A mysterious voice who served as mission giver and benefactor, a trip out to New York, New York and then catching a ride to a dingy paint shop based on instructions from a tape recorder. The scenario Grace had found herself in was one out of every spy thriller and heist film she had ever seen. Which wasn't a bad thing, tropes were tropes for reason. All the cloak and dagger skullduggery shit was a welcome change of pace from staring at walls in some dirt cheap apartment. 

All those millions she had did nothing but make her nervous, a pile of cash too dirty to spend in any sizable amount without attracting the attention of every Fed in LA looking for a big bust. She had tried to play it smart, keep everything on the down low and live off the fat stacks but couldn't take the waiting. The Senior was one of two things: an overelaborate sting operation or a chance to get back in the game and do what she did best. Either way Grace wouldn't be putting up with the silence. 

Stepping inside the color splattered premises of Cheng's Paint was like a blast to the past. Her first few years as an armed robber had been spent taking orders just like she was now, meeting in the back of Family owned premises where she would be told to jump and ask how high. Then just as now there were middle managers who got paid very well to simply shut up, people with bills to pay or fingers to keep attached. And just like she did those ones Grace ignored Cheng, heading straight back then down into the basement. 

Slip in through the freezer, skirt around boxes of paint and slap a few numbers into a very old school keypad and then press her hand onto a scanner that somehow had her metrics. That last bit was a little unnerving admittedly but it was far too late to back out now. The door was opening on a new reality, one chock full of sci fi computer geek tech stuff and the crew she'd be working with. 

[color=Lightseagreen]"Well we all showed up, means we're all fucked.[/color]

Who were these people? Grace didn't know and didn't care. Presumably they all brought something to the table just like she brought explosives expertise and a history of military-grade violence. She didn't need their life stories, their hopes and fears or any other band of brothers bull. All she needed was a name to call them.

[color=Lightseagreen]"I'm Johnny."[/color] Her bags hit the ground with a thud, a cigarette pinched between her lips as she lit up. [color=Lightseagreen]"Any sign of the man behind the curtain?"[/color]