred fingers in front of a well-worn face. The car groaned, metal complaining at the shift in his weight. Good. “Who do we want dead? How long until I’m… fuck, deployed? Deployed. I haven’t cut loose in literally years. 'Sides, my teeth ache if I don't fight.” The ears twitched again, curling fangs shining through the open scar as he spoke. “I also want a gym membership and a library card. Nearest places to my pad would be good. Don’t have a vehicle. Last,” A scarred hand clapped over the back of the passenger seat’s headrest, pulling a face like a warzone into the gap between seats. Lundgren hadn’t blinked since the start of his speech, and his predator eyes rushed from the mirror to the driver’s actual face. He wasn’t close enough to be a threat, but close enough there wasn’t a difference between his space and the other contractor's. Lundgren’s expression was neutral, scanning the driver for any emotion. “We’re alone. I’m sick of dancing around it. Level with me, Fan. You're twitchy. Your people are pulling me out of literal prison for this. Nothing in these papers on who we’re fighting. Just [i]how[/i] outgunned are we? We have other fighters. How many, who are they, and how soon can I meet them?"