Last through the door to Roulette's office, trailing behind the others as she rubbed the drowsiness from her eye, came Llexe. Unaware of her surroundings, she bumped straight into the big man as he straightened up following his entry. The slight impact roused her, and her eye opened with a snap as she bared her teeth at the great oaf, like it was his fault she stumbled into him. He didn't seem to notice, and the others spread through the room to sit, leaving Llexe with her first view of Evelyn Roulette, the woman she'd been told she would be meeting. Her glassy, nearly-white eye, lined by scars, took the well-proportioned blonde in. She looked like someone Llexe knew. An irritated look crossed her face before she lurched over to the nearest couch and slumped down.

Llexe's face turned impassive as Eve battered her with an explanation, making sure to mention just how nice the city used to be compared to how dismal it was now. It all flew in one ear and out the others; Llexe already knew why she was here and what she was supposed to do, so none of this mattered. Only Eve's declaration of deposited funds really stuck with her, and that only because she wondered in idle curiosity which of her organization's members set this gig up for her and would actually be getting the money. As for herself, she didn't give a hoot about the money, either. It was a poor thing to fight for.

The view out the curtains Eve provided drew her empty gaze, and Llexe stared out for a while until a sudden motion and noise snatched her attention. Her host's sudden, mighty kick split her own desk in two, which earned her a dully confused look from Llexe. Though clearly unimpressed, it was more the bemused sort than the condescending kind that took hold of her. Eve's following statement, however, elicited more of a response. She addressed her guests one by one, glancing between them as she did, but for a few she gave epithets rather than names. [i]Red-hot Riot.[/i] That was what she said while looking at Llexe, who shook her head in consternation. What dumbass gave her that nickname? A face came to mind, one bearing cheery green eyes and crowned with long, stylish brown hair flowing in the breeze that so often surrounded it. It was the face of that annoying, fun-loving jokester, seldom serious about anything but looking and acting cool. [i]Ugh. If he's my contact, I'm gonna go nuts.[/i] 

It occurred to Llexe a few moments later that she'd been asked for confirmation. She blinked twice in confusion; didn't this woman know that she'd been sent specifically for this task? Maybe the organization was trying to keep itself removed. If that was the case, did she need to pretend to care about the state of the city, or about the money? Well, whatever. It wasn't like she'd be interacting with these people like a normal human. Just a blunt instrument to point in the direction of whatever needed breaking—that sounded good. “Uh. Yeah.”

Of course, one of the others felt the need to make a little spectacle, bowing like some theater kid at the end of a play and singsonging about how fun she thought things would be. And her hair was stupid, too. “Shut up...” Llexe growled under her breath, low and guttural, less of an imperative for anyone to hear and more of a totally unregulated escapee from her psyche. The tattooed brit, it seemed, would say pretty much whatever she felt like. To keep herself from drifting off again like she had in the waiting room, she took a better look at the others. Aside from the big brute, they all seemed to be women, not that the idle realization prompted so much as a batted eye from her. Only one question concerned Llexe: when were they going to stop lounging around, blabbering about tripe and beating up furniture, and start cracking heads?