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[right][hr][color=white][b][b]Smith's Rest | HQ Tram Station[/b][/b][/color]
January 16th, 2677[hr][/right]
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Another pilot was sparring with Graham, asking questions along the same line Demetrius had earlier. Everything about this whole operation felt off. Not sinister, but off; like somebody had stuck a bunch of jigsaw puzzles in the same box and none of the pieces quite fit together. Demi gave the questioner a sidelong once over. He was rough, to be diplomatic about it. Worn down by time. His clothes were ratty and dirty, and his face looked like it'd been bashed in by a lead pipe one too many times. The way he talked about the job gave Demi a pretty good idea where he'd come from.

There was a strange, twisting feeling in his gut as he thought about every waster he'd ever encountered. Few of them had faces or names, and fewer still had been met outside of firefights. Times like these acquainted a person with strange bedfellows, Demi mused, as he took in the rest of the confrontation. It burned short and hot, with the commander getting under the waster's skin and the man being forced to hold back his anger. Wasn't hard to see he was angry, either, the way he was clenching his fists.

Demi waited until Graham turned back around to lead them away before he moved. He was strangely graceful in his step and just as quiet as he slipped through the small crowd until he was padding along beside the waster.

[color=cdaf95]"He's a real treat."[/color] He muttered. The boy had a voice like a mouse, and a cadence that made an answering machine sound charismatic by comparison. Reaching into his pocket he produced an unmarked pack of gum, offering a piece up to the pilot with nary more than a grunt to earn his acknowledgement. [color=cdaf95]"You got a name?"[/color]
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