[h2]Derald Smith[/h2]
[hr]

[i]“So this is the place, kinda reminds me of the back alley deals back in Manhattan, the kind where you can hear a muffled gunshot fired whenever a negotiation has gone south, hopefully this side of the neighborhood isn’t like that.”[/i] Derald sighed and looked at the well hidden alleyway where the agency was supposed to be.  

[i]“Que sera sera, I guess.”[/i]  Derald adjusted his scarf and lit a cigarette as he entered the establishment. He skims the area and notices the not-so-ordinary people around it. So far, the way the toxicologist sees it, there’s a weird girl, another weirder girl in a funeral motif, an old reservist, and a boy whom he swears is a part of a mob (he can’t just prove it yet), and a classy chick who he assumes they came here for the same reason as he does.

He takes the last puff of his cigar before flicking it away, respecting the no-smoking policy of the cafe.

[color=8493ca]“Sorry, I’m a bit late, had to take care of some business. Cleaning up other people’s messes can be a drag.”[/color] Derald shifted his eyes averting others, reminiscing about the gang-related task he did this morning by his other employer. 

[color=8493ca]“The name’s Derald, if anyone would care.” [/color]He bashfully introduce himself, scratching his neck.

[color=8493ca]“Just warm water with honey for me. got a frog in my throat.”[/color] He said hoarsely, signaling the friendly bartender.

The sickly young practitioner sits by the empty couch and minds his own business.  Hopefully, this motley crew won’t mind him coughing every now and then.