[b]Time:[/b] Early Morning  
[b]Location:[/b] Latte Da Cafe (located a few blocks from Delta International Airport)

At this hour only a handful of weary businessmen and departing tourists were enjoying what constituted breakfast at the Latte Da Cafe, despite not belonging to either group Dorian LaValle was indeed amongst those seated in the outdoor portion of the eatery. Even among a diverse crowd of people this early in the morning, Dorian’s curly auburn hair, custom Ermenegildo Zegna ice blue two piece suit, and visible eyepatch manage to set him apart from the crowd. He has long accepted his days of being subtle and engaging in subterfuge were dashed around the same time he lost his right eye; if he was to be leered at regardless why not embrace it? He prides himself on becoming better acquainted with the plethora of elegant fashion choices that came with associating with those with ne’er-do-well reputations. He liked the feel of envious eyes upon him, rather than those of pity. 

Between sips of a fresh, but not very well made cappuccino  Dorian idly thumbed through the local dirt-sheet. He suspected that reading this tripe was a breakfast adjacent tradition that most practiced throughout the city whether they wanted to openly admit it or not; as it seemed that even the most vocal of moralists within the confines of the city found the juxtaposition of cheap gossip and an air of mystery surrounding authorship of the aforementioned rumors to be too tantalizing to dismiss outright. One the few occasions he bothered to peruse a copy Dorian often found the assorted content that populated the pages of the [i]Gulf Gabs[/i] to be rather indulgent drivel at the best of times and the self-congratulatory nature of the entire venture always came off as an attempt by the never-beens to capture the proverbial spotlight reserved for truly deserving people like himself. He could not help scoffing as his eyes glazed over the brief addendum that the self-proclaimed "gabber-in-chief" added to the issue, which was nothing more than a thinly veiled jab at himself and his chosen profession. If that shameless provocateur knew how many of his forgeries currently sit undiscovered in prestigious collections across the country he would write about his alleged crimes with the appropriate amount of reverence; he was after all an artist of great renown and deserved to be treated as such. Though he was not going to sacrifice his current anonymity to correct this lackluster reporting. 

Before the art forger could finish reading the gossip rag a brawny, barrel-chested uniformed police officer loudly made his presence known as he adjusted the position of the unoccupied chair across from Dorian in order to accommodate his massive frame. The sound of the metal chair made when it was being dragged across the concrete patio was grating to everyone who was unlucky enough to be within earshot, it was clear that this large cop could have lifted the chair in order to position it quietly he just chose not to. Lucas Dunn was just abrasive on purpose, he was what people would call a bit of an asshole. He prefaced his forthcoming remark by spitting a wad of tobacco-laden saliva on the ground narrowly missing Dorian’s expensive alligator leather shoes. 

“Well,  if it isn’t my old pal Rory. I see you got your debut issue so to speak, a right of passage in our little tight knit community. Eh. They’ll print anything nowadays, so I would not worry about it. Nobody takes a bunch of nutjob nerds  like them seriously. I mean they suggested I, an upstanding officer of the DCPD for twelve years, might be on the take. Let me tell you somethin’ bruda, these dorks, whomever they may be, read shit written on bathroom stalls and think they're the next Walter Cronkite or somethin’. The nerve of those geeks, once I find them  I…”

Without looking up from the paper Dorian cuts off Lucas before he continues his tirade, [color=FireBrick]”Oh, so you are close to uncovering the identities of those behind the Gab? Hmm? And here I thought the department was keeping you chained to your desk out of embarrassment. With the current circumstance being as they may, do you really find it wise to be paying me a social visit?” [/color] 

“Nothing social about this,” Lucas says mirthlessly as he slides a manilla folder across the table. “You are not going to want to hear this, but our mutual friends in high places need a little favor. Not in your wheelhouse, but they insist. You wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful for the opportunities they set up for you here in Delta.” 

Dorian reluctantly puts the paper down and takes an extended look at the instructions inside the folder. He grimaces as he meticulously scans the document for a few minutes before wordlessly pushing the folder back towards Lucas. He knows he has to follow through on what was outlined in the folder as nobody crosses the Silverback Syndicate and lives.